Six months ago I wrote a review of the Doxy massager. It did such amazing things to my clit that I nearly fired my right hand, so I have understandably been on the hunt for something that creates similar ‘tear down the walls’ sensations, but for cocks.
To assist me on my quest, Sextoys.co.uk gave me a ‘Pulse’ by Hot Octopuss – a magical dick-massaging device, which I think may well be ‘the one.’ What I really wanted to do was set up a stall in Camden and ask beautiful pierced boys if they’d like me to test it on them, but because I am selfless and giving, I couldn’t in all honesty test a penis-based sex toy myself. So I had it swiftly couriered to a gentleman, and demanded that he use his written eloquence and long-suffering cock to write me a special guest blog.
This is Lewis, and here is his totally unbiased review of the Pulse, by Hot Octopuss. Read it if a) you have a penis and want to find out if this thing is any good or b) you fancy dudes and want to read an intensely hot description of one jerking himself off.
Enjoy.
Review of the Pulse by Hot Octopuss – how to wank like Batman
I get endless joy from touching my cock. I like touching it, I like you touching it, I like jiggling my fucking leg while I’m at work, feeling myself getting harder and more sensitive until I’m straining against my trousers with a cheap desk for dignity and trying to work out whether I can get away with running my nails down the length of it one more time.
It’s a wonder I’ve not been fired, really.
This desperate drive for self pleasure isn’t a new thing – my teenage diaries took less than a week to devolve into a meticulously logged masturbation journal, complete with helpful suggestions like “NB: Bag of ice pressed against balls doesn’t chill spunk – just makes balls cold” and “managed to lick the tip again- more flexibility needed.”
I don’t keep a diary now, of course, thanks to both Twitter and the fact that a twenty eight year old man with a spreadsheet of his wanks is less “horny teenage charm” and more “here is my collection of nail clippings from the last ten years”. I do, however, still take phenomenal delight in wanking, whether it’s a quick functional tug in the toilet or a full-on, Sunday morning session that ends with an arched back and a stomach covered with come.
Naturally, when GoTN approached me and said “Would you like to review a thing designed to make your cock feel amazing?” my response was calm and measured and definitely not a slobbering desperation to Put My Cock in A Thing.
The object in question was the “Pulse” by Hot Octopuss, a company whose name sounds like a character from a porny version of Metal Gear Solid and whose design ethic seems to be “What if Batman was really keen on touching his junk?”
The Pulse is a hand-sized rubbery business (NB – actually silicone) which envelops your cock like an over friendly stingray. It charges by USB, has several speed settings, and, when you’re not tugging yourself senseless, can rest on your cock so your partner can straddle you to join the fun
I’ll be honest: I was initially apprehensive about reviewing this after GoTN set the bar so fucking high on her Doxy review and those god damn sound files. I’m not particularly vocal when I wank and was desperately worried that all I’d end up with was five minutes of what sounded like a hungry walrus being denied a fish. I’ve also never really used a sex toy specifically designed for wanking before, preferring the god’s honest method of my hand, a bit of spit and maybe something in my arse if I’m feeling decadent.
Still. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
The Pulse proudly states that it is the first toy of its ilk that can be used flaccid or erect, as well as being fun with or without lube, so like the pioneers of old, I popped my unerect cock in a thing to see what would happen.
The vibrations are deep even at the lowest setting – a bass rumble that builds into an electrifying buzz as you increase the power – and within a couple of minutes I went from “vaguely horny but nothing special” to “cock straining against the Pulse fuck me this feels good more more more”.
I spent most of my first go in a hands-off way, simply enjoying the new and powerful feelings as the weight of the Pulse pressed my cock against my stomach, the relentless vibrations making me twitch and whimper until I couldn’t stand it any more. Holding the Pulse tight I gave myself quick, hard strokes until I was just on the edge of orgasm. It took a Herculean effort of willpower to let go then, but I wanted the Pulse to carry me over.
Fuck me it did.
I was harder than I had been in weeks. My entire body twitching and desperate. Slowly, achingly, I felt myself get closer. For a man who is normally very quiet when wanking, it was a hell of a shock to find myself panting “Oh god” over and over again as I finally came, covering my stomach in spunk and collapsing into a heap on the bed.
I’m not going to tell you that you should buy the Pulse, but I will say is that I’m going to use it tonight while my partner sucks me off.
