Scene from a Date Night

we’re out on a date in a restaurant nearby. my chair faces the window looking out on the high street, bathed in that evening spring glow.

my mind is flitting. too much work mulch, not enough “focus-on-the-love-of-your-life”. my mind flits and my eyes flit, and then i spot them.

a pair of pigeons. sat on a roof in my direct line of sight. they’re cuddling, it looks like. in that birdy way, their cooing heads occasionally forming a little heart.

i point them out to him and we watch, for a while.

then a third pigeon shows up. sits at a distance, watching.

“They’re shagging, aren’t they? We’re basically watching pigeon sex happening.”


they’re shagging. in that evening spring glow – a beautiful, tentatively warm day – we are sitting in a restaurant watching two pigeons having sex on a roof.

briefly. before either of us can say anything else, the third pigeon intervenes and an actual fucking soap opera breaks out on that roof. feathers fly. one pigeon is unceremoniously pushed from its perch. it’s over in seconds but it takes us a short while to process what the hell we’ve just been observing.

and then the food comes and we talk and laugh and my brain stops flitting and starts shutting the hell up for a change. it’s nice. so very, very nice to reconnect in this most basic way considering we haven’t really had the chance to do so in the past few weeks.

pigeon-related drama and all.

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“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 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 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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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!”



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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Got Your Back – for Kink of the Week

A few years ago, my boyfriend’s back inspired me to write a poem. I love the feel of it, the muscles and curves and softness. Running my fingers over the expanse of it, gently scratching… I never knew how sensual a back could be until I had his to touch.

So, as someone who adores her lover’s back, taking part in this edition of Kink of the Week (all about backs, but of course) was a no-brainer.

His back

We’re both creatures of touch. We like cuddling, lying entwined and letting the world fade away. And touching his back is one of the most potent ways of helping him relax. I am more than willing to give – as I said, I love the feel of it. He’s got the most gorgeous dip into the lower half of his back, leading down to his bottom. It’s the place I love to rest my hands, sliding them under his shirt or jumper and relishing the warmth and comfort.

It’s where I rest my hands when we kiss.

He’s ticklish. I kind of try to be very careful when I touch him, because understand that when I say ticklish, I mean he will fall the fuck apart in a sea of giggle-spasms. So when I touch his gorgeous back, I tend to put just enough pressure in to make it feel less like infinite feathers and more like actual my fingers. I scratch him, gently, which makes him make noises that make me smile just thinking about them.

His back is poetry to me.

My back

I am nothing if not a constant knot of muscle tension. My back has been a source of irritation for plenty of years, and my day job – as much as I love it – doesn’t tend to help. So to have loving touch lavished upon me is a treat for every sense.

Somewhere in our bedroom, I’ve still got a bottle of lavender massage oil. But, as regular readers of this blog know, I tend to lose bottles of fun stuff – and it’s not just lube. Still, massage oil isn’t something I really need when I’ve got his touch. Little scratches, like I give him. Kneading. Feathery flicks.

I’m getting shivers from thinking about it.

Is it a turn on? Perhaps, just because it’s intimacy and I am a sucker for intimacy. Good thing he is too. We love lavishing intimacy on each other, and we love each other’s backs.

It’s a sensation that makes me mellow. Something that makes me un-knot.


One day, early on in our relationship, I brought a purple tickle feather with me on a visit. It was still a time of getting to know each other’s bodies, not to mention getting to know the bit of my sexuality that involved a partner.

It was a big feather. Rather a bit of a piss to carry around with me on the train, but carry it with me I did. And I presented it to him with a glint in the eye – a can we? may I? 

That afternoon, I used the feather as a tool to get better acquainted with his body. Specifically his back. His poem of a back, his strong centre. I let a purple tickle feather be my guide to discovering an until then unknown quantity – one of many.

And wherever that damn thing is now, I can’t thank it enough for teaching me.


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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!”


“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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Night Night

Masturbation is awesome. You don’t need me to tell you that, most likely. But I enjoy preaching its virtues because it really does help with lots of things – for one, it relaxes you. For two, as I re-discovered last night, it’s a rather good sleeping aide. And god knows, I needed a good, solid night of restful sleep because I’ve been losing so much over the last few weeks. More than anything, I wanted my brain to shut the hell up for a few hours so I could let my body catch up on the recovery it needed.

I don’t remember how I came to think about it – maybe it was because we’d just finished watching Emmanuelle The Private Collection: The Sex Lives of Ghosts and there was a residual twinge of arousal still holding on to me. Or maybe because I couldn’t for the life of me think of any other way to calm my brain down. It was a swarm of thoughts clouding the corners of my mind – and from that swarm came the tiniest notion that maybe, just maybe, masturbating was the answer to making the swarm disperse. Masturbating for pleasure, yes, but more than that, masturbating to make myself feel better. Healing through my own orgasm.

“I feel like having a wank.”

I said it into the dark of our bedroom, a while after we’d turned off the lights. Both of us were still awake, restless and insomniac as we are, in the midst of a conversation about something I can’t quite remember but was probably incredibly geeky.

“Okay. Any reason?”

“No. Just feel like it. Fidgety.”


I didn’t need to elaborate on it. I didn’t need to explain why. I just rolled onto my back, continuing our chat. He did the same, pushing the duvet aside.

“Are you wanking too?”

“Yeah. Might as well.”

So we lay there. Side by side, the silent sounds of our mutually shared pleasure and healing filling the room.

I ended up sleeping until midday. I can’t say it was a particularily restful night’s sleep but I slept. And for now that’s fine by me because in this hellish new landscape of the world, rest is what helps us heal.


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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?


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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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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