“Am very tense. Can I cash in that spanking later?”

I sent him the text while on the Tube home from work. It was late. I was, indeed, pretty damn tense. Just as I’d been the night before – I’d walked home from the station with a desperate need for a release only to find him half asleep.

“Aw shit. I was going to ask you if you could spank me.”

“Oh. I could still spank you!”

“No, it’s alright. I’m a bit done with today, anyway.”

Sleep helped that night. But as I shifted in my seat on the Tube, uncomfortably sitting with the stress of the past few hours, I knew it wouldn’t this time.

So I waited until I got signal. And I texted him to say that I was running late and stressed and spank now yes please thank.

His response?


This time, there was no brain static. No sneaky anything spiral catching me while I was walking down from the station. There was nothing but a desperately nagging need for some sort of sexual release. It was the first time in a while I’d felt my libido focus like this.

It was nice.

It continued to be nice, from the first sting of the crop on my soft bottom. Like a welcome hiss of cleansing pain.

Slap by slap, I felt myself relaxing. Sinking under, deep into my body. Surrendering and letting the tension wash away while my skin and body throbbed contentedly.

I was needy after that spanking. Very, very needy. And for what felt like the first time in ages I managed to communicate what I wanted from him, to him. I wanted him to make me come, plain and simple.

Or, you know, not that simple because I still have no idea how he managed to do it. It involved the faux-leather tongue of the crop, my clit and his fingers doing something that I still get shivers about when I think back.

It was, for want of another word, gorgeous. The kind of orgasm where you forget things like how shirts work and what your name is. The kind that, and I shit you not, actually gave me sex flush.

The kind that made me go “I GET TO WRITE THIS ONE, I GET TO WRITE THIS ONE.” because #sexbloggerlyfe

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I don’t know how it happened.

Me, lying on the bed and trying to get words down for a project I’m working on. Him, sitting behind his computer at the desk, doing little bits of admin. He gets up to give me a hug.

And suddenly we’re kissing. No, not just kissing, actually. Making out, like two thirsty teens, drinking each other in with lips and hands and tongues.

“Was that why you came over here for?” I ask.

“No, I just wanted to come and hug you. But this is good too.”

“Better, even.”

And it is better. It’s glorious. I am overcome by something I haven’t felt in ages – the red hot glow of spontaneity.

I am crap at initiating sex. It’s partly because I think that, with enough pre-amble and getting in the mood, I will one-up the sneaky hate spiral somehow. Perhaps what’s going through my mind at that point is that if I affirm to myself enough that I want to have sex, and that I’m going to have sex, it’s going to happen without the bit where my brain’s seemingly had enough of my bullshit.

I am crap at initiating sex because, as of late, I’m confusing initiating sex with doing Masterpiece fucking Theatre. Masterpiece Fucking Theatre, if you will. I’m treating it as a game in which I sit my brain down and tell it all the reasons why sex is a thing that will be happening. It’s a game that gets very tiring, very quickly, because my brain does not often feel like listening. Well, that part of my brain doesn’t, anyway.

Maybe it’s because my brain knows it’s a performance.

Don’t get me wrong – I really do want to have a more active sex life, unimpeded by the general banal mulch of depression. I want to work on that because… well, I bloody love sex. Otherwise I wouldn’t be writing this blog.

What I mean by “a performance” is that I am trying way too hard to trick my brain into being quiet for a while. I am giving my brain a one-man-show, consisting entirely of reasons why I should be allowed to just go for it and have sex with my boyfriend. It’s not an efficient way of living your sex life, and it’s also not an efficient use of the creative/trickster energy* inside you.

But last night… my brain was quiet. It was quiet as we made out and groped and moaned. It was quiet while we both wriggled ourselves out of our trousers and underwear, and it was quiet as I spread for him and took him in.

My brain was quiet, but my body wasn’t. It was basking in the glory of being faster than the hate spiral. It was basking in the sheer delight of a good, frantic fuck.

I had used my trickster energy right, at last. Instead of a performance for my brain, I just let my body react faster than it. It was a moment in which I realised just how much I am willing to deny my body its moment in favour of appeasing whatever’s going in my mind – be it positive or negative (or just plain confusing).

