Smut Saturdays # 19: In This Fantasy…

Stock image of a white-painted brick wall with a title overlaid on it which reads "Smut Saturdays #19: In This Fantasy..."

It’s often very nice to perform a meticulously planned scene, with a neatly defined start point and a script for me to follow, having collaborated on a fantasy for days, if not cock-teasing weeks, with you as my devious co-conspirator. I enjoy being led to the bedroom, knowing that you’re about to play your part and I am about to play mine, line by line, blow by blow, perfectly executed and immensely satisfying…

But this fantasy is not that.

This fantasy rarely takes place in a bedroom – instead it’ll be set in a stairwell, a nightclub toilet, an alleyway, an office… anywhere, because in this fantasy, it is all but impossible to make it to the bedroom. 

In this fantasy, you or I or both of us snap. There’s tension in the air, a look or a touch or a too-long hug drawing out every painful second until snap, and then our mouths are together. 

We don’t stop to exchange Yes/No/Maybe lists. We barely stop to breathe. It becomes less like kissing and more like grinding our faces together, biting each other’s lips and all but fucking each other’s mouths with our tongues. Your spit, or mine, or both is somehow all over my chin.

Meanwhile, we have either found a wall or a horizontal surface to support us. At the moment, I’m favouring the version of this fantasy where you press me into a wall, your knee between my legs, pinning me as though I’m not still clinging to you, pulling you in closer by your hips or your asscheeks or the belt loops on your jeans with absolutely no intention of running away. Still, your body sandwiches me against the wall as your hands find my hair, my neck, my tits, my waist, and we still have our faces entangled. 

It doesn’t take long, in this fantasy, for us to start yanking off clothes – our own or each other’s, it doesn’t really matter – and for me to feel your skin against mine. I drink it in and apparently so do you, running your hands over every inch you can reach while your torso is still flush against mine. Your mouth soon follows suit, and you finally pull away from me enough to kiss my collarbones, my neck, my tits. While my hands try out their fingernails on your back, your hands find my nipples and pinch. Everything is rough grabbing and grinding and biting and desperately, so desperately trying to envelop each other, to sate the burning hunger we both feel all over our bodies.

Obviously in this fantasy your cock is already achingly hard. It brushes against my stomach while we’re groping each other, leaving a light smear of precum behind. I run my nails across your lower back, around across one hip, and then I finally give in and grab it, hearing your breathing shift as I squeeze it lightly. Impulse leads me to start stroking it, at least as hungry for you to feel good as I am to feel good myself, and your hips follow my hand, fucking my half-closed fist. 

Your fingers aren’t gentle when they replace the knee between my legs and I don’t mind at all, widening my stance to give you access to the aching, soaked slit of my cunt. You find my hardened clit with your thumb  in seconds as you hook one rough finger, or even two, into the entrance of my vagina. Wherever my mouth is, against your neck or biting your shoulder or fused back onto yours, I make a small but heartfelt moaning noise. You make one back, and one or both of us escalates the matter.

Usually, this is the part in the fantasy where you manhandle me into turning 180°, grab my hair or the back of my neck and bend me, supported by the wall or over a table, a sofa, anything. Your hands are on both my hips and I can feel the wetness from my pussy on the fingers of one of them, smearing haphazardly across my skin as you line me up. You don’t savour the moment your cock enters me, instead shoving it in with such force that if it weren’t for your grip on me I’d probably fall, and you press yourself flush to me so that I feel every millimeter of your dick, from the thick shift holding the entrance of my cunt open to the reddened, taut head pressing against my cervix. 

The moans and grunts and “Oh, fuck”s start in earnest from both of us as you rock back and forth, slamming into me and into me and into me as deep as you possibly can, your balls hitting my clit and your nails digging viciously into my hips. Your sweat drips onto me. You spit onto your dick without slowing down.

