Tension

“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?

“Yes!”

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 Can’t Find It!”

Oh god, I’m such a fucking potato.

Himself and I were on a date at the cinema last night. One that was a bit fraught, considering most of what we’d planned went a bit wrong. Down to the fact that, as we were heading towards the exit afterwards, we were confronted with a massive downpour. Eventually, we made it onto a bus.  It was late. We were tired and cold. So conversation wasn’t exactly flowing. It was more of a “let me cling onto you like a loving limpet” kind of moment.

I mentioned something about making a t-shirt with an inside joke between us on it. Like, I don’t even know why exactly. I just did because when we’re both tired it’s like our brains sync up to hammer on the ULTRA RANDOM button. So, I mentioned this particular inside joke. And I said something along the lines of “but which one would you put on a t-shirt for me?”

He thought it through for a second. Then his face lit up.

“Where is it? I can’t find it! Oh God, IT’S GONE.”

Have you ever, in the heat of a sexy moment, blurted out something so ridiculous it just follows you around perpetually? A something that occasionally gets brought up by your partner and makes you wish you’d never ever spoken, ever in your life? This is what that is for me.

Lemme rewind.

*spoopy, squiggly flashback effect*

This happened about three years ago. I may have written about it then, but fuck it, I’m writing about it again. We were in the midst of some ferociously good foreplay, the kind that makes you lightheaded and giggly and slowly replaces any kind of logical linear thought with the words WOOHOO SECKS YAS GOOD on a loop.

So it was that I went in to give him a blow job. Well, I wanted to. And I was going to. But… weirdly enough, I couldn’t immediately find his cock. Which was quite the achievement considering he was rock hard and also RIGHT FUCKING THERE.

I panicked. I legit panicked because my brain can be a cheeky little shit sometimes. Especially in the heat of a sexy moment. But this was peak me being a shambles. In a thick haze of lust and libido, my brain had successfully convinced me, for a few seconds at least, that my boyfriend’s cock had vanished into thin air.

Three years on, and I still am a bit mortified by it. Just a little. The words, mostly. I actually had to ask him what context this happened in, as I couldn’t for the life of me remember.

Well, I do now. And yeah, after a bit of a duff night, remembering it was a slight bit of a laugh which I needed. An embarrassing one, but a laugh nonetheless.

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The Couple in the Car

Moments don’t have to take long to imprint themselves on us. Even the smallest flash has the power to stick in your mind for ages. It was like that with the couple in the car. This happened a few weeks ago, but somehow I keep thinking back to it. Maybe it’s because it happened so quickly. Maybe it was one of those moments where my mind filled in the blanks.

Because my mind does like to fill in the blanks. Writer’s thing. It could have been nothing at all. It could have been exactly what I thought it was.

It was early evening. Dark already, the kind of foggy cold dark you get in early autumn. We were walking back from something unspecified and family-related. Birthday thing,  possibly. Doesn’t matter. All that matters is that standing at the top of the road was a car. Which isn’t that remarkable considering it’s a suburban road and there’s cars all around. But there’s a car.

And the window’s foggy.

And for some reason, I spot the foggy window in the corner of my eye. Along with the woman. And the man on her lap. I think they’re kissing before we pass by. Or it might be the mind filling in the blanks. They might be fucking, but it might be the mind filling in the blanks. She may catch my eye and we may exchange a glance.

But it might be… well, you know.

It’s just a tiny moment, which might not have even happened. I may have seen nothing at all. I may have seen everything. It’s been stuck in my head for a few weeks now though. The kind of moment where I keep pondering whether or not I can turn it into something more on the page. The kind of moment when that sort of pondering makes me want to smack myself on the hand because sometimes I need to switch the writer brain off.

Whatever it was, it was a moment.

Or was it?

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Stubble

The whirring of his electric shaver comes faintly through the closed door of our bedroom. If I close my eyes, I can imagine what he looks like when he’s doing it. Concentration on his face, a steady hand as he trims his stubble to his usual short, yet beautifully present length.

