“What’s that?” I ask him, pointing to a bundle of canvas ropes, some big metal clips, and a hand crank that makes a delicious ‘rrrrk’ sound when you ratchet it along the fabric. My immediate thoughts turn to DIY bondage…

(more…)

My parents want me to get married. My grandparents want me to get married. When the marriage is over and done with (or, in most cases, before it’s even been floated as an idea) they will all want me to have children. To produce tiny copies of myself and my other half, then send them out into the world to follow in their mother’s footsteps/continue the family line/whatever it is that people expect children to do.

But although these things are unarguably signs that you’re committed to your relationship, there are other things that – to me – indicate commitment in a different way, yet are rarely celebrated or treated as exciting.

A long time ago I moved in with my partner – an ex. When I told my family, I had a mixed range of reactions, from ‘congratulations!’ to ‘are you sure? It’s a pretty big commitment.’ The latter, bizarrely, was from people who’d previously asked me when they’d hear wedding bells. I had another relative who said ‘why are we celebrating this? You’re basically just housemates – it’s not exactly commitment, is it?’

Weddings versus other commitment

I love a good wedding – they’re desperately romantic. I like turning up on the day and smiling alongside the happy couple in cheesy photos, throwing confetti and drinking booze and getting a bit weepy over the speeches. Cracking stuff. Best of all I love hearing the pride in friends’ voices when they start saying “my husband” or “my wife”. Marriage is pretty cool, for those who want to do it.

In terms of marriage as commitment, though, I think it gets far too much of the credit. Sure, it’s a commitment: a public declaration of your togetherness and all that. But as a tediously practical nobhead, I can’t help but think that ‘marriage’ gets a lot of the commitment glory that should realistically be given to other, less romantic, things.

I’m talking about mortgages, mostly.

For many reasons, I have some fairly strong ideas about money and equality and independence in relationships. When I say ‘fairly strong ideas’ what I mean is if you even think about suggesting that I live off my partner’s wages, or that my credit card bills don’t matter because he could pay them with his savings if I really struggled, I am liable to burst into sanctimonious ranting.

Independence means a lot to me. My money is my money and his money is his, and that is the way it has always been. I’ve struggle to ‘share’ in the traditional, ‘committed’ sense of the word: joint bank accounts, paying bills without splitting to the final penny, not counting up who’s added six bags of Malteasers to the Ocado order, that kind of thing.

Money as a sign of commitment

So when I say I don’t want to get married, it’s not because I have a fundamental problem with marriage, or that I’m pissing on your happy day if that stuff works for you. I’m not even saying I’ll never get married – if I were with someone who gave a massive and deal-breaking shit about it, I’d say an enthusiastic ‘I do’ to keep him happy. What I am saying, though, is that if you want a real test of whether I’m committed to a relationship, don’t ask for my hand: ask for a joint bank account.

Ask me for a mortgage. Buy a sofa we’ll sit on together. Offer to pay some of my debts then wave a hand and say ‘whenever’ when I ask how I’ll pay you back. Romance wise, it isn’t a patch on standing up in front of your loved ones and pledging to ‘love, honour and whatever it is they say instead of ‘obey’ these days’, but it gives me the warm and fuzzy feelings nonetheless.

These activities make me gooey because they’ve previously made me so afraid. If I throw my money in with yours – save jointly for a holiday, buy a house, or split the cost of getting the bathroom re-tiled, then… what if we break up? The knowledge that if this relationship goes down the toilet we’re left not just splitting book collections but setting up standing orders for repayment terrifies me. Would he charge me interest? Would I be left with a bill?

These fears and more mean that I’ve probably taken my fear of financial commitment a bit far. What started as ‘rent is split 50:50’ has become ‘I would rather watch you eat take-out on your own than eat a portion of a meal I can’t afford.’ In any relationship, my partner and I have paid for our own things, kept our own money, and always – always – split the bill.

Which means that, while my relatives might still be nagging for marriage, I can hug myself with the warm fuzzy feelings that come from looking at mortgage rates together. I can see romance in him chipping in to help re-tile the bathroom.

It’s not that romantic on the surface, but I’ll happily say ‘I love you’ with a spreadsheet.

Strap yourselves in, people – this is probably the hottest, filthiest, most breathtaking guest blog to date. It ticks pretty much all of my boxes (guy on guy, fetish, BDSM, whimperingly desperate fucklust) and then makes up some more boxes that I hadn’t even considered, meaning I have to tick all of them too before I go off to masturbate furiously.

