I am sitting with my toyboy on his exceptional sofa. This is a sofa designed for fucking, and I am visiting him this evening because I want to get fucked. We’ve talked about it over WhatsApp and I’ve been thinking about it on the train on the way here. What’s more, if he’s done as he’s been instructed then he’ll have edged himself at least once a day for the last few days in anticipation of me pulling down his PJs and riding him like a show pony. If anyone could be said to be ‘in there’, it is him. And yet for some reason he occasionally forgets how to use his words. Doesn’t understand that when you want a fuck you’re allowed to just ask for it. One of the aspects of domination that I’m really getting into is forcing encouraging him to voice his desires aloud. So I decide that I won’t let him get away with wordless pleading: if he wants a shag, I’m gonna make him ask for it.

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The other day, I texted a man about his penis in all-caps, simply saying ‘TOUCH IT’. In context, it made sense, however should that man ever take against me, he has not only that but countless other random enthusiastic sex-related texts that he could (though hopefully never would) make public. Including the ones in the image for this post. I think words are pretty powerful, and if you wouldn’t share someone’s nudes (which you absolutely shouldn’t – no, not even if they were sent to you non-consensually) please don’t share their sexts either.

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‘No’ is a complete sentence, sure. But if you get partway to shagging someone, saying ‘no’ can be genuinely difficult, especially if you want to give them an explanation for why you’ve changed your mind. I’m going to tell you about one of the most awkward ‘no’s I’ve ever said. It’s not the most awkward ‘no’, just one of them. It starts on the south bank of the Thames, around autumn 2020.

It’s hard for me to judge the tone of this piece, and editing it proved tricky. But just so you know up front: this story has a happy ending.

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This is ‘Consent’ – a story demonstrating why consent is sexy, written and read by JM Seaborn. Note that this story uses ‘Daddy’ as an honorific. All characters are over 18. 

Consent isn’t homework. It’s not the boring part or the legal disclaimer. It’s not the vegetables you have to eat to get to dessert. Consent is the pulsing electricity that will pass between us with enough power to blow the bulbs of a city.

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I ask: “please will you hurt me?” and he stares down into my face. In contrast to my own childish eagerness, I always find this particular guy disarmingly grown-up. When I ask him to hurt me he replies, simply: “How?”. It’s not confusion, it’s a flex. He knows there are many ways to hurt me, and this feels like a way to neatly work in consent – giving me the task of articulating my desires aloud. In the moment I can’t work out how – my mind is just a blur of want. For him specifically. His strong arms, powerful muscles. The dominant way he carries himself. Combined, these attributes give a tall woman like me that precious, rare feeling of being outgunned. So I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind: “Just… fight me for it.”

Note: this post involves a super hot fuck that hinges on consensual non-consent, i.e. me pretending I don’t want to get fucked when actually I really do. The man who features in it knows this, and would not play this way with me unless he was confident I could (and would) withdraw consent if it all got too much. This post is not a ‘how-to’ manual on kinky fucking, there’s a lot of background chat behind this kind of sex.

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