Have you ever held the end of a lit cigarette to a crumpled ball of flash paper? There’s this brief period of time between the moment when you touch it to when it catches fire, and in that second it could be that the paper isn’t special at all – maybe this is just normal paper, which will burn slow and steady instead of exploding into light. Then wait… beat… FLASH. A sudden whoosh of bright light and fizz. You have to chuck it up in the air quickly so it doesn’t burn your hand, and the release and catharsis of watching it burn eclipses anything that came before. The other day I was fucking a guy and he whispered something in my ear.

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We’re having a conversation about kinks. The fun things we’d like to try (or try again), and the ways in which we’d like to tear into each other. This is the kind of foreplay I really love: talking. Talking is my kink. Hearing someone tell me what they’re into – whether confident statements or shy suggestions – gets me hotter than anything else. So we’re having a conversation about kinks, and he tells me he wants to tear off my clothes.

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Today’s guest blog is an incredible one to start the New Year with, because it combines all my favourite things: overcoming adversity, smashing preconceived ideas about sex, and enjoying some extremely hot fucks. I’ll keep my intro short and sweet, and let the couple who wrote this post introduce it instead: “To a lot of people, sex – real, adjective-free “sex” – at least for a straight, cis couple still ultimately means a penis going into a vagina. And if that’s how you define sex, then we did not have sex for over 10 years.”

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This delicious erotic story about fucking in a tube station is written by Nooky, and originally appeared on her website. It is read here by Girl on the Net.

It’s the last tube home, or almost. They’ve drunk enough beer that they haven’t kept track, not quite. Their stop is far enough out, a backwater on a bit of the Central that feels almost bucolic, that no one else gets off except a little old lady in a mauve peacoat who walks slowly off towards the lift.

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A while ago I wrote a post about how – and why – I love being called a ‘good girl.’ Someone told me recently I should write a pair post about ‘good boy’ and naturally I always aim to do what the fuck I’m told, so here goes. I have frequently used the word ‘good boy’ when I’m fucking someone, but as I’m not naturally very dominant, my reasons for using it and the ways in which I use it may well be very different to your own. Nevertheless, here’s how to get a ‘good boy’ out of me.

Note: this post is quite cisnormative, sorry about that. So far all the good boys I’ve fucked have been cisgender. Just be aware that you don’t need to be cis to be a good boy, and I’ve tried to include some non-dick-focused activities in here as well as the more cock-heavy ones. 

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