Maybe we switch positions, maybe we carry on like this, but you don’t stop when I announce I’m going to cum. Instead, you growl something like, “Then fucking cum for me, you dirty bitch,” knowing that hearing that will help tip me over the edge and make my cunt tighten around your dick, raising the volume of my moans as everything white-hot and intense in my pussy and abdomen amplifies into a thrumming supernova for long, long, long seconds, my legs shaking underneath me. It feels a little like that swooping sensation you feel in your stomach as you come over the peak of a rollercoaster and down again, amplified and hot and a little further down. I don’t usually squirt or drip when I cum, but sometimes in this fantasy I’m lightly embarrassed by the sound of a droplet of my cum hitting the floor.

You pause and ask, sincerely, “Are you okay?”

I nod shakily, feeling my cunt contract around your cock again. I know you feel it too, because as soon as you have my reassurance that I’m fine, the very second my head bobs affirmatively, you return immediately to pounding me with the ferocity of someone whose arousal has dismissed their coherent thoughts and is driving their hips into the source of their overwhelming pleasure: my trembling, hot cunt, attached to my trembling body, situated between my trembling legs that are streaked bright red by your fingernails.

My whole cunt is still inflamed, and I all but wail at the acuteness of the stimulation as you pump your dick in and out of me, satisfied enough with how hard I just came to start fucking me selfishly, hungrily, like you’re using my body to jerk off with. You ignore the increasing volume of the incoherent sounds coming out of my mouth and I know that you don’t care that it hurts. You like that it hurts, and so do I.

You call me a dirty bitch again. I can tell you’re close, so I beg you to fuck me harder (“please, it doesn’t matter if it hurts, I want you to ruin my cunt”). If we’re still against a wall, you reach forward to clutch my hair, still bruising the inside of my vagina nonstop as you do so. I tell you more than once how good your dick feels inside me, how much I love getting fucked by you. You slap my ass and thighs while you call me a desperate little slut with a tight, slick pussy that you’re going to cum in – and then you do. Hard, pulling me flush to you again and jerking slightly as your twitching cock fills me with your cum, and all that keeps it from dripping back out is the aforementioned hard cock.

After savouring the feeling of my cum-drenched vagina for a few moments, breathing raggedly, you slowly withdraw your dick and cum drips onto the floor, trickling over my still-hypersensitive clit in the process. The warm feeling of it gushing out of me and down my thighs is delicious, and it makes me feel like the little slut you said I was.

This fantasy can branch off in many directions from here. Maybe you ask me to lick up your cum, whether that’s the cum coating your dick, the cum dribbling out of my cunt or the cum that dripped onto the floor. Maybe I play with your ass, or you play with mine, or both. Maybe you drag me by the hair to the shower to rinse me off, or to piss on me. Whichever direction it takes, the theme is always the same: raw, rough and desperate, messy and hungry as we’re drawn together like magnets, irresistibly.

And uh, there’s usually a lot of cum.


If you liked this, you might like other Smut Saturdays posts of mine, and it might be worth following me on Twitter to be the first to know when I post something new! Which I’m finally doing a little more often! Yay!

Loving A Paramedic During A Pandemic

Stock image of surgical face masks with a title overlaid on it which reads "Loving A Paramedic During A Pandemic"

Note: This post refers to the hypothetical death of a loved one, bulimia and suicidal ideation, as well as of course the Covid pandemic – I’ve got something a lot sexier coming soon, so if any of those topics are hard for you, please give this one a miss! You look after you 💙

I wrote this post mostly across Spring 2021 when I was very angry, and it shows. Enjoy!


March 2020

We’re on our way to Tesco for whatever bread and toilet paper they might have left. My fiancée doesn’t want to use her NHS ID to jump the queue; she feels it would be cheeky when she won’t be working in the coming 24 hours, and there’s nothing we’ll starve without.

The car is stopped at the crest of the hill before Tesco, waiting for the lights to change, and we’re talking about what happens if she dies.

At this point, we don’t know what Covid can and cannot do, nor what the NHS can and cannot do. The news is saturated with death and illness, and I fiddle with the shopping list as we discuss what happens if she becomes another tragedy. What happens with the house? The car? The PS4? She’s a registered organ donor. She doesn’t want a big, miserable funeral. I drag items from the shopping list around so that all the veg is together and so are all the soft drinks and snacks. 

