You’d typed out and deleted the text three times before you’d sent it, finally. You in the area? Off my feet for a few days, could use the company. He travelled a lot – you were never sure, one week to the next, whether he’d be in town, but your phone had buzzed a few minutes later. Hurt? What happened? And then, before you’d finished the reply, Back in town by tonight. Chicken or chinese?

You wished, vaguely, that it was a more sensational reason – something sexy, or at least entertaining. I was mown down by a rogue group of segways or I fell down the stairs during an over-enthusiastic threesome. But this was just a bad attack of kidney stones, one that had hit two days before just as coffee break arrived at your office job. It’d started like sudden bad cramps and got terrifyingly worse, terrifyingly fast – by the time you’d made it to the hospital the pain was so bad you’d lost the ability to focus your eyes and had vomited messily all over the front foyer, had moaned and yelled on a cot till they gave you morphine, finally. You’d been discharged an hour ago, after emergency surgery, been sent home with instructions on how to tell when the pieces had passed, and now you were camped gingerly on the sofa, medicated to the gills, still sore but almost oppressed by the sheer relief from the worst of the pain. You hadn’t known there was pain like that, and that thought too made you feel weird, like there was this whole realm of human experience you’d underestimated.

There’s a knock, but he knows it’ll be open and shoulders his way through the doorway before you’ve got both feet on the floor.

‘Don’t move,’ he hollers from the hall, ‘I’m good.’ You can hear his boots hitting the floor as he toes them off and then he’s in the living room, stooping over the couch to kiss your forehead, bag of chinese food in one hand. The other rests for a second on your hair.

‘Kidney stones, fuck!’ he says, like it’s impressively horrifying, like you’re Indiana Jones and you’ve just battled through a pit of snakes, and you want to kiss him more than you already did. He goes into the kitchen and puts the bag on the counter. You can hear him shuffling, finding the plates, opening styrofoam boxes. ‘They got you on the good stuff?’

‘Mm,’ you hum at him, kick the blanket around a little, draw your legs up to make room for him on the sofa. He comes back in with plates of food and hands you one, sinks into the couch and pulls your feet and shins back over his thighs. It’s nice, the warm heat of him and the softness of his touch, comforting in a way the pain meds don’t reach.

Not that you don’t like the pain meds.

‘How’re things?’ you say, around chow mein. ‘Thank you for coming, I know it was super last minute.’

He brushes this aside, shakes his head.

‘On my way back anyway – wasn’t a problem.’ His hand is running up your shin, his little finger tracing absently over your kneecap. ‘Been too long, anyway.’

‘Yeah.’ You grin, fumble for the remote. ‘Whattaya wanna watch?’

He doesn’t care, and you’re halfway through Penny Dreadful, so you press play on that; it’s a bit of a mess, as you try to catch him up on the convoluted storyline, but it’s nice. Companionable. His hand is still on your kneecap when the credits come up at the end of the episode, which is also nice. You let it play through till it ticks over to the next episode and then hit pause, hook a finger over two of his.


‘Hmm?’ He’s making that inquiring face that brings out his dimples, eyebrows raised, and you laugh.

‘Gonna kiss me?’

He grins, then, ducks his head till his jaw meets his collarbone, squeezes your fingers.

‘I mean – you’re walking wounded still, wasn’t sure -’

Kiss me,’ you say, tug on his arm a little, and he scoots up the couch till he’s right up beneath your thighs, leans sideways and cups your head in one hand. It’s gentle, undemanding, but you pitch right into him, get both your hands up into his hair. ‘I’m fine,’ you say, ‘just – if you’re ok with – mellow.’

He laughs against your mouth.

‘Think that’s alright,’ he says, and pulls just a little away. ‘I can do mellow.’

‘There’s condoms under the sink,’ you say, tugging at his shirt, and he starts to laugh so hard then that his shoulders are shaking before you even get his shirt over his head.

