We’re chatting about fucking, and all the bucket list sex we’d like to have. Recently we’ve been trying to plan more kinky sex, so this sort of stuff is occupying our thoughts, but it’s hard to think of anything enticing yet possible: we’re pretty good at ticking new sordid kinks off the second they cross our filthy minds, so most of the fucking we want to do has already been done. I ponder the issue for a while before suddenly it hits me. There’s one really significant thing that I’ve never done with this particular guy: break up.
This is the next post in a series of erotic fiction about emotional fucks, where I’m having fun writing fictional characters who do filthy-hot things that may or may not be very ethical. This post involves a character fantasising about a spite fuck. Her fantasy involves things that – if they actually happened in real life – would certainly not be consensual. If that’s not your cup of tea, please don’t read on, but if you like sex stories that include twisted revenge and powerful anger, get stuck in.
I used to go to play parties which were ‘BDSM only.’ You could spank, whip and beat each other to oblivion, but you weren’t allowed to fuck on the furniture. Perhaps that’s where this wank fantasy comes from: the idea that fucking is forbidden only makes me want to fuck more. I mean… obviously.
Let me envelop your dick. Submerge it inside me, like I’m slipping you into a warm bath. When I look at you, this is all I want: everything else would be too active on your part. I need to fuck you like I need to stroke your brow with a cool cloth, and whisper soothing words into your ear.