Image by the fabulous Stuart F Taylor
I woke up last Thursday with the loveliest, softest feeling: like I’d just had a truly sexy dream. It was hyper-realistic, and that realism lingered in my mind as I opened my eyes. Snuggling down beneath the duvet in a winter-warm bed, I ran hands over my body and allowed the details to return to me piece by piece.
There were echoes of him everywhere – in all of my senses. I could taste him in my mouth. Hear his voice flickering in my ear. Fuck it, I could have sworn I even felt exactly where his hands had touched my body. As if he’d left tiny little fingerprints pressed into the vellus hair on the surface of my skin.
It felt very much like he had actually been with me. Been inside me.
You know how the brain spits out snippets of dreams in a random order sometimes? For instance, you’ll recall the fact that you were running down a corridor, and that at the end of the corridor there was a dragon, but it’s only when you start to explain how the dragon was wearing a tutu that your brain also chips in with:
“And the person chasing you was Claudia Winkleman, remember?”
Oh yeah. Claudia Winkleman. And the initial setup for this was that you were in an episode of Blind Date which they’d rebooted for 2026, with Claudia playing the role of Cilla Black.*
*someone should do this. Channel 4, what the fuck are you waiting for?
Anyway. You get this, right? Whether you dream in colour, black and white or sepia, if you dream at all you probably understand the way dreams usually return to you in snippets.
That is how this was for me.
First, I had this powerfully sensual image of the pair of us sitting on my sofa. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt, I’m in jeans and bare feet and one of my many identical black jumpers. Our legs are entwined, and I’m stroking his head as he throws it back to laugh.
I say it’s a ‘sensual’ image but I struggle to explain to you, a total stranger, what it is that’s so sensual to me. I think because when I conjure the scene I can feel the heat of his own flesh on mine, even through two layers of denim. Perhaps because I associate my fingertips brushing against the skin at the nape of his neck with a full-body flood of comforting, safe, but thoroughly intense sexual desire. Just trust me on this, though: sitting with him on the sofa is often a very sensual act. For me. I don’t know if everyone reading this would feel the same, but I’m sure a few will know exactly what I’m talking about. Some of you will have had people in your lives who just do it for you in such a way that even sitting on the sofa beside them comes with a rush of sensuality.
Next, I recalled an image that was far more explicit and intense. I remembered him dripping cum on my bedroom carpet.
Just a few drops, then a rueful apology, followed swiftly by my giggling and assurances not to worry about it. I meant them, too: I bought an easy-clean carpet for exactly this reason. Same reason I bought the floor-to-ceiling mirror doors too. I want people to fuck me in my bedroom. I don’t want them to worry about accidental sprays or droplets of spunk. Besides, cleaning those telltale white splatters off my bedroom carpet the next day would be a nice reminder of what we’d just done.
Of the way he fucked me, on my tiptoes in new high-heeled ankle boots, while gripping my arms in powerful fists and yanking me onto his cock.
Another quick flash of recollection as my brain spits out the mental image of it: his face, twisted with the effort of ploughing me so brutally; my thighs popped taut and straining to keep me upright, bent over at the waist; my tits swinging with every stroke of the fuck. I hate that word – ‘swinging’ – it doesn’t sound like a sexy thing for tits to do, for some reason. But it serves to emphasise the energy with which this guy slams it inside me from behind, so as far as words go, it’ll do.
But how did the dragon get to the end of the corridor? By which I mean ‘how did this man come to be in my bedroom?’.
Some interstitial snapshots remind me of him requesting that I walk up the stairs first, so he could watch, which is how I recall that I was wearing black knickers and thigh-high socks along with my ankle boots. The thigh-high socks, the ones men seem to like the most. The black woollen ones with white stripes in three bands at the top.
He followed me up the stairs, making admiring comments about the sight of the top of my thighs and the cheeks of my bottom poking out from beneath a blue hoodie.
Oh! The blue hoodie, that’s how he got there, isn’t it?
I start to piece together how it began. Me getting vaguely horny and lightly-drunk-and-high, then sending him a picture of a particular sexy outfit and… oh yeah! He’d put in requests.
Initially I’d gone for the ankle boots, a black jumper, black thong and fishnet tights. Nothing else, just that. Texted to let him know that I got these new boots in the Black Friday sale and perhaps he’d like to see them (and also get hard). He told me to wear the boots next time we hang out, then added: “perhaps with the thigh high socks too?”.
A quick costume-change then another photo. Same outfit, sans fishnets, with the addition of those socks.