I can’t fucking wait.
Thanks Lewis, you have put some filthy-hot images in my head that I will only be able to exorcise with a strenuous wank of my own. I hope that now you’ve read his review, you understand what a massive wrench it was for me to give this toy away, and why even I – a person who is offered free sex toys on an hourly basis – am going to fork out actual cash money to get me one of these. What better way to express my love than by running excitedly into the living room and shouting ‘I’m going to wank you off with Batman’s jizz-extractor!’
If you want to find out more about it, visit the Pulse website, where you can buy one using my affiliate link (so I get a bit of money that helps me keep this site running) also see some dirty hot pictures of a beautiful tattooed guy, like this one:
The hardest thing about using words to make a living is that they’re so pathetically small. The bigger the thing you’re trying to describe, the smaller the words feel when you select them. Describing sex is pretty easy, because it’s so intensely personal. While the word ‘dick’ might mean little to you, when combined with a few more everyday words to create the sentence ‘I spat on his dick‘ – to me it becomes intensely special and deeply arousing. Sex is easy.
Love on the other hand is much, much harder. While I profess to detest overly-sentimental, romantic shit there’s something to be said for a well-placed ‘wind beneath my wings’ or ‘sugar to my coffee’.
They don’t come close to describing the swelling, hair-pulling, scream-into-a-pillow magnitude of the sensation of being in love, but they exist to show us just how hard it is to adequately describe the feeling you have when you’d happily take a bullet for someone at the same time as calling them a ‘dickhead.’
Sex and anxiety
It’s four pm and I’m shaking with panic. A five pm deadline and two for first-thing tomorrow. For the first time ever, one deadline has whizzed past, and now it stares at me from two days ago whispering: “everything you love will crumble, and you, my friend, will fail.”
It cackles.
I sit at my desk ignoring the piles of washing, clutter of papers and an inbox that screams ME! PICK ME!
I breathe quickly and shake, as I stare at the mounting tower of ‘oh God where the hell do I start?’ and worry that I’ve fucked up my life.
So far, so desperately unsexy.
The truth is that much of my life isn’t sexy. I’m sure most of you realise that I don’t spend 90% of my time wanking, with only quick breaks to stock up on cheese sandwiches to give me the energy for my next angry fuck. There are clearly some with that misconception, though it’s mostly dudes who send me dick pics at 8:30 am on a weekday then a follow-up at lunchtime saying ‘r u wet yet?’
Most of the time I’m boring. A lot of the time I’m anxious. And some of the time I’m so busy twitching that I can’t even think about fucking.
My body says ‘you know what would really help you to calm down? A nice relaxing wank’, which sounds lovely but then my brain chips in with ‘but what about all these things? Look at them! Teetering in a huge pile that will one day collapse around you!’ So my body replies ‘OK you’ve got a really good point. Give me ten minutes to hyperventilate and curl in a ball on the floor while I consider this.’
After ten minutes of ball-curling and ragged breaths, just as I’m back in the zone of the functional, the phone will ring and the whole mess starts all over again.
If someone else told me this I’d offer to help them. But if someone offers to help me then my brain gives me more of its pesky chatter and I’m left spinning:
Don’t help me. Your help takes up time. I have no time. NO TIME. The time I am going to spend being helped by you is time taken away from the allocated time I have to do the things and there is NO TIME and one day I will have used up all the time and I’ll be dead and what help will you be then? Hmm?
This is all well and good when it’s my Mum on the phone but when it’s Amazon customer services the whole thing gets a bit awkward.
This long-winded build-up is here to show that when I say I’m stressed, I’m not talking about some mild worries or a couple of nagging concerns at the back of my mind. I mean full-blown, heart-hammering panic which prevents me from reading any text, email or tweet without a kind of swelling nausea because oh God I’ll have to say something now and what if what I say is hopelessly wrong?
It isn’t easily cast aside, overcome, or subject to the kind of help offered by well-meaning friends.
But it can be dampened, and it can – very occasionally – be swept to one side.
Like when he comes home from work and I’m ill and tired and my eyes are brim-full of desperate tears. He says ‘how was your day?’ and I shout ‘FINE!’ over my shoulder, because if I take my eyes off the screen then I’ll have failed and another deadline will fall by the wayside.
So he disappears. And then later, when I’m ragged and miserable and slouching with the weight of everything, he pops back in and says ‘how are you?’ And I say ‘fine’ like I’m not really sure if I am, and I stare at the piles of paper.
