Are fetish club dress codes always necessary?

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i like the thuddy sound of a flogger on denim

Image by the excellent Stuart F Taylor

“Dear GOTN, despite the fact that you’re a grumpy arse for most of the year, I’d like to invite you to my birthday party…

Ooh! A party! How fun!

“It will be held on Saturday at 8pm…”

Yay! I’m free on Saturday! I can go!

“At this address…

I’ll find it on Gmaps. Oooh, I’m so excited!

“The fancy dress theme will be…”

Shit it, I’m not going.
Continue reading…

Guest blog: the glory hole

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Every single time I go on a road trip, I inspect the service station, desperately hoping that I’ll encounter a glory hole – you know, a hole cut into the wall so someone in a cubicle or room next door can poke their dick through in the hope that the person on the other side will accept their invitation to grab it. Something about the furtive, anonymous nature of dick-through-hole cocksucking makes all of my insides clench with lust. I’ve never been lucky enough to find one, much less find one with a willing cock poking through, even in some of those awesome love hotels they have in Japan. Luckily for me glory holes exist elsewhere too, and this week’s guest blogger has been kind enough to write up his experience with one.

When this story dropped into my inbox I nearly spat out my coffee, then popped off for a frantic wank while I thought about all the hot gay sex that happens in it. Please take that as a warning that this blog is in no way safe for work, and is best read while you’re tucked up in bed with one hand down your pants and the door firmly closed.

Continue reading…

Rebranding feminism: the planning meeting

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Hi everyone: welcome to this, the meeting in which we aim to rebrand feminism, an exercise that countless people have insisted is vital. As a feminist, I’m often told that the word needs to be changed, or that feminism’s image must be improved, and because I’ve heard the phrase ‘rebranding feminism’ at least seven hundred times over the course of 2014, I thought 2015 should be the year we roll up our sleeves and get on with it.

Please take a seat, help yourself to coffee, and try not to fight over the chocolate biscuits.

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Historical erotica take 2, and the inevitability of personal fantasy

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when i get a 3d printer i am going to make cutout gingerbread sex people templates

Image by the brilliant Stuart F Taylor.

Last week I wrote a bona-fide erotic story. One with two characters who definitely weren’t me, in a setting that wasn’t my lounge, partaking in a dirty fuck that I have never had myself. I very rarely write fictional stories. Of the nearly 400 posts on this blog, fewer than 1% of them are fictional.

But every now and then something in particular strikes me as gorgeously hot, and it’s something that isn’t possible to recreate in my life at that exact moment. Whether it’s sex with a stranger, a gang-bang of some kind, or the kind of sex that would require my own Tardis. This week (and last week and – thanks to my recent discovery of The Tudors – probably next week as well) the hot stuff comes wrapped in lace and frills. Tight stomachers, breeches, and hard leather riding boots. ‘My Lord’s and ‘Your Grace’s and posh people dismissing their hot servants with a casual wave of their hand.

Thing is, with any fantasy I have, it always seems to end up in the same place. Last week I wrote about a maid getting fucked by a duke – the cold barrier between two people of different ranks, and the easy and nonchalant way in which he shagged her, with the same proprietorial ease with which he’d order her to turn down his bed or scrub the fireplace.

And this one, despite the complete role reversal in terms of power, doesn’t fundamentally differ because… well… when I give my mind free reign to wander wherever it likes, it always pops back to a very similar place. Guy on top, girl getting used, urgent sweaty fucks performed for no reason other than a desperate desire.

Every now and then I get drawn into a discussion about whether you can shape your own sexual desires. Obviously you can’t change fundamentals, but some people assert that, by introducing yourself to new experiences or pushing yourself into new fantasies, you can mould your own fantasies into something different to what you’d normally go for. I strongly suspect you can’t. I certainly can’t. While I’ll embrace any number of filthy fucks, unusual fetishes, or brand new experiences, my core sexuality will never significantly change. From the first wank I ever had over the idea of pirates punishing a serving wench, to the last one I’ll have on my deathbed, I suspect the theme will remain:

Guy meets girl. Girl bends over. He uses her like that’s all she’s good for.

Now here’s the story.

Continue reading…

Guest blog: ‘The silhouette’ – an erotic story

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Although I had a bash at some historical fantasy writing last week, one of the things there’s a real dearth of on my blog is traditional erotic fiction. There’s a reason for this, and that’s that I lack imagination. As a general rule, if it hasn’t happened in my bedroom, or appeared to me in a flash of arousal while I’m masturbating, it probably doesn’t occur to me. My fantasy characters are one-dimensional. They lack names, backstory, even faces. Beyond the vague reasons for them getting down to a hard fuck, they may as well be emotionless robots. Not very romantic, I know.

So when Al sent through this guest blog, I thought it’d be an excellent opportunity to redress the balance. Something entirely fictional, and story-based. Something with a beginning, a middle, and an end that comes from a more interesting place than my furtive wank-induced fever dreams. In short: an actual erotic story.

Enjoy.