What happens to me?

I try not to be selfish, but in the process I have to swallow my fear. It makes me think of my bulimia days, when everything I swallowed was fear, and I just had to hope I got somewhere private before I needed to puke it all back up. If not, I spent the day feeling tainted, terror casting unflattering shadows over my face.

I finally look her in the eye because I have to, because I have to tell her I love her. I have to tell her I’m proud of her, and that I bear no resentment towards her for running onto the front line, the house and the car and the me be damned. I would do the same thing, I tell her, and I knew she was a run-onto-the-front-line person when I proposed. Whatever happens over the next few months, with Covid or with anything else, we’re in it together.

The traffic moves and we inch towards Tesco with my now-immaculate shopping list.

 

Summer 2020

I couldn’t tell you what month it is. I’m being passed around the Midlands like a suicidal hot potato depending on who might be able to keep me alive this week. My fiancée is miles away, working long shifts and having wobbles in between them. It’s nearly the anniversary of the night I proposed, under the stars with a titanium ring (the most indestructible metal I could afford), promising her the rest of my life, or the rest of hers – whichever ends first.

I didn’t expect it to be a race, but Covid combined with the poverty of the NHS and the unremitting greed of the cunts in charge seem to have pushed us over the starting line. I do what little I can to slow her down – phone calls, gifts in Animal Crossing, every funny Internet picture I can find – but I’m busy tripping over my own feet, and the finish line keeps inching closer.

The graphs are curving upwards and I check them every 4p.m., then consult the news. My thumb hurts from switching between data and news and the social networks where my friends live and die. I click it back into place so I can send my fiancée another meme.

 

January 2021

To say I’m not a morning person is an understatement; it might be more accurate to say I’m barely a person in the mornings at all. Still, when my fiancée’s alarm goes off at 4 a.m., I stagger downstairs ahead of her. I get us both cans of Monster from the fridge and I pound mine like I’m a fresher again, only this time the fuzziness is exhaustion, not booze. I help her assemble her lunch, remind her to take her meds and tell her I love her at least a few times before she kisses me goodbye and heads off for another shift, all before the birds have started with their dawn chorus.

She tells me every time that I don’t have to get up with her, but truthfully I don’t know how many more of these bleary-eyed breakfasts we might have, and at least I get to nap during the day. Besides, I have to be the one to make her sandwiches, because I have to put love into them so they taste better.

 

When she brought Covid home, I wasn’t surprised. I knew it was only a matter of time, which is why I stopped visiting my mum (asthmatic, with a boyfriend in heart failure) when I started living with my fiancée. (I stopped visiting anyone, obviously, but I miss my mum the most, and she’s the person it would be the most dangerous for me to infect. Life is cruel like that.) I didn’t feel any fear that I hadn’t already faced and compartmentalised, even when it became evident I was Covid-positive too. I was irked by the facts of the situation, that this would mean two weeks of maddening self-isolation for us both and that I felt run down as all hell, but what I felt most was a hot, indignant anger – not at my fiancée, or even at whichever patient it might have been who gave her Covid, but at the people who didn’t care. 

I want to believe I’m a patient, compassionate person, but I was already infuriated by the people – on the news, on social media, that I see in town – who just didn’t care. I have some degree of sympathy for the people who believe that the coronavirus is a hoax or some kind of government/5G/Bill Gates plot, because I too am deeply untrusting, scared and confused. But the people who just didn’t give a shit, who are going to parties or baby showers or raves or their mate’s house just for a cheeky visit, were already pissing me off long before my fiancée tested positive. I’ve been spending long days alone with my thoughts while she worked, missing my mum and concerts and nights out with so much intensity that it sometimes physically hurt, and seeing story after story about people who flouted the rules simply because they wanted to, more than they wanted to keep other humans safe.