And I don’t want to stand for it any more.

I want my body to feel good, because it doesn’t often get the chance to just bask in its own glory like that. It doesn’t often get the chance to give in to what it wants faster than my brain. I know what I did last night, and I know that it came about from a place of sheer spontaneity – which is good to know and is noted. But I can’t help wondering if I’ve now made it all too clear to the hate spiral that this is a way to trick it…

Still, it was good to be faster than the hate spiral for once. There was something delightfully giddy about wearing a jumper and t-shirt and nothing else, grabbing at the fabric as my boyfriend frigged me to an orgasm that left me beautifully woozy in the head.

I needed that.


*Trickster energy is a concept taken from Elizabeth Gilbert’s excellent book, Big Magic. It’s all about living an awesome creative life, and will most likely be the topic of my Write Sex Right column in December.




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Sweet dreams aren’t made of this

In the glow of the early morning, we lay snuggled together on the bed. Naked, both of us, revelling in each other’s body heat. Soft music soundtracked the moment, coming through the wall from the next room. Something mid-noughties, probably produced by Ryan Tedder from the sound of it.

It was bliss.

He was hard against the small of my back, his erection tempting me to touch. Yes, I wanted him and yes, I needed him. So I spread, still spooning, my wetness inviting him in. It was remarkably easy – almost too easy – for us to stay in this position while he made love to me. I remember thinking this felt almost like something out of an Emmanuelle movie; imagining the camera circling around us as I rode on top of him in a reverse lazy cowgirl.

ILB and I have been together for three years now, and there is not a day that goes by where I count my blessings because I feel so lucky to have him as my person. And despite all the woes that have been plaguing me when it comes to sex, this felt so right. My brain was empty, floating on a cloud of lazy lust and happiness. I reached to find my clit and began frigging myself as we fucked another affirmation of our love into the universe.

It felt right.

It felt almost unreal.

Like there was nothing else in the world apart from us, together in this cocoon of arousal for each other. And with a nice modern pop soundtrack to boot, natch.

I wanted to stay this way forever. My mind briefly flashed to a throw-away thought I had last night, about us having sex only to be interrupted by a call from ILB’s family in regards to the impending birth of the latest addition. I’d laughed it off last night, because that would have both been so much like us and so absurd to boot. The phone wasn’t going to ring right now. There was nothing to interrupt us in this moment. There was only us and that was what mattered.


My eyes flashed open, and I sat up in shock. Not naked. Not currently enjoying spiritually gorgeous anniversary sex. Someone’s knocking on our door.

Yeah, it comes to something when the best sex you’ve had in a while turns out to be a dream and is then interrupted by a surprise casual inspection from the landlord.

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Let be

black and white clothed male, naked female with bootsThe blows landing on my arse cheeks reverbrated through my body, down to the core of my pussy. I was getting wetter and wetter by the second, no matter what kind of rhythm he was playing out on me. We giggled, yes. He made me laugh by pretending my arse was a pair of bongos, yes. But fuck me, it turned me on until I felt like I could melt.

He went on for what seemed like forever, and if I could have had it my way I would have had him spanking my cheeks for all of eternity. But a greater urge took me over, the urge for him to just grab me and have me right there. We’d tried doggy style as a position before but only a couple of times and never with great success, but in that moment it was the only way I wanted him to fuck me.

And this time, it worked. This time, I could feel his fingers digging into my thighs, his balls slapping against my cunt as he drove his cock into me over and over again. It was something else. It made me feel utterly dirty and I loved every second of it. Even when we switched positions and fucked with him on top of me, I still loved it because I love him and I love sex with him and it doesn’t matter what we’re doing or how we’re doing it or what kind of stupidly impossible position our knees and arms find themselves in.

Later, after orgasms and moans and creaks of the bed, I lay in his arms not thinking but just being. It had been too long since I’d just let myself be. The last few weeks and months I’ve spent so much time living in my own head, thoughts rotating like a manic hamsterwheel which I couldn’t for the life of me bring to a halt. Even if I’d have just jumped off, it would have pulled me back in, as if I was  magnetically tethered to my own unstoppable brain. Letting myself just be wasn’t a thing I was able to do. My Sertraline ran out, which really didn’t help because it hasn’t taken me long to figure out that my brain off medication is not a happy place to be – the two or three weeks of brain fog and sadness that come when you start taking it (or in my case, start again) is something I’ll gladly go through in favour of the infinite loop of black gloom that manifests without it.

