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Guest blog: Puppy play – Locked and shocked
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.
Someone else’s story: Giving up on filthy sex
Wise people are discussing sex addiction at the moment. And by ‘wise people’ I mean mostly Brooke Magnanti, who’s written some interesting stuff about it in the Telegraph as well as her excellent book ‘The Sex Myth‘. I’m nervous about applying the label ‘addiction’, particularly to something I enjoy immensely and crave absolutely, but that also – despite my occasional fuck-ups – significantly improves my life. Brooke nails many of my concerns about the sex addiction industry, and rest assured that no matter what you think your problem with sex is, you can guarantee there’ll be someone happy to take your money for a ‘cure’.
However, the fact that there are dubious diagnoses of ‘porn addiction’ and much hand-wringing about ‘sex-addicted’ celebrities, that doesn’t negate the very real problems that some people have with sex – if something is negatively affecting your life, then making the decision to take control of it is probably a wise one. This week’s guest post, which I found hilarious as well as touching, comes from a guy who is as filthy as I am (and most likely even filthier) but for whom sex isn’t the magical wonderland he really wants. In his own excellent (and anonymous) words, I’ll let him explain…
Giving up on filthy sex
It’s funny how things turn out. One minute you’re married, living the Guardian colour supplement dream, and the next you’re listening to the fire alarm go off at 11am when you’re in the middle of your first all male threesome. While your febrile imagination runs through the many and varied ways in which your immediate future can best humiliate you, the voice in your head is simply saying, ‘what the fuck? How the hell did I end up living in a bachelor pad having two cocks in my mouth for elevenses?’ Then you remember that it’s Thursday, fire alarm test day. The looks of horror subside, and hungry mouths get to work once more …
That’s right, I am a man-whore, a slut; call me what you will. Over the past year, for example, I think I fucked as many women as I did in the twenty years following the greatly anticlimactic event that was the mislaying of my virginity. I’ve had sex with several men: both the sensual and louche kind and the on your knees from the moment the front door is shut to the moment they cum in your mouth kind. I’ve had threesomes, foursomes and fivesomes, been to orgies, parties and swinging-friendly amenities. I’ve licked my partner’s pussy while another guy squirted his cum down her throat, watched her get fucked by two men, fucked her while a guy wanked into my open mouth, letting the cum drip into hers, fucked a guy while he was fucking her … Sometimes I think back and almost shock myself, and yet it started with a kiss.
To be brutally honest, I love it. I love to see the naked greed in a girl’s eyes, to see the look in a guy’s as my partner takes his cock in her mouth, I love it all. Which makes it all the more strange that I’m giving it up.
Why give up on filthy sex?
Not long after the kiss, I found myself putting a collar on the actual girl next door in a B&BDSM in the sticks. The next week I was at a party. I was introduced to a Dr Jones, simply because we were the only two Drs there. After about ten minutes I said, simply, ‘shall we fuck?’ The only query was her place or mine. It was a while before I realised that I had been caught in a perfect sexual storm.
I was single, clever, charming, handsome, fit, with a disposable income and a newly acquired (non-transmittable) disease which had two neatly intersecting outcomes – a carpe diem mentality and a pharmaceutically-induced sexual compulsion. I was suddenly devastatingly successful, to the point that when I found a properly filthy girl, the kind who would make me fuck her before she went to work and would then spend the day sending me texts such as ‘In a meeting. Can feel you leaking out of my cunt. Hot’, I simply carried on. I cultivated a rolling harem of between four and eight girls on top (sometimes literally) of my partner. Now I’m living the dream, right?
Did I just say I was going straight? It amazes me, too. I’ve had two proper play partners, both sexy and both filthy. The first was a proper partner. I fucked that up because I couldn’t control my compulsion. The second was achingly sexy, fabulously filthy, but I just didn’t care, so while it was great fun, the whole game started to lose its appeal. We still had outrageously good sex, but came to need others. We’d arrange meets and people wouldn’t show. Fakers and dreamers, most of them. And then we’d have one of those meets when it seemed like everyone was climbing over me to get at her. Naturally, our open relationship was extremely one-sided – I got all the action.
The compulsion meant that when the hunger hit, it was like a drug, I simply had to get something, anything. Sport fucking is what I once heard it called. It became mechanical. I started counting.
This is what compulsion does to you. You acquire, you collect: you never connect.
In the middle of the craziness I connected with someone who couldn’t cope with the sharing. She tried, taking some guy home after a party I wasn’t at, but regretted it. Strangely, I found myself a little jealous. So I decided to try, to see whether the finest vanilla can trump the kid in a candy store draw of tutti frutti. To see whether the taste of perversion, once experienced, is craved forevermore.
Wish me luck.
If you enjoyed that post, check out some more guest contributions, and let the author know what you think in the comments!