Facial hair has always done it for me. Not so much mustaches, but a good bit of stubble or even beard-age on a man. I don’t exactly remember how far back this one goes, but I do seem to remember it flaring up a few times during my years of watching ER.

Carter? Kovač? Benton? St. Doug Ross himself? All hotter with a little bit of beard going on. It was a kind of formal education in one of my most enduring turn-ons. And it’s an education that has left me with the perfect man to cater to that particular one.

I like his stubble. I’m a bit of a sucker for it, no matter how much or how little of it there is. It’s never a full thick beard, nor is it the polar opposite. It’s just right for me. I’m like Goldilocks with his facial hair. It’s a treat for me. A treat I love to stroke. A treat the feeling of which I like lingering around my lips after a kiss.

It tickles a bit, yes. But only a little bit. The good kind of tickle. The kind you remember with a grin. The kind you want to feel again, whether on your lips or on your cunt.

When he goes down on me, I don’t tend to mind it. Again, it’s just the littlest tickle.  He knows what he’s doing, and I know that I can in turn tell him if something’s not feeling right. Including the stubble. It works for us.

And I will always not mind it, because it’s part of him.

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Soft

He lays me down in his lap, and the world melts away.

I amaze myself with how quiet my brain is. The constant raging firestorm of depressive thoughts has temporarily retreated – much like the rain of the past few days. Like this, it feels so easy to slip into kisses with him, after slipping out of our clothes.  Easy too, is answering his question: what would you like to do?

I want to make out with him. Taste his lips and lose myself in something I seemed to have forgotten about. I want to remember the simple goodness of a long, languid kiss. And I want to touch, not to mention be touched. Feel the sting of a good spanking and the thrill of his fingers working my cunt.

What I didn’t know I wanted to feel is the comfort of lying in his lap. With my entire body a tableau for him to do with as he and I wished.

His fingers are like magic. They seem to reach something deep in my core. Going beyond just pleasuring me. Working whatever tensions I’ve been building in my body in the past few (hectic, tiring) weeks loose. First lying on his lap, then spread out in front of him. He fingerfucks me to the brink of ecstasy. I can’t remember ever hovering on the edge so deliciously, for so long.

“You okay? How are you feeling?”

And I want to say something sexy. I want to revel in my libido fighting back. I want to tell him how great he’s made me feel.  Want to tell him how much I love him for showing me that my sex drive isn’t a lost cause. But I can’t. Literally,  I can’t. I am too far gone in my bliss to actually make sense. It’s the point when the saucy turns into the silly.

I want to say something sexy.

What I end up saying – nay, practically slurring – is “SOFT!”

SOFT.

FUCKING SOFT.

From the saucy to the silly, I tell my boyfriend (while naked and wrapped up in a cool duvet) that I’m feeling soft. Loved. Glowing. Calm.

And in hindsight, that one word did end up saying so much more than any string of dirty talk could have done in that moment.

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Step In The Right Direction

It’s a Saturday night and I’m parked at our desk, scheduling the week’s tweets for Dreams of Spanking. Half of me is sweating on how to phrase the tweet for a particular scene, half of me is sweating because it’s a flurry of hot as hell spanking action dancing in front of my eyes (and a little bit of me is also sweating because of the stifling and indecisive mini-heatwave going on). I get that familiar wriggle, that one where my body’s temporarily wrested the control from the weevil in my brain and is making me very aware of the spark of a need catching fire. The need to be spanked, to feel his hand and hear the sound and let my body luxuriate in the feeling that it is being listened to.

Pleasingly, and surprisingly, it’s my body that keeps hold on the controls. It may or may not have something to do with the fact that, at some point, I hear the front door thump shut and see Irish Ladd jump in the back of a taxi with his mates who’ve come to pick him up for a night out. Empty room to the left of us, empty room to the right. Stuck in the middle, with plenty of opportunity to not give a single fuck about the noises being made.