‘I’m not that impatient,’ he says, dimpling harder, and you flick your eyes up at him, laughing back.

‘I am,’ you say, and start to struggle your sweatpants down over your ass. ‘I am.

By the time he’s back you’re naked from the waist down and thank god it’s a deep couch, big enough that if you roll up against the back there’s room for him beside you. He shucks off his jeans and shorts and rolls on a condom, jerks himself a couple of times to adjust it right down over the root of his dick.

‘You’re ok?’ he says, one more time, swinging one knee up over you and planting it right in the back of the couch. It sinks behind the cushion and you roll a little towards him, against the inside of his knee. The inside of his – hnnng, his thigh, and in spite of how sore you are your hips hitch up involuntarily towards him, enough that his cock brushes against you.

‘I’m fine,’ you say, breathless, ‘just – go a little gentle.’ He makes a noise in his throat, then, and settles in over you, gets an elbow up beside your head and puts the other hand down between you to guide his cock easy into your cunt. It feels so good that you stop breathing for a second, let your legs fall further open beneath him.

‘Mmmhm,’ you say, face pressed into the skin of his neck, bodies close together, sunk deep into the couch. He shifts, puts more of his weight onto his other elbow so that you both roll a little to the side, almost face to face, and his other arm slides down your body, lingers over your hip, and he gets his fingers spread around your ass and tucks you in against him, close and safe and open-legged, your shins tangling a little with his in the afghan at the foot of the couch. For a few minutes there’s silence, just him glancing at your face to make sure he’s not hurting you and your little gasps when he shifts a little and hits a different angle, one that makes your palms curl hard against his pecs. It’s different from most of the sex you’ve had with him, gentler, softer, but good, wet and close and so deep, and the cradling side-by-side means that it’s not just the thrusting of him inside you that makes your body thrum but his pelvis and thighs and the little softness of his tummy all pulling hungry against you, a dragging caress over all the sensitive nerves of your pelvis and belly. He’s breathing into your hair, not loudly, but you can feel the warm buzz of it against your scalp.

‘OK?’ he says, after a minute, laughing almost silently on the inhale, and you wriggle a little against him, pull him back directly on top of you.

So ok,’ you say, up into his face, and he grins and puts his head down into your shoulder and thrusts into you harder, a little bit faster, enough that you know that he’s close, and you fist one hand into the top of his hair and tighten around him. ‘So so ok,’ you whisper, again, against his ear, tongue flicking light over his earlobe, and he presses so hard you can feel the shape of his nose, the heat of his breath on your breast, and seizes hard, stuttering down deep into you.

You’re expecting him to lie there a minute but he pulls out, rolls off and knots the condom almost in one movement and is bent back over your belly, one knee hanging off the couch now, thumbs grazing up the inside of your thighs.

‘Fuck,’ he says, once, when he’s nudging your legs back apart, and then his face is between them and gentle, so gentle, no fingers even, just his mouth not even so much licking as soothing and trembling-hot over your clit and you’re so close already, you can blink and still feel his cock pressing heavy inside you and you come, that long dragging wrung-muscle kind that puts stars behind your eyes for a second and that’s mostly inside, just your thighs trembling a little under his hands.

‘That was fun,’ you say, when he’s gone to throw out the condom and settled in back by your feet, pulled the afghan over both of you. He turns, gives you that smile that makes your heart hiccup a little every time.

‘It was,’ he says. ‘Settle in now, honey, we’ve got another three episodes to go. Beer OK with those meds?’


3 things

The thing about couch sex is – well, there’s three things, okay.

The first thing is when he puts his beer down on the dinky table beside the empty kitkat wrappers and looks across the couch at you, smiles a little, squeezes the hand he’s been holding, and you straddle his lap and brush your fingers back through his hair, run a thumb down over the line of his nose and his lips and his chin. You kiss along his lower lip while you unbutton his shirt, slip your hands inside along his chest, let your thumbs brush over his nipples. You can feel his dick harden inside his jeans and there’s nothing, nothing, not even coming is quite like the feel of that still-soft quickening. His hips press a little up from the cushion, up against your panties, and you squeeze his hips between your knees and that, that’s the first thing.

