Her Desire

CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

She made eye contact with me the moment I entered the pub. It wasn’t fate; it was design. Her text messages had been specific and compelling. I arrived at precisely 10pm, she gestured to a seat at the bar and I waited there while she served her customer. Then I followed her to the door marked ‘Private’ and slipped in behind her.

We stood facing each other for a moment until I remembered her instructions and dropped my gaze. I focused on the toes of her black ballet pumps: they were scuffed and worn from too many busy shifts. I knew we had only a little time now: ten minutes at the most until she was expected to be back, pulling pints and measuring shots.

I watched her feet as she stepped out of her skirt and moved towards an armchair. I sat on the chair, my hands firmly pinned underneath the weight of my thighs. I dared a glance up at her. She wore a suspender belt but no stockings. Instead, the clasps of the belt were attached to a square of latex, held snuggly against her cunt. So, she really did mean ‘no touching’.

She straddled my lap, grinding against my belt buckle and the buttons on my jeans. I breathed in her scent: beer and a heavy floral perfume. I was 16 again. The landlady of my local had taken me under her wing, given the leering men at the bar a stern talking to, and clasped me to her bosom in an expression of maternal comfort. At 16, I was way too young to be able to deal with the men grabbing at my arse, but I was old enough to understand the thrill I got from feeling my face pressed into the older woman’s breasts. At 16, all I could do was allow myself to be held; at 46, I knew my desires and I knew how to get them met.

She moved up from my lap to bring her crotch level with my face. Now the latex smell from the dental dam obscured the beer scent and there was another muskier note added to the mix. I breathed all of it in. The latex was smooth and warm and my tongue slipped easily over its surface. I pressed a little firmer and felt the contours of her cunt: the hidden folds and valleys that lay beneath; the latex square like a dust cloth that had been draped over priceless possessions to protect them while they lay dormant. Her cunt was not dormant though: I could feel it twitch and pulse beneath my tongue. I explored more of her shape, my eyes closed, my hands numbing under my thighs, my senses of taste and smell overloaded with the up-close-and-personal experience of licking her through the dental dam, and my own cunt flooding with the elicit thrill of touching yet not touching.

We had agreed all of this and, now that it was actually happening, I couldn’t imagine it any other way. To touch her with my hands would have seemed uncouth. To touch her directly with my lips and tongue would have overwhelmed me. There was so much of her to take in just as it was: her hard clit on its proud shaft able to take firm and sustained sucking through the mediation of the latex; her labia plump and full, slipping and sliding in her own moisture as my nose and chin pressed against them; our joint knowledge that this was the only way I could make her come – my tongue, her cunt.

I worked my tongue over every inch of the dental dam, noting her sweet spots and returning to them again and again. The temptation to nip at the latex with my teeth was great – I wanted to consume her – but I daren’t risk tearing the material and getting a taste of her. I knew one taste would never be enough, I knew I’d end up ripping the dam away from her, my fingers – blood rushing, skin burning – would be inside her, and I would break every agreement we had so carefully made.

Her breathing was heavy above me and her hips moved quickly against my face. I latched onto her, suctioning my mouth to her and keeping my tongue moving just so – just how she needed it to be. She held onto my shoulders as she rode out her orgasm.

At 1am, my phone beeped: she offered me another arrangement.

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You + Me + the Sea

We will need to find an isolated beach. I want absolute privacy and seclusion with you – I’ll share you with the elements, but that is all.

I’ll make a shelter for us for when we want to rest, and I’ll lay a blanket to keep the sand away from our most tender places. But, other than that, I want us to be completely exposed.

I want us to be naked. Totally. Sunglasses and sunscreen if we need them – I care about protection – but otherwise just you and me and the sand and the sea.

I want to caress you: head to toe. In water. On land. The slight breeze stirring the hairs on your skin in preparation for my fingertips – stirring you deeper.

I want to see you. All of you. Open to my gaze, to my admiration, to the pangs of lust that make my cunt clench and my mouth wet simply from looking at you.

I want us to be free. Free to make all the sounds our bodies have been longing to unleash. I want to scream as the waves – literal, not metaphorical – crash on the shore. I want to be able to call out my love for you, naming you as God.

I want the shifting sun and the changing tide to be our only markers of time passing. I have waited so long for this – I know I will savour every moment.