On number 13
“What do you want?”
“A gangbang”
“No, really, what do you want?”
“A gangbang.”
“OK. Let’s try again. Within the realms of what I can realistically achieve in the next 24 hours or so, what do you want?”
“I’d like to watch another man sucking your dick.”
“…”
“…”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
It’s not easy persuading straight guys to have their dick sucked by another guy. Luckily for me the gentleman in question was not so much ‘straight’ as ‘elegantly curved’, and willing to bend in any direction that gave him even a hint of a hard-on.
A few minutes on the internet and we had something – a gay but slightly bi-curious guy had published a straightforward ad offering cocksucking. He just wanted to pop round someone’s house, drop to his knees, suck for a while, then sod off home again. Straight guys were not only welcome, he promised, but his favourite.
We paused briefly, taking a silent moment together to marvel at the pervert possibilities that had been opened up by the internet, then got in touch.
Oh god even remembering it makes me a bit weak
An hour or so later I was sitting, tense, on the sofa waiting for my boy to arrive. He’d gone to the station to meet our stranger, check him out, and have a coffee. If all was well, he promised, they’d return together and I could watch whatever happened.
Nothing quite prepared me for the odd feeling of watching them begin. The boy sat nervously on the sofa, rock-solid and straining upwards, as the stranger went to work. He started by licking thickly from base to tip, smacking his lips and gripping the boy’s thighs as he moistened everything. Then he took the whole cock in his mouth, and I saw the boy tremble as it slipped in. Nervous though he was, he was clearly enjoying it – loving the skill with which the other guy was sucking him.
I sat in the corner on my knees, squeezing my legs together to stop myself trembling too. Watching in fascination as the stranger worked my boy’s dick in ways subtly different from mine. I was trying to remember, to learn, to maintain my composure. Most of all I was trying not to breathe too loudly in case it broke the spell.
It was here that we should have stopped. This was the hottest bit – the sucking, the trembling, the nervousness of the boy I knew and the casual skill of the one I didn’t. If I could have paused time I’d have kept it right there – with them both solid and happy and me sitting quietly nearby.
But we never stop in time
I didn’t want to be the one to suggest a fuck, but I don’t think I needed to. My memory grows hazy halfway through this story, but at some point the boy was lying naked, face down on the bed, with number 13 – the stranger – poised and ready to fuck him. Ever useful, I handed them a condom then retired to my position of trembling observer, watching as they went for it.
The stranger was big – not with muscle, but with beer. The boy was lithe and skinny and almost disappeared under the mass of the other. He turned his face towards me, wincing with pain and arousal as the other guy fucked him. I clasped my hands together behind my back to try and refrain from touching myself.
And then… and then things went a bit odd.
I think they felt guilty that I wasn’t joining in. I think they felt bad that, although they got to rub and lick and suck and fuck each other, I was left in the corner. I think they thought I wasn’t getting anything out of it.
I was summoned and, awkwardly, I went. I took off my clothes, and things suddenly turned from super-hot live-action gay porn to uncomfortable date – I didn’t want to say no and look like I was rude, but saying yes meant I had to fuck someone who had confessed that he didn’t much care about women.
Don’t get me wrong, fucking two gentlemen at once is one of my favourite things, and for all the weirdness of the situation, it was still nice to be at the mercy of two naked cocks. If I’m honest, I’m frequently grateful to be in the same time zone as two naked cocks. But although one of these guys was incredibly hot for me, the other gentleman was pretty damned gay indeed. He wasn’t interested in me, he was interested only in the fact that my presence kept the other guy hard.
We fucked together for a while – my boy fucked me while the stranger fucked him, and then we did it the other way around for a bit, all the while I was thinking ‘how can I get out of this with dignity?’ Watching two guys go at it makes me wet, but feeling one of them limply humping me while looking stonily into the distance, clearly thinking only of maintaining some semblance of an erection, is not exactly my cup of tea.
Awkward goodbyes
When it was finished I think we might actually have had a cup of tea. Just a quick one, the cup of tea that says ‘I definitely want you out of my house very soon, but I’m going to drink hot drinks with you to prove that I do not think badly of you as a person.’ And, to be fair, we didn’t. He was a perfectly lovely guy, and an incredibly skilled cocksucker. He was friendly and chatty and calm and experienced and easy to get on with.
He was just… you know… gay.
There are a number of morals to this story – ‘always stick to what you agreed on the internet’, ‘don’t join in sex scenes you’re uncomfortable with’, ‘be honest about what you actually like’, etc.
But the one I’ve always taken from it is that no matter how much you like someone, and how much you love fucking, sometimes not fucking is the best thing you can do.
On equal marriage
Liberals are a funny bunch. We can be powerfully and passionately political, but get so bogged down in earnest discussion that we forget the very basics. I am guilty of this sometimes – I overthink the linguistic implications of trying to ‘reclaim’ the word ‘slut’, and miss out on some fun-sounding slutwalks.
