Category: Sinful Sunday

So the monthly Sinful Sunday prompt for April is ‘Favourites’, and I decided this morning that it was the perfect opportunity to post a photo of/with my favourite underwear. The only problem? Deciding which pair fits that description.

Underwear has featured in a number of my blog posts, stories and Sinful Sunday photos over the last couple of years, and several different pairs have made an appearance. Men’s pants may not have the same cachet as fancy lingerie, but the right pair can make me feel really good – sexy and confident – so I tend to get quite attached to the ones I like.

For that reason – and because everyone likes voting on stuff – I decided to crowdsource my final selection. I picked five of my go-to underwear options, which are shown in the photo below, and all I’m asking you lot to do is pick your favourite.

Just getting dressed for a roast dinner with the family. As it’s Easter Sunday, no outfit would be complete without the addition of a little white tail…

The dance floor is empty. The bar staff are gone. I take your hand and spin you round, till we’re flying through our own perfect vacuum: a space where only we exist.

I enjoy a morning quickie, and obviously I love to fuck through the evening and into the night, but as far as I’m concerned few things in life are better than afternoon sex.

It’s gorgeous in summer, when warm, hazy sunshine pours through the bedroom window and forms a shimmering halo of light around your bodies; when you collapse together at the end into a sticky, sweaty mess and race each other naked to the ice-cold shower. In summer, even a whole afternoon in bed means emerging afterwards into a world still achingly bright and bursting with colour. Every lungful of air you take feels super-charged by the lingering physical memory of what you’ve just done.

Even that, though, struggles to beat afternoon sex in the middle of winter. In January the sunlight is weak and watery; short-lived, and more precious for it. Burrowing under the covers with another warm body means more than just shutting out the day for a few hours – it is a tacit admission that you’re happy for it to pass you by completely. That you have better things to do. A secret to share.

In winter, long, lazy afternoon sex demands to be followed by a nap. By two torsos stretched and curled around each other, and my thighs tucked up under hers. With an arm slung across her body, pulling her in tight, I feel more relaxed than I know how to describe; I’m grateful for her hair, muffling my already-inarticulate murmurs of pleasure as I drift off to sleep.

I can sleep for hours like that in winter, pressed-up and post-coital. Sometimes we wake up horny and want to fuck again right away, disengaging from our clinch just far enough to ease my hard cock between her legs. On other days, I open my eyes in time to see the sun setting outside the window, and the last of the daylight bathing the duvet with a splash of orange. I sit up and rub at my face, disorientated but conscious of how fat and content the day has left me; how catlike in my fuzzy, stretched-out splendour.

As energy starts to flood back into my limbs, I want to hurry out and enjoy every minute of this freshly-formed night. After a day wasted so wonderfully, I feel full of life and purpose – ready for whatever’s still to come.

A couple of months ago I went to the first day of SexPo UK with The Other Livvy. Unable to resist a bargain – or maybe just a good sales pitch – we walked out at the end of the night with a voucher for an ‘intimate’ photo shoot at a Central London studio.

Seeing yourself through the eyes of a stranger is always a little unsettling, even after a shit-ton of free wine (there for a reason, apparently). I wasn’t sure about our photographer at first, but as the session unfolded we grew more and more comfortable in front of the camera, while he gradually tuned in to what we thought was sexy.

Eye contact.

Skin.

On skin.

Arms curling round each other’s bodies.

The firm press of my hand on her arse.

Of my hand on her neck.

As she leans in close.

And lets me hold her.

Tight.

What if you saw me from across the street?

What if I saw you?

What if I invited you in…

I’ve struggled with this month’s Sinful Sunday prompt. It’s not that I don’t love Christmas – I do – nor that I have any problem thinking up ways to make the festive season sexy. No, it comes down to something far more mundane than that: timing.

I grew up in a family where Christmas didn’t really start till the 24^th. At this point in early December, there would be no tree in our living room; no tinsel on the walls; no candles in the window. In fact, my siblings and I would go to bed on Christmas Eve with the house looking pretty much as it did for the rest of the year.

“You know it’s Father Christmas who brings the tree, darlings,” my mum would say as she tucked us in. The implication of that was clear – if you haven’t been good this year, it’s not just presents that’ll be missing when you come downstairs tomorrow morning.

Sure enough though, we’d burst into the living room on Christmas Day – after being made to sing a carol outside the door – to find a whopping great fir tree, decorated with baubles, lights, lametta, the works. My dad would draw the curtains and light the candles, someone would turn the key on the wind-up Santa till Silent Night jangled out across the room, and Christmas would officially begin.

Anyway, long story short, while I’m all on board with festive music at this point, and while I’d never dream of harshing anyone else’s Christmas buzz, I simply couldn’t think of anything clever to fit the prompt…because that’s not where my brain’s at right now.

Where is my brain then? Well, my brain is here…

I got this message from a friend earlier, and immediately it set my mind racing. Look, there are lots of bad reasons to think of sex as a gift, but the second as I started picturing this super-horny scenario, all I could think about were the sexy, filthy, good ones.

Being passed around a group of women at a party till my tongue aches, and all I can taste is cunt.

Hanging out with a partner and her flatmates, and dropping to my knees any time one of them casually lifts her skirt.

Being sent to someone’s house like a midweek takeaway meal, knowing that a full report will make it back to my partner before I do – and that it will determine whether or not I get to have an orgasm of my own that night.

First though, I’d have to prove that I’m worthy of being shared. I’d have to strip down and get on my back, so she can hike up her dress, straddle my chest, and put my mouth to work. She adores her friends, and she only wants to give them the best – it’s what they deserve. If I can’t make her come – make her grind down onto me until her legs shake – then what’s the point?

Christmas is a time for giving, after all…

…and if you’re really, really lucky, a time for being gifted.

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One of the things I think about most often when posting photos here is how much of myself to show, and how much to leave to the imagination. How explicit I should be.

That’s not a dilemma rooted in any sort of prudish concern about reader sensibilities, nor in a fear of showing off my own body. It’s more that the photos I put up here are going to be viewed by people with very diverse views on what constitutes ‘sexy’, and I’m perhaps overly conscious of that – for every person who tells me “yes, more cock, more cock!”, there’s someone else saying “mm, just hint at it – that’s hot.”

This week I went back and forth…and ended up with this. The original image obviously shows a lot more (well, like another 4″…), but I feel like it works better with some of that cropped out. Maybe…