I want to revel in your pleasure when you wade into the water and launch. Your body and your mood made buoyant by the ocean.

I want to taste the salt: the sea, your sweat, perhaps even my tears – after all, relief brings its own emotions.

Finally, finally, finally – just you and me and the sea.

photo by Linus Nyland on Unsplash

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All Your Secrets

CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

Erotic short story…

All those drunken confessions have led to this night. Each time we sat together, bottle of wine on the table, feet on the sofa, Adele or Emeli or Lana on the stereo, you loosening up and me listening. As the evenings wore on you inevitably confided a new secret and I stored it away with the rest. I know you better than you know yourself. I know your deepest desires, I know what turns you on, and I know exactly what you are yearning for.

Of course most of the time you wanted to talk about him. “He’s amazing in bed,” you told me as you stretched your foot out onto my lap. I massaged your toes and pictured the scene you described in such candid detail. You riding him like a cowgirl, his cock the perfect girth to make you feel so full and tight that you gushed for the first time. “He loved it.” I saw the misty look in your eyes as your cunt remembered and I squeezed your foot a little firmer in acknowledgment.

Some nights I thought you were all out of confessions but then the wine would kick in, you’d give me that naughty-girl look, and another one would leave your lips. You knew you had a willing and expectant audience; I knew you needed to be heard.

We’d almost drained the bottle of red the night you told me the biggest secret. If you hadn’t told me we could have carried on like this forever but, once I knew, the first domino in the chain was given a gentle nudge and the outcome was inevitable.

It had taken just one little word from him to burst your loved-up bubble. “Married. The bastard is already married!” I wrapped you up in my arms and let your angry, hot tears soak the front of my sweater. You nuzzled into my chest like a small child seeking comfort and I stroked your hair. I made sure you were safely tucked up before I left you for the night. I think you were asleep before I’d closed the front door.

You see, I wanted to give you that space. You needed to feel the lack in order to feel the want. Tonight I think you’re ready.

You look different this evening. There’s a weariness that makes your features look less distinct, like someone has blurred your edges with an eraser. You look softer and older. I like it. I hand you the wine and you lead me straight into the lounge. So far we are performing the same moves we have done a hundred times: you pour the wine, I choose the music, then we kick off our shoes and settle into the cushions.  I pat my lap and you smile as you place your feet there. I put down my wine glass and rub my thumbs across your tight arches. You wriggle your toes in appreciation.

I’ve always loved your feet. It’s funny because most people say “hands” or “eyes” when they’re asked what first attracted them to someone. If they were being honest they might say “it was her breasts” or “the bulge in his pants”. Few people would admit to being drawn to a stranger’s feet but that’s what I first noticed about you: you were barefoot and dancing. Your dance moves were pretty alluring too, but not as irresistible as your feet. I know you don’t see it yourself but, trust me, you have delectable feet.

It’s a good thing that you like having them massaged at the end of the day and we are perfectly matched in my delight at being the one to do it for you. When I thought this was the only physical contact we’d ever have I decided I could make it enough for me. Along with the friendly hugs and kisses hello and goodbye. Yes, I could live with that.

You kept telling me your secrets though. Did you realise what you were doing? You wanted me to share in your sexual thrills, wanted to draw me in, to make sure I felt it as well. You went into far more depth and detail than a simple retelling of a story would. Did you notice the misty look in my eyes too? The way I repositioned your feet in my lap: just a little higher up, just to make us both a little more comfortable.

Initially I wondered if you were testing out my willingness for a threesome. You knew I only like girls and I knew you and he were always up for trying something adventurous. You had plenty of opportunities to invite me and, when you didn’t, I began to wonder what other motive you might have for your newest admission of watching girl-on-girl porn. It didn’t take long for the other domino pieces to begin to stack up: were you deliberately laying a trail for me or was it your subconscious leading me on?

My fingers knead into the ball of your foot. I know your sweet spots and I work them with the pads of my thumbs and then my knuckles. Your unattended foot waits impatiently and you shift it to rest nearer my crotch.

Your weariness has lifted and you look young and excited again. You have drunk your wine quickly but I’m not going to refill your glass tonight; I have something else to offer to quench your thirst. Because that’s how you described your sexual appetite to me, remember? You talked about hunger and thirst and need and desire, and that urge that just won’t go away until it’s satisfied completely. I listened. I noted. And here I am.

