Content warning: Every single thing that happened in this blog post was consensual, enjoyable, beyond wonderful. If you are likely to be triggered by male dominance, and role-playing sexual aggression, you probably won’t enjoy this, but I most certainly do.

Sometimes the difference between a lovely fuck and a powerful orgasm can be just one sentence. It’s true: it’s really, undeniably true.

When I’m alone, coming up with a new scenario which will power the majority of my wanking for the week, the most crucial things aren’t the settings or the characters, but what they say to each other. There’s no point conjuring a threesome with two guys (one much older, one my age) who strip me from the waist down then fuck me over the table during a police interrogation if they refrain from actually interrogating me. The difference between an idle daydream and a full-blown wank fantasy that’ll bring me directly to orgasm, is what the people say while they’re fucking.

“Do you want this? Tell me you love it. Say it. Say you want my dick. Can you feel that? Yeah. You. Fucking. Love. My. Cock.”

It’s important that they punctuate the filthier words with a fuckstroke between each. I know not why.

Often I forget how important these little phrases and sentences are when I’m having actual sex because… well… often I forget to speak when I fuck, as does he. We’re so busy enjoying the feeling of sticky hardness – why would we need to mention to the other just how much we love it? But the other day he said something so good it made me remember.

In the middle of a vigorous, angry, role-play shag in which I played the horny desperate one and he played the dude who was using me as a convenient fucktoy, he said something so perfectly pitched that I couldn’t help but come. I was close, of course – the vicious pounding coupled with a lot of foreplay (and by ‘foreplay’ I mean ‘him beating me as I sucked his dick, then beating me harder if I didn’t do it exactly as he asked’) meant I was teetering dangerously close to the edge of orgasm. He had me on my knees on the edge of the bed, curled into a ball and gripping my ankles.

The power of one sentence (don’t worry, I’ll get to what it actually was, I promise) stayed with me for far longer than a simple “I’m gonna come now” or a “your cunt feels so good.” Both of these things are great, of course, but they don’t linger in the same way as something totally unique, something new. Something – like the following phrases – that guys have said to me and I haven’t been able to shake from my head.

Some of these are years and years old, but I still get wet when I think about them.

Sexiest things ever said to me

“Get on my cock.”

Simple, effective, casual. The use of ‘get’ rather than ‘sit, making it ever so slightly colder and more distant. Drawled with a lazy sigh, as he unzipped his fly and pulled out a thick, satisfying erection that he’d been packing for a while. Drawing our chit-chat to a close with an order so confident I couldn’t bear not to comply.

“Sssh.”

The first time a guy used this I was surprised that no one had used it before. I’d had ‘be quiet’ and ‘careful of the noise‘ as gentle reminders not to disturb the neighbours, but this was completely different. It had nothing to do with what he feared others would hear, and everything to do with him embracing the role of the dominant one – ordering me to do something that was difficult for me, so I could better concentrate on what turned him on.

You were expecting some more unusual things guys have said, though, right? How about this…

“I want to put a scoop of ice cream down the back of your knickers and bury my fucking face in it.”

This phrase, whispered in a voice hoarse with lust, struck me dumb for five minutes. We were sitting in a pub, deciding on whether or not we’d fuck again, whether the aching need for each other outweighed all the rage we felt for each other elsewhere. It was such a perfect expression of the weird love/rage/lust that we both felt, with an extra dose of worshipful need. I didn’t fuck him that day, but as we parted at the train station, in a mournful ‘goodbye’ hug, it took everything in my power not to bite into his neck.

Where were we? Oh, the sexiest thing. The one I promised to tell you at the beginning.

It was during the most vigorous minutes of the fuck, as I was trembling with the effort of trying to stay in position. “Keep hold of your ankles,” he told me, and my cunt tightened. As he shoved his dick into me with sharp strokes, I struggled to keep hold of them – to maintain the tight, curled posture that allowed him, standing up by the side of the bed, such easy access to my cunt. My neck hurt, and I shifted, losing grip on one of my ankles. He grabbed my hips and pulled me back.

“Hold that position.” Each word punctuated with a fuckstroke, just like it is in my dreams.

I held it. I held it for longer. I slipped again. By this point he’d given me enough ‘that’s it’ and ‘good girl’s’ to have me dripping down the inside of my thighs, which were shivering with the stress of staying still and the beginning of the build to a hard, heavy climax.

Then I slipped again. And he said it:

“If you don’t hold this position, and I can’t come, I’m going to beat you so hard.”

And I came. Squeezing around him and shuddering all the way from my thighs up to my chest, I came so hard I thought I was going to push his cock out of me. Which I would have, of course, if he hadn’t been in ‘dominant’ mode, and holding me tight against his crotch so he could feel every single inch of my cunt throbbing and constricting around his dick. Milking the spunk out of him as he tipped over the edge too.

