We’re making out. It’s smoking hot. We started off with me folded in his lap, feeling soft and small. Delicate. Unequivocally his. Then, after some firm kisses that resonated deep in my cunt, I got a little yearning to switch. To make him mine in return.

CN: smoking weed, breath play

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Just as there’s something exciting about hearing the letterbox go and seeing a handwritten card instead of some random spam from Sky Broadband, so my heart leaps when my inbox pings and instead of a boring press release it’s a guest blog pitch from Jenby! WOOOO! Today the fabulous @JenetalTorture is back with another gloriously fun, sexy account of a kink I’ve never tried myself: being a human ashtray.

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Back in August last year, I wrote a post called ‘love is an addiction’. In that blog, which I typed up as a distraction to help me hold off the urgent, all-encompassing desire to text my ex-boyfriend, I said this…

“It feels like trying to quit smoking – an exercise as vital as it is futile, at which I have failed every single time I’ve tried. But I still haven’t sent that text so now I wonder if the wasted, flabby muscle that might once have been my willpower is growing with each passing day. Perhaps every text I compose and do not send builds that muscle up – flexes it, makes it stronger. Maybe if I can make it through the next six months, I can make that muscle strong enough that it’ll haul me through to the end of my smoking addiction. Wouldn’t that be a thing?”

Well, here’s a thing: I quit smoking.

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Love is an addiction, and I am not good with addiction. I’m writing this post so I do not send a text: it’s that simple. I sit here at my desk, legs crossed on my office chair like I know I really shouldn’t because it’s bad for my back, and I press the buttons on my keyboard that will keep my hands busy so I do not send a text to my ex saying ‘hey, how are you? I was wondering if you fancied hanging out?’ Earlier this evening, I pressed other buttons – on the microwave, to heat up my dinner, so that I wouldn’t send a text. Later, when it’s reasonable enough that an adult might call it a night, I will brush my teeth so I don’t sent that text, go for a pee so I don’t send that text, roll my mattress out onto the floor and take a sleeping pill and have a wank and put on a podcast so I do not send that text. I will do all this extremely mindfully. With the focus and dedication of a powerful woman who will – under absolutely no circumstances – send that fucking text. Love is an addiction, my friends, and I have no willpower.

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You can find filth anywhere if you keep your mind open to it… even on the back of a fag packet. The following story contains some BDSM, and is NSFW.

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