Your feet are warm and heavy in my lap and your legs are stretched out along the sofa. You look relaxed and content. This could be the same as any other time we’ve spent together but tonight it’s my turn to share a secret.

I work my hands over the top of your feet and up to your ankles. You hold tension there too and I smooth it away, allowing my hands to slide a little bit higher on each stroke. Then I dip around to reach your calves. Another sweep of my hands leads me all the way to the backs of your knees. I’m leaning over your legs and your toes are pressing into my torso. You are so close to my nipples I can feel them hardening in anticipation. All it would take would be a few little wiggles of your toes and there would be no turning back.

I massage the tender area behind your knees. You have your eyes closed and you are smiling. He used to kiss you there and make you tremble. Now it is my fingers that are triggering delicate little shivers and twitches along your thighs. I know where your other erogenous zones are too.

You wiggle your toes and I feel it like an electrical charge connecting my breasts and cunt. You gasp in surprise as my mouth envelopes your big toe. You begin to giggle but then the sensations reach your cunt and you fall silent. My mouth is warm and wet, sucking and licking your toe, coating it with hot saliva. We are looking at each other: you must be able to see the need in my eyes and I see something shift in yours. This isn’t your naughty-girl expression; this is one of exposed lust. Your hunger is blatant.

I move my attention to the rest of your foot: kissing you slowly, holding you firmly. A wiggle from your toes again and then your voice: a quiet, “Suck me.” I take your other big toe into my mouth. You are prepared this time but your intake of breath tells me you still find the sensation unexpected. It is sensual and strange: do you feel like you’re getting a blow job? You wouldn’t be the first woman to discover she has an etheric dick on the end of her foot.

You are being very patient with me: I know how cunt-centric you usually are. I want to savour your whole body, to taste you, cover myself with the scent of you. You’re wet, aren’t you? As wet as my mouth; as wet as my cunt.

I release your foot long enough for us both to undress then you lie, face down, on the sofa. The soles of your feet are inviting me and I kiss each lightly. Your delicious calves are next: gentle kisses decorating you until I reach the backs of your knees. I puff a small breath onto your soft skin and you moan. My lips follow, and then my tongue, leaving a sheen on your skin: a blend of my saliva and your sweat. You are feeling flushed and I can see moisture in the dip of your lower back and across your shoulders.

I trail my breasts over the backs of your legs and watch your buttocks clench in response. One breast dips between your thighs, the sudden weight and presence makes you moan louder. I’ve reached your cunt.

My tongue trails a new path, this time on a downward trajectory. I start at the base of your spine and slide down to the top of your butt cheeks. You shift slightly onto your knees and spread your thighs a little to give me a clearer route. You throw me into a quandary: I know you want me to lick your cunt but your asshole looks so inviting. I pause. You bring yourself further onto your knees and look at me from over your shoulder. You want it all, don’t you? You want to lose yourself in all the sensations your body has to offer. I wish I had eight arms, a cock and a cunt. I wish I could wrap you up completely; fill you up completely. You deserve to be engulfed by passion. I know all your secrets; I know that’s what you want.

You offer your ass to me again and I take it. I worship you with my kisses before stroking my tongue over your sensitive pucker. I wrap one arm under your waist to better hold you to my lips and you push back onto me. You reach back and grab my free hand before bringing it into full contact with your cunt. “Fuck me,” you growl and push my hand hard up against you. If you could force my whole hand inside you, you would. Instead I quickly fill you with my fingers, leaving my thumb free to circle your clit.

You are already losing the sense of your individual body parts and are tuned in to the connections between your ass, your cunt, your feet, and your nipples as they graze the fabric of the sofa. Any sensation triggers a series of electric shocks over your skin and there is a deep pulsing at your very core.

I alternately flick my tongue over your asshole and huff warm air onto it. I match the rhythm to the movement of my fingers inside you and we rock together. I keep a slow and steady motion even though I know you want me to pick up speed. You always want to come too soon. But I want you to be totally ready, to dance barefoot on the edge of the precipice until you grow wings and fly from the edge. I want you to sweep and soar, catch an up-draught and fly again, until you have no choice left but to land and rest.