The second thing is when you’ve dashed all warm and flustered to the bedroom for a condom and come back to find that his jeans and briefs are around his shins and he’s just sitting there with one hand up in his hair, pushing his bangs sweaty off his forehead, and the pink curve of his dick is leaking against his stomach and he parts his legs a little wider and pats one thigh and grins. Your hands are shaking a little, too clumsy to get the condom on at the first try, but once you’ve got it you run a thumb up to the root of his cock and angle it just enough to line up and sink down on him and that, that’s the second thing, the wet-thick moment when you’re not quite separate or joined, you’re – illimitable, poised together on a breathless bone-deep please .

When he gets close he lets his head fall back on the spine of the couch, throat long and open, eyes half-lidded, watching you fuck yourself shaken-apart on his cock. When you start to falter – thighs giving out, your fingers between your legs rubbing quicker and desperate, shaky with want – he tightens his hands over your ass and pulls you in against him and jackhammers up into you, pumping his hips, his thighs under your ass gone taut and hard with the effort. If you look down then you can see him bite his lower lip, see it slide through his teeth slow and bloodless-white and that, that’s the third thing.

3 things


You’re both a little tipsy when you stumble into the hotel room in puffy jackets and mittens, cheeks flushed with booze and temperatures low enough to frost your eyelashes, stick them wet to your cheeks. By the time you’ve tripped out of your boots and unwound your scarf he’s sitting on the end of the bed, knees sprawled apart and leaning back on his hands, and he’s shucked off not just his coat but his jeans too, stopped undoing his shirt somewhere around button three so it’s gaping open over his pecs and cold-popped nipples.

Uurgh you say, appreciatively, and move towards him, into the V of his legs, and he puts his knees together and pins you light between them. Your scarf is wound once around the heel of one of his hands.

‘You wanna–?’ he says, inflecting up, and you don’t even answer, just press a little deeper between his knees and pull your hair aside so he can tie the scarf around your head. It’s not too different, at first, really, cause you usually don’t see all that much while you’re kissing him, ever, immersed in his mouth and teeth and the way his lip snarls a little against your face, the breathy warmth of him and the clumsy shedding of layers between your bodies.

Now his hands run down your back, knead hard over your ass, and that’s fun, the feel that he’s cupping you close and tight, held still in the dark, the slide of his fingers over your thighs shifting you slantwise to the world but steady on the axis of his hips, the hard hot line of his dick. There’s a tipping, then, disorienting, your body pitches forward a little and your hands are touching parts of him but your brain’s lost the plot, the map, can’t quite place how he must be on the bed.

‘Baby,’ you say, hesitant, breathless, and he’s peeling off your leggings and knickers together, tugging when they stick around one ankle, and you half expect him to press you down on your back and eat you out but instead he does – something – lifts you, you’re almost kneeling, gasping, laughing a little, and then the feel of his chest sudden between your legs, skin thinner here and cool still from the outdoors, the brush of his armpit hair against your knees, and then his hands hooking behind your calves and he’s pulling you up right over his face and

– oh, jesus.

‘Hey,’ you say, faintly, and struggle a little, instinctive, cause you’re usually too self-conscious for this, too worried he won’t be able to breathe or over-analysing how you should sit, move, whether your belly looks weird from that angle. Usually you wriggle and deflect, pull him on top of you, and it’s fine, it’s fun, but this – 

‘’s hot,’ he says, growls, almost, and his fingers tighten around your thighs and pull you down onto his mouth and nose, the soft give of his lips and the wet slippery touch of his tongue and you start, you’re so, you start pushing yourself down onto him, down on his tongue pressing up beside your clit and fuck it’s like he found a nerve that doesn’t, that isn’t, that goes right to some ache-wet limbic system and –

