This stunning piece is part 7 in a series written and read by Sundial. You can catch up on the rest of the Sunday series here, and you absolutely should because every single episode is fire. 

You’re thrusting your hips, my head clamped between your hands and you fuck me hard. Your dick stretching my mouth wide, saliva pooling on my chin, and I’m hyper aware of my discomfort. Knees pressed as they are against the cool, bare hardness of the floor and the angle you’re keeping me at. I’m neither able to sit back to my heels, nor properly rise. My balance is a mess and my thighs are straining.

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It is very rare for me to have an acoustic wank these days. By which I mean ‘be able to orgasm without either getting fucked by an actual human, or using a sex toy’. Gone are the days when I could make myself come using one finger and a tiny rubbing motion on my clit – subtle so as not to disturb a roommate. And we’re decades away from me being able to come with one hand in the shower – kneeling in the bath rather than standing, so I didn’t fall over at any key moments. These days, unless I have a Doxy or a Zumio, ideally with a dildo to accompany it and give me something to clamp round, the chances of me coming before my hand cramps up are slim to fuck-all. Fingers alone are no longer enough. I need more stimulation. And recently I realised that when I say ‘stimulation’, that doesn’t always have to be a sex toy or a cock. It turns out words work too.

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I want you to spit in my mouth. And crucially, I also think it’s gross when you spit in my mouth. There aren’t many sexual acts about which I have this knife-edge ambivalence. Some things (extreme belting) are hot to me in fantasy but not reality. Others (making out) are incredible in practice but rarely have the power to be wankable when I’m alone. It’s not often I find something that is both desired and disgusting simultaneously but for what it’s worth, spit in my mouth is one of them.

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This gorgeous story about sex and sweat is written and read by Robyn of RobynEatsEverything. Note: this is a work of fiction and a fantasy scenario; please don’t approach Robyn in the gym.

As I lift my arms up above my head, I feel a stream of cool sweat trickling down the nape of my neck, finding a cleft in my skin in which to swim lower between my shoulder blades, the small of my back, and into the gape of my leggings to the valley between my cheeks. The dampness of my skin would suggest the aircon in the gym isn’t working today; there’s no frigid breeze relieving my cherry-red cheeks. Working through this set, I’m more aware of other little streams crawling down my body and pooling in the most uncomfortable places; under my tits, my arse, under my belly, between my thighs.

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There is not even nearly enough erotica about switching, as far as I’m concerned, so I was absolutely over the moon when today’s guest blogger offered a post that honed in on that deliciously-hot moment that is the switch tipping point. When something turns, or catches fire, and suddenly the roles are exchanged. So much amazing kink is about power-exchange, after all, and doing this switching mid-fuck, or mid-interaction, is especially horny. I switch too, and personally some of my favourite moments have sat right on this tipping point. Hats off and huge thanks to Anna Syrma (who has written a gorgeous piece before about the honorific ‘goddess’), for capturing the hotness of switching so beautifully…

Find and follow Anna on BlueSky and Mastodon.

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