You want to come. You have pushed my fingers deeper inside you until the pressure in your cunt is exquisitely painful. You are panting and pleading: “Please, please…” But I’m still not ready to let you go. I want more of you before you fly from me.

Your asshole is soaked with my saliva and our sweat. I let go of your waist and raise my face from you. I watch you for a moment as you grind against my hand in your cunt. The fingers of my free hand dip inside my own juices and I feel my clit rock hard and erect. I’m saving that for you. My wet fingers return to your asshole. One finger pushes swiftly inside you and you cry out. Now we can dance.

I let you set the pace. You can’t move quickly enough: you want to dance so fast that you make time go backwards. You want to come but you don’t want this to end. You go to the edge and leap.

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Making love last a lifetime

In my writing ‘play’ shop (Writing as Your Sexual self – you can access it here) I shared a prompt: “write a love-lust letter, either to yourself, or someone else.” Here’s what I wrote in response to that prompt.

You can watch and listen to me read it, or read the full letter underneath the video.

I want to feel you stroke my face. I want the pads of your fingers to disturb the fine hairs on my cheeks and jaw. I want you to trace the outline of my bones beneath my flesh. I want you to pause at my lips: a silent question asking if you can touch me there.

I’ll give the slightest of nods, turning my head just a little to place my lips underneath your touch. Yes, I want you.

I want slow, gentle, reverential. I want the absolute intimacy of sensitive fingertips caressing equally sensitive lips.

I’ll close my eyes and there will be nothing more to this world than you and me. Us. This. Now.

I want your palm to cup my jaw, my head to rest upon your hand. Just hold me like this. And let me know I am safe.

Then, when the moment is right, bring your lips to mine and let me explore you with my tongue. Tasting you. Drinking in the essence of you. Swallowing your saliva and inhaling your breath.

Slowly, slowly, my love. We have all the time in the world: we are the world.

After the kiss, our bodies will be singing harmonies to each other. Each resonating the notes of our unique, vibrating, needs. I’ll sing yours back to you: I hear you; I hear your hungers.

My touch on your skin – starting with your hands – will be almost too much. Just that – just my hand on yours, my thumb rubbing over and around your knuckles. Now I feel for the hard outline of your bones, and the soft spaces in between.

You’ll offer your body to me. Naked. And I will touch you with all of my senses. My nostrils filling with the scent of you. My eyes wide, in awe of your beauty. Hesitant only because I have to choose where to explore first – and I want to know the whole of you.

The shapes and textures that form the body of you. The sounds you share when my touch surprises you, or answers an unspoken plea. The way your body moves into my touch as though drawn by magnets or, at least, the magnetism of corresponding desire.

There will come a moment when my fingers are called to go deeper. When I will have explored all of your outside and now I want to go in.

I’ll be gentle; you’ll be ready. Eager.

How will we manage the urgency? Which of us will show restraint and slow the other down? Slowly, slowly, my love, I don’t want to miss a moment.

I’m going to be here when you come. When you let go. When everything is released and you tremble and twitch in slow motion – because we have slowed down time.

We will have all the time in the world.

We can go back to the start and begin over and over again.


Making love last a lifetime.

I want to be Elemental

I wrote this in response to my journey to meet my sexual self.

To meet your sexual self, click here…

I want to be naked in the elements.

I want to feel my breasts floating free in the sea. The salty water ruffling my pubic hair. My feet and toes tickled by seaweed strands.

I want to feel the rain running rivulets all down my body. Drenching my hair, dripping off my eyelashes. Unhindered streams flowing over my contours.

I want to roll on the earth and be patterned with leaves and dirt. I want the graze of grit as I stretch out along the ground. I want to take on the colours of a forest floor.

I want the fierce gales to push my body this way and that. I want to feel buffeted and at the mercy of the wind’s whims.

I want to feel the heat from a fire. Getting so close I begin to glow. Drinking it in. Reddening me. Seducing me.

I am made of the elements – they make me what I am. I want to go back to those places.

Be elemental.

What do you want? Tell me…

The Presence of Absence

CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

When you are inside me, exerting your pressure millimetre by millimetre until I stretch impossibly to accommodate the entirety of you, every other experience and yearning is pushed out of my being, and there is only that moment of knowing-you-knowing-me in this deep intimacy.

I can wish for that moment to last for an eternity, to forget there is any more to my life than this – than you. But –

the moment ends.

