Yeah, I know. I sound like a hip parent trying to encourage young people to get on the train to Coolsville and bag it up before they bang, or something equally cringeworthy. I’ve written before about condoms (badly, I hasten to add – this was early in my blogging days and I’d not write the same piece today), but in general I’m not a fan of the way they feel or the effect they have on dudes I fuck, so as a general rule I’d rather go without.

That doesn’t mean that I’d gleefully bareback with a brand-new fuck, but it does mean that when I’m in a committed relationship with someone, and we’re both free from STIs, and I’ve other methods of preventing pregnancy, I’m unlikely to crack out the Durex and ask for a latex fuck.

However.

And it’s a big, bold ‘however’, because I don’t contradict old blog posts lightly – I want to tell you why, despite their cons, there are a fuck of a lot of pros to condoms which have nothing to do with their practical value. I want to talk about why condoms can be sexy. Ready? Let’s go.

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The other day I sat on a guy’s face. I know, right? With no regard to his personal safety, I put him in a potentially life-threatening situation. Except I didn’t, of course, because I am not a five-year-old playing at being a pro-wrestler, I am an adult who is capable of making my own sexual choices.

As of yesterday, some ludicrously restrictive new rules around porn came into play and they’re such an odd combination of bizarre, sexist, and nannying that I don’t really know where to start. I thought I’d throw together a few outraged cries of ‘WHAT THE FUCK?!’ though, in order to encourage you all to get involved, and support Backlash, an organisation which is fighting against this weird ‘we think it’s a bit icky’ porn censorship.

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Some men fuck like I make coffee: cheaply, quickly, and without fear for what you’ll have to wipe up afterwards.

I like this very much.

Naturally no one would want it like that all the time. If every guy came within a few seconds, panting ‘sorry’ five seconds after he’d whispered a ‘shall we?’ then sex would hold about as much joy for me as a quick, relief-fuelled piss behind a tree when I’m out walking and caught short.

But sometimes it’s exactly what I’m after. I love intense fucks: ones where you spend ages fucking me into a frothing squirm of orgasmic desperation, then deliver one or two nice, deep thrusts that give me that relief, but occasionally I bloody love it when you don’t.

When you put your dick inside me and – seconds later – I feel it pulsing come even as your muscles tense with cringing embarrassment.

‘I’m sorry.’
‘That almost never happens.’
‘Give me a few minutes and we’ll go again.’

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The hottest stories are the ones that turn you on to write. Sure, I could probably knock up a quick tale about beating a man into submission, watching his dick strain tightly against the crotch of his lycra boxer shorts as he begs me to go at him harder, but apart from the occasional foray into new-wank territory, that scenario doesn’t often crop up in my fantasies.

That’s why, for some fantasies, you have to call in an expert.

This week’s guest blog is an anonymous one, written by a gentleman with whom I had a very recent and painfully arousing discussion about male submission. I’ve switched before, although I’m not naturally dominant, and there are certain things about male submission that fascinate and delight me. I mentioned to him my desire to have a guy come all over my feet, and he took it to its natural, squirming, abjectly submissive level.

Enjoy it: I certainly did.

Someone else’s story: Treat

She perches in black jeans on a three-legged stool; he lies naked and perpendicular on the floor below.

Easing off her right shoe, she flashes him a smile. His eyes widen, flickering over her foot as she flexes it loose. After a long moment, her toe touches the centre of his chest and he sucks in a sharp breath, tries to pass it off as a stoic grunt.

She takes her time. Her toe, glossed cherry-black and shoe-soft, trails down his abdominal ridge and he swells, holding his breath as if it could bring relief closer.

It can’t; she trails a slow circle round the base of his cock, then comes to rest on his balls, pressing gently.

He strains to sit, sides ridged and jerking, but her left foot slides neatly to his throat and pushes him backward, ball pushing gently against larynx until he is prostrate.

She keeps him pressed gently down; her right leg curls upward.

Gulping air around the pressure of her sole, he cranes to watch as she arches her knee and pumps three fat drops of lubricant onto her foot.

Watching her work the gel between her toes is too much. He groans, stiff and twitching for release, and she indulges him after a fashion.

Deft and pitiless, she fits big toe and neighbour around the base of his cock and slides them upward, squeezing as she releases the tip with a twist of disdain across her face.

After eight slow, forceful repititions he is gasping, and meets her eyes for the first time.

She holds contact for a long moment, as her toes clench around the base of his head. “Go on then” she says.

He meets her eyes again, lips parted and eyelashes drooping as he concentrates on addressing her properly.

“Please… can I?”

“Yes you can; and more crucially-” she punctuates her gift with an indulgent smile, “you may”.

He has no words, merely looks up at her with an expression of aching, animal gratitude and scrambles to his knees. Squeaking on polished wood as he shuffles forward, he fumbles his cock into a clenched fist.

Meeting her eyes once more to affirm his permission, he wraps his hand around her heel and pushes himself roughly against her toes.

She leans forward, wrapping an arm round his bowed head. His shoulders strain, his wrist pumps.
He hisses through his nose as she snatches a fistful of his hair. “Come on boy, all over”, she whispers. He sighs girlishly.

“Come on, fucker” she spits, and tugs him further into her. He heaves, and loops cum in three fat arches over her metatarsus. A fourth erupts onto her big toe; she smirks in satisfaction.

“That’s it?” she asks, tipping her head to one side and running her hand back through his hair.

“Yes” he whispers. She slides her feet together and begins to smear them in his spillage.

“Then clean up” she tells him through a smile, splaying toes roped with white mess and wiggling them in his face.

“Uhn” he manages, before his eyelids slide shut and he’s blissfully lapping his own spunk from between them.

His tongue squirms against the pad of her foot; she pushes into him, bending him back. Her toes penetrate his lips, her fingers twist in his hair.

He licks and slurps and gasps, eyes shut and cheeks flushed red. Gulping down his own emissions, sucking her clean. Shame and fierce pride in his filthy privilege.

Her arch is tongued devotedly, thumbs trace over her ankles, his rough cheeks flex as he works.

“Thnnyuu” he murmurs at last, his face pressed into her soles.

“You’re welcome” she replies, withdrawing and giving his chest a gentle shove.

Without another word said, she calmly slips on her shoes and rises. He remains kneeling until she has left the room.

Foot fetish submission – custom filth

See? Told you it was a great story. This guy can write. And write in a way that makes me forget what I’d normally go for (boys on top), and instead arouses me with delicious descriptions of that agonising, tortured lust that only comes when you’re being denied what you really want. I should also point out that this exact fantasy is carefully constructed to hit specific buttons of mine, given that ‘having a dude come on my feet’ is one of the key items on my sexual bucket list.

The moral of all this is that if a man on the internet sends you some incredibly well-written porn, it is worth emailing him a picture of your feet and asking for a custom story.

Belts are fascinating and filthy in a way that makes me genuinely squirm. In my opinion they’re the best of all the hitting devices. Why? Because they are long, meaning they can be used to reach and beat places you might be out of reach for otherwise. They also come in all thicknesses, which means you can exactly graduate the level and type of pain you like, and balance it with other things that are specifically hot. The delicious ‘thud’ sound of a thick one, or the shivery ‘whish’ of a thinner one. Something thick that can be hefted with strength and inflict a dull, spread-out pain, or something lighter that must be used more delicately in case it leaves a trail of narrow red welts.

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