Tag Archives: ways to fuck
So you wanna be a very good boy?
A while ago I wrote a post about how – and why – I love being called a ‘good girl.’ Someone told me recently I should write a pair post about ‘good boy’ and naturally I always aim to do what the fuck I’m told, so here goes. I have frequently used the word ‘good boy’ when I’m fucking someone, but as I’m not naturally very dominant, my reasons for using it and the ways in which I use it may well be very different to your own. Nevertheless, here’s how to get a ‘good boy’ out of me.
Note: this post is quite cisnormative, sorry about that. So far all the good boys I’ve fucked have been cisgender. Just be aware that you don’t need to be cis to be a good boy, and I’ve tried to include some non-dick-focused activities in here as well as the more cock-heavy ones.
Fucking: A poem about how much I love fucking
Sometimes I sit down and try to write something good, but nothing good springs to mind so instead I write a 400 word poem about fucking. Enjoy! Or don’t! It’s entirely pointless and silly!
Fuck me like you mean it: 42 different ways to say ‘fuck me’
“Don’t call me ‘good girl’ unless you plan on fucking the Mario coins out of me.” Ever since I saw that excellent, excellent tweet, I’ve been thinking about hot new ways to ask someone to fuck me. Seriously: ‘Fuck the Mario coins out of me’ has to be up there as one of the best fuckbegs I’ve ever heard. Gold. I cannot promise to do quite as well as that (who could?!), but with big thanks to those on Twitter who chipped in, I’m aiming for quantity in lieu of quality. Here are 42 different ways to ask someone to fuck you.
He picked me up/His dick feels good
“He picked me up,” I tell her and she says “Ooh! He picked you up?!” and both of us grin because we know – we know – the pickup is a pretty sexy move. We also both know that, while I may be many things, ‘small’ is not one of them. I am not easily pick-uppable. Nevertheless, this guy picked me up and threw me onto the bed. Hot.
You fucked your ex: a conversation with my conscience
I stumble in the front door, drenched to the skin from a long and glorious cycle through central London, fighting the downpour and dodging past Boris bikes, punk tunes blasting into my left ear. Exhausted and satisfied and aching all over: my cunt hurts from getting well and truly fucked. As I walk in, I’m accosted by my conscience, who is as steaming angry as I am post-fuck happy, with the words ‘you fucked your ex’ on its lips.