I imagine that line, like the ice-cream one, or the first ever gruffly-whispered ‘sssh’, will stay with me for a long, long time. I may forget how it felt, or the way the room looked, or the tingling feeling of his huge palms slapping my naked arse, but that sentence won’t leave me – it’s pitch, timing, tone, all perfectly tailored to my individual kinks. When I’m old and frail and incapable of holding that awkward sex position, I’ll remember the guy who ordered me to, and bite my lip with nostalgic desire.

Yes, we live in a patriarchy. And in our patriarchy, men are generally at a bit of an advantage in terms of money, power, opportunity, and so on. But I’m not going to talk about that today – I want to talk about power and penetration. Specifically the idea that the power in any kind of sexual play is, by default, in the hands of the penetrator.

The other week I wrote something disgustingly filthy about pegging (aka strap on sex). In subsequent discussion, a few people talked about me ‘having the power’ and ‘being the dominant one’, which was interesting. Even when I’m fucking a guy with a big fake cock, I don’t tend to feel that dominant. I get waves of it occasionally, but it struck me that we do tend to assume that strap on sex gives the wearer an immediate power boost. That it’s the cock that’s synonymous with power. That no matter how doe-eyed and submissive I usually am, just by strapping it on I have performed a transformation into a powerful sexual superhero.

Are strap ons powerful?

Of course, there are a lot of expectations around being the penetrator. Watch most mainstream porn, or even most mainstream romance, and men tend to be seen as the ones in control – the ones doing. Men fuck, women get fucked. But of course, although this is the way the story tends to play out, there are a hundred different problems with it, as there are with most of our expectations around gender.

Naturally the obvious point is that not all men have dicks, or indeed want to be the penetrators. Likewise there are many women who can be powerfully sexual, who can penetrate and fuck, while their partners (male or female) prefer to be more passive, more laid-back. And – in the kind of situations I enjoy – there are many people who switch between the two.

I enjoy sex in which I am the fucker rather than the fuckee, and to be honest I don’t usually need a strap on in order to do that. In the right mood and with a fair wind behind me I can shag a guy using only my delicate, weak, unpowerful vagina and he’ll still feel as if he’s been used like a fucktoy.

Your dick as your weakness

Not only can you be powerful with no dick at all, but there are certain sexual situations in which a penis can be the very opposite of a powerful tool: it can be your weakness, your misery, and one of the ultimate symbols of submission.

Knowing you can penetrate me with your dick might give you power in the eyes of a society with a skewed view on genitals, but it’s not going to make you feel that powerful when you’re lying on my bed, constrained by an order not to come, twitching and moaning as I rub lube gently into the aching head of it. Nor when I squeeze it to just before the point of pain and you beg me to put it in my mouth. And certainly not when I lie on my back, with your bound wrists behind my neck, and tell you to fuck me without coming.

As you pull out, shaking with the need to come and pleading with your eyes, your penis doesn’t feel very powerful, does it?

A dirty story to illustrate the point

So are strap ons powerful in and of themselves? The fact that they don’t give direct pleasure to the wearer does give the wearer a certain element of control. Maybe I’m the ‘powerful’ one when I fuck a guy with a strap on purely in virtue of the fact that I feel nothing – that I’m wholly focused on what I can do rather than what I can feel.

Except even that doesn’t really work, because this lack of feeling can also be harnessed to make the wearer feel deeply cowed and submissive. Ask the guy who loved the trembling feeling of submission so much that I used to wrack my brains in bed at night trying to think of new and better ways to make him feel small – the guy who, eventually, I ordered to fuck me with a strap on.

He got hard and shook and begged me to let him fuck me – wrists bound behind my head, as above. I turned him down and dressed him in the strap on harness instead, letting him fuck me with cold, rubber strokes until I came – twitching and clenching around a cock that couldn’t feel it. A cock with no desire, no sensation, no power. Then I told him I was done, and he curled up hard and aching and unable to fall asleep.

What makes a powerful dominant?

Power isn’t contained within a penis – real or fake – and it doesn’t accrue to you just because you are the penetrator. This is one of the many myths we’ve been fed for a number of years, which we still tend to play up to in much of our fucking. I certainly do most of the time – as a straight female submissive, dominance and dick usually go hand-in-hand. I want to be on the bottom, I want to be penetrated: I need to get fucked.

But it’s nice to take a step outside this every once in a while – think about what it is, exactly, that makes someone powerful. It might be different for different people: what makes him powerful is his voice, and the way he has with commands and words. What makes her powerful is the way she can speak volumes just with her eyes or a turn of her head. What makes them powerful is their imagination – the fantastic new things they can order their sub to do, that brings both parties to the brink of shivering climax.

