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.

Sometimes, when I’m on my own, I do a simple form of self bondage: I put on a corset. One of those rigid, steel-boned ones that I can do up so tight it takes my breath away. One that I can feel squashing my tits into my chest and which – when I try to sit down – digs into my hips and makes me feel trapped.

(more…)

“I’m going to give you six whacks with this,” he says, and then he does. As he does, I have to count them. I know not why – tradition dictates it. As if dominant men are notoriously bad at simple arithmetic and if I don’t count them he’ll beat me forever. Maybe I’ll forget to count them.

Thwack. Hot stings and tingling, delicious arousal. I’m already part way to moaning out loud and begging him to fuck me. The counting is a bit of a distraction, if I’m honest, but needs must.

“One.”

I settle back in, focusing on the warmth of the first stinging smack against my naked arse. Ready for a second, a third. Wanting him to give up control and just beat me like he doesn’t care how many.

“What do you say?”

“I… umm… I said it – ‘one.'” I resolve to speak up a bit next time, to avoid having this awkward break in the proceedings.

“But what do you say?”

Oh Christ, he wants me to thank him. Try not to sound too stroppy…

“Thank you.”

Phew. Back to the beating. Any minute now the next stroke will come down and it’ll knock this irritation away, putting me back into the place where I can just whimper and gasp and love it.

“Thank you what?”

Oh for the love of Christ.

Sir

“Thank you Sir” works in very specific scenarios for me – ones in which we’re role-playing that he’s my boss, or my teacher, or anyone in a position of authority (if you’re reading this, guys who might be likely to beat me at some point in the future, I have never yet had angry military commander berating me – a junior member of his troop – while spanking me over the desk with a riding crop. Just FYI). In an authority scenario, ‘Sir’ sounds reasonably natural, and I could – at a push – see me using ‘sir’ with a regular dominant who’d decided he wanted me to address him as such.

But in my lounge? When I’ve got my jeans around my ankles and you’re still half in your work clothes? It doesn’t feel right. I’ll call you ‘Sir’ if you want me to, and beg “please, Sir, can I have some more?” as you’re flogging the backs of my thighs and working me into an stinging ball of lust, but it only serves to highlight that what we’re doing is play. If I use a formal term, I’m highlighting the fact that we’re not really taking this seriously.

Daddy

I’ve never gone with ‘Daddy’, although I’ll admit to a slight kick of envy for those couples who use this word during play. Something about purring ‘Daddy’ at my partner during a particularly intense session makes me melt with desire. I strongly suspect this is something that’s been conditioned via porn (both visual and written) in which the word is often used as a neat, sharp shortcut to establish in the mind of the reader that this is a dominant relationship. He orders: she obeys.

But saying it out loud? To my partner? My partner who brings me Marks and Spencer sweets after work and calls me a twat when I tell him the worst of my jokes? No matter how horny he is, I think he’d struggle to suspend disbelief for long enough to be convinced I really meant it.

Mister/Mr Surname

In my opinion, this is an underused term of BDSM endearment. I used to do a lot of school role play (what can I say? I just love knee socks and the smell of chalk) and I could not get enough of the delight of using the formal names of some of my best friends. In the evening, when we were sipping wine and chatting, a guy might be ‘Mark’, but in the schoolroom when he stood in front of me and asked me what on earth I thought I was doing, he was Mr Smith. I’d talk about them to other ‘girls’ just for the pleasure of rolling their new names around my tongue. Mr Smith told me this. Mr Smith gave us homework. Mr. Mister. Amazing.

Again, though, the whole thing collapses in on itself when it’s my regular partner, because he’ll never be a Mister to me. A ‘Mr Smith’ would sound like a sarcastic hint that we should get married someday, or a means of expressing my displeasure – it would never naturally indicate submission.

Name

That’s the one. The name. When asking ‘what should I call my Dom?’ the question itself feels nonsensical. Because I’ve never had a Dom, much as the sex-focused part of my brain would have liked one. Thing is, the sex part of my brain doesn’t always have the control – it’d be knackered and withered within a week if I let it run as rampant as it wants to go.

