I’m standing in the middle of the living room, panting and sweaty after a damp, windswept run. My knee aches, my face is flushed, and I’m conscious of how little time I have for a restorative shower before I need to leave the flat. I don’t feel sexy in any way.
Until she looks up from her phone.
Gets off the sofa.
Walks over and gives me a kiss.
Sometimes that’s all it takes.
(Click here to check out contest details, rules and prizes)
With a few days to go till the deadline for my Song Lyrics writing contest, I thought I’d pull together links to all the entries I’ve received so far. Please do support your fellow writers by reading their work, and commenting/sharing as you see fit!
Thanks to everyone who’s taken part – you’re all brilliant!
AND YES, THERE ARE £££ PRIZES!
Last night I went with Exposing 40 to see one of my favourite bands, Manic Street Preachers, play a special set at the Camden Roundhouse for the Q Music Awards.
During each song, they flashed up on a video screen an excerpt from the lyrics – in some cases just a couple of words, in others 3-4 lines. I took a photo of the first one, then the second…then the third…and as I did so, I had an idea.
This is my third post for Smutathon 2017! It’s also the follow-up to this post from January, about a sex party Livvy and I attended last autumn. I’ve been meaning to finish my account of that night for a while now, and this feels like as good a time as any. If you missed the original post at the time, do go and check it out before you read any further!
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!
01:38
By the time I break the kiss and crawl back across the bed, I’m ready to fuck. To my surprise, Claire follows, pulling away from the guy between her legs and positioning herself next to Liv’s left shoulder. I can see what she wants to do, and I’m curious to see how Liv will respond; this is definitely out of her comfort zone, and I don’t want to push her either way.
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.
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.
A little while ago, I took a photo that immediately gave me an idea for a story. The image itself was nothing remarkable, but I was at work at the time, and something about the setting sparked a series of very interesting thoughts…some of which I’ve tried to capture here…
There’s no point getting tangled up in an office fling unless you’re really going to have fun with it. That’s what Gwen told me anyway, the first time she pulled me into the third-floor stationery cupboard halfway through a sleepy Tuesday afternoon and guided my fingers inside her cunt.
And she was right. There are risks inherent to any workplace romance, casual or serious; risks which have to be respected. From complicated power dynamics to petty interdepartmental politics, there’s no shortage of minefields to navigate, and one or two of those are bound to blow up in your face if you’re not careful. Sometimes even if you are careful. So you might as well enjoy yourself while it lasts. Really go to town, y’know?
Ever since I first attended Eroticon back in 2014, one of my favourite bits of the entire weekend (and there are many contenders for that honour) has been the Sunday afternoon erotica readings, hosted by the indomitable Zak Jane Keir.
This year, a baker’s dozen of writers and bloggers – from published authors to nervous beginners – took to the microphone to share their work, and I was one of them. I went with this story, which I wrote in 2015 and had largely forgotten about, until I dug it out of a folder on Sunday morning. Appropriately enough, it will be two years old tomorrow – for that reason and many others, I’m really glad I got the chance to stand up and read it out to such a warm, welcoming conference audience.
Of all the things I’ve done on this site over the last year, I’m not sure any have proved quite as enjoyable as the two collections of reader fantasies I published in June and September. They showcased such a rich, honest, intimate – and occasionally surprising – array of desires and sexual scenarios that I wanted to jump for joy with each one I read.
The feedback on that whole mini project was really good, so I’ve been meaning to revive it for a while – for a variety of reasons, International Women’s Day felt like the perfect opportunity. Women make up the bulk of my readership, for one thing, and while the sex blogging community is fantastic at representing and championing female desire, the wider world is rather less receptive; in fact, it’s still often openly hostile to anything that even suggests women might enjoy fucking for the sake of fucking, especially when it turns out that what they want is unapologetically – proudly – explicit or filthy.
Here, then, are a whole bunch of fantasies – straightforward and complex, kinky and vanilla – that women have sent me over the last 12 hours. I loved reading through each and every one of them, and I hope you do too. In fact, I’ll go one step further: I hope more women feel empowered to voice, write about, and act on their own sexual fantasies as a result of the work published here today – because that would be kind of awesome.
I wrote this story back in 2014 for Tamsin Flowers’ advent calendar erotica project. As that seems to have disappeared from her site for the time being, I thought I’d publish it here too, for anyone who didn’t read it at the time…
As the plane reached cruising altitude, our captain dimmed the cabin lights and I settled back in my seat. I’d counted on getting bumped up to Business, but with only 10 days till Christmas I wasn’t the only guy in a suit looking for an excuse to head back to London; instead, I’d killed a couple of hours in the airline lounge before take-off, and I knew that even squeezed against the window in Economy, the free booze wouldn’t take long to work its magic.