Power isn’t contained within a particular object, or act, or person: it’s a complex, intricate thing. And it’s good to remind myself of that every once in a while – not only does it give me a better perspective on what I truly love about dominance, it also gives me loads of new ideas.

Those of you who know me know I love comedy almost as much as I love dick. Anyone with the ability to make me laugh gets bonus attractiveness points and most likely a large slice of my heart. So I’m delighted to welcome this week’s guest blogger. RB is a stand-up comic who struggles with one of the eternal dilemmas: how do you keep a straight face when something sexy also makes you want to burst out laughing? Sex and stand up comedy wouldn’t have struck me as a natural pairing – I’m a notoriously miserable twat when it comes to laughter during sex, and as a general rule if you giggle when I’m naked I will burst into horribly unattractive tears and order you out of the bedroom. But thinking about some of the stranger things we do in pursuit of orgasm, I have to admit RB’s got a point: sometimes we are hilarious creatures.

Sex and stand up comedy

*SLAP*
‘Oh…FUCK.’
‘When I spank you, what do you say…?’
‘Um…’
‘Well, little slut?’
‘I don’t know, what DO I say?! This is sex, not Mastermind!”

And we collapse into giggles, in a sweaty, semi-clothed heap, and the moment’s gone.

When I first became interested in BDSM recently, I thought the greatest conflict it would present would be with my feminism. How, after all, could you campaign for sexual autonomy and equality, then be completely dominated in the bedroom, and called all sorts of names you’d seethe with anger at in the outside world?

Obviously, I realised quickly that it chimes perfectly with feminism; you can do whatever you damn well please in the bedroom with a consenting and understanding partner, whether it be being beaten with a riding crop, pissing on someone (I’ve heard that’s a thing…), or straightforward missionary in the dark.

No, the biggest conflict I’m experiencing; being a sub and being a smart-arse.

I’ve been performing stand-up comedy for over a year. I’m a fledgling but I’m pretty damn good. I also perform spoken word poetry and improv – I feel I could, just about, call myself a ‘comic’ without sounding like a massive arse. It’s my life; I love it, I’m good at it, and I want to make it into a living someday. But with this, my personality has shifted into one of ‘tiny loud clown’; I take very little seriously and spend an inordinate amount of time trying to make people laugh (including strangers). If I can find an acceptable opportunity to take the piss, I’ll take it. So, how on earth am I meant to react when a man pulls me onto his knee and slaps my arse, again and again, whispering very low, ‘fucking jailbait.’

A handful of people that I’ve spoken to have assumed I’m a domme, and I can understand why. I’m loud and confident to the point of hyperactivity (off-set by the occasional depressive episode where I stay in bed for two days, cry and cannon ball Pringles tubes). I’m very argumentative and opinionated, and I talk about sex, in and out of stand-up, with a frequency and volume which amuses and alarms people in equal measure.

But, BUT, this is the thing. Performing is exhausting. Commanding an audience’s attention can take all your nerve, courage and confidence; and I do an awful lot of it. When I get to the bedroom with someone; to relinquish control, to hand over the keys, is such a relief. It’s like taking your shoes off at the end of the day. I can relax. I’m in someone else’s hands. And oh, what capable hands they can be. As refreshing as it can be for a loud little idiot like me to quiet down and obey orders, it’s equally fun to watch a soft-spoken, polite, unassuming person take the command they might not otherwise have in their everyday life; to watch them transform into a beast who’s going to fucking have you – use you and bite you and turn you into a panting wreck.

‘God, you’re so fucking wet, you little slut. You want me to untie you? You want me to fuck you? You want to feel my cock inside you, do you?’

‘…yes.’

‘Yes, WHAT…?’

‘Yes, sir. Oh, fuck, FUCK…’

Keeping in character is tricky. Sex is never like the movies. There are knees slamming into faces, narrow beds to fall off, crap knots, sneezing. Having to move out of a kneeling position during a spanking because you desperately need to blow your nose. Hearing the word ‘balls’ and bursting out laughing. Just realising the absurdity of the entire situation and failing to take it seriously. I’m a beginner, and I’m still stumbling through a sea of spankings and commands and filthy hard limit lists, and I’m still going to get the giggles. Occasionally I worry that I won’t be able to stop; I’ll degenerate into a pile of hysterical laughter, those fits that make your stomach ache and tears leak out of your eyes, and I’ll totally undermine the person that I’m with.

But, when you’re on your knees with your wrists tied in front of you, and he’s behind you, fucking you in short, hard strokes; slapping your arse with an open palm, chuckling darkly as you gasp at the sound, and the quick burst of pain, calling you a ‘filthy…little…BITCH.’ and you feel as if you might either come or go absolutely fucking mad…

…it’s hard to make a joke. Or make any noise at all, except to moan, and to swear, and to scream.

