This is my second post for Smutathon 2017! To learn more about Smutathon, click here – if you’d like to help out with the fundraising effort, go straight to our JustGiving page here!
“Never kiss a Tory!”
That’s right, isn’t it? Never kiss a Tory, not in this political climate, and especially not when they’ve just helped to re-elect (albeit narrowly) a government that has so little regard for the poor, the disabled, the queer, and pretty much anyone who doesn’t look like a cishet, white…Tory.
You can even buy t-shirts proclaiming your purity in that regard. It’s a statement worn as a badge of honour: not only am I very much NOT a Tory, I wouldn’t even consider dirtying my lips with one of the fuckers. That’s how evil they are – they don’t deserve the gift of my body.
And I get it. Physical attraction is great, but most of us want to kiss – or fool around with, or fuck – people we also like and respect, at least on some level. Anyone who identifies as a Tory clearly has a set of priorities and concerns so far removed from those held by most of you reading this post that it can be hard to get your head around why you might want to kiss them, never mind why you would actually go ahead and do it.
This is my first post for Smutathon 2017! To learn more about Smutathon, click here – if you’d like to help out with the fundraising effort, go straight to our JustGiving page here!
I’m in the communal shower block of a modest suburban leisure centre, and it’s completely empty – empty, except for me and him. This is not unusual. We play squash during the daytime, well before the post-work peak, and a lot of guys don’t bother getting changed anyway. They just pack up their stuff and dash off, hurrying back to the office or home to their families.
But we don’t need to dash off anywhere. We have time, and I use that time to watch him. Not openly, not obviously – I’m not brave enough for that – but whenever he tosses his head back to rinse off his hair, or reaches over to squeeze shower gel into his hands from the dispenser fixed to the wall, my eyes are on him.
They roam over the tight arse muscles that bunch and flex with each twist of his body. They follow the torrent of soapy water that runs along a seam from the base of his throat down his chest, to tumble off his breastbone and wash over his dimpled stomach.
As is the case for many consultants – freelance and otherwise – what my current job lacks in excitement, it more than makes up for in flexibility. I’m not my own master, exactly, but I have a lot of freedom to manage my work schedule, and no-one expects me to stay chained to my desk from 9-5, Monday to Friday – as long as I continue to deliver the results my client is looking for, of course.
It all means that if I don’t have any meetings, or I just need a bit of peace and quiet to focus on an important project, I’m usually able to work from home – and I love that. I love how productive I am, without the distraction of chattering colleagues and needless interruptions. I love being able to roll out of bed five minutes before I start work, and to take long lunch breaks in the knowledge that I’ll make up the time later in the day. And most of all I love setting my laptop to one side for five minutes, stretching out on the sofa, and relaxing with a cup of tea, next to the living room window.
On Friday morning, I posted a series of tweets, telling the story of our latest trip to an After Pandora play party:
With my work laptop stuck installing endless updates, I was free to cover the evening’s events in a fair amount of detail, and the thread ultimately ran to 43 tweets. I’m not going to rehash them all here, but I do just want to focus a bit more on tweets 2-3 and 30-32 in that thread. Why? Because when @19syllables asked me to ‘tell us a story’, I didn’t just reach for my most recent sex memory – there were other reasons for focusing on that night, and those five tweets kinda sum them up.
Here’s what I wrote:
This is a story about last weekend. About sex that was joyful and uplifting, in a way that we don’t always stop to appreciate at the time. About the kind of sex that nourishes and nurtures the soul – that leaves you replete, brimming, sated…
I feel a surge of utter happiness. I’m happy because I’m having amazing sex with the woman I love, in a room full of people *enjoying* themselves. Everywhere I look, I see joy and pleasure; openness and warmth. There is none of life’s cynicism or meanness here – it’s a perfect bubble. And it’s *fascinating*. Watching other people have sex is such a weird and wonderful thing.
Almost exactly a year ago, Liv posted this Sinful Sunday photo, taken somewhere out along the Metropolitan Line.
Tonight we were up in North London, having dinner with friends, and when we got on the Tube to head home, it seemed like the perfect opportunity for a repeat performance…
…with one little twist.
Face, cock…or both – sometimes it doesn’t matter. Sometimes all you want is for her to hop on board and take you for a ride…
Last week, I wrote this piece of filth about messy office blow jobs, blue jeans, and the consequences of failing to beat the clock. I knew it was the kind of story that wouldn’t resonate with everyone, but might have a fairly delicious effect on those who did enjoy it. And apparently I was right.
Eight days after posting it, I received an email from Hannah Smythe, better known to most people reading this as @confess_hannah. She’d rewritten the story from the female character’s perspective, and wanted to know whether I’d be interested in reading it. That was not one of the more difficult questions I’ve ever had to answer.
Maybe it’s a sign that I’ve spent too much time in East London over the last couple of years, but I really like the exposed brick wall opposite our bedroom window. I’ve been thinking for a while that it would make a good backdrop for Sinful Sunday photos, and I’m sure I’ll find a way to make that happen at some point – today though, it was so lovely and sunny outside that I couldn’t resist trying out a couple of simpler shots.
I’m still slowly rediscovering my blogging mojo – I have one story I’m hoping to finish this week, and a couple of ideas for posts that I need to start working up in order to see where they take me.
In the meantime, I have two pretty exciting guest posts to share with you all. The first of them comes courtesy of Coffee & Kink, who joined me for this mammoth discussion about pegging back in March. CK is a kickass writer, who also has a bunch of really interesting, insightful things to say about sex, so I’m thrilled to be hosting her again here.
The second post…well, you’ll have to wait till later today for that one. It’s a piece of fiction, it’s a response to this story from last week, and it’s super hot – really, what else do you need to know??
My love for button fly jeans is hardly a secret. They’ve featured here on several occasions over the last couple of years, and if you’ve met me in person, whether at Eroticon or elsewhere, the chances are that I was wearing blue Levis at the time. They’re everything I want in a pair of trousers: practical, durable, stylish, low maintenance…and very easy to remove – or just to open up a little bit. What’s not to like?
I didn’t manage to get my site back up and running in time to join in with last week’s Sinful Sunday prompt. That’s a shame, as I think this photo would have suited the brief rather well (though as the round-up made clear, there was hardly a shortage of images that did exactly that – and more!). As it was, it inspired the story I posted earlier tonight, so it only seems right to share it now instead – and to relaunch the blog by showing off something so close to my heart (yes, I mean the jeans…).
Either way, it’s good to be back 🙂