He doesn’t ask if he can help – he knows he can’t help any more than he can remove my head and stir around inside it to fix me. So he squeezes me with his massive arms, and lets me bury my face in his neck. It smells horny and masculine and all the things I want to fuck.
Sometimes it doesn’t work – the closeness makes me feel trapped and the idea of pausing even for a five-minute shag sets my heart back to hammering. But sometimes it works, and he strips off my knickers. And as he pulls them off – at just the right moment – I can rip off the terror and anxiety and throw myself into just… wanting.
Feeling the rush of arousal and wanting him to fuck me.
In the middle of a pile of paper. In a tangled ball on the floor. In a mishmash of trembling limbs across my messy desk. It’s a delicious and rare relief – to push out the worry about working and replace it with a desire for him to take me across his knee, belt hard sharp smacks across my arse until it’s glowing red, dip his fingers in my cunt and call me a dirty girl, then flip me over and fuck me while I cry with shaking desire.
It’s not need – it’s so much better than need. I ‘need’ food, and money. Without these things I’d struggle to survive, so reaching out to grab them is instinctive: like sneezing when something tickles your nose.
I don’t need him: I want him. And here’s where I bring it back to how inadequate words are. Just as they’re pitifully bad at conjuring the exact nature of a full-blown anxiety attack, so they limp pathetically across the page when I try to conjure the chest-aching love that I have for this man. Not because he stops me from panicking, but because he doesn’t try to. He doesn’t push or question or offer solutions: he just is. There. Solid and warm and patient and oh-so-deliciously ready to put his swollen cock in me at exactly the moment I want it the most.
It’s a want rather than a need because he doesn’t ‘fix’ me or ‘save’ me: I’d survive/cope/live/work without him. If he weren’t there the panic would still be around – washing over me one minute and fucking off suspiciously the next, leaving me worrying when it’d come back and contemplating whether it’d be all the stronger for having had a short break and… damn. There it is again. It’s been twenty minutes since I started writing this and where does the fucking time go? I didn’t even get to tell you how he… never mind. I’ve got shit to be getting on with.
Here’s the obligatory link to Mind.org, which you have to include on anything that references mental health. And if you think you might have anxiety problems, and you’re thinking ‘ah but I’m just a naturally stressy person though and I’m just so busy and shit’ then here’s a thing I wrote for The Cocktail Hour which might be useful. Or might not. I don’t know. Oh God sorry I’m such a twat. And here’s a thing by Dean Burnett in the Guardian about social anxiety, which is sparked by slightly different things but no less tremblingly awful.
A while ago I was on the tube and I could barely look away from a couple who were… well, there’s no better way to put it: frotting. Not just gentle, subtle touches and rubs – enthusiastic, tongues-in-mouths, full-sex-but-with-clothes-on. I’m a big fan of public affection, but this probably went a tad further than I’d applaud, given that kids could have entered the carriage at any moment, but nevertheless the sheer casual lust was an amazing thing to see.
Because trains tend to make me horny, I associate public transport with some of the hottest moments of my life. I sincerely hope that both the people in this couple remember their tube journey for a long, long time. If nothing else, it’ll make up for all the stares and tuts they had to endure from frowning tourists on their horny journey. I hope they got home and tore each other’s clothes off with a desperate passion, and had wild sex in the middle of the hallway, then made cups of tea for each other and blushed with the knowledge that everyone on the Central line knew that was exactly what they were going to do.
Although there are clearly some things which are beyond the bounds of most people’s tastes, and acts which you’d never want to do when kids might hop on at the next stop, it made me wonder just what the cut off point was for ‘OK, you’re just horny’ to ‘I’m going to have to throw you off the train now, madam.’ A kiss is surely fine. A touch barely noticeable. A hand slipped up a jumper or under the hem of a skirt? Sure. A hand down top, squeezing nipple perhaps less so. And surely a hand job on the train is – if not illegal – then certainly contravening a number of railway byelaws.
So in honour of the frotting Central line lovebirds, here are some 100% made up stories about things that I have absolutely never done on public transport.
Getting horny on the night bus
It’s… how late? About 3:30 am I think. The night bus rolls with the weight of the drunks and the disgusted-at-drunks. He’s sitting beside me and I can’t stop touching him. I’m not a millionaire, and Zone One living is laughably out of reach, so you can guarantee that if we hop on a night bus in central London it’ll be a hell of a long ride home.