You depart and I contract. No longer the unfathomable vastness of a universe, now a mere ant on the earth’s surface, a speck of dust in your eye that elicits a single tear before you wipe me away.

I exist in this all – or nothing – state.


I login to another plane. My heart leaps. My cunt awakens. Would you meet me there?


The appointment is set. And I do my hair and I pee a dozen times and I wait for the flicker and the tone that tell me we are connected. At last.

You are there! I can see you. I can hear you. But my body strains, confused: I cannot smell you; you don’t reach out to touch me. I am floundering in this middle-of-nowhere presence of your absence. Pixelated promises offer empty disconnection.

It’s me, you shout, I’m here. Can’t you see me? Can you hear me?

And I do and I can and it is not enough.

Not enough.

Not enough.

The call ends and I cry.


I close my eyes and I summon up the memory of the last time we were actually together. The exquisite presence of your presence. When you were inside me, exerting your pressure millimetre by millimetre. 


I wrote this piece as a way to express my yearning and my disappointment. Digital platforms attempt to trick our minds into believing we are together – but our bodies tell us, undeniably, we are not.

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Summer Lovin’

CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

“Ice cream!” Lydia ran to the front door the second she heard the chimes of the ice cream van approaching the house.

I picked up my purse and we went outside. It was the last day of the summer holidays and I’d promised to treat her to a cone with a wafer and chocolate sauce. She’d been poised all afternoon, listening as the tune from the van got closer and closer. It had finally arrived on our street.

I didn’t make a habit of visiting the ice cream van, if I had I would have known about the cute butch behind the counter and I would have made sure I was looking a bit more presentable when I’d arrived with one hand holding onto my purse and the other holding onto a very excited and bouncy little girl.

We got there before any of the other children on the street; Lydia threw herself at the side of the van, trying to see the multi-coloured bottles of syrupy sauce lined up on the counter. The ice cream woman smiled at her, “What can I get you?”

“A double cone with wafer and chocolate sauce and raspberry sauce and sprinkles!” I tapped Lydia on the shoulder. “Please,” she added.

“Wow! That’s a lot to go on one ice cream,” the woman behind the counter told her. Then looking at me, “Is that alright with your mum?”

“She’s not my mum!” Lydia laughed. “She’s Auntie Jackie and she said I can have whatever I want because it’s the last day of the holidays and I’ve been a good girl all week.”

“It’s fine,” I added, “you can go full out with the sauce and sprinkles. Her parents are picking her up soon so they can deal with the sugar rush.”

She chuckled as she loaded the cone with ice cream, sauce and sprinkles, stuck in two wafers and then, just for good measure, a chocolate stick. Lydia took her prize in both hands and went to sit on the doorstep, concentrating her full attention on every lick.

The woman was smiling at me. “Anything for you?”

“No, I’m fine thanks. How much for that monster ice cream?”

“On the house.”



“Well, if you’re sure… thank you.”

“My pleasure,” she winked as I moved aside for the next customer.

I went to sit beside Lydia, watching the woman hand out her ices, and the parents and children handing over their payment.

We were still sitting there when she’d finished serving and she gave us a small wave as she moved back into the cab and drove off, the chimes from the van announcing her impending arrival on the next street.


I breathed a sigh of relief once Lydia had been collected and was on her way back home. My brother and his wife were tanned from their week of sailing and full of grateful thanks that I’d been able to look after their child – even if she was now complaining of tummy ache. I was grateful to get my house back to myself and pour a large glass of chilled wine.

I’d just sat down in the back garden when I heard a noisy engine stop outside the house. There was something familiar about the chug chug of the motor; it ran on for a few seconds and then cut out. My doorbell rang. Sighing, I put down my wine and went to answer it.

The woman from the ice cream van was standing on my doorstep, the front of her t-shirt soaked through with glistening, white goo.

“I’m really sorry to bother you. I hope you don’t mind. I was refilling the ice cream maker and managed to spill the whole lot down me. I’ve got a clean top,” she waved another t-shirt at me, “but I’d really appreciate being able to wash some of this off.” She gestured towards the sticky mess and I could see that it had spilled onto the front of her jeans too. “Would you mind if I use your bathroom?”

“Of course, come in, come in. It’s just at the top of the stairs.”