When he realised I was taking requests, he asked me to swap the black jumper for a very specific hoodie – one he gave me, long ago, during a difficult moment. To me that hoodie marked something precious and good. To him it was clearly also sexy, which took me by surprise. If I weren’t so sure this was a dream I’d store that information away for later, a tiny nugget of understanding into his feelings that I could never have guessed at on my own.
So, next in the sequence of events, I put on the hoodie and take my final photo. Not facing the mirror this time, but with my back to it, upper body turned to the side so I can angle the camera and get in the best possible position to show off my bum. I’m wearing boyshort-style knickers, high-cut ones so the curve bends upwards to display a glimpse of the bottom of each butt cheek. My legs are thick with muscle, but there’s enough body fat that you can see a little chubby squish at the top of my thighs, where the socks cut in. Sufficient for someone to take a gentle, sucking bite if they were so inclined. The hem of the navy blue hoodie just covers the top of my knickers, and the hood is pulled up. It partially obscures my face, and the phone obscures most of the rest of it, but you can still see a sliver that tells you I’m raising my eyebrows. As if to say: ‘does this work for you?’
I’ve been touching myself very gently while I remember all this. Not masturbating, just touching. There are no wet fingers on my clit, no degree of urgency. I’m simply running hands over my soft, morning-horn flushed naked body, tracing the echoes of the fingerprints that my brain swears he left on the surface of my skin.
Savouring the ache in my arms where he dug his hands in while fucking so deep into me. The taste of his cock on my lips from where I sucked him nice and wet, ready to enter.
I’m stroking myself, almost hugging myself, as I take a meandering tour through the sexy snippets of this dream that I definitely had.
Except.
There really are bruises on my arm, you know. When I lick the taste of him from my lips I don’t think I’m imagining it. Breathing in deeply, I swear I inhale the unique top-note scent of his cum mixed with my own.
I think I genuinely did send some photos to this man last night, causing him to put on his shoes and schlep across London just to sate my thirst. I may not have the face that launched a thousand ships, but I have the arse and thigh-highs that launched a man off the sofa and onto the Overground at midnight on a very chilly Wednesday.
Perhaps this is possible. Maybe it wasn’t a dream.
I lie in bed for another five minutes, eyes closed so I can relish what’s inside the bubble before it pops. I picture the sight of the pair of us fucking in front of my mirrors. Me, naked but for thigh-high socks and ankle boots, bent over at the waist with my arms out behind me. Him grabbing them tight to keep both of us balanced as he slams his dick hard into the back of my cunt. The frantic scramble as we both collapsed backwards onto my bed as he came. The telltale sound of a few drips of cum on the carpet.
A cascade of other images suddenly tumbles down too: his grinning face as I opened the door. His tall, broad shoulders in a dark wool overcoat. His lips on mine in the hallway, hands roaming immediately to the soft flesh beneath that dark blue hoodie.
Quickly setting a playlist to make sure the mood was right as he made his way over here. Grinding against him on the sofa when he finally arrived.
That quick-pulsing throb of delight that began when he asked if I would still be awake in an hour, and the hammering excitement of loading maps so I could watch him approach in real-time.
I don’t want to get out of bed till I know that this was real, but I have to leave that soft-warm cocoon to go to the bathroom, so I do.
On the way back to bed, I check the carpet and find three small circles of cum.
Then in bed, hands trembling, I pick up my phone.
And there are the photos.
I have a love/hate relationship with posting photos of myself. I explain that in detail over on this Patreon update where – for the next few days – you can also see the actual photographs that I mention in this story.
I wanted to share them for a few reasons. Firstly because a long time ago, Stuart drew a really beautiful illustration off the back of a description I gave of a kiss, and it was genuinely uncanny how well he’d captured what was in the picture, despite having never actually seen it. I couldn’t publish that photo, for anonymity reasons, but I thought it might be fun to ask him to do it for one I genuinely could anonymise and share. So. If you want to bridge the gap between blog + real life, chuck me a couple of quid on Patreon and see the pics.
Secondly, I have a hard rule these days that I’ll never share a saucy photo privately that I wouldn’t be comfortable sharing online. So they have to go somewhere.
Finally, I have never done this kind of shameless hustle before, and I am curious to see whether this will tempt anyone. Join Patreon at any level if you want to see the pictures I sent to a guy to encourage him to come round and fuck me. Lowest level is £2/$2 – consider it a Christmas tip if you’ve enjoyed my work this year, I’d love the chance to cling on for another twelve months.
See the photos, and support the audio project over on Patreon.
xxx