So I grab that opportunity by the collar and strip off, leaving on just my t-shirt. I drape myself over the bed, telling him as best as I can what I need right then.

And he obliges gladly. He starts off slow, but I love a good slow start. Plenty of time to build up, really get the heat flowing. And it flows, setting my body alight in a way only he can. Making me wet in a way that I’ve not been for such a long time, opening me up and rendering me giddy with the need for an orgasm.

“Wow, you’re… you’re really wet!”

“Really?”

“Yeah… amazing…”

I can tell this time’s different from the way my voice is no longer controlled, measured. In its stead is a natural huskiness, a pleasure-cottoned slur of sound and words.

“… Can you get another finger inside me?”

He can.

He can, without effort, get three fingers deep. Three fingers which I pulse around as I frig myself to an orgasm so thunderously gorgeous, so wet and sloppy and wonderful that when he tells me that my come’s drenched the sheets, I’m ever so slightly amazed at remembering how good it feels to be completely in my body and out of my brain.

Heck, I’m still amazed right now, as I’m writing this. Amazed, and more than a little bit giggly. Step in the right direction? I can but hope…

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Slicker Than Your Average

I like writing stories set in the summertime. To me, there’s something about the change of seasons from the blushing days of spring to the all out glory that a summer can be that somehow mirrors the blossoming of a sexual connection between two people. I like the idea of heat from the outside assisting in generating heat from the inside.

In real life, summer’s effect certainly made a good go of it. When the sun first started to hit in earnest a few weeks back, I noticed the change in myself.

My mood slowly lifted. My general depressive funk from the last few months took a back seat, if only for a while (note- yes, on the back seat, but it’s still there, and still an awful bastard). And my libido, oh man. My libido was like a little angel/devil hybrid sitting on my shoulder, whispering utter filth in my ear.

I’d like to imagine, by the way, that this little angel/devil hybrid is actually Alice Clayton, considering I’ve been heavily into a Clayton reading binge.

Summer. Yeah. I got into it. ILB got into it. We got handsy and frisky and all kinds of naked, wrapped up in cuddles where the comforting warmth of him glowed right through me. There were orgasms, there were giggles, and all was well. I am a pale, freckly sort with a dependence on factor 50 who works in a place which is never any less than sauna-level hot. I’ve gone on record plenty of times grouching about how I don’t enjoy this kind of heat.

But… I think that’s actually a bit of a lie on my behalf. Only a bit. Or maybe not a lie. Just an underestimation of how a good lashing of summer could make me feel a bit better. The kind of loveliness with the occasional breeze. The kind where you can walk and bask and just for a moment marvel at the little bits of beauty in the ugly stuff.

It’s one of the other reasons I like setting stories in summer. It’s a gorgeous season, blooms and colours everywhere. Tiny moments of happiness can become wonderfully large in these halcyon days. With sex, momentary touches and kisses can spark such an insatiable fire. Sweat beading on foreheads, the glistening of skin…

Having said that, there has been something distinctly unsexy about the past couple of peak summer days. It’s like that The Oatmeal cartoon about microwaving butter – too much? Then nope, you don’t get to do sexy times because you won’t even have the energy to lift a finger, let alone fingering. Sexy moans and groans are replaced by moans and groans as a means of conversation, often punctuated by pointing and nudging your head. You feel like a human Pritt stick.

Still. When it comes to writing erotica set on days like these, I’m allowed to play around with the truth just a teeny bit, right?

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Neighbourly

I’d asked him, just before I left for the shops to get something I’d managed to forget to buy twice already that day (ceterazine, because my subconcious really wants me to break out in an angry field of hives, apparently).

“Will you light some candles and make the room a bit… sexier while I’m gone?”

