It’s everything I hate in a sofa, this thing: brown; leather; thin metal legs; angular armrests that you can’t properly lean against and a seat that’s too narrow for spooning. I hate this sofa so much that when my ex and I hung out together, I used to sit on the floor. Give me well-worn carpet and a numb bum over sticky brown leather any day of the week. I hate this sofa for every single thing… except fucking. This sofa features in almost every filthy post I’ve written on this blog in the last four years. This sofa launched a thousand fucks.

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We’re in bed, getting down to it, and usually my one-track mind is laser-focused on what it will feel like when he slides his dick inside me. At the moment when I realise that’s not going to happen – he’s slowly softening and the look on his face switches from horn to confusion or embarrassment – I remind myself how lucky I am that I don’t ever have to worry about erections myself. Twenty years ago, if a guy went soft on me, my main feeling would be heartbreak: he doesn’t fancy me enough. I’m ugly. Unsexy. Incapable of teasing a boner from him. Ten years ago, I’d be annoyed: did he have a wank before we met up? Has he had too much to drink? These days, frustration and sadness have (thankfully) made way for a different feeling: relief that the pressure isn’t on me.

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I want you to ruin my life. Take the weak, thumping jelly of my heart and just… fucking… eat it. Yank it out of my body and hold it high in both your hands and laugh as you sink in your teeth. I want you to ruin my life.

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Note: I wrote this one quite a while ago, and it happened even longer ago. 

His flat is filled with mirrors, which is helpful for two people who really love watching ourselves fuck. He plays Massive Attack at just the right volume, which is great for two people who really like fucking to Massive Attack. And as I hold myself up on the corner of the kitchen counter, one foot planted on the surface and another on the shelf nearby, holding my cunt at the perfect height for him to slam his cock home, he growls: “What do you say?” And I tell him, breathlessly, “thank you.”

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Note: this post includes a sexy role-play scenario which touches on somnophilia (fucking someone while they sleep) and is only ever hot with someone I trust absolutely, with whom I’ve discussed this kink in the past, who knows how I can withdraw consent if I want to. It is not – and should never be – a ‘how to’ guide on fucking. Don’t do this unless you have the express consent of the person with whom you’re doing it. 

Please try not to judge me when I tell you that sometimes I like guys to fuck me while I’m pretending to be asleep. I like the idea that they’re so horny they just want to slip it inside and grunt their frustration out on me, spitting cum inside me without bothering to wake me up first. Something about it ticks the same boxes as the idea of being a fly-on-the-wall for someone else’s wank. That intensely private, pleasure-hunting-at-all-costs urgency that someone leans into when they allow themselves to let go, with a side-order of actual dick in me. Yum.

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