“Thanks, you’re a gem.”

I stepped aside and she bounded up the stairs, two at a time. I couldn’t help but appreciate her arse as she moved.

I retrieved my wine from the garden and waited in the kitchen while she cleaned up. She reappeared five minutes later, looking clean and fresh in her new t-shirt but still with a stain on the front of her jeans. She caught me looking at her crotch, “Hopefully no one will notice when I’m behind the counter,” she laughed.

“Would you like a drink?” I didn’t want her to go back to her van yet. She was totally my type: short, neat hair; bright sparkling eyes; a smile constantly playing at the edges of her mouth; dressed simply in a white t-shirt and blue jeans with a pair of roughed-up baseball boots sticking out from frayed hems. She was fairly flat on top and had a nice rounded arse.  It had been a while since I’d been so instantly attracted to someone and I didn’t want her waving goodbye again too soon.

“That would be great, thanks.” She glanced at the wine glass in my hand, “I’m driving though, so best make it something soft.” She held my gaze.

“Something soft?” I repeated. “Me?”

She stepped towards me and ran the back of her fingers over my cheek. “Mmm, soft,” she murmured. Her fingers carried on moving, stroking down the side of my neck and then across my cleavage.

I put my wine glass down on the counter and brought my hands onto her hips, drawing her closer to me. She cupped my face in both her hands and kissed me. She tasted of ice cream.

Her kiss grew more insistent and her hands tightened around my jaw. I pushed my thigh between hers and ground it hard up against her. Her legs squeezed around me. She pulled back from the kiss and let go of my face. “I want more of you, Jackie.”

The sound of my name shocked me. I’d been lost in the fantasy of a hot encounter with a stranger but now I was all too aware that I wasn’t a stranger to her: she knew my name and where I lived. What did I know about her? Only that she drove an ice cream van! I hadn’t even stopped to ask her name.

She sensed my unease and stepped away slightly. “Is something wrong? Is this not what you want?”

I picked up my wine glass to take a drink. Was I already a bit tipsy? Was that why I’d come on to her the way I did? No, the glass was still nearly full.

It had been a long time since my body had told my head what to do. And yet the slick sensation of my wet pussy lips was unmistakable. My body wanted this. My body wanted more of her. Her naked skin against mine. Her tongue in my mouth. Her fingers in my cunt.

“I can leave if you want.”

“No. It’s just that… I don’t even know your name.”

“Kim. My name’s Kim. Do you want me to leave? It’s okay if you do.”

“I want you to stay.”



“Do you want me to slow down?”

“No. I want… I want…”

“Tell me.”

“I want you to lick me like an ice cream.” I blushed. I sounded like something out of a budget porn movie.

Kim laughed. “With sauce and sprinkles?” She stepped back towards me and gently placed her lips on mine. Her tongue barely entered my mouth, teasing me, making me think even more about how it would feel lightly flicking over my clit.

Her hands blindly undid the buttons on my jeans and I pushed the fabric down over my hips. My underwear followed and I managed to step out of them without breaking contact with her delicate kisses.

My body was in full control now. My body told my mind what to do next: guide Kim’s hand to my cunt. Let there be no mistaking my willingness and how much I wanted this.

“Let me lick you.” Kim manoeuvered me onto the kitchen counter and lowered her head. Her tongue was smooth and silky like whipped ice cream, and made me shiver even though it burned hot. She fingered me while she licked. Slow, sensuous moves – just right for the balmy summer’s evening.

I closed my eyes. My body remembered this.

My body remembered the pleasure of sweetness.

My body remembered the building heat and desire.

And my body remembered what came next.


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small talk; big hunger

CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

I hate making small talk. I don’t want to discuss the weather, or last night’s TV, or the football results. I don’t want to hear a blow by blow account of car journey in rush hour, or how long it took for the bus to arrive, or how rude the driver was. I’m not interested in listening to the rules of the latest fad diet, or how many steps the Fitbit recorded, or whether it is better to be an M&S size 16 or a Next one.

I want deep. I want meaningful. I want pregnant pauses and comfortable silences.