Or something of that ilk. As I walked to the supermarket, weaving through the aisles until I’d found the allergy pills I’d been looking for, I pondered on our sex life from as of late. The other day, after a joyous and wrecking wet orgasm given to me by his skilled hands and fingers, we’d (for the first time in a while) fucked – without me so much as having an inkling of Bad Shit™ on the brain or outside interruptions mattering for all of it. This, of course, felt like a glorious thing for me. And with that in mind, I felt in fine fettle as I opened the door, to be let in to a dark, candlelit room by my naked boyfriend, hiding behind the door so as to not be seen by the people who I’d just let in to the house.

They were old friends of the Irish guy occupying the room next to us, friends who’d come down for the weekend to stay over. During the course of the next 48 hours (and to my knowledge, still as I’m writing this post) they in turn met up with some more mates for a pre-drink session in the empty room downstairs, went off clubbing and slumped back in at 3.30 the next morning, sat in his darkened room shooting the shit for most of the next day, left for another party sesh and arrived back at the same time.

And it was as those mates trickled in, loudly and very much present, that I asked my boyfriend to massage me, before spanking me with one of my thick knitting needles.

Now, I’ve mentioned countless times before (or maybe I haven’t, in which case – forgive me for thinking I had mentioned this and also, the more you know) that I’m kind of daftly afraid of people hearing us having any kind of moments of sexual pleasure. Our room is quite securely locked, so there’s no way anyone can just walk on in. Nor are the walls as… well, cardboard as they were in our previous place. I can hear murmurs – and occasional snores – but there have not been moments where the walls have vibrated because someone’s watching a Vin Diesel movie somewhere in the house.

There are only two things that could be of worry to me here – one being my own weird, twisty, turny brain. The other being our IMPOSSIBLY SQUEAKY BED.

Funnily enough, it was the first, not second one that caught me in this case. And it was entirely down to the fact that, whenever we’re engaging in any kind of spanking (which is rare, exactly because of this – and also many other factors) I become hyper-aware of noises. Specifically, the noises being made by hand hitting flesh, reverbrating around the room. I have absolutely no idea if anyone can hear the slightest from outside, but the idea that someone may hear us is enough to scare the bejesus out of me.

So, imagine being scared by the idea that one person currently in the vicinity may hear you and your boyfriend having spanky sexy funtimes. Now, imagine about ten people consistently meandering up and down the stairs, lingering outside your door and having merry conversations while you’re trying your very best not to freak out and to enjoy what’s happening to you. But you can’t really enjoy it because you slowly but surely become convinced that, somehow, everyone in the street can hear you.

Got that mental image?

Good.

Now imagine the same, but with the spanking replaced by my muffled groans into our duvet as he uses the Doxy on my clit in a way that still makes my head spin when I think about it.

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Sucker

In between the shiny metal of the nipple clamps and collars, they pop out at me. I grab one of the display ones, giving it a closer look.

We’re in Sh! Womenstore, having drifted here after SceneGirl’s birthday celebrations not too far away. He’s sitting down, chatting to Renee in an attempt to recover from some chest pains. I’m letting my curiosity roam free, touching and ooh-ing and aah-ing and giving the person behind the till upstairs fair warning that I’m likely to accidentally turn something on without knowing how to turn it off again.

It’s been a while since I’ve been there. Already I got to experience the tingle of spotting both a copy of Spy Games (which I edited) and several copies of Come Again: Sex Toy Erotica (in which the opening story is my Dare You To…). I’ve held a newer model of the Stronic, marvelling again at it thrusting into thin air. I’ve gazed longingly at lubes, squeeling with joy at the flavoured ones.

And now, this thing. Or these things, if you will.

They’re the Kinx Dual Masseuse Nipple Suckers They come in a set of two, in a rosy-lilac colour. The way they work is through pressing the bulb shape onto your nipple, creating a vacuum of air. Never let it be said that I am hard to amuse because I spend the next five minutes gigging like a little shit while squeezing them.

