Sexual consent isn’t gendered – at least, it shouldn’t be. If you’re chatting someone up in the hope that you’ll get to have sexy fun with them later, you shouldn’t be putting pressure on them to do things they don’t want to do, no matter what your gender or theirs. So apologies to everyone who knows this already, but I just wanted to pick up my sledgehammer and really slam this point home. Men: your consent matters too.

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I want you to find a hard, cylindrical object. A bottle of deodorant or a broom handle will do – as long as it won’t break in your hand. Now grip it as tight as you can. Squeeze. Really squeeze, like you’re trying to crush it in your grasp. Do your muscles hurt? Good – hold for a few more seconds. Now let go. Feel the tingle in the crook between your fingers and your thumb. Note the absence of that object, feel how your empty hand almost hurts now it’s not there. That is how my cunt aches ten seconds before you fuck me.

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This is an erotic fiction story I wrote while I was on holiday. A holiday during which I went for a lot of long walks across some very muddy terrain, so inevitably over the course of these walks I nurtured a fairly detailed fantasy about getting dressed up in my best clothes, then utterly trashed by a horny guy who pushed me into the mud and fucked me. So yeah: this is a story about getting fucked in the woods, with a heavy emphasis on how messy and trashed you’d be at the end of it.

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When we’re fucking, and he’s just about to come, there’s always a split-second moment when he has to decide: hold back or let go? If he pulls out quickly and closes his eyes so he can’t see the wet hole of my twitching cunt desperate for him to shove it back in, he can deny himself an orgasm now, but keep it in the bank for another fuck half an hour later. If he lets go, he gets that delightful thudding pulse running through his cock, and the wave of satisfied release as he dumps spunk inside me, but the chances of us fucking again shortly afterwards reduce dramatically. It’s a tricky decision. And sometimes it’s one that he doesn’t get to make.

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He breezes into the kitchen, grins at me in a self-satisfied way and proudly tells me “look!” before whipping out his cock. And I think ‘Ahh… my muse.’ My beloved muse. My weird, nerdy, playful, dodgy, nervous wreck of a muse.

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