I don’t know if I’m allowed to just invent a piece of sex etiquette, like I’m the editor of NSFW Debrett’s, but if I were allowed to do that, I’d suggest an etiquette rule like this: if you’re fucking someone with a butt toy in, and you have the ability to hold it there while you pound them, you absolutely should. So for instance, if we’re fucking doggy-style, one hand laid on my butt with a steadying thumb against the base of the plug (not pushing in, just holding still) will calm my anxious mind and mean I can focus on the shag rather than the worry that I’m about to inadvertently shoot it across the room. This rule brought to you by a woman who – no matter how safe the butt plug or how secure it feels in my ass, the second you start to plough away I will immediately panic that my lubed-up arse might accidentally blast it at your stomach like a rocket launcher. My top concern with anal toys is not whether they’re going to get in, but whether they might just slip out. That was my key concern with the Hot Octopuss Plex, and why I tested it in ways that may seem silly to you, but which for me formed vital anxiety-calming prep before I (hopefully) get to use this during sex.

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There are marks on my thighs, on my arse, on my tits, and on my brain. All of those marks will fade. I could take pictures of the first three, but I’m terrible at photos, and even my very best attempts can’t hope to capture the things I really want to remember. The ache in my limbs and the sting of the flogger and the satisfaction of being held down and fucked. The all-encompassing, electric joy of getting ruined by two people at once.

This post features BDSM and impact play, some of it quite vicious. All of it extremely consensual. I don’t know how well I have written consent into this story, because I am too busy trying to capture the things that happened, but yeah… please understand that holy shit this is all consensual-as-fuck. It was more than consensual: it was a fucking gift.

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When I tweet out blog posts I wrote this time last year, I am often struck by the howling sadness that I was pouring out onto these pages at the time. I figured a more balanced view from the future might be helpful, perhaps in the form of a letter to my past self. So one night I got drunk and wrote exactly that. Edited sober, because I’m professional: here’s a message from my future to my past. 

It’s worth noting, Ms GOTN-from-one-year-ago, that you might be sad right now, but it’s not like you’re doomed to misery. It’s important that you understand your life is not over. In fact, come closer, I’ll give you a glimpse of what your future holds. Listen very carefully and quit weeping, mate: it’s all cider and fuckparties from here.

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No surprises for guessing why this week’s guest blog is so far up my street. Erotic writer Phoenix Rose has some thoughts on the difference between erotica as a genre and other types of writing – from internal struggles to more external ones. Like what you absolutely shouldn’t say to an erotic writer, when they tell you about their work…

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Inside you there are two wolves. One of the wolves is slutty-as-hell. She wants to get fucked and fucked up: suck dicks, swallow cum, be brutally whipped and beaten by a parade of eager partners. Have someone hold her nose while she chokes on cock, and have someone else slide butt plugs into her ass to make her cunt tighter while she’s pounded. The other wolf wants to be loved.

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