It also needs to come with a content warning: this story involves some pretty extreme BDSM, of exactly the sort that I am obliged to recommend you don’t try at home. The fact is that often consenting adults do things that can be quite dangerous: breath play, electric play, needle play, free climbing, formula one, etc etc etc. If discussion of dangerous things in an erotic context will make you uncomfortable, please don’t read it. If you’re comfortable with filthy stories that could also be described as ‘edgy’, and if the idea of a pair of lusting, horny guys getting to know each other through kink, dominance, puppy play and filthy fucking delights you, then please continue.

A thousand thank yous to Anandamide (check out his blog, or follow his NSFW twitter at @hardlyshy). He wrote and submitted this one, and gave me horny daydreams so strong I got no work done for the rest of the day.

Locked and shocked

The collar, it’s tight. Too tight for me to get a decent nights sleep, my Adam’s apple rubbing against it every time I swallow.

I don’t mind.

Waking up, alone. I don’t do one night stands, I don’t pull on a night out and stumble back into bed for crap, confused sex. Not any more. So I wake up alone, locked into this collar.

I reach for my phone. Kings Cross, ten ‘ o’clock. Don’t be late.

I shower; I’m not hungover, not at all. Had barely anything to drink in the club. I was having too much fun and besides, I only got to drink when he let me. And even then, I only got to drink from the dog bowl. Obviously.

Make my way to Kings Cross, arrive. Five minutes late.

—

I find out later that when he first saw me he thought I was out of place, just some wanker arrogant muscleboy in a fetish club. I never got the whole leather and rubber thing, my sexuality is mine, my fetishes are mine, they’re me. I don’t see why I should wear a costume, and I don’t see why I should pretend for the sake of entry into the club. It all looks like drag to me, drag from the other side. I’m dressed in army gear, camo; a white vest and a choke chain. The cheapest drag you can get away with in this kind of drag club.

So I guess yeah, I looked like some arrogant lost muscleboy in a gay fetish club.

“But then that guy pushed that cold can against your back and you whimpered, and I thought, fuck – he’s a puppy!”

Mark pushed the coke can against me, I whimpered, I growled. He looked at me, “puppies should be on the floor”, and I dropped.

On my knees, in the club, looking down. His hands, I can hear his hands jangling his belt, untying the gear he has there. Bondage mitts appear; right, then left. Padlocks, locking me in. I feel his leather collar, tighten around my neck, tight. Padlocked.

On my knees, at his feet, in the club. Bounded, collared, locked. Looking down.

A snigger. “He has no idea what he’s wearing”

He kneels down to face me, I look at him. Look into his eyes, looking at me, smiling. Knowing.

“Now let me show you something”

And I see a remote control in his hand. I whimper. I realise what I’m wearing. I whimper and whine and look, I look and I plead and I beg frantically, silently, with my eyes.

“This button,” he says, fingering the remote, “this is for when I want you”

He presses. A pleasant buzz, playful vibration, plays across my neck.

“…and this button,” his finger shifting, “this button is for when you’ve misbehaved”

I look at him, pleading and begging and looking at him looking at me, “please Sir please don’t please I’ll be good I’ll…”

STAB. Electric jolt stabbing into my neck, punching my muscles, ow ow ow FUCK ow!

I whimper. Paw the floor, paw my face, bondage mitts leather and soft against my skin. He grins, eyebrows flash.

“But we won’t have to use that will we, because you’re going to be a good pup”

Yes Sir yes Sir I’ll be a good pup I’ll behave I’ll make you proud.

The night passes, sober and delirious and down, on all fours, on the floor. Pulled away and along on the lead until he laughs, “why am I bothering with this?” He says, to himself, “when I have this?”, holds up the remote. Unties me. I remain, faithful, at his feet. Lick his leather boots, loving, lusting, lusting.

The night passes. Tied to the bondage chair in the middle of the club, in the middle of the dance floor. Immobile and whimpering, him tugging, pulling, torturing my nipples.

“I’m REALLY sensitive there”, I’ve told him. “You need to be careful!” I say it to everyone. My nipples are really, really sensitive.

And he’s working them and I’m pleading stop, stop, this is too much. And he’s said I’m free to pull away any time I want, but he wants to play, and as soon as I do pull away he’ll turn the dial on the remote up to the max and I will be in pain, I’ll be stabbed with jolts of full strength electron pain. So I’m caught, trapped between the fierce, real agony of my sore nipples and the feared, potential agony of that jolt.

I am so, so hard.

I can feel, pushing painful against my camo, my cock, aching, oozing precum. I’m so scared. I’m so helpless. I’m so, so hard.

I pull away eventually, gasping, moaning, begging him not to. Oblivious to the crowd that’s gathered, watching, lustful. Looking into his eyes, pleading, silent, please don’t.

He shrugs. He warned me, He gave me the choice. I pay the consequence. A jolt of fierce pain from the collar, punching into me, sharp, deliberate. I moan, I whimper, I’m His, I’m His and I want to be a good pup, to please Him.