He smells perfect. Like sex and whiskey, with a hint of the warmth of whatever deodorant he wears, the remnants evaporating from him as I bury my lolling, drunken head into his shoulder.
His bag is on his lap.
I run my hand up to the top of his thigh and he leans in to me, inhaling the smell of my hair, and no doubt the remnants of my own boozy night as well. His dick gets harder – pressing strongly against the crotch of his jeans. He shifts his bag to cover things, as I unzip him and reach inside.
Touching on the train
The train is almost empty. One or two seats occupied at the other end of the carriage, but around us there’s silence. The sleepy, lazy arousal caused by hours of sitting next to each other on a plane – wanting to touch but too close to others for comfort.
I bury my head in his shoulder, pretending to be asleep. He watches the door at the end of the carriage for a guard. Whispers things in my ear. Things that start with a fantasy about exhibitionist fucking, and end with my favourite words:
“…touch me.”
And I do. With my jacket draped over his lap I can run my hand over him. Slowly. Shifting gently. Gripping him tight through the fabric of his jeans and feeling his cock pulse under my palm.
“Is anyone looking?” I whisper. I feel him shake his head. Swallow. That gulp of nervous lust that wants me to do it. To touch him. To run the tips of my fingers around the head of his dick. I unzip him and reach inside.
Fucking on the coach
Again, sleepy. Drunk. Horny. Could keep my hands off him if I had the inclination or willpower, but I don’t. With his big arm around my shoulders, I press myself into the warmth of his chest. I can feel his heart beating, and hear his breath catch as I cup his crotch.
I squeeze gently – just cannot get enough of that throbbing, growing sensation as his dick twitches, hard in my hand. There’s no one else at the back of the coach: it’s quiet. The lights are off – the driver kindly letting us sit in darkness to more fully appreciate the bright lights of the M4.
I squeeze harder. He swallows. His breath catches again. He lays my coat out on his lap – an invitation to do exactly what I want: unzip and reach inside.
I yawn. Feigning tiredness for an audience that’s not there, and wouldn’t care even if it were. I lie my head on his lap, put the coat over me, making a tent to hide what I’m about to do.
I unzip.
I take the head of his dick in my mouth, and I lick him slowly. I can feel him tense as I do – bracing his feet against the foot rests, grabbing a handful of my clothing to steady himself. My head rests awkwardly on his stomach as I take him in. All soft wet lips and no momentum – no pressure. I can’t make him come, I know I can’t. He’ll need more: speed, rhythm, the clench of the back of my throat around the tip as I swallow every inch of him. But it can’t happen here – there’s too much danger. People at the front of the coach who might hear rustling.
So I lick. Gently. I let wetness dribble from my lips right down the shaft of his cock and I rub it softly with my fingers. He holds his breath. Pushes back against me – ever so slowly. That desire to slide more in, that physical whimper of need. A twitch that says ‘pleasepleaseplease.’
With a silent request that’s so deliciously desperate, how could I possibly not? One quick shift, as if I’m sleeping lightly, and the rustle of my jacket covers the change in position.
I slide further down onto him, until I can feel his swollen cock blocking the back of my throat. I hold my breath and stay there, still, as he shifts his hips slightly to push it more firmly into me – his favourite part. The only thing that’ll bring him to the edge. I can feel him trembling with a desperation to make some noise – any noise that will encourage me to keep going. I imagine the cries in his head: “please please don’t stop. Harder, more, deeper. Please.”
But we’re on a coach, and there are people at the front, and I don’t want to rustle so I take things slowly. Wet lips, slow movements, running my tongue around the head, and occasionally – very occasionally – swallowing the full length of his dick and causing those deliciously tense, silent whimpers.
The streetlights flash past the windows, and we cover nearly sixty miles. Finally – as the coach turns from the motorway and onto the crowded streets of London, he grabs the back of my hair and gives it one final push. Dumping hot squirts of come into the back of my throat, and giving me shivers of aching arousal.
I hold it in my mouth for a while. Just a few more seconds, savouring the illicit taste of that awesome fuck. Then, reluctantly, I pretend to wake up.
This post is also available as audio porn. Click ‘listen here’ above or visit the audio porn page for more sexy stories read aloud.
