We love each other. We fancy each other. We live together. I think about his cock almost constantly, and I’m betting he does too. We are inside each other’s heads all the time, and in bed together every night. We touch on the sofas while Netflix is on, and we steal kisses on the tube on our nights out to go and meet friends. And we only ever really fuck on Sundays.
After the report that many Brits only have sex once a week, I considered writing a blog post about why ‘number of times you did it’ is a shit way to measure how happy people’s sex lives are, and how annoying it is that these studies usually only include a very narrow set of acts in their definition of what ‘sex’ is. But that didn’t seem as fun as what I’m about to do, which is write some erotic fiction about a couple who only fucks on Sundays.
Is there such a thing as ‘feminist porn’? I’m genuinely surprised to learn that some people think there isn’t. It’s quite a philosophical question, encompassing as it does the definition of what ‘porn’ actually is, and prompting me immediately to wonder: if there’s no such thing as feminist porn, what would self-pleasure look like if the whole world was feminist?
Help me clear up a dilemma, those of you who are into BDSM: is it better to be flogged in jeans or a skirt? Or just naked? If you’re dispensing a flogging, do you prefer to start off with someone fully-clothed, then gradually strip them, building layers of new pain on top of the warm throb of older strokes? Or go straight in for leather-on-skin? Let’s explore this topic together, via the medium of me getting horny for flogging…
Not something I ever thought I’d experience, to be honest, but courtesy of the incredible ElectraStim AXIS… here’s a blog post about feeling music throbbing inside my ass.
“I’m going to count backwards from ten, and when I reach one you’re going to come for me. Got it?” She gets it. But she doesn’t get it. The things she has done in her mind have never prepared her for something like this: to be able to come at the sound of his voice. The numbers alone. The tick of his verbal clock counting her down to one, and up to a climax. But she isn’t one to refuse a challenge.
This story contains some fairly intense BDSM/dominance, and fantasies of implied non-consent.