Today, I want to spend time with you. And, honestly, I’d happily take whatever I could get. If that meant listening to you read aloud a shopping list, I’d do it, avidly. If it meant throwing lightweight conversational openers into the mix, and watching you bat them back and forth with another, I’d toss away, merrily. If I was only able to be with you for the length of time it took to drink a cappuccino and say what I thought of last year’s X Factor contestants, I’d sip slowly and make up opinions, but I would be there until the last bubble of milky foam had dried on the inside of my cup.

When I’m hungry for you, even a tiny morsel of small talk can help to satiate me. The words become inconsequential as I feed off my other senses. Watching you as you speak. Listening to the rhythm of your breathing. Hoping for a hug hello, and goodbye. Pressing my face into your shoulder and inhaling your scent: long, slow, deep. Tasting the chemicals of your presence: I know we are compatible because of this.

So I’ll take your small talk, and feed it to my big hunger. And should we have the time to go deeper, longer, to find the point of silence, I will show you the dark cavern where that hunger lives, and invite you to stay a while.

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Metaphors are my kink

CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

I can’t believe I’ve only just realised this!

When I’m writing, I see the pictures in my mind, and often those pictures are metaphors rather than the literal thing I’m thinking of.

Take Desire Lines, for example. In town planning, desire lines refer to the bespoke paths that pedestrians make and take rather than following the pavement or walkway that has been laid down for them.

But, for me, desire lines, are a metaphor for the paths we take on our unique sexual explorations and expressions.

Realising that metaphors are a kink for me only became truly apparent when I wrote a piece earlier called ‘Let Me Be Your Pianola’.

I got a definite thrill from seeing and feeling those pictures in my mind’s eye.

Creating the metaphor feels like a sexual act in and of itself.

It turns me on.

Curious to read more?

Here’s the Pianola piece (content warning: the metaphor alludes to BDSM practices)

You know the pianola, right? Those self-playing pianos you saw in the old movies. It looked like magic as the keys moved up and down and the music came out with no-one touching them: maybe a jaunty honky-tonk piece or an old time favourite.

The ‘magic’ comes from a roll of paper with holes punched in it. The positioning of the holes corresponds to the notes and the tempo. As the roll rotates, the music plays.

When we are in a scene, You are the composer and I am the pianola. Your deliberate and considered placement of marks and holes on my paper-skin cause me to sing to Your tune. You set the rhythm and pace. You create the tone. You play me. It can look – and feel – like magic.

Each time we meet You produce a different roll. You thread it inside me, aligning me with the music You are most hungering for that day (or night – I love it when the music plays in the dark).

I’m craving Your music. My voice calling out Your notes. You.

A Kiss From You

CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

I have imagined your hands in such great detail.

I’ve dreamt of your hands stroking and smoothing my anticipatory skin. The slight drag where your calloused pads catch, reminding me that you are more used to working with hard, inanimate objects than with sensitive, malleable flesh.

I’ve pictured the shape of your fingers intertwined with mine, and felt our hands meeting: palm to palm in Shakespeare’s holy palmer’s kiss.

And I’ve fantasised about the eventual moment when your fingers slide inside me, reaching and beckoning to release more and more of me.

Despite having such a strong imagined familiarity with your hands, I have never imagined your kiss.

Strangely, a kiss from you feels so much more intimate than surrendering my body to your touch.

A kiss from you would mean tasting the story of your day: the bitterness of the coffee you drank this morning; the sweetness of the biscuit you did not refuse; and the richness of the steak you ate for dinner.

A kiss from you would mean a shared breath. The very essence of life being drawn from my lungs and into yours. The oxygen fuelling the blood pumping through our hearts. No pretending now that this is just a carnal exchange – not now our hearts are involved.

A kiss from you would mean your lips, your tongue, your teeth: exploring, tasting, sucking, biting. Densely packed nerve-endings sending out scores of messages to my biddable body: blood rushing faster; breath now in audible gasps; slumbering parts of me being awoken and engorged. And parts of you too.

A kiss from you would mean a thousand different things.

After the kiss there would be no going back. Regardless of whether we ever saw each other again, we would be joined forever at a cellular level. The intimacy shared through the kiss would not be just about the physical and the emotional, it would impact at an even deeper level: it would be – in that moment – a merging of our souls.

A kiss from you would be my undoing. And also my salvation.

A Kiss From You is taken from my book, Desire Lines.

Read more chapters from the book:

Preface // Chapter 1 // Lilith and the Daemon: short story // Chapter 2.