This story was written after someone asked me about making guys come in their pants. I’d tweeted about it recently, and they were curious as to how someone could make this happen. I think my answer is that it’s all in the preparation and build-up. So I wanted to write something which gives the build-up, and the context. Then I got a bit carried away.

This erotic story combines two of my greatest loves: making guys come in their pants and… Crossrail. Sure, it involves descriptions of masturbation and anal sex, and a secret hand job at the back of a lecture theatre. But at its heart it’s a love letter to Crossrail. The non-human love of my life.

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I don’t want your hot dick or your dripping, sizzling spunk: I want you to mouth-fuck me with a Cornetto. Take your sweet, tight arse to the shop and come back with a bag of lollies. Give me ice-cold bites of everything.

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When I was young, I wore a dog collar. A literal, actual dog collar of the kind you could buy from any old pet shop. Black leather, studded: the kind you’d use if you wanted your dog to look slightly menacing. I desperately wanted my boyfriend to clip a leash through the metal loops and pull my face onto his cock while I sucked him. But he never did.

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The other night, I texted: “On way home. ETA 10 minutes. If you’re watching porn when I get through the door I will finish you off with my mouth.”

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“I gave in around six in the morning, and came all over my stomach thinking about fucking you bent over the bed and digging my fingernails into your tits.”

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