I'll be in my bunk…

I’m pretty sure I’ve told this story before, but having just spent a week at my parents’ house it’s front of mind right now, so I make no apologies for dusting it off again for the latest Kink of the Week prompt…

When I was a teenager, I slept in a high cabin bed, with a sofa and desk underneath it. The mattress was no more than four feet from my bedroom ceiling, which meant that when I lay on my back I could easily reach up and touch it with my fingers – or my toes.

I don’t remember why I did it the first time. Only that it was so good – so hot – that I knew right away it wouldn’t be the last. Hand wrapped around my slick, eager cock one lazy afternoon in the summer holidays, I planted my feet against the ceiling and walked them back till they were directly above my shoulders. With each step, my arse was lifted a little further off the mattress and the tip of my cock was brought closer and closer to my face.

I was fascinated. As I did it I assumed I’d let my legs flop down again before I came, but instead they remained resolutely fixed to the swirls and stalactites of white paint that I spent so many hours studying in my childhood. I felt the orgasm start to build inside me, my thighs tensing with the effort of holding that position, and the slit of my cock flaring a few inches from my face.

I opened my mouth as I came – more by instinct than conscious choice. With the angle, the gravity, and my thumb jammed into the groove at the base of my cock, jizz shot out in a series of thick, powerful spurts; the first couple went straight into my mouth and down my throat, while the rest coated my cheeks and chin.

I remember feeling a bit guilty afterwards, in the same way I had after masturbating for the first time a couple of years earlier. I wiped the cum off my face and gave it a good wash, resolving not to do anything that weird again, but for the rest of that day I couldn’t shake the memory of feeling it shoot out all over me; of the fleeting warmth as it slid down my throat.

The next morning, my feet found the ceiling again within seconds of my hand reaching for my cock, and for the rest of that summer it was rare for me to wank in bed without finishing off like that, body jackknifed in that small, sweaty space, and cum all over my hungry mouth.

Halfway through my second year at uni, my parents dismantled the cabin bed and replaced it with a conventional single. I’ve had far more sex in the current bed than I ever did in my teenage one, but even so it’s rare for a trip home to pass without those long summer afternoons flitting across my brain. Some memories are far too hot to allow just to slip away…

—

Safe sex in erotica is one of those debates that tends to split writers down the middle. For my part, the characters I write almost never use condoms, and that’s very much a conscious choice. While it’s not always an option in real life, spunk is hot – for reasons both physical and psychological; visceral and transgressive. Allowing my characters to enjoy it is also a way for me to do so vicariously through them, and I trust my readers to see their actions/behaviour in the appropriate, fictional context; as expressions of the fantasies I have, rather than a daily reality.

Those fantasies have been shaped by my early, formative experiences, and by the sex I’ve had since then (as those of you who’ve read this post will know, it’s not just my own jizz I’ve had the chance to swallow over the years). There’s always something very satisfying – comforting almost, in a really sexy way – about licking my cum off a partner’s tits or stomach. Flicking beads of it from between her labia – or pushing my tongue inside her cunt to scoop it out – is even hotter, mainly because I then get to taste both of us, blending together into one big, sticky, humid mess.

Sometimes when I’m doing that I imagine another dude kneeling behind me, teasing his cock against my arse and getting ready to fill me with his cum. That’s the point at which it becomes really hard to concentrate, because as I’m picturing it all I can hear is the ragged, shuddering, horny-as-fuck noises partners of mine have made in the past as they’ve felt me shooting inside them, and I wonder whether it’ll turn me on as much to feel him do the same to me.

Since the first time I walked my feet back across my bedroom ceiling, I’ve never viewed semen as a mere by-product of sex. It doesn’t always have to be involved, but when it is – and when circumstances allow – I want it to be a thing. For my partner to get off on it in the same way I get off on feeling her cum on my fingers, or all over my chin. And ultimately to have the freedom to enjoy it myself, without being made to feel the same way I did when I looked at the white streaks on my face in the mirror that afternoon and wondered whether there was something wrong with me. Because in that sense, at least, there really isn’t.