But we should never forget why the basics are important. Last night I had a timely reminder, when I met a friendly, liberal guy in a pub who argued against equal marriage:
“If we let gay people get married then we legitimise the institution of marriage. And aren’t there more important things to do, like fix the economy? Oh, and if gay people can get married then what’s to stop polygamous groups asking for multiple marriages?”
Put on your hard hats, people: I’m about to throw some rocks.
We shouldn’t ‘let’ gay people get married
It is not a question of ‘letting’ anyone do anything – you’re not giving gay people your permission to get married – you are obliged to give them the same rights and freedoms as you’d give anyone else.
If someone is released from prison because they’re found innocent you’re not ‘letting them leave’ you are obliged to give them their freedom back.
There’s a beautiful picture doing the rounds on the internet showing some idiotic right-wingers from 40 years ago protesting against mixed race marriage. It’s contrasted with a contemporary picture of people protesting gay marriage with the slogan “Imagine how stupid you’ll look in 40 years”
Fuck whether you’ll look stupid in 40 years – you look stupid right now. You’re failing to recognise that, regardless of who someone loves, shags and visits Ikea with, they are still fundamentally a person.
So it’s not a question of ‘letting’ gay people do the same as straight people. We are morally obliged to give all people the same basic freedoms. So let’s get on with it.
There are more important things than gay marriage
Yes, there are many things more important than the human rights of those in the western world who are already blessed with rights aplenty. If you’re worried about that then be my guest – pick a charity and open your fucking wallet.
But in the meantime it’s so rare – so heartbreakingly rare – that we have the opportunity to make such a monumental difference. It’s a teeny tiny legislative change, and it’s simple. Compared to dismantling the NHS or reviving a sluggish economy, it’s as simple as breathing in and out.
You could wake up one morning and find yourself in a society that is fundamentally fairer than the one in which you went to bed. That is an opportunity so fantastic that not seizing it seems wilfully destructive. So get on with it.
We’re opening the door to polygamy!
Leaving aside the question of whether we should actually legalise multiple marriages, this is a huge, ridiculous, stinking red herring. Why? Well, legislating for multiple marriages is infinitely more complex and ethically challenging than simply removing the gender specifications from a current marriage law.
It’s not a ‘slippery slope’ – it’s a completely different mountain. We can discuss polygamy another time, but right now we’re talking about legalising gay marriage. Let’s get on with it.
Gay people shouldn’t legitimise the institution of marriage
I am unlikely to ever get married. The party appeals but the rest leaves me cold with horror. I won’t get married – I think marriage is shit. But if some people have the legal right to eat that shit then I don’t see why anyone else shouldn’t have the same goddamn right to chow down on it too.
If you think that marriage is so bad that gay people shouldn’t do it, and you’re waving banners calling for an end to all marriage – gay and straight – then good on you. I won’t march along on your protest but I’ll respect your slightly odd opinion.
But you’re not, are you? You’re not. You’re saying ‘marriage is shit, leave it to the straights’. Which sails so far and fast past the point that the point itself is but a tiny dot on the horizon.
Here, I think, is the key – we should legalise gay marriage even if gay people don’t want it. Because I am straight, I can make a stand against the institution of marriage by choosing not to get married. At the moment some people don’t even have that choice – they can’t actively reject an institution that they were forbidden from joining anyway.
So even if every single gay person in the whole world decides that marriage isn’t for them, they should have the same right as I do to say ‘I don’t’. The act of marriage isn’t as important as the choice itself – a choice which should be offered to all people equally. So let’s get on and offer it.
Being gay is fundamentally wrong
I’m not going to get into this. If your religion or your personal ethics are so viscerally anti-gay marriage then you’re not going to change your mind after reading a rant from a sex blogger. You probably clicked off the page a long time ago, so this post isn’t for you.
It’s for the liberals who argue that there are more important things, for the lefties who say that gay people should boycott marriage because the institution itself is flawed. It’s for the people who say ‘we’ve got civil partnerships, that’s close enough’. It’s for those who aren’t interested one way or another because they know that gay marriage will become legal eventually, so what’s all the fuss about?
This post is for you. At the moment the UK government is holding a consultation on marriage equality. And although I love a good pub debate, I don’t want to sit arguing about the nuanced implications of our individual viewpoints while one of the best opportunities to advance equality slips through our fingertips.
So we can fight about the detail over a pint, or we can recognise that no matter what our liberal quibbles, all people should be treated equally. Let’s just get on with it, shall we?
Someone else’s story: gay teenagers
I’ve removed this post at the request of the author, as he became nervous about being identified.
Was awesome while it lasted. You can still see other guest contributions, though.