I’m a sex blogger that hasn’t been getting laid.
It’s not that I don’t have a partner, we’re both busy and the last few months have been filled with deadlines, travel, nasty colds. A long cold winter has made us both moody and cranky. Nick will roll over, ask me if I feel like having sex. “Eh,” I’ll say. I’m too tired or else I’m too wound up. I’ll bite the back of his neck while he’s typing away, he’ll shudder with pleasure, kiss me, then go back to his work. We’re both to blame. My senses have dulled and I’m afraid they won’t recover.
A writing opportunity arrives in my inbox. Generally, I’m against writing fiction, especially anything longer than a few paragraphs, but this project intrigues me. I’m ready for a challenge, I decide to write down my deepest, darkest fantasy, so deep and dark that I’ve never even revealed it to Nick. I spent a day thinking about every facet of my fantasy, right down to the color of the floor. Then I commit it to words. For the next few days all I do is write, take a porn break, masturbate, then churn out another thousand words. My mind has become feverish, forcing all these characters to do exactly what I want them to do. I’m a Domme on paper, cruel and merciless. Masturbation is one thing, now I want a fucking, brutal and dirty. Continue reading