Kissing my head, tender. Loving. I’m His, I’m His and all is right in the world.

—

“You have the most amazing eyes”

I grin. Plenty of people have said this but I never tired it. For all my body issues, my muscle dysmorphia and weight obsession, my favourite features are my eyes and my smile.

“And just your face… Your expressions. You look at me like, like…”

“I’m terrified of you and desperately want you?”

“God that’s it, that’s your expression, my God it’s perfect, it everything I want”

We kiss.

We kiss.

“You don’t wear a hood?”

Christ, puppies and their masks. I don’t get leather and I don’t get rubber and I don’t get masks or hoods or any of that shit. Especially puppy hoods, with absurd ears and protruding jaws which make it impossible to lick, to suck. To kiss. I love puppy play. I love being playful and helpless and controlled, that taut mix of domination and freedom. I’ll be a good boy, I’ll pant and lust and leap and paw, I’ll howl and bark with delight when you scruff my ears when you scruff my neck when you ask, when you ask “whosagoodboy?!”. But masks, but hoods, but costumes. I don’t understand. I don’t want.

“Why don’t you wear a hood?”, He asks. But he’s already answered his question.

When you fuck me, when you hurt me, when you grab the choke chain around my neck and pull, I want you to fuck ME, to hurt ME, to use ME as your toy, your plaything, your dog. I am not interchangeable. I am not an object. I’m me, and I’m the best bit of worthless shit that ever happened to you. I don’t wear a hood because I want you to look into my amazing eyes, see my perfect expression, and realise you want to ruin me.

And He knows it. He promises to never make me wear a hood.

—

Shock!

Get down from the bar, who said you could jump up?!

Shock!

Don’t bite my lip, I hate my lip being bitten.

Shock!

If you want to get off all fours you ask me first. You ask with
respect. Who trained you, you stupid puppy?!

Shock!

—

“I don’t take people home after a night out”

He looks, I guess, deflated. Maybe. Suspicious, maybe.

“I just don’t”

I just don’t.

“We can meet up tomorrow! Have lunch! That’d be cool”

He looks at me, into me. My god I want Him. My god I’ve had an incredible night. Still. It’s late, I like my bed, I like comfort. I like sleep.

“Keep the collar on. If you keep the cooler on it’ll make me so horny. Then I’ve still got you. You’re still mine”

Of fucking course. I’ve got to get the tube home but my coat is bulky, I can hide it. And if I’ve still got the collar on he’s still got me. I’m his.

Kings Cross.

We kiss.

—

I arrive, I find him. Without a word, he slaps me. Hard. It fucking stings.

“Why the hell are you late? What did I tell you?! What did you think I was thinking, waiting here?! That my puppy, my property, had wandered off?! Don’t you fucking dare!”

“Sorry, Sir…”, mumble into a useless explanation. He pins me with his stare and I shut up.

We go to Nando’s. I have the second most arousing meal I’ve ever had.

“What do you want?” He asks, casually.

I’m shit at Nando’s. Well, not shit. Just boring. Always go for the same thing – half chicken, chips, coleslaw. Extra extra hot.

“Maybe you need someone else to make the choice for you?”

I put the menu away in a flash, look at him puppy eyed. Pleading.

Control me. Use me. Have me.

He orders. I sit, like a good boy. Food comes, a chicken burger with sides. I eat, slicing into the meat, licking the mayo from my mouth, slurping the coke. The second most orgasmic meal of my life.

He remembers, re-inserts the battery pack. Now I’m properly his, again. Helpless. Blissful.

So we spend the day, going through London, me collared and locked, locked and shocked.

“Where were you?!”

“I thought I’d help you look for…”

“I told you to stay! Do you think that’s what I want from my property, to have it wandering off? Do you?!”

Locked and shocked. And so, so hard. Cock pumping against my jeans, jeans soaking up precum; him looking into me, me looking into him.

—

He comes back. He stays over, obviously. He fucks me, obviously.

But sex isn’t about fucking, not really.

He throws me around the bed, he shoves his rock hard cock down my begging, pleading throat, he pumps and pumps and uses me, uses ME, for the fucktoy I am, and I’m so fucking glad, I’m so fucking hard, streaming precum out of a cock I’m not allowed to touch, begging for him, having him, still wanting more, wanting him, wanting him wanting him. Until I’m ruined. Until he ruins me.

—

The most arousing meal I ever had was in a gastropub by the Thames.

The next day, walking through London. Hand in hand, me following him like a faithful hound. Into the bar, and we don’t even pause, we don’t even question. I don’t even bother to pick up a menu.

The waiter comes and I’m mute. He orders, he orders food, he orders drinks, I’ve no idea what’s coming, what he’s decided I’m eating.

I am so, so hard.