You know how sometimes a particular smell evokes a really specific memory? Hot days smelling like childhood holidays, Baileys smelling like Christmas or – if you want to be less saccharine and cheesy about the whole thing – dick that smells exactly the way your ex used to?

I have a style of skirt that reminds me of my first spanking. No, really. It was grey, and patchwork – silk and corduroy and cotton and linen all sewn together in a rough pattern, draped perfectly over my hips and arse. It was one of the best items of clothing I’ve ever owned, and I can’t work out if that was because it sat just right on my bum, tight enough to cling so I could feel it when I walked, but loose enough that the material would billow out around my thighs when I walked somewhere, or if it was the best because it reminded me of spanking.

The first spanking

I’d been slapped before – occasional smacks on the bum as I walked naked to the bathroom. Boys who’d slap it when we were flirting after school, or boyfriends who’d give it a whack when they ironically ordered me to the kitchen for beer. But I’d never before had a proper spanking.

I arrived at his house at the usual time – what we’d have called ‘after work’ because we were students, but something far closer to 3pm. I’d been away for a week or so and I couldn’t wait to see him. This guy. This dream-come-true. This person I jokingly called The One when he was out of earshot.

He didn’t think much of me back then. We were mates who fucked, but while we were both equally enthusiastic about the fucking, I suspected there was a serious imbalance on the ‘mates’ front. He was my best and my almost-only – the one I’d seek out and chase and invite to every occasion. I was the one he ditched when something more interesting came along.

Still, we were pretty happy, not least because each time one of us came up with something new to do with each other’s genitals it would be greeted with an enthusiastic and husky ‘fuck yeah.’

When I came in he gave me a brief hug. We did some small talk. He told me to bend over a chair and flip up my patchwork skirt.

He could almost certainly feel the wetness through my knickers. He ran his hand over me quickly – not savouring the feel of my cunt through the fabric, just planning where his first slap would fall. He pulled down my knickers and settled for my left cheek.

Smack.

Firm, stinging, perfect. I yelped.

He adjusted my skirt, hitching it higher to stop the hem falling back down over my thighs. I was bent almost double over the chair – the wooden back digging into my stomach, hands gripping the front legs to try and keep my balance.

Smack.

He was testing us both. Trying something that neither of us had done with this level of seriousness. Playful slaps turned to full-on, powerful blows and I made enough of a racket that he asked me to sssh. His housemates weren’t in but that didn’t mean the neighbours weren’t.

Smack.

I imagined him rolling up his sleeves.

Smack.

One stroke fell slightly left of its mark, half of it catching me in the crotch where I was wet and sensitive and raw.

Smack.

This time right in the middle of the cheek. Satisfyingly thuddy and good enough to make me wriggle.

Smack.

Enough of this now.

Smack.

I said ‘enough.’ I said ‘I really need you to fuck me.’

Smack.

He held me firm – one hand on the crumpled skirt pulled up to the small of my back.

Smack.

‘Do you like it?’

‘Yes. I like it. But I need you to fuck me.’

He paused for a while, and I could almost hear his indecision. Feel the stiffness of his cock pushing through his jeans and against my hip as he took a step to stand beside me. He ground his dick into me and my legs started to tremble. I asked again. ‘Please fuck me.’ Note the ‘please’. I asked nicely. I choked out the ‘please’ like if he didn’t fuck me, I’d cry. To be fair, I would have.

He told me I’d get six more slaps and that I’d have to count them. And he said they’d be hard enough to sting his hand.

After he’d delivered the spanking, I was a mess of arousal and emotions and red, raw pain. I pulled down my knickers as quickly as I could and pulled him into me, feeling his dick fill me up seemed to push the pain away. With each stroke I twitched and tensed the muscles in my legs, worried that I’d knock the chair over.

As he fucked the frustration out of me, and came hard into my aching cunt, his hands gripped the patchwork skirt around my waist, pulling my sore arse back to the base of his cock, to get the most pleasure possible with each angry stroke.

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“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…)

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.