Your hands grope back a little, lost, and find not the bed but his legs, drawn up open and almost frog-legged wide. You get a hand on the inside of each of his knees and press them towards the mattress, feel the quick coil of his body against your palms, and he does this fluttering soft moaning thing over your clit and you, you’re not even thinking, you stop breathing for a long, long moment, back arching up, muscles tense and pain-bright in your belly, and he holds you, holds you hard on the soft quiver of his tongue and you curl down over him and scream and you don’t know quite where he is, where the mattress is, just the black soft fugue-state of the scarf and the shuddering jerk of your body towards his tongue and hands and breath.


KOTW: jeans

When she comes into the kitchen it’s still early. The morning light coming through the blinds is painting the room with stripes of light and shadow, and he’s standing in front of the coffee-machine, fingers playing absently over the curves of two mugs. He’s wearing a tshirt and his oldest jeans, the pair worn thin enough they cling over the curve of his ass. There’s a hole just under the waistband where the jeans have worn thin enough she can catch a glimpse of his briefs – purple, today.

‘Hey,’ she says, and he turns around and grins, all tousled bedhead, a crease from the pillowcase still imprinted faintly on his face. She comes up to him, close enough she can press right against the crotch of his jeans, nudge his ass up against the kitchen counter. The stiffer curve of his zip with the bulkier heft of the button is right between her legs, and she rolls her hips a little, presses against him. She can feel the line of his dick shift and stiffen under the jeans.

‘Hnnng,’ he says, ‘want coffee, baby?’

She looks up in his face, dimples.

‘Yeah,’ she says, ‘but I want this first,’ and she fumbles between their bodies, undoes his button and zipper and pushes his jeans and briefs down over his thighs, gets down on her knees. The jeans slip down his legs, pool on the kitchen tile around his ankles, and she gets a palm against each of his hips and puts her face into the crease of his thigh, breathes in the scent of him. He makes a little noise, touches her hair, fully erect now, his swollen dick bumping up against her cheek, and she turns her head and sinks her mouth down around him, a wet suckling warmth.

The jeans get left on the floor when they go back upstairs.

KOTW: jeans

before the altar

She wakes up just before dawn, swimming slowly up out of sleep, and blinks for awhile at the ceiling overhead, the stone ribs of the vaulted Norman nave criss-crossing her vision like vestiges of half-remembered dreams. The sky outside the small, round-headed windows is just a little lighter than the stone that frames it, but there’s a blush rising behind the stained glass of the easternmost one, set up in the wall behind the altar —

ah! the altar!, and in a moment her brain shifts awake and yes, she remembers, they’re in a church, halfway through a camping holiday, trying out a new thing she’d heard about from a friend – ‘champing’, the internet seemed to want to call it, paying a fee to spend the night on your own bedding under the roof of a rural medieval church long abandoned. The idea seemed whimsical, fun, and now here they were – out in the middle of Kent, miles from the nearest motorway, in a little church from the 12th century. Or so the plaque outside had said, anyway.

She’s on her back, now, and Rob’s lying beside her, top of the sleeping-bag mostly kicked aside, wearing just a tshirt and briefs. The shirt’s ridden up over his tummy and his cock is swollen thick in his shorts, half-hard already. She run one hand up the length of it, through his briefs, and he jerks up against her palm, reflexive. She keeps her fingers there, gentle, rolling her wrist just enough that the heel of her hand rocks a little over his shaft.

‘Hey,’ she says, soft, and rolls her body up over him, presses kisses along his collarbone, her lips a little tacky still with sleep.

