I can’t really remember what life was like before I discovered other people’s erotic writing in blogs. I think I was still reading mainly mainstream romances, which have their place, but didn’t reflect the person I am in my head. I appreciate romance, but love the acknowledgement that sex and love are not interchangable, that one can exist completely without the other and still be valid.
One of the really interesting things of the last few years has been having the opportunity to meet up with bloggers at Eroticon. Find out more about all the issues and themes that link this community together, and sometimes pull it apart.
The community that has produced the Smutathon are more than people who write. They are people who are thoughtful and reflective on the mainstream narrative around sex , love, intimacy and a sense of self. Whether writing about orgasms, protecting the right to identify as one wishes, or identifying and writing about the taboos that can lead to an unsatisfying sex life, this is much more pornographic wank fodder. Although when it’s that, it is important, valid and searingly hot.
The aim of this year’s Smutathon, to raise the issues around endometriosis and raise funds to allow better understanding and future treatments is a reflection of that thoughtfulness. The link to drop a little more in the pot is here.
2020 has been a bitch of a year, but coming out of the rubble my working day business has taken off and been very much in demand. Writing has taken a backseat and more to the point, writing fiction has vanished from my life. This seems as good a moment as ever to reboot. 12 hours of writing was not possible, but I put in a good 12 hours of angst and staring at a blank screen before the words started to flow again, prompted, in this case, by the fantastic audio erotica appearing with increasing frequency on my blog feeds.
Your words are hot.
They sizzle from the screen into my blood, as the wonderful chemistry of arousal fills me with its languid heat.
Objectively, the blunt honesty of your words, the open unapologetic love of fucking in its technicolour glory is exciting. The reminder of sex as a means to its own end, instead of expecting it to drag along the baggage of intimacy and emotion.
I want that cock you describe instead of the slightly unsatisfying toy I’m humping against the mattress. The sweat and the slap of flesh, him into you and through your words into me.
I can smell the unfamiliar duvet you’ve put beneath my body, the combination of a stranger’s laundry choices and the must of bed irregularly used. The crunch of the fresh cotton crushed in my hand.
The memory of not knowing the rhythms of the body behind me, but at the same time, knowing it’s you. And you are no stranger.
In this solo wank, I can grasp those memories. I can let you fuck me with your words.
The house is quiet, so I click the link to audio.
Your voice encapsulates so many of my memories of you. Infectious energy, warm and gently humorous is thrilling and behind my closed lids I see the sparkle in your eyes as you tell another risque tale.
It feels ridiculously intimate. Propped up against the pillows in a graphic tee and batman boxer shorts you narrate his cock as it nudges my arse. Tell him how much a I want to feel that cock sink into my cunt. Give voice to the lightening that spears through me as his fat fingers push aside the edge of my knickers and pull at my clit.
There is freedom. Your words drive the fantasy and I can be taken or I can do the taking. I can watch. Be you. Fuck you. And I want it all.
Palm cracking against arse. Whether it is yours or mine doesn’t matter, the electricity dances across my skin. We merge, split, reform. You are watching me. I am watching you.
Voyeur to your fuck, the scent on the air is your juice coating his hand and I want to slide my finger into your heat alongside his. Stretch you that little bit further and hear the catch in your voice as he makes you ask for his cock. Take his cock in my hand and slick it. Feel it thicken and pulse at your words.
The sounds of your mouth. Not your voice, but your tongue against your teeth, the pop of your lips as you enunciate every word and drag out the anticipation with the emphasis of every consonant. The sound of your swallow.
I want to kiss you. Feel your tongue tangling with mine, our teeth clashing as we eat into each other.
I want your mouth on my cunt. That talented tongue spearing into me as he spreads your cheeks to improve his view. The gasping breaths as he cracks his hand into your skin.
His cock becomes mine and buried inside you my skin grinds roughly against the hot handprints. The hold of your body as I pull back and the welcoming kiss as I fuck you with hard rhythmic thrusts. The creak of the bed and the rustle of the duvet beneath your quiet pants. My hands span your narrow waist, framing the heart of your arse, pale in the darkness of this stranger’s bedroom.
I feel the tightening rush as orgasm tugs at my senses and I clench my jaw as I try to push it away. My fingers slide between cock and cunt, both now mine in this tumbling fantasy of bodies real and imagined. Building, swirling, undeniable It pulses through me in staccato contractions and a rush of heat that spills from me into you, stealing my focus and leaving me floating between bodies.
I come back to myself. Fingers curled between sopping cunt walls and the velvety smooth toy, for those few heady moments both his cock and mine. Your voice, still steady, aroused and amused in equal measure, finishes your tale, unaffected by my efforts, and you leave me wet and spent in a tangle of sheets and sweat.
Thank you. Fucking with you is so much more satisfying than frigging alone.