Those who enjoy a good BDSM beating understand that there’s a hierarchy of stinging pain. To those who aren’t into it, a general aversion to being whacked by your partner in the throes of passion probably extends to all the different forms of whacking: belt, cane, hand, crop, paddle. If it hurts and you don’t like it, you probably don’t want to think about which exact method you dislike the least.

(more…)

For me, sex is one of the most important parts of a relationship. It’s up there with trust, laughter, and an ability to tolerate each other’s excessive flatulence after curry night. Sex – if it’s good enough – is often a key motivator to help me fall for someone in the first place.

The idea of a long-term relationship with someone who didn’t share at least a fair proportion of my kinks makes me desperately sad. But in the past when I’ve raised this with friends I’ve been told that sex isn’t everything – it pales into insignificance when you compare it to the mighty force of love.

I was doubtful, and I still am doubtful that sex – for me – will ever take a back seat in terms of my priorities. But for this week’s guest blogger it’s done just that. I’m delighted to have her here because her perspective is so different to my own, and I’d love to know if other people have struggled with similar things – have you ever fallen in love and had to make a similar choice?

Someone else’s story: choosing love over kink

I’m dirty. I’m filthy. I’m a slut. My mind is constantly wandering between kinky fantasies where I’m being used and abused and these fantasies make my cunt throb.

For years this was what happened to me: I was in relationships with guys that made my unspeakable fantasies a reality. I was whipped, beaten and peed on into a sweaty, cum-covered mess. I knelt before relative strangers and begged for their worst and they gave it. I submitted to harsh experienced Masters who knew how to make me tremble without a single touch, could make me cum from a well delivered spanking and always left me wanting more. I “knew” I would be a dirty girl till the day I died.
I was happy to be treated this way.

So how merely 3 years from my last spanking have I ended up married to a guy who thinks doggy style is kinky, who could never speak during sex and is happy with once a week missionary?

No I didn’t run out of things to do. I drip at the thought of being roughly taken up the arse but know I will never know the feeling. There is so many scenes I’m yet to try. I’m still submissve in my soul.

No I don’t think I can change him. No I don’t cheat. If you had asked me before I met him if I could give up filth I would have sworn it was impossible. So can a self identified filthy slut be happy with a ‘vanilla’ guy?

The answer is yes. I’m happy. I love him more than I knew I could and know this is the forever after people dream about. As sappy as that sounds but when you know you know!

I think it’s all about priorities. Mine changed the first time he kissed me. Love. Family. Happiness. They are more important to me than filthy sex.

Did I compromise? Am I going to resent him in 10 years? Who knows! I don’t think so. My life is great. He is great.

He knows how to make me smile at the end of a really shit day.

He knows when to shut up and leave me alone.

He knows my favourite bands, books, food etc.

He makes my family his family and me part of his.

He gets me in a way no one ever had.

So I don’t tremble into subspace with a look. Sex is functional. It scratches an itch. It made my child. I’m not saying he’s bad in bed – I’m saying we aren’t sexually compatible. Somewhere there are girls who just want a quiet fuck on a Saturday night – should he be with one of them?

We all know someone or had a relationship that ended because they had different views on religion, family (usually whether to have one or not) or other significant issues. Is sex one of these issues? Or, more importantly, should it be? Do we put to much emphasis on sexual tastes and dismiss otherwise perfect relationships? We all know that relationships are about give and take. We put up with annoying habits (the snoring that brings the roof down, the dirty clothes on the bedroom floor, the lateness – and that’s just my own habits). We agree to disagree on many things.

Sex is great, but surely love has to be more important. I don’t think it would be a very healthy state of mind to choose a sexual relationship over a loving one. Of course you can have both – I am sure many people do – but if that’s not what fate has in store for you then you play the hand you’re given.

So I am happy in my ‘normal’ sex life. You may call it boring, you may say it can never work but every night I curl up next to a guy I love. If I threw our relationship away for dirty sex maybe I would never again find this heart stopping love.

So I will continue to rub myself furiously to thoughts of what I could have had done to me if the love of my life had been a filthy guy, but I will continue to love my life.

So would you give up filthy sex for the person you love?

I’d love to know what you think – is sex (and specifically the type of sex) a vital part of any relationship, and a potential ‘dealbreaker’ when you’re thinking about who to spend the rest of your life with? Are you in a relationship where you’ve reached a happy compromise? As with many sexual things, I think this is going to be different for everyone, so if you’ve struggled with this before I’d love to know how you dealt with it, and what you’ve decided your priorities and compromises are.