I’ve known deliciously dominant guys, and guys for whom holding a whip is a fun Friday-night activity but not something they’re deeply drawn towards. I’ve played with men who speak to me in German, and beat me with rigid and unrelenting authority. Men who have laughed when I’ve asked to be restrained and railed sarcastically at me as they hitch my skirt up and bend me over their knee. I’ve known guys whose feet I’ve wanted to fall at, naked and sobbing and begging them to hurt me in ways I’ve not imagined yet.

I really want to call them ‘Daddy’, or ‘Sir’. I am envious of the people in relationships where they can subdivide their play and make it – to my mind – more intense and all-encompassing. Where play is a deeper experience than the kind of casual tennis-match style of my own BDSM.

But ultimately, I’ve never ended up in the kind of relationship where it’d feel natural to call someone ‘Sir’ or ‘Daddy’ – even when he’s got his cock in the back of my throat and is taking swipes at my arse with a riding crop. When we’re in the pub, he’s [Name], and when we’re sitting on the sofa playing Fable 3 and arguing about whether we should have sex with the hairdresser, he’s [Name]. Beating me feels like an extension of the other stuff we do: different category, same tone.

What’s in a name? Everything.

A confession: sometimes I pretend to be asleep. He knows I’m pretending, and I know he knows I’m pretending, but as I breathe softly and try not to move, I’m pretending to be asleep.

I love to lie still and wait for him to come to bed. To slip naked under the covers and squash up to me. I love feeling his dick go from flaccid to solid as he rests it in the crack of my arse.

Best of all I love his hands. Tentative strokes at first – easing softly from a hug to a grope, building to very gentle pinches of my nipples. Like he’s trying very hard not to wake me up. Like he just needs to feel the texture of my skin, or squeeze the curve of my hips.

Like all he wants is to touch me.

I breathe in and out, trying to measure the movements and sounds so that my fake sleep remains convincing. His hands wander further, and he gets rougher in his movements. He knows what I’m waiting for, and he sighs with open lust as he pushes his cock up against my arse.

Grinding, squashing, pushing it against me, before he pulls away and grips it with his right hand.

His touches get more urgent. As he rubs himself slowly, his other hand wanders all over me – stroking me, grabbing my arse, using his fingers to push the thin fabric of my knickers deep into my crotch. Sometimes he stops, licks his fingers, then puts his hand back, this time pushing the fabric to one side so he can work them in further. All the time gripping the shaft of his dick and rubbing himself closer to orgasm.

I shift slightly, just the tiniest movement as if I’m stirring in my sleep, and he takes the opportunity to flip me over. With his left hand, he pulls at my shoulder until I’ve rolled onto my back, then his greedy hands are back again – pawing at my chest. His left hand gripping one of my tits while the bed shakes with the effort of vigorously rubbing his cock.

Lying there as still as I can, my cunt taut and aching with need, I suppress the desire to fuck him – to ‘wake up’ and turn over and slide neatly down the shaft of his dick. I want to do that, but what I want more is to lie in the stillness, hearing the shuffling and gasping and feeling the sheer, objectifying need of him. This one thing – this gulping, horny, compulsive desire to grab and swallow me up – is the single unifying feature of all the best sex I’ve ever had.

That lust. That desire. Those greedy, greedy hands.

I can hear his breathing getting faster. The little ‘mmm’s and ‘ungh’s that I imagine him making when I’m not there. His movements get faster too. Rubbing himself angrily and squeezing me tightly. He dips his head to suck hard on one of my nipples, grunting lustfully as if the only thing that will sate him is my body.

And it does.

In one quick movement he kneels up. With one hand still firmly gripping me – pinching a nipple with all the force he held back on earlier on, he leans over my still body. A short grunt, a sigh, and the lashing jets of spunk hitting my chest, my neck, my face.

As he lies back down, he idly rubs the liquid into my skin as it cools, then rolls over and settles down. With my clit throbbing and my knickers wet, it takes me another hour to get to sleep.

 

Note: The idea that he might touch me while I sleep naturally raises some questions around consent, so hopefully this note will answer them. There are two ways my partner and I deal with consent around sleep sex:

Firstly, I make it fairly obvious when I want this stuff to happen: I lie in a very specific position – on my stomach, one leg straight and the other bent to the side, giving him easy access to the crotch of my knickers and my dripping wet cunt.
Secondly, on the very few occasions when I actually am asleep and he hasn’t realised, I either wake up utterly drenched with arousal, and assume the position to encourage him to continue, or I wake up irritable and I growl, in which case he stops and wanders off to the living room.

