Welcome back to my sexual autobiography, writing stories that answer questions that I see on the Lush forums with true tales!

This poster asks, what is the hottest place I’ve ever had sex?

I liked this question because it allows for multiple memories to bubble to the surface. Does he mean the hottest in terms of temperature? Or the hottest in terms of sexiest/most romantic?

Well, in the interest of covering my bases, I’ll answer both!

A few years ago, not long before the pandemic changed the world, I came into some money through an inheritance. It wasn’t a fortune, but it was enough to fund a bumper holiday.

Mr.MC1982 and I are both keenly interested in history. It was one of the shared interests that we bonded over. We decided to take a holiday in Egypt, to see the pyramids and the Valley of the Kings.

The heat in the middle of the day in Cairo was something I had never imagined. It gets hot in the summer on the Mediterranean coast, but this was just another level entirely. It was unbearable to be out in the sun. It was dangerous heat, not a word you could use about any day I have experienced in Europe.

We soon learned that going out between about eleven and three was a non-starter, which left us with plenty of time in the hotel room.

Trust me, when you are confined to a hotel in a foreign country, Al Jazeera only gets you so far. Plus, when it is as hot as that, who wants to wear clothes, right?

Perhaps making love in an air-conditioned room is cheating when it comes to answering this question, but who cares? We did it by day and by night on that holiday. We had so much sex that you would think we had only just got together, in the golden period of the relationship, instead of a couple who had been together for six years and married for four. I had a particularly fabulous orgasm, bracing myself against the wall in the shower…

And the hottest in terms of sexiest? Coming, as I do from warmer climes than some Lush readers may hail from, I realise that I have been privileged to enjoy a climate that renders this story possible. I have been to Edinburgh, and you would not write this tale from there.

I am not an exhibitionist, despite what you might have read in “What happened when I caught someone watching…”, an earlier entry in this series. I would never strip off in broad daylight and have sex with heedless abandon, not caring that someone might see.

But once, on a particularly romantic date, far, far into the night, when even the partygoers had had enough and gone home, I surrendered.  

At first, we agreed we’d just lower our pants, and do it with our shorts around our knees. It wasn’t enough for either of us.

So, our tops came off. The sight, feel and (especially) scent of his bare chest ticked my arousal up a notch. But that wasn’t enough. I wanted him to touch my breasts, and he wanted to see them. So, I took off my bra. We kicked off our shoes.

Courage is an overused word, but when you are faced with the dilemma between what your body is crying out for against the danger and risk of public shaming, it takes a tiny amount of bravery to put your physical needs over your fears. That night, we wanted to be naked together so badly that we agreed we would chance it, and wriggle out of our pants.

No. We didn’t want to be naked. We needed to be naked.

I have seen the moonlight shine on my lover’s skin as he moved inside me. I have felt the sea breeze on my bare body. I have felt the fine sand shift beneath me as I squirmed, surrendering to sexual ecstasy.  

This was not a zipless fuck, to use a term I learned from the Lush forums recently. I loved him and he loved me. His orgasm came at the tail end of mine.

I have made love on the beach under the stars, with the sea lapping on the shore nearby. That was not only the hottest place I’ve had sex.

It was the most erotic moment of my life.