‘Heey.’ He blinks awake, his hand sliding heavy over the small of her back, fingers slipping lazy down the curve of her ass. She puts one leg over his waist and straddles him, leaning close down with one of her hands braced beside his neck, and she kisses the thin skin on the underside of his jaw, the place where his pulse flutters. When she reaches behind her to drag Rob’s briefs down over his thighs he helps her, lifts his ass in the air and then pulls her up over his body, far enough that his cock jerks against her inner thigh. She’s breathing harder, a warm blush washing up her chest and over her tits, and she slips one hand between her legs and presses a thumb down over the root of his cock, wriggles a bit so her cunt slips easy and wet around him and she presses down, slow, exhales hungrily as she settles flush against him.

He makes a noise quiet in his throat and tips his head back, drags one hand through his hair and puts it behind his head. She moves a little, tightens her knees on either side of his hips, their bodies singsonging with urgent ache for the other. For a few minutes she rolls her hips, riding him, neither of them speaking, the first milky light from the windows behind them washing over the gentle surge of their bodies. When she starts to pant roughly Rob gets an arm around the small of her back, half sits up and flips her over. She lets her thighs fall apart and he pushes inside her again, he’s thrusting, deep, hard, and his forearms are braced tight over her shoulders, back bowed a little. His face is inches from hers and he’s breathing heavy, warm, and star-clusters start to spark along her spine.

‘Rob,’ she says, between breaths, ‘Rob, fuck,‘ and arches against him, bucking under his hips, and he puts his head down into her shoulder and pumps into, once, twice, holds and holds, his flanks quivering as he comes inside her.

Afterwards they lay there while the sky framed in the round-headed windows turns pearly grey-pink and then into a washed-out robin’s egg blue. There’s birdsong somewhere nearby and the church is utterly still — just their breathing and the rustle of the sleeping bag underneath them, and she lies there playing with Rob’s hair and thinks that it’s like the ghosts of all those who used to stand here are hovering, holding their breath, standing round to watch them: monks in long robes, women in Tudor dresses, nuns with covered bodies and cloistered passions, peasants, politicians, lovers.

‘Rob,’ she says, suddenly, ‘will you – I wanna – um, c’mere.’ She gets up, naked, her thighs still sticky with slick, and the light from the stained-glass window plays rippling over her body, like she’s some wanton Madonna, flesh painted bright against the stone. She steps up to the altar and Rob watches her for a moment and then gets up, follows. Whatever English Heritage employee arranged the church for its nascent champing career left a couple of bench-pews ranged in front of the altar; she nudges one of them up a little closer, so it’s almost touching the altar rail, and turns, steps up close to Rob’s chest, not quite touching him, looks up into his face.

‘Father Rob,’ she says, and bites her lip, glances up from under her lashes. ‘I need to – to pray, to seek the Lord’s forgiveness. I wonder if you’d — lay hands on me, while I do. Let the divine blessing, uh, penetrate me as I pray.’

She’s standing close enough she can feel Rob’s dick start to harden, shift up against her thigh.

‘Do it, then,’ he says, just a flicker of a smile so she knows he’s on board. ‘Kneel down, child.’

She turns and kneels in front of the bench, grabs hold of the altar’s rail so her hips and belly are bent a little forwards, over the bench, and turns her face up towards the big window. She can feel Rob getting down on the stone-flagged floor behind her and she feels a surge of adrenaline, arousal washing just under her skin like a warm blurring inkblot. Her nipples pebble and her breath gets faster, shallow. She’s waiting, waiting for him to touch her, and then, and then

‘Pray, child,’ he says, husky, and she does, mouth dry, the blood pulsing hot between her legs.

‘Our father-‘ she begins. Rob touches her then, puts one hand flat on the small of her back so she tips up further forward and pushes two fingers steady up into her cunt, lets the pad of his thumb brush over her asshole as he thrusts with his fingers. She lurches forward a little on her knees, grips the rail of the altar hard enough that her knuckles go white. A frisson skitters over her nerves, up her spine, and a feverish pink stains her tits where they hang trembling, almost brushing against the front of the altar. She grinds her hips down, opens her thighs and bears down hard, trying to take Rob’s fingers deeper. He can feel her cunt tighten warm and hungry around his knuckles.