Of course I bought them. Once natural curiosity towards a shiny toy hits good and hard, I can not be stopped. It doesn’t happen often – if it did, I’d probably have to dedicate an entire cupboard to Stronics and nJoy Pure Wands. But these suckers looked cute, were low of budget and appealed to my love of nipple play.

Thus, the suckers came home with us.

We tried them the same night, getting a bit too caught up in the novelty of doing things like attaching them to your forehead and yelling  EXTERMINATE. I did however like how they felt on my nipples, even though it took us a while to actually grasp how to best make them work. The next night, we tried them again, this time also making time to try them out in the other way they were suggested to us.

I’d never even considered the idea of trying suckers on my clit. It appealed to me though, because curiosity and that sort of bumph. He set about attaching one of the suckers, wriggling it around to make sure it wouldn’t instantly dislodge from my clit. After a good couple of minutes in which nothing really happened, he carefully removed it and gasped at the sight of my engorged labia and bud. It wasn’t a pleasurable feeling –  I think for me it’ll be more of a use it for the thing it says on the front of the package kind of thingy in the future.

But the look of sheer admiration, of fascination for my vulva, that lit up his face? That more than made up for a little bit of uncomfortable.

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Sex Wizard

I strip out of my clothes, content with letting the air hit my naked body. Early start at work, an unpleasant heat regardless of the pissing rain making fabric cling to me. It’s a day I’m glad to see the end of, a day in which cool air and soft sheets and bare skin on bare skin are my reward. I’m buzzing with the kind of low-level arousal that tends to travel with you during summer – a sort of hey, it’s the weather for it even when it is most definitely not the weather for anything except lying in bed and watching several back-to-back hours of iZombie on Netflix. Weather that was made for doing absolutely fuck all apart from surrendering to its cushioning heat.

I don’t quite know how my brain comes to it… well, actually I do know how my brain comes to it. A tantalising combination of dabbling on the Tube sites for shits and giggles and spotting several videos from a website called Lubed, along with finding just the right woman on Chaturbate and watching her writhe helplessly in the throes of arousal. But something prompts me to ask if he fancies indulging in a particular kink of mine tonight, even just a little bit. A kink which I kind of forgot I had until I was reminded of it in the most delicious way.

Reader, I must confess – I am seriously into the sight of glistening skin.

It’s why I nearly jizzed myself with happiness when I saw the links to those videos. I wasn’t even aware there was porn which catered so specifically to this turn-on – but there it was, a glimpse of a whole website dedicated to lube drizzling on tits and abs, to sticky and wet fucks and the glee of making a great big mess with personal lubricant.

Now, as we’re both still in the process of unpacking from our move, I haven’t the faintest idea where our actual stash of lube is, despite me clearly remembering packing it. For that matter, I’m also not entirely sure where the rest of our towels are. But what we did have to hand, right on top of the chest of drawers next to my side of the bed, was a bottle of Body Shop lavender massage oil. Which would not only do the job quite nicely, but would also make less of a mess. It would do. For now. Besides, I was already soaking wet from watching our cam girl of choice on Chaturbate – she was naked, spread out and at the mercy of an OhMiBod vibrator inside her, which pinged every time she got tipped. Judging from the wall of yellow in the chat box, the constant beeping sound of tipping and the fact that she was pretty much constantly grinding and moaning, she was having a pretty goddamn good night of it.

And then, with one of the Lubed videos in the background, he liberally went to town with the massage oil, coating me with the scent of French lavender and letting me relax after the tensions of the past few days. I spread my legs, wanting to see how turned-on I could get without actually touching my clit. I rubbed my labia around the area of my clitoris, amazed at just how effective it was. It was so effective in fact, that I didn’t even see my orgasm coming.

It was the kind of orgasm that can make you feel like a sex wizard. Congratulations, you have levelled up and just discovered how to stimulate the internal bits of your clit. Have a mind-meltingly good climax. Next level – get the towels ready? Can’t say I’m not hoping…

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