I’d spent so much time in my head, I’d forgotten what being fully and utterly in my body felt like. But in that moment, with him and with the connection our bodies made, I remembered what it felt like to just be.

And I don’t want to ever forget that again.

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Morning sex

foreheadkissI can probably count on one hand the amount of times we’ve had morning sex. Then again, as y’all know, I have an actual sieve for a brain so I may be forgetting one or two occasions. But it’s in all honesty not something we tend to do – or even have time to do.

It started with a little throwaway comment about how, last night, I’d felt his hand idly brush over my mound a couple of times. I went all Morticia Addams about it (Last night, you touched me inappropriately… do it again) and after he first grabbed one of my breasts and then my side, I had him where I didn’t even know I wanted him.

Morning light filtered in through the curtains. His fingers danced across my clit, my labia, my perineum and before I even realized, I was slick with wetness and writhing against his hands. Birdsong resonated in the distance as we kissed and I growled because I wanted him inside me and my greed for him had temporarily blinded me to physical logistics. On top? Side spoon? From behind? Bueller? I had no idea.

But luckily he had. He rolled on top of me and I spread my legs to accommodate him, grabbing his cock and sliding it inside me. Moments of self-consciousness spat at my ecstasy – are we too loud? Are we making the bed creak a bit too obviously?-  but I took it in stride, and we fucked, oh so gloriously fucked as the sun became brighter and the birds fluttered around and another day took off in earnest.

There’s something about morning sex that makes me want to have more of them. Maybe it’s the fact that, post-fuck and still in the middle of the post-orgasmic-bliss, you get up and get dressed, and maybe there’s coffee and toast and Frasier on the telly or a quick shower and a flight out the door to meet the rest of the day. Maybe it’s the fact that, wherever you find yourself later in the day, flashes of memory of how you started the day will invade your thoughts and you’ll smile to yourself and think Yeah… we did that.

Or maybe it’s both.

All I know is that, as the day went on and we did the things we normally do on a Saturday, I caught myself smiling a couple of times, almost able to feel the weight of him on me.

And I want more of that.

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Giggle giggle giggle

All the signs were pointing in the right direction – the right direction being the giant flashing neon sign saying OMGSECKSYAS. Me – practically pulsating all over with horn to the point where I’d stripped off and was sitting naked on the bed, headphones in and Mia Khalifa gleefully showing off her breasts before sucking cock by the poolside on my netbook. ILB, fresh out of the shower and sitting very nakedly next to me, idily stroking his cock.

Sex was going to happen. I was so very, very sure of it, as I writhed against his hand, making the kind of gutteral, hungry noises that you could only make when someone’s somehow managed to reach something in you that desperately needed to be reached – a feeling that needed to be sated, needed to be satisfied lest you explode in a burning ball of fiery want.

My climax came hard, fast – faster than normal, like a short sharp spark that courses through you for the briefest, most glorious of moments before evaporating, leaving you a crumpled ball of giggles and dire need for a drink.

“Do you want to have sex? I want to have sex with you.”

“Yeah, yeah, but just give me a minute to get my breath back.”

Fairly normal thing when you’ve had an intense orgasm like that but aren’t quite ready to let the night go into sleep, right?

Only then we got a bit… distracted.

It started off with a bit of dirty talk, a bit of “I’m so fascinated by your pussy” and then… then we somehow found ourselves talking about classic Simpsons episodes. I’m not entirely sure how we got there – god knows, my mind is like a sieve and my short term memories are the boiled water draining off the macaroni – but soon we were giggling like two silly buggers, me stretched out naked with my legs wrapped around him and him sitting up.

Oh god, and we were so close. So very close to abandoning it all and fucking like two people possessed, losing ourselves in each other until time fades into nothing and all there is in the world is the two of us. So very, very close and yet so far.

