Continuing the series of erotic fiction set on tube trains (I heart TfL), here’s some aching, surreptitious fucking on the Victoria Line. Note that this story is fiction. Don’t do it in real life. 

The carriage is already rammed by the time we get on – him, me, a few friends. All of us slightly tipsy from the gig, but eager to continue the night back home in Walthamstow. Home, where the booze has been pre-bought from Tesco and we don’t have to queue behind Gen Z amateurs at the bar. The train is packed by the time we get on but we squeeze down to the end of the carriage anyway. When someone gets up to push past us, in deference to his ever-present backache I offer my boyfriend the seat. Then, because my feet are hurting and I’m a little bit pissed, I sit on his lap.

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This gorgeous piece on wanting to wank about you is written and read by Robyn of Robyn Eats Everything. 

Please, can I wank about you? Over you? To you? Thinking of you, and us together, and you alone? Remembering all the dirty, delicious things you’ve done to me and imagining all the sex that’s to come? Looking at all the photos and videos and messages you’ve sent to me, knowing full well what they’d make me do?

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I always say I’m not much of a visual person, and I’m not. But every now and then an image sticks with me, and usually it’s because the bedroom in which we’re fucking has a well-placed mirror or two. I don’t have nearly enough mirrors in my bedroom at the moment – a situation I am keen to rectify as soon as my budget allows (so sometime around 2025, most likely). In the short term, though, please enjoy this trilogy of fuck stories from the past which hopefully will show you why – if you enjoy catching glimpses of you/your partners looking at your absolute fuckiest – you should have mirrors in your bedroom too.

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If I’m shagging you and I’m going on top, there are broadly four things you can do with your dick if you’d like to – for want of a better word – ‘join in.’ Obviously the peripheral things are infinite and always up for grabs: touching my tits, making sexy moaning noises, calling me a good girl, kissing me, yelling my name at the ceiling like you’re trying to put cracks in the plaster, etc. But when it comes to the actual fuck, there are four things you can do. Three of them are brilliant, one of them sucks, and I don’t know how to tell men I’m fucking not to try and do it.

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This is the second in the wank-tales series, in which I tell you some of the stories that play in my head while I’m masturbating. This is perhaps the tamest, and also the hardest to capture, because of it’s utter simplicity. It has no characters, no plot. No position changes and no speech. No need for content warnings. Absolutely no fancy shit whatsoever. This one is literally all about the exact speed, sensation and… OK yeah… girth of the fuckstroke. That’s it! But my God, what a fuckstroke. Zoomed in and turned up to 11. This is not one stroke among many, carried by a fuckawesome plot and some gruesome perversions. This is the purest fuck I ever have in my mind’s eye. I’m also hoping that those of you who’ve never been penetrated enjoy this detailed description of why (and how) penetration in itself can be so utterly and gutturally satisfying – that very first stroke that gets your cunt stretched out is not only often the best bit of sex for me, it’s also often an entire wank fantasy in and of itself. Let’s talk about getting my cunt stretched.

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