Sex and death: A hot story I wrote for Eroticon

Image by the horrifyingly brilliant Stuart F Taylor

This post wraps some of my darker fantasies (about predatory fucking, sex and death, as well as other odd things that come into my head) with warmer things. Please take that as a content note, and don’t read on if that kind of stuff disturbs you.

And you know how jokes work waaaay better if you explain them in detail? Yeah? If you don’t want the explanation just skip to the hot sex story below.

If you want the explanation then here it is: I wanted to write something specifically for Eroticon, because I couldn’t decide which of my blog posts (or extracts from my book </plug>) to read in the session on the final day. So I wrote this, and it’s a bit more personal than a normal post because I wasn’t intending to put it online. Then some people told me to, so here it is. It’s a darker interpretation of the ‘questions I have asked my boyfriend‘ post from ages ago, and I wanted to try and get across the feeling of being so utterly comfortable and safe that you can embrace your darker and more terrifying thoughts without fear or shame or… well.

Sex and death: a hot sex story I wrote for Eroticon

I like to ask him the hard questions. Questions like:

Would you still love me if I couldn’t give you head any more?


When I’m away, how often do you wank?

Or, even harder:

You know that your inability to ‘see’ that there’s washing up to be done is less to do with your eyesight and more to do with years of cultural conditioning by a patriarchy that tells you housework is my job?

And he’ll say ‘I thought you were going to ask me the hard ones, dickhead.’

And when I’m there I’ll ask him these questions. We’ll giggle and whisper and smoke at the back door, and he’ll joke about the fact that I’m going. He’ll say ‘I’ll love the peace and quiet’, which is a lie. Then he’ll add: ‘I’ll spend the whole time wanking,’ which is true.

And before I leave I’ll give him a kiss, and he’ll wrap his arms tight around me, doing that thing where he squeezes until I can’t speak or move or… struggle? Until the only thing I can do is bury my face in his warm neck and breathe in and lick him.

While I’m away, I’ll think of more questions. The answers to which will suddenly seem like the most important thing in the world to me.

Questions like:

When I’m lying on my stomach and you lift my hips, and you angle my arse for just the right entry… when you tell me to stay still, and say ‘that’s a good girl’, and give me short, quick smacks if I move a muscle… those times… are you doing it because it feels good or because it looks good?

Or because you just like it when I do what I’m told?

I’ll picture it, and I’ll feel quite vividly the sensation of each smack. The feeling of him easing into me – thick and hard and fucking desperate for it. Yet eking it out slowly as if he’d lose control if he went quicker and then who knows what would happen?

When I’ve finished picturing that, another question occurs:

If I died halfway through, would you keep on fucking me?

That’s horrible, sorry. It’s taboo to mix sex and death. But I want to know. Because a tiny part of the sick, twisted, pervy me who lives inside my head wants to believe that he wouldn’t notice. That the kind of fucking I like the most, the fucking that pounds me deep in the gut with a kick of fiery lust… that’s the fuck that has him losing control completely. Gripping my hair and biting my neck and … putting his hands underneath my shoulders to haul my body back to meet the smack of his next stroke. Not realising that he’s squeezed too hard or he’s fucked too hard and he’s pulling my body back even though it’s gone… limp.

That me is bad.

So I don’t send that question. I leave sex and death unspoken. I send ‘I love yous’ and ‘I’m horny’s – more of the latter to be honest. And I tell him what I’m thinking when I’m sat at the back of the room getting wet to other people’s fantasies. Idly scrolling through flashes of the fuck we had before I left.

The way he put his whole hand over my mouth, smothering me until I was dizzy, fucking me like he was pinning me to the wall, and holding his mouth close next to my left ear and saying, calmly:


An angry fuck. A fuck so hard it hurts. And then this calm, measured ‘sssssh.’

How does he do that? That intoxicating, weirdly terrifying, simultaneous Jekyll and Hyde thing?

Sorry. That’s another question.

I want to know. I want to be inside his head. I want to feel exactly what he feels when he pushes his dick inside me. See the mirror of my fantasies in his own head. And know that he’s waiting at home for me, with an anticipation that borders on predatory. Desperate.

Because he is waiting at home – I wrote this knowing he would be. He’ll be there tonight, in loose pyjamas on the sofa. Jekyll: calm and patient. Hyde: with a rock-hard boner. A kind of Pavlovian thing that’s prompted by the clink of the key in the front door. When I run in he’ll pull off my bag, slip his big hands inside my coat, and run them in the same familiar path from my stomach round my hips, and down to rub against the crack of my arse.

He’ll push gently until I’m on my knees, and my mouth will start to water.

I’ll wait. Because he’ll make me. With the tip of his cock pressed gently against my wet lips, he’ll pause. A few seconds. A deep breath. The pounding of my blood rushing through my crotch, soaking my knickers and making my clit twitch against the seam of my jeans.

I open my mouth and touch the tip of my tongue to the head of his dick, and before he lets me suck he’ll ask a question of his own. The only one he ever asks, even though he knows the answer:

Did you miss me?


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