But really, it was kind of the best way to lose thread of where we were going. Because if sex wasn’t going to happen, there was no better way to get distracted than by having a really good, geeky giggle about stuff that I can’t even remember talking about.

Sex will happen at some point, I’m sure.

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It’s called “doing a runner”

We were deep in film nerd mode. We usually are when we’re walking home from the cinema, chattering at high speed about things ranging from camera techniques to plot points to congratulating ourselves on the fact that neither of us ran out of the screen screaming during It Follows (which, GO AND SEE IT NOW1010111OMGWTFPOLARBEAR).

We always tend to take the same route home, taking us to via a church onto a residential area and via one particular house which, when the lighting is right, you can see pretty much everything going on in there at the time. And it was on this particular occasion, after coming back from a screening of Focus, that I happened to glance over at the one window in the house which had light coming from it. I quickly clocked that there was a computer, which was playing a video. And it looked quite a lot like something I wasn’t meant to be looking at.

So of course I turned to ILB, mid-sentence and did the following…

LLB: Yeah, but I reckon Will Smi… hang on, is that guy watching porn in there?

ILB: *turns* What?

LLB: In that house, right there. Looks like he’s watching porn.

ILB: Oh my God, he’s watching porn.


I don’t know if he was actually watching porn – it certainly looked like it from where we were standing, but then again logic and reason would tell me that you wouldn’t really watch porn in your front room with the curtains open and a very visible spotlight giving most of the street a crystal clear view of your wanking habits.

Logic and reason do tend to go out the window quite quickly when you think you’ve spotted something delectably illicit.

ILB: I can’t believe he’s…

LLB: *in a sudden frizzle of panic* SHIT, HE’S SEEN US!

*LLB dissapears in a cloud of ladysmoke, ILB hot on her trail*



Again, logic and reason would have informed me this wasn’t an action movie and we weren’t involved in a high-speed foot chase, but by then I’d already short-circuited and was in full runner mode. It took me much, much longer than ILB to break out of my giddy excitement.

LLB: *stops, tries to catch breath*

ILB: *stops, tries to catch breath, wonders why the hell this fuckery just happened*

*LLB and ILB look at each other, exchanging knowing glances*

ILB: So, who’s doing the blog post on this then?

Considering you’re reading this on my blog, you already know the answer to that one.

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Drifting...“I really want to have sex with you.” I croaked. Croaked in the near literal sense of the word considering that by that point I sounded like a bullfrog with a 30-a-day Pall Mall habit. It had been a very tense weekend, and by Sunday night I’d developed a cold so intense that I could barely speak. I’d been on anti-histamines for what felt like a thousand years and felt like collapsing.

I’ve talked about necessary sex before – the kind of sex that isn’t quite like emergency sex but close. The kind where you don’t give a flying fuck about any discomforts of any sort. You need it because if you let it linger for any longer you might actually burst. This was like that.

We hadn’t had sex in a good while. Various little annoyances had stood in the way of full sex, and we’d kept to licking, sucking and fingering for the time being. But in that very moment, I’d had enough. I needed something, anything to get rid of what I was feeling in my heart. Nevermind the rest of my body.

“Anything.” I said to him.

“Would you like me to lick you?”

I eagerly said yes, obliging his request to shift my legs to the side of the bed so he could kneel down and lick me. When he stood in front of me, his already erect cock jutting out proudly, I felt a need surging in me that I didn’t even know was there. I grabbed on to his thighs and took him in my mouth, desperate to take in the taste and the scent of him.

He retaliated by lowering me back down on the bed, spreading me and delving in. I moaned in ecstasy without sound, writhing at the feeling of his tongue and getting wetter and wetter. I wanted him to fuck me. At that point I didn’t gave a solitary fuck about anything else in the world. I wanted us to fuck, I wanted to connect again because I felt so unmoored and lost.

When he slipped inside me, it felt like nothing else. Reconnecting, we made love. Haltingly, intensely, every thrust and every moan feeling like a victory. At one point I thought I heard him sob, and at another point I think I gave him a bruise on his shoulder from sucking on it, hard.

Later on, I let him watch me, just watch me as I gave myself orgasm after orgasm, feeling everything wash away on waves of refound inner peace.

