Your Weekly Dose

In the middle of a random cafe is probably not the place to kiss you first. So I don't.

Don't even think of it, truth be told, through the close standing, the lingering eye contact broken only by my eyes wandering to the tiny dark spot on your biteable bottom lip. Through the long tight hug and my hand on the curve of your waist.

After you're gone, full milky coffee to cool quickly in the damp December chill: the pricking heat of your breasts touching mine spread fire to my cunt.

I like perverts.

I like using toys with perverts.

I like watching porn and using toys with dirty dirty girls.

For three days after we fuck, I find new bruises:

- My ribs, as you pushed me into the wall.
- My chin, from hard kisses.
- The bite marks around my nipples.
- My collarbone, where you held me down with one hand.
- My cunt, from the other.

Shocked and splattered. Your hand still hooked into my pussy, cupping the piss-rank seawater in your palm. You pull out, throw it in my face, pin my shoulders to the floor, lick me clean.

He’s got me up on top of the fridge, his face cunt-height; he is up to his knuckles inside me.

I’ve got my foot planted on the ceiling above his head, can’t feel the cupboard digging a bruise in my back. He tips me forward off the edge, hooks his fingers a little more, then yanks them out. I buckle, my legs down around his neck. The absence inside a wail that gushes over his chest, pooling on the floor.

My monkey, she swings from the top rail of the bathroom stall and wraps her legs around my waist. I nuzzle between her breasts, loop my arms under her legs. She lowers herself down onto me, I trap her against the wall, sink my teeth into her neck.

You've given me my instructions: vintage, see-through, no lace, not black. Do you know how hard that is to find? Yes. Yes you do.

I've scoured this city, store after dusty store, my fingers slipping over straps and into cups where my breasts should go, the gap between them for your fingers, the lubed silver cock, your favourite.

Nothing is right. I slide my hands ever deeper into piles of frills, silk, net and yes - lace; the thrill of it over my fingers a tickle across my inner thighs, your flicking tongue, my wet cunt.

Is this where I get to kiss you now? she says, and boy oh boy but does she.

Solid and sure, a hand clasping my skull like the next crop of rock. The other pushes fingers in my mouth, exploring. Her solid frame crushes me against the precipice.

My hands new animals, stumbling over her back, shoulders, the thick blades of muscle keeping me safe. I’ll just hold on here, sheltered from the storm.

What I have is lots of cocks and the kit to strap it on. I spread my dicks out, blindfold you, make you touch them all and choose your favourite with your hands alone. Then leave you, testing the shaft with an o of finger and thumb, your mouth a concentrated moue. You press the head against your lips, getting wet, the feel of my cock in your mouth running down through your body.

The same as it's always been, this past year. The vibe on my clit, the image of your head between my thighs, your golden threads mixing with my dark. Your shivery ghost fingers in my cunt.

I come hard, I always do like this, alone, my head thrown back. My voice bouncing off the walls, the tears now pooling in my ears.