So I was already pissed off with people’s selfishness and recklessness, the government’s prioritisation of money over human lives and a thousand other things, when I found out that my missus now had an illness that we still know very little about (and what we do know isn’t reassuring), as a direct result of saving other people’s lives at work. Again, I want to believe that I’m patient and compassionate, but two weeks of monitoring our temperatures and oxygen sats in between aches and pains and a lot of coughing made me want to punch some people in the face. I want so badly to let go of this anger, which is white-hot enough to burn me, but I check the clock again, wondering if she’s been for her meal break yet (probably not), and I feel it sear my insides – but all I can do is wait, so I wait.

 

She arrives home safe and brings the cold in with her, the bite of January blowing through the hall and into the living room. I ask her about her shift and she tells what I already know: that it was exhausting, and miserable, and she missed me. We manage to scrape something or other together for dinner, we watch a YouTube video or five, and then she goes to bed. She apologises for being so tired, for not being talkative, for going so long without fucking me, and I wave all of it away. I don’t tell her how relieved I am, every time, that she got home in one piece. I don’t tell her that I can think of countless reasons she might not have – combative patients, cars that don’t stop for blue lights, a terror attack – but I do tell her that she doesn’t owe me an apology for anything.

The people who owe me a fucking apology are probably at a rave right now. 

The UK Benefits System Is Making Me Suicidal

A stock photo, via Pexels, of coins, overlaid with the title "The UK Benefits System Is Making Me Suicidal" because I couldn't find another image to encapsulate the PIP experience

Note: As well as talking about suicidal feelings related to the PIP and Universal Credit systems, this post briefly mentions self-harm and gaslighting.


Let’s start from the beginning: the first time I claimed benefits, when I applied for PIP in November of 2017. PIP, managed and awarded by the Department for Work and Pensions (or DWP) is awarded to disabled people when their disability makes their day-to-day life more difficult. It stands for ‘Personal Independence Payments’; you can imagine, especially if you read my post on the myth of independence, my disdain for the name, but that quickly became the least of my problems. 

I vaguely remember that the man on the phone who set up my claim was nice and inoffensive, but I remember with clarity which part of my university I was sitting in when I made the call, my back to the vending machines as I sat on some chair or sofa made of prickly, cheap magenta fabric. I remember these details, because for me, claiming PIP was a big deal. It was an acknowledgement of my complex additional needs and a big step on my journey to accepting that I’m disabled, and that that’s okay. 

Except, uh, the government had other ideas.

To claim PIP, you first fill out a 33-page form which asks you, in excruciating detail, “how your disability affects you”. The form asks about your toileting habits and your abilities to keep yourself clean, which makes it more than a little uncomfortable to fill out, especially if you’re asking somebody else for help with it. You get a hearty 3 months to fill it out and return it, which is a bonus, but the process is miserable however long it takes you. Afterwards, you send off your form and wait patiently for an assessment appointment, which takes insane amounts of time, and then you attend your assessment.

This is when you learn that what you put on your form did not matter.

They ask you more or less the same questions they asked on the form, but this time in person (or, during these times of Covid, over the phone) and you answer them. You’re allowed to bring another person for support and to help answer questions, but the assessor gets to run the show, and one bitc–valuable employee of Capita didn’t allow my partner to speak at all until the very end, something I was absolutely not prepared for. 

Don’t worry, though, because that doesn’t matter either! Regardless of what you actually say or how you actually behave, they’ll send you a decision letter (many weeks later) that will make you want to kill yourself. Mine described my demeanour as “relaxed and calm”, which is a very odd interpretation of “so anxious that I was actively pulling scabs off of self-harm wounds”, and contained some outright lies as well as some fantastic leaps of logic (like, I mentioned enjoying video games so they decided that I didn’t have any problems with self-motivation. I think I brought up video games as an example of something that distracts me so much that I forget I’m hungry, thirsty, in pain or in need of a wee, but they hear what fits their agenda). 

This is the bit that makes me want to kill myself: when I have been vulnerable and poured hours into a 33-page, honest reflection of my life as disabled person, and then I receive a letter that makes me doubt my memories of the appointment, informing me that I actually don’t struggle with anything. From that, my disordered brain extrapolates that I must be an abled person who is just being an over-sensitive baby about the fact that they can’t cope with adult life. It takes my support network a lot of labour to help me stop spiralling in that direction.