This morning, I woke up with both my voice and at least part of my energy back. Fucking and Lemsip go together quite well, apparently…

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Quickie Smart

Girl biting bottom lip

A few months ago, I wrote a post about the art of having a quickie. If you haven’t read it, I suggest you should because… for the lolz? Just kidding, it’s actually quite good (in my humble opinion…).

I bring up this post because of something that happened this very morning. It was something that made me think that maybe, just maybe, I finally have that art sussed. We’d been going through a bit of a dry spell lately, mostly due to things like time restraints and cats that are possibly the spawn of Satan. My medication’s been a factor as well, as it has apparently decided that it’s totally okay to fuck up my libido. Guess what – it really isn’t.

So when I woke up this morning, brimming over with lust and a need to jump my boyfriend just before he had to leave to work, I was surprised, to say the least. Not that it wasn’t a pleasant surprise. On the contrary, the feeling of our naked bodies together, in an early morning cuddle did everything to fuel my desire. And the fact that he was due to get up and get ready for work in a few minutes didn’t stop me from seducing him.

He didn’t mind one bit.

As the house came alive with the typical sounds of a Monday morning – radio, kettle, kvetching – he mounted me, and I guided his erect cock inside my waiting entrance. Time has a way of stopping when you’re having particularly good sex. Everything around you freezes and the only thing that’s moving is you and your lover. As we fucked, in the sort of restrained but still animal way you do when you’re wanting it but are also pressed for time, it felt like that time wasn’t even there. It felt peaceful. Good.

It lasted just minutes – it was a quickie, after all – but it was enough to convince me that I have now mastered the art of the quickie. Let’s go through that list of factors I wrote about in my previous quickie post…

  • Spontaneity – It was incredibly spontaneous indeed. The most amount of action I usually get up to in the early morning is turning over in bed and mumbling “ten more minutes, please…”
  • A trigger – Not so much a trigger as it was a moment of “I’m horny, you’re horny, we’re naked and we have about six minutes before we have to get up. LET’S FUCK.”
  • Speed – Hella speedy.
  • Incredible amounts of horniness/a physical build-up – As I said, a dry spell and a build-up of horniness… ;
  • Location – well, it was our bed, but still…
  • No fear of getting caught whatsoever – See last point for my feelings on the matter.

Well… clearly I have some learning to do still. It’s the kind of homework I can get on board with though.


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Necessary Sex – Which is not like Emergency Sex

Girl biting bottom lip

“I want to play with your cock a bit. Is that okay?”

This is how it starts. My head resting on his belly, hair fanned out over him and my lips kissing his cock. Two fingers form a little circle and slide over his shaft in short and quick bursts. I lose myself in him, relishing what I haven’t been able to do in weeks. I don’t care if we end up having sex in the end, or if this is all that’s happening tonight and the next thing we do is having a thorough discussion of all the post-credit bits in the Marvel Cinematic Universe.

For now, it’s me, my mouth and fingers, his cock and his approving moans.

And then it shifts. Side to side, with him rubbing his cock against my wetness. I start rubbing myself against his erection, and before I know it he’s pulling me astride him. It’s more intense and less batshit frantic than our first post-time away fuck. There aren’t any words, or any dirty talk – just sounds of flesh slapping together and two beloveds moaning in the ecstasy they take from each other.

I don’t know how many times he comes inside me, or how long I spend on top of him. At one point, he flips me onto my back and takes his turn on top and the weight of him on me is amazing. My legs are wrapped around his back and I wonder if it would be humanly possible (and advisable) for him to be any deeper inside me.

Because right now, I’m not giving a shit about any discomfort I might feel in the morning. When I tell him I think he’s as deep as he can be, he proves me wrong. I tell him I want him to fuck me so hard, I can still feel it in the morning. To that we both add an extra dose of shared orgasms, and I watch him in silent awe as he jerks himself off to the kind of orgasm he’s been wanting to have for a couple of weeks now. When he has it, after I’ve had a couple of my own, we lie there in silence for a long while – relishing the afterglow and each other’s nearness and nakedness.

The next morning, I wake up with a grin on my face. I can still feel it. And it feels good.


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