Just as there’s something exciting about hearing the letterbox go and seeing a handwritten card instead of some random spam from Sky Broadband, so my heart leaps when my inbox pings and instead of a boring press release it’s a guest blog pitch from Jenby! WOOOO! Today the fabulous @JenetalTorture is back with another gloriously fun, sexy account of a kink I’ve never tried myself: being a human ashtray.

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Back in August last year, I wrote a post called ‘love is an addiction’. In that blog, which I typed up as a distraction to help me hold off the urgent, all-encompassing desire to text my ex-boyfriend, I said this…

“It feels like trying to quit smoking – an exercise as vital as it is futile, at which I have failed every single time I’ve tried. But I still haven’t sent that text so now I wonder if the wasted, flabby muscle that might once have been my willpower is growing with each passing day. Perhaps every text I compose and do not send builds that muscle up – flexes it, makes it stronger. Maybe if I can make it through the next six months, I can make that muscle strong enough that it’ll haul me through to the end of my smoking addiction. Wouldn’t that be a thing?”

Well, here’s a thing: I quit smoking.

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Love is an addiction, and I am not good with addiction. I’m writing this post so I do not send a text: it’s that simple. I sit here at my desk, legs crossed on my office chair like I know I really shouldn’t because it’s bad for my back, and I press the buttons on my keyboard that will keep my hands busy so I do not send a text to my ex saying ‘hey, how are you? I was wondering if you fancied hanging out?’ Earlier this evening, I pressed other buttons – on the microwave, to heat up my dinner, so that I wouldn’t send a text. Later, when it’s reasonable enough that an adult might call it a night, I will brush my teeth so I don’t sent that text, go for a pee so I don’t send that text, roll my mattress out onto the floor and take a sleeping pill and have a wank and put on a podcast so I do not send that text. I will do all this extremely mindfully. With the focus and dedication of a powerful woman who will – under absolutely no circumstances – send that fucking text. Love is an addiction, my friends, and I have no willpower.

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You can find filth anywhere if you keep your mind open to it… even on the back of a fag packet. The following story contains some BDSM, and is NSFW.

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This might sound weird: I like it when men take things from me. Not large things, like my dignity or my house. Or even small-ish things like my life savings. I like it when they assert a kind of casual dominance – taking inconsequential things from me, with an attitude that tells me I couldn’t possibly object.

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