The silhouette – an erotic story

He felt the breeze against his neck, exposed by an unbuttoned white linen shirt. He ran his fingers through his hair, bathing in the ocean air.

He gazed out at the desolate rocky outcrop. Harsh and unforgiving. The wind and the sea were in battle, each striving to whip the waves into a frenzy. The undercurrent churned up the ocean, exciting the waves, which in turn bashed thunderously against the stony shore.

A barren wilderness.

Then, in the distance, he spied movement. A swimmer in the water. He could only make out a silhouette of the head. The low lying sun, yet to soar and traverse the sky, blinded him to detail. Moreover, the figure was sometimes obscured by the imposing boulders in the foreground. The silhouette darted and weaved around, with energy and youthful exuberance, fearlessly ducking and diving into the waves. Always emerging triumphantly, with a sense of satisfaction of having beaten the water.

He began to guess at their identity, character, intentions and activity. What on earth were they doing? Perhaps some kind of fishing? Chasing fish underwater? Is that a thing? Can you catch a fish by swimming after it? He wondered, amused by the ridiculousness of this idea. It certainly looked like that though. Couldn’t be any kind of sport or exercise either. Although there were periods in which the swimmer would power across the bay, beating the waves in their wake, they would also indulge in playful activities, frolicking beneath the surface. Perhaps it was an energetic child, skiving school perhaps, or seeking freedom just before it. Maybe it was a dolphin. Whatever it was, he liked its spirit, its vitality and its proud invincibility.

He returned to gaze at his breakfast, which stared back at him in all its greyness. He was just about to glance through the papers for the day’s events when events on the shoreline sparked up.

The swimmer was slowly emerging from the water. He perked up, curious to see more. Even more curious when he saw that it was a woman, a tall, slender woman. His eyes strained but that was all he could make out from this distance. The sun would only permit a view of her silhouette; he couldn’t make out the face. She strode directly in his direction, confidently, proudly, defiantly – in the same self-possessing manner she did out in the sea. The shore was rocky, uneven, jagged but her course was firm and unyielding.

As she came closer her silhouette was unveiled. His eyes were drawn first to her petite waist and then the curves north and south. As she vigorously shook her long hair, he envisioned beads of water cascading down her breasts. He liked everything about this mysterious silhouette and smiled, before downing his lukewarm coffee, finishing the last of his breakfast and heading to the first of many panel discussions.

Perhaps she might be there, he wondered, also attending the conference. Or possibly working at the hotel. Over the next few days of meetings, deliberations and networking, he tried to find her. There were many pretty women, of course. But none enchanted him in the same way as the silhouette. None seemed as energetic as she who had darted across the sea, in a frenzy matched only by the unruliness of the waves.

That night he entertained the possibility of going down to the beach himself, perhaps meeting her in situ. Joining her for a swim in the warm Indian Ocean. Seeing the waves dare to lap against her breasts. Join her battle against the current. He imagined volunteering himself as a buoy for her to rest upon. Perhaps fatigued, she might sit on his lap while he tread water, supporting them both. Her soft bottom perched on his thigh, as he held her steady with one hand holding her waist. But even his dreams he could only keep her momentarily, before she darted off again. Weaving in amongst the waves, traversing the sea. He would speed off to follow, find her, chase this mischievous creature. Maybe she would be pleased to see him in the water. He thought of her embracing and clinging on to him, clamping her thighs around his waist, holding him tightly, arms around his shoulders. He wanted to give her respite; he half-pretended she might need respite. He thought of sliding one hand down her swimsuit, towards her breasts, cupping them, squeezing them, then softly caressing her nipples while she held him firm between her thighs.

He was hard when he woke up, excited by the idea of finding her. It had become an obsession, or at least a preoccupation. The panel discussions and workshops were all fine, very interesting, but she was exciting. He wanted to be close to her, to track down this little fish with a proclivity for leaping away.

He just sat with his new-found pal, who amused him with comical asides. Silly jokes, vaguely witty comments. They got on well together and became chums, always eating lunch together and going on little expeditions around the venue. However, he was lost whenever a new woman appeared in their midst. Utterly distracted. Also, much like a meerkat, he often scanned the room to check for candidates. His friend noticed this tendency for distraction but was oblivious to its purpose.

‘Are you coming tonight?’, a friend asked. ‘Hmm?’, he was dazed, startled by this interruption. ‘We’re all going out to a party of sorts’. Sure, he could go, pass the time. He’d been out to bars each of the previous nights. They would drink, joke and watch passers-by. A party might be more entertaining.

After the long, drawn out discussions, which grossly exceeded their time allocation, he returned to his room. He imagined joining her on the beach before breakfast. The silhouette might approach him, place her hands on his shoulders, towering above her, and proceed to undress him, kissing the flesh revealed by each unbuttoning. Tracing his body with her fingers. He became aroused by the thought of her. He wanted, so desperately, to find her. It had become a game now. He indulged in the day dream of finding her in the ocean, holding her, moving her swimsuit to one side and pushing himself inside, penetrating her in the ocean. Shielded by the boulders. Standing in the shower alone, he touched himself, rubbing his cock, held firmly in hand, recreating the sensation of coming inside her.