‘Keep praying,’ he says, bending so she feels his breath against the shell of her ear and his cock presses hard against her tailbone, slick with precum. ‘Pray, girl, and be cleansed.’

‘Ahh,’ she gasps, shakes a little’- give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us…’

Halfway through her second recitation Rob can’t wait any longer, reaches to grip the rail of the altar, too, curls his body in over her naked form and pushes his cock up into her. She chokes on the words of the prayer, moans, presses back into him, and her forearms strain taut and shaking a little, holding on. He thrusts deep and regular, breathing harsh in the morning stillness, his palm slipping a little on the rail with his sweat. His other hand drags up her body, cups one breast and tightens, squeezes till his fingernails dig into her skin. Her nipple catches between two of his knuckles and she groans, deep and involuntary, almost sobbing now. Then she gathers herself, tries again, tries to catch her breath.

‘-on earth as it is in heaven,’ she says, lets go of the rail with one hand and slips it down between her legs, rubs over her clit. ‘Our father who art – father, oh, fuck, Rob, fatherfather –‘ and she comes there in front of the altar, cunt fluttering around his fingers, body convulsing in his arms.

before the altar

You’re lying back on his bed, panties pushed down and tshirt pushed up, sweaty and breathing hard. It’s the heaviest day of your period, charnelhouse-heavy, so when he pulled you onto the bed and rolled between your legs, kissing you thoroughly, you’d scrabbled for your bag on the floor and reached to pull out your little vibrator. He’d murmured appreciatively against your skin and you’d slipped it into your panties, tracing it around and over your clit, while he pushed your tshirt up over your tits and sucked soft and wet on your nipples, his big hands under your ass. You’d come, two times almost together and then again, and now you’re warm and drowsy and arching up softly into his chest.

‘Sam,’ you say, and drag your fingers messily over his face. He turns his head to the side and catches two of them in his mouth. ‘I want you to come too. Can you – I wanna watch you get yourself off.’ He gets up on his elbows a little and pulls a face, something between a smile and a smirk.

‘Really? I don’t need – I mean, hey, I liked this. It wasn’t. I like just getting you off.’

‘I know.’ You wriggle a little against him. ‘But really, I – I want you to. I think about it a lot. When I’m. You know.’

His eyebrows go up a little, and this time it’s a straight-out grin. He sits up, kneeling over one of your legs, and leans a little back, one arm braced behind him against the mattress. With the other hand he pushes his shorts down over his thighs, past his half-hard dick and the soft weight of his balls. He looks right at you and drags his tongue over his lower lip.

‘Wait,’ you say, and sit up, curl over and hold onto one of his knees so you can reach his dick. You take it in one hand and wet the length of it with your mouth, tonguing and licking, getting it as wet as you can. Maximum slobber. Then you lean back.

‘There,’ you say, and your cheeks are flushed, watching. Waiting.

He starts off slow: light, easy drags while his dick is still hardening. He shifts on the arm holding his weight, settles his ass more firmly onto his heels. The muscles in his shoulder roll and flex and he tips his head a little forward, enough that his hair falls almost across his cheekbones. He’s focused, hand jerking steadily now in long stripping motions, hips flexing forwards into his fist, a subtle counterpoint of moving muscle. You forget to breathe for a minute, only realise it when you stutter back into shaky breath, watching the flush creeping up his chest and the hard curve of his dick, slick now and squelching a bit in his fist, and you think of it inside you.

‘Fuck,’ you say, sort of under your breath, and he glances up, lips pink and hanging a little open.

‘Baby,’ he says, and you sit up, fast, against his side and kiss him hard on the mouth. His tongue is flickering wet against the back of his teeth.

‘Wanna see you come,’ you say against his face, hands tangled in his sweat-damp hair, fingertips pressed hard against the weight of his skull, ‘yeah, yeah,’ and he makes a sort of whimpering strung-out noise and comes, chest heaving, face turned into your neck.