This is my favourite sex position: me face down. Head buried in the pillow. Heat that borders on claustrophobia. Legs straight, and slightly parted. He kneels above me, ideally holding his dick in one hand, using the other to squash and pinch and slap my arse. There’s a vulnerable feeling – being exposed and examined and used. Occasionally spread.

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“I think the barista fancies me,” he explained as we wandered towards the coffee shop. “She’s quite flirty, you know?”

Yeah. I know. I know a million guys who are convinced that the barista in their regular coffee shop fancies them. They pop in of a morning, freshly showered and ready for work, and order their usual from someone who knows how to make it. That loving ritual of giving and receiving hot drink adds an extra tinge of flirtiness to an otherwise mundane transaction. A simple ‘how are you?’ can be transformed into a declaration of playful lust.

“No, she doesn’t fancy you,” I told him, twattishly. “Everyone thinks the barista is flirting with them – they teach them how to do it in barista school.”

“Yeah,” a twitch of something that looks like relief on his face. “You’re probably right.”

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He sent me a picture of it once – swollen, bright red, and leaking a fat, shiny drop of pre-come. Skin so taut I could tell he’d been edging, even if he hadn’t told me. Seven days’ worth, if I remember correctly. Seven days of edging – touching it, stroking it, playing gently enough that he wouldn’t quite climax. Until the whole thing ached and he had to go to extreme lengths to get settled down before he had to leave the house. Digging fingernails into his thighs, cold water, that kind of thing…

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As the sun will rise every morning, so each day an internet commenter will decide that something new is The Worst Thing To Ever Have Happened.

I’m not prone to slagging off commenters – you who join in below the line, adding critique, debate, praise and hilarious jokes about this one time you fell off the bed while fucking – you are a valuable and incredible part of the internet. Sniffy bloggers like me don’t have a monopoly on opinions, and frequently the contribution of thoughtful, awesome people adds loads to a topic, or makes me snort coffee out of my nose when they drop a particularly hilarious pun. Comments are incredibly valuable: I’d be a liar if I told you differently.

But there is one kind of commenter who can fuck utterly off. And it’s someone I had only made passing acquaintance with until I started working for hot porn site Dreams of Spanking. It’s this person:

“Eww. Why on earth would you post two men going at it?”

“Sorry, but this just isn’t my thing AT ALL.”

“What the hell is THAT?”

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“Don’t you fucking dare come,” he says, with a growling, horny tone and the power to make me do it. Holding a wand toy right tight and hard against my clit, cock firmly in place, pulsing against the walls of my cunt, and giving me something to grip down on as I try to fight the waves of unavoidable orgasm.

Sometimes the sexiest thing in the world is being ordered to refrain from something that you know is inevitable. The strain of having to bite your lip, tense your muscles, arch yourself away from the source of pleasure so as to hold something back for just a few seconds? Amazing.

But not always.

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