If you want to appeal (and you probably will), you first send a request for “mandatory reconsideration”, which you also spend extremely painful hours writing. You send that off, you wait more weeks, and then, usually, you get rejected again. If you haven’t already committed Capita-gaslighting-related suicide or starved to death, you might choose to take it all the way to a tribunal.

Remember those weeks of waiting I described earlier? Weak sauce. To get a tribunal date took me, I believe, over a year. I phoned every couple of months to check they hadn’t forgotten about me, and each time I asked I was told some absurd number of weeks by helpline workers who ranged from bright and helpful to sounding genuinely annoyed I had called. I don’t keep good records, but it looks like I was preparing for my tribunal on the 30th July, 2019. 

That is not a typo. I started my claim in 2017, and after months of waiting and panicking and doubting my own reality, I finally found someone who would listen to me. In the middle of 2019.

The tribunal was, oddly, the most painless part of the whole affair. Apart from the general terror induced by being in a new setting and trying to communicate with real adults, I felt at the time like they were listening, and I was proven right when their decision came through: I did, and do, qualify for PIP. It was a huge relief.

Until late in 2020, when PIP stopped appearing in my account. I phoned them, and apparently I had been sent a letter about a reassessment, to an old address that I no longer lived at. They didn’t, at any point, seem to think that they hadn’t heard back from me because, oh, I dunno, I’m too disabled to keep all my records up-to-date? They didn’t think that maybe they should try my phone number, which they also had on file, to check I had received the letter (or at least to check I wasn’t dead). So instead of reassessing me and continuing my claim, they stopped it altogether, and set me back to square one.

The word count on this post is getting daunting and I haven’t even ranted about the bitch who didn’t note down my use of the Nottingham Sexual Violence Service because “we can’t report on anything that happened previously, including promiscuous behaviour”, but I don’t really need to study her in detail, because she is one cog in a violent machine. 

And I haven’t even started on my rant about Universal Credit.

Universal Credit is what you get if you don’t have enough income to stay alive. They were, when I applied in the summer of 2020, orders of magnitude quicker than PIP, but the problem with Universal Credit is that it’s seemingly designed to make your life so miserable that you give up and get a job. You’re assigned a work coach, who phones you too often and with too little notice to chide you about not having a better job yet. (Mine did not, but I think only because I’m disabled and was in crisis.) They’re meant to help you through the process of being declared “Not fit for work”, which grants you an extra £300 or so a month – this was less painful than PIP, and I was successful first time, but it still involved filling out a long, miserable form. They also tell you what you need to do admin-wise, such as turning your claim into a joint claim when you move in with your partner.

Turning my claim into a couples’ claim when I moved in with my fiancee meant losing the “housing costs” part of my Universal Credit, but I expected that. What I did not expect was for her income to be used as a reason to give me literally no money. The “Not fit for work” component gets deducted from just like the rest of it, so if your partner earns money, you get nothing. If you have trauma about being dependent on someone else for money and housing, this may make you want to kill yourself.

If that doesn’t, maybe this will: if someone in the household is earning, they don’t necessarily pay you the same amount every month. On average, you get about four days’ notice regarding what they’ll be paying you this month. It doesn’t matter if you need to budget! You spend the whole month not knowing what money you’ll have next month, and then you have four days to do some very intense maths. Maths that makes you a little suicidal, you know, because you know that even if you can make ends meet this month, next month might not yield a penny of Universal Credit.

My entire experience with this system has been negative. I want to be fair, but there is literally nothing nice to say about the UK benefits system. It is killing people. It is trying to kill me. I just wanted to share a brief (believe me) summary of my experiences with the DWP; I don’t have a grand point to make here besides, “Wow, this fucking sucks. It’s disgusting that the government is making people suffer to this extent simply because they’re disabled and/or poor. There are better ways to do this, but they’ve been foregone for a reason: the cheapest, easiest thing for a government to do is to drive people away from claiming benefits wherever possible, regardless of whether they need or deserve them. This just really fucking sucks.”