I shouldn’t need to say this, but when I don’t I get comments from people saying ‘oh my god you’re encouraging people to just go ahead and do this’. I’m pretty confident that no one is going to read something like this and take it to mean that all women want to be touched up while they’re asleep, but this note is here just in case you think they might be. So, yeah. If you have sexy, greedy hands, don’t fuck things up by using them when they’re not wanted.

At about nine o’clock, most people are gathered outside in the garden, smoking loose roll-ups or cheap cigarettes that come in packets of ten. The supply of supermarket vodka has been depleted and someone’s started a whip-round so they can run to the shop to top up our stock with some clear, petrol-tasting cider and another pouch of tobacco.

While college-age guests scrabble for booze, the party host is surveying the damage and praying they’ll get it all cleared up before their parents arrive home on Sunday afternoon. Inevitably, as the drunken groping escalates to second or third base, one or other of us asks the host:

“Mate, which room is the sex room?”

“Front living room. But there’s four other people in there at the moment so you might want to take a blanket or something.”

“Ta.”

Sex parties that aren’t sex parties

There’s a huge difference between deliberate swinging and the kind of sex parties that my nostalgic self longs for. Parties where the main aim is to get drunk, but the side show involves hustling your giggling other half across a room full of silently copulating others – others too horny to wait until everyone’s gone home or fallen asleep. Others who are used to fucking in front of people because – hey! We’re eighteen! Life’s really fucking short so let’s not go short on fucking!. I miss those parties.

The casual ease with which you’d step over a friend, her legs twitching with pleasure as her latest squeeze buried his face beneath a blanket and deep into her crotch. The ‘sorry’s as you’d make your own room in a tiny sliver of space – feeling not just your partner’s eager hands but the clammy heat from couples either side of you.

At one party, I fucked my boyfriend on one of those deep tub-shaped armchairs. The duvet spread over the top of the chair provided a vaguely private tent, and I slipped my knickers to one side and sat down on his dick, burying my head in his shoulder to muffle my heavy breathing. Raising myself only ever-so-slightly with each stroke, I fucked an inch or so at a time, until his cock was swollen with desperation and his toes curled – visible by everyone else as they stuck out of the bottom of the duvet. It took me twenty minutes of this slow, controlled fucking to come, and when I did, the small shudder of our makeshift tent gave no indication of just how amazing it felt.

Not swinger’s parties

I miss this stuff as an older person – the sex you have to have right now because you’re so horny. The knowledge that there’s a room upstairs you can sneak off to, and still hear the chatter and laughter from the party downstairs. The quick, urgent, silent fuck you share on a pile of coats in the spare room, or over the bath, or – best of all – in a room with other people. All of you groping and kissing and fucking – not sharing each other, but sharing the experience.

I’ve had it once as an adult – a late drunken new year’s party with so many guests missing last trains that they spilled over into my bedroom. Mates I loved (and had probably fucked at one point or another) giggling and groping on the floor, maintaining casual conversation with me and my boy.

“Are you fucking?” One asked me, halfway through a casual conversation.

“Hmm?” I replied, clenching my cunt around the tip of his dick, which he’d inched slowly, cautiously inside me.

I made a quick shuffle that could be passed off as rearranging the bedclothes, and pushed my arse backwards to take the full length of him into me. He coughed to try and cover up his satisfied sigh.

I’ve been to swinger’s clubs, but never a party that’s explicitly labelled a ‘swinger’s party’ – the idea of group sex is deeply hot, but there’s something about the explicit planning inherent in the whole thing that turns me off. Perhaps it’s all the impromptu fucks I had as a youngster that have killed the idea for me, but sex parties seem far more fun when the ‘party’ comes first.

I don’t want to bare all and stride purposely through a group of likeminded people, picking which of them I might invite to join me in a slippery tangle of limbs. I want something spontaneous to happen when some of us are horny enough – no swapping or swinging, just a mutual desire to fuck, and an aching need to do it right now. Not because others are there, but despite it.

I want to slowly lower myself onto his dick, and have him stifle a gasp. I want him to work eager hands into my bra and pinch my nipples when he thinks no one else can see. To whisper and giggle and fumble in the dark.