Apparently it was formal dress so he put on a crisp white shirt and black suit trousers. The venue was a curious juxtaposition of old and new. An old colonial house, crudely, garishly and lavishly refurbished by a Chinese hotelier – encapsulating a shift of imperial powers. He smiled to himself.

The cool beer was refreshing. He had another while entertained by colleagues making jokes. It hadn’t been a bad week.

Then time stopped. Never mind the building, the beer or the banter. Everything became a haze. His eyes fixated on one figure across the room. Stood alone in a backless, bright blue dress, revealing the silhouette he knew so well from afar, and was now longing for. The silhouette he yearned to touch, stroke, undress, taste and penetrate over and over, again and again.

—-

The conference had been really interesting, she had made many useful connections et cetera et cetera. But one point frustrated her. She had not been successful on all counts. There was a guy, perhaps the most handsome man she had ever seen. Dark brown hair she longed to caress; a chiselled, bearded jawline she wished to traverse with her lips; beautiful brown eyes she longed to stare into; and a tall frame, which towered above but never held her. She yearned for him. She badly wanted him to find her attractive. But he didn’t. He laughed at her jokes. He found her amusing. They got on well together. But there was no indication that he was remotely interested in anything further.

Time to up the game, she thought. Rather than the loose-fitting linen she had worn for the conference, she decided to wear a Grecian style dress. A bright blue chiffon dress, cut in a deep V at the front and back. Her body would be on show for him, if only he would see it. If only he would notice. She drifted off, imagining him seeing her that evening, venturing up close, inspecting the dress, following the curve of her silhouette with his hands, running down her sides, stopping, pausing at her waist, feeling her breath quicken, see her breasts heave with anticipation. Then he’d grab her waist, pick her up and she’d wrap her legs around him, locking him in her grip, finally hers.

Was it too much, the dress though? A bit too desperate? She wondered. It wasn’t even that flattering: the light chiffon fabric billowed in the sea breeze. It didn’t show off her toned and slender legs. Maybe she should wear something tighter? A further concern was that because the dress was cut so low, a bra wasn’t really possible. She worried about her nipples, chilled by the night air, showing through the chiffon. She touched her breasts, softly circling them with her palms in a bid to warm her nipples. But this only made her think of him touching her and was thus entirely self-defeating. She rolled her eyes in her idiocy and donned a pair of heels. These helped she thought, more glamorous now. Yes, she paused to admire her reflection. He might notice her now.

She strode confidently into the venue, acknowledged others but didn’t pause for conversation. She had come with one purpose in mind and would not be distracted from her mission – her mission of ‘fucking his brains out’, as she titled it, chuckling to herself. Out loud.

‘Amused by the décor?’, asked a familiar voice. This sent waves of energy cascade down her spine. Her whole body suddenly became more sensitive. She became aware of herself, physically. Nervous now. With no idea how to respond, she gazed up at the Portuguese art deco design fused with gaudy Chinese lanterns. Her neck arched back, exposing her cleavage more for him to see. Her breasts heaved in excitement.

—-

He stood directly behind her. Looked down at her shoulders, smooth and glowing with vitality. Sparkling almost. Taking another step forwards, now standing just behind her, he was anxious to see her face. He imagined it would be soft and smooth like the naked back and shoulders exposed before him. He took a deep, intrepid, breath and took another step forwards. She didn’t turn around but continued looking up.

When she turned to look back everything changed. It was her, his chum, whose company had entertained him the entire week. They had been together all along. Why hadn’t he noticed? Those baggy clothes had concealed her body from him, yet it had been within his grasp all this time. The unruly dark Latino curls contrasted with the slicked back wet hair of the swimmer, yet it was the same all along.

He stumbled for his own feelings. Where did he want to go from here? Would she take him? He knew her to be a dismissive sort, with disdain for men who wished to toy with her. Maybe she would never have him. Did he say what he thought? Should he complement her? Tell her she looked beautiful? He stumbled.

He regained his voice and sought to seduce her. Their conversation flowed freely, just as it had in the days before. He continued his jigsaw: seeing the impish swimmer in the friend he had made and the body before him. It all fitted together, perfectly. Now, how to get her to his room? He, encouraged by a boozy confidence, placed one hand on her arm. She didn’t bat it away. Gaining confidence, he stretched out further, sliding his arm around her, as if to make a platonic embrace.

The dress had clearly worked. She could see his eyes trying to look into her face but then mischievously darting off, gravitating around her breasts. Zealously, fervently, he lusted for her body, his hands keen to hold, his body now close to her – everything signalled his carnal desires. She smiled, triumphantly, at her evident success.

But then she paused.

Why hadn’t he been attracted to her before now? Clearly he was only interested in her flesh, not what she said or did. He had only perked up when her breasts were on show. Maybe he’d follow any girl in a skirt. She didn’t want to be his end-of-the-week-easy-plaything. He just wanted sex and she was an available female. Her proud, resplendent triumph quickly turned to insecurity and frustration. She retired to her room, for an early night.