As I hope you can tell from the title of today’s post, this week’s guest blog contains some mild peril. Luckily, the fact that you’re reading it is evidence enough that the author of the piece is fine now, so please don’t worry. And naturally, once you’ve recovered from intense sex (or a hilarious sex accident), human instinct is to share that story with anyone who’ll appreciate it. So please welcome this week’s anonymous guest blogger, with a true story about an extremely powerful orgasm…

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If you’ve ever tried to hunt down my Real Life Identity, you probably know one thing for sure: my name is not Sarah. Sarah is the name I used in my books, and it’s the one I use when talking to journalists about sex blogging, if they aren’t comfortable calling me ‘Girl’ or ‘GOTN’. It’s the helpful comfort blanket I wrap around myself to maintain my anonymity: a tasty morsel of reality with which to distract people who might look further. But there comes a point when ‘helpful’ nudges into ‘deceptive’ territory. Notably, when I’m shagging someone.

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I tiptoe into the flat through the door she’s left unlocked, because I don’t want to wake her when I get in. On the pillow in the spare bedroom, she’s left a fresh towel and two chocolates, and seeing them makes my heart burst with love. I spy from the hallway that the light is on in her room, so I can’t resist asking: “psst – you up?” I could wait till tomorrow to talk to her, but I’m brimming with eagerness now. I can spill all the details over ham and cheese croissants at breakfast, but she is awake right now, so she says “yes! Come in! Report back! Did you get alllllll the spunk?”

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This gorgeous steampunk orgasm erotica is written by The Queer Earthling and read by Sherryl Blu. Note that this story contains: bondage, fucking machines, and hints of forced orgasm.

It was a cool autumn day in New London when I decided to call upon my friend, whom most knew as the Professor. Well-traveled, slightly eccentric, and exceedingly attractive, the Professor was somewhat famous for their inventions. They often spent hours in their workshop, a private space that none could enter, emerging rarely until they’d produced another of their magnificent creations, which were both spectacular and quite stimulating. These inventions sold, some said, for obscene amounts at private auction, but you would never know it—the Professor just wore their same tweed suit at all times, except for formal occasions, when they might instead don a tuxedo that had been out of fashion for a good five years or so.

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Note, before we begin, that this post is going to describe a rape fantasy. I use the phrase ‘rape fantasy’ instead of something softer like ‘consensual non-consent scene’ because I think it’s more accurate. As with any fantasy, the fact that someone enjoys it in their head does not mean they’ll necessarily enjoy it in real life, and so my writing should on no account ever be taken as a justification to do anything like this with your partners. Nor even, if I’m the one you’re fucking, should you take it as permission to do it to me. If you fully understand this, and you’re not going to be freaked out by the idea of that, let’s talk about why ‘sorry’ is the hottest word you can say at the moment of climax.

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