Confession: I secretly want you to fail in your wanking endeavours. OK, perhaps not fail exactly, but struggle. I have a vested interest in you rubbing frantically at your dick with a kind of angry determination – balanced seemingly forever at that tipping point just before you come. I like to watch your face while you’re struggling during an anger wank. I like to see the look in your eyes: rage and frustration and desperation all rolled into one. I like to see your hand gripping harder, feel the bed or the sofa shake as you speed up to try and push yourself over the brink.

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This week’s guest blog (by an anonymous writer) has some intense, filthy, hot BDSM of the kind I wish I could write every day. It captures a million and one of the raw, dark, sexy things that happen in my head, and to make things even more fun it’s a true story.

I’ll give you the heads-up that it’s got some extreme dominance and submission – all consensual, of course. It also has some language which, as we discussed on Wednesday (keep up!) might not be your kind of thing, so please bear that in mind before you read on. If it is your kind of thing then I’m pretty sure you’re going to love this one…

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There are plenty of things in life I love right now, which I’ll inevitably tire of in the future; painting weird patterns on my nails, eating coleslaw directly from the tub, occasional incompetent gardening. But there is one thing I will never ever tire of: hearing new masturbation tricks.

The following story was told to me by a smoking hot stoner guy – the same guy who taught me blowbacks could be a form of breath play. I’m going to tell it to you in his own words, as closely as I can remember. If you would like to picture him speaking, understand that however you see his face, you must give him big hands and broad shoulders: strong, hefty arms in a loose t-shirt. Picture it now: imagine him reaching down to grip his cock.

Got it? Then let’s begin.

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My favourite arcade game used to be the 2p waterfall. I don’t know if you get them everywhere, or just in the kind of shit seaside town I grew up in. A combination of permanent drizzle, a shingle beach, and water you have to have rabies jabs to swim in meant that traditional outdoor activities were far less tempting than the arcade.

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Sometimes, like many humans, I have fantasies that are grotesque and dark and weird. And sometimes I have days where I can think of nothing else to write, so with a sense of weary resignation and vague self-disgust, I tell you one of the odder ones. This disgusting fantasy is a not-quite-non-consent story that, I think, is an escalation of the fantasy dinner party. So if you like this kind of thing but the below gives you shudders, you might prefer that story instead.

For the record, it would horrify me if it happened in real life: that’s kind of the point of it. But as a film I play in my mind when I’m masturbating, something about the atmosphere and the attitude makes my cunt twitch.

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