Ah, guest bloggers. You make me laugh, cry, masturbate furiously, and want to hug myself with sheer delight that there are so many horny pervs out there who are just like me. This week’s guest blogger, Walter, has done exactly that. He’s captured the sense of delicious and electric arousal that comes from a seriously horny memory. Those fucks you know will never leave your head. The sex you return to over and over again when you need relief.
Please welcome Walter, who has a filthy hot story to tell about nostalgia wanks.
Nostalgia wanks
The initial spark can be small; an arousing image, a few words that make me go: “Mmm, that’s hot”, sometimes a mere suggestion of a particularly sexy activity, and there it is: a familiar twitch between my legs tells me that for the next couple of minutes my thoughts will be preoccupied with one thing. What can I say? I’m young and my sex life is less intense than I would like it to be. What I need to start wanking is more of an excuse than a reason.
But once I get started, things change. As I give myself a tentative stroke, as I feel the blood rushing, my cock swelling, as I finally reach down and squeeze it, enjoying the feeling of bare skin in my hand – that initial impulse is no longer enough. It’s too late to put on porn (it’s hard to type with one hand), so I search in my mind for something that will make me harder and desperate for release. I try to create an other: a mate, a partner, a fucktoy or a mistress that will make me shoot spunk all over myself and possibly my surroundings.
But imagined people don’t do it for me. They’re blurry and abstract, more a collection of body parts – a pair of tits, a cunt, a tongue, an arse – than a person. I need someone tangible. Someone with a voice, a smile, a personality. Someone real.
Quite often, I settle on ex-lovers, resulting in what I call “nostalgia wanks.” One reason is that I know them fairly well. I can remember what made them unique: the way they kissed, how their cunt hair felt on my face, how one of them used to say “Come” while gently pulling me deeper in just the way that made me squirt-come inside her in a matter of seconds.
Of course, it’s not just their bodies that become so arousing. It’s the emotions as well. In my mind, I go back to the beginnings of Us – the nervousness of our first dates, the excitement of first being naked together; the first time she took me in her mouth, and the first time I heard her come.
I also go back to the ending: the sullen fucks after a fight, with me biting her shoulder and roughly fondling her tits, reaching down to grope her cunt and see if she’s wet yet, her reaching behind and yanking on my cock. I imagine all that was, all that could have been, and sometimes I make up scenarios improbable or downright impossible…
I imagine our meeting, a little awkward at first, after all this time. We sit in a café, talking about our lives now, catching up. She seems happy and confident. She smiles a lot and throws me long looks, which I’d have no trouble interpreting if it wasn’t for our mutual history. Surely she wouldn’t want…?
“How about,” she says, moving closer, “we go to your place?”
A nod is about all I can manage.
I’m still hesitant when we arrive, but she kisses me just as the door closes behind us. One of my hands rests on her back, the other instantly finds the familiar curve of her hip. I pull her closer, our bodies touching. I’m hard and I think she can feel it, too.
“Do you want it?” she asks, stopping for a moment.
“Yes,” I gasp, and she reaches towards my belt.
We move into my tiny flat, pulling shirts over our heads, not bothering to turn on the light. All I see are glimpses of her body, brought out by the street lights from outside: her pointy breasts, high cheekbones. I kiss her neck, immersing myself in the familiar, intoxicating smell. A part of me wants to savour the moment, but I’m too hungry for her, to desperate to lose myself in her. I hear her sigh and I nearly come, pressing my cock to her stomach.
But she has other ideas.
She pushes me onto the bed, then reaches down to pull her pants from underneath her skirt. She straddles my face; I can smell her cunt, want to dive right into it. I grab her arse, try to push her a bit lower…
“Don’t be so impatient,” she says mockingly, and I obey, give in to her completely.
I hear her breathe once, twice, then something wet falls on my face, something warm and salty.
I start to protest, but it turns me on too much. I strain my neck upwards, lap her piss straight from her cunt. I grab my cock and start pumping.
“Do you like that?” she asks.
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you want to fuck me?”
A vigorous nod.
“Well,”she says, as the stream of piss stops. “Bad luck.”
She gives me a kiss on the cheek gets up, picking her shirt from the floor. I want to say something, but I’m too close to release, so I keep moving my hand faster. As the door closes behind her I come, hard, with a choked gasp.
I open my eyes and come back to reality, feeling wonderfully empty and calm.
