Cuckolding – the least sexy word for one of the sexiest fetishes

|
cuckolding is even better if the guy watching occasionally gives you a round of applause

Image by the excellent Stuart F Taylor

Oh for the love of a man who wants to watch me fuck other men.

For a guy whose idea of heaven is the gentlest of touches on his aching erection as he leaks precum and sheds a solitary tear while I’m fucked rigid by a faceless other.

Cuckolding is one of the hottest fetishes, and one of the most dangerous, and I love it for both of these reasons, along with the simpler explanation that it’s a guilt-free, enticing shag with someone brand new and different.

I used to know a guy who was into this. Who struggled with his desire to keep and hold me, at the same time as his throbbing need to hear stories of me getting used by other men. We used to fuck while we talked about it. Long, slow, trembling shags during which I’d whisper in his ear.

“He beat me with a slipper, you know. He pulled my knickers down in the hallway and slapped me with it. All the time his other hand fondling me – running up under my shirt and squeezing my tits and exploring my body the way you usually do.”

A moan. A twitch as he thrust further into me.

“His cock was pretty thick, you know. Satisfying, just like yours is now. Filling me up and stretching me.”

He moans again. He doesn’t cry – now. But later he will. As he rubs his dick and pictures the scene – a vivid image of my face, contorted with lust and desire, thinking only of getting fucked by someone who isn’t him. He might cry even as he’s coming, and eventually that picture is what pushes me over the edge while we’re fucking. As I squeeze him between my legs and imagine his tortured confusion.

Cuckolding isn’t weakness

When I’ve discussed cuckolding with people before, some have turned their nose up at the idea that it represents weakness – a lack of self-esteem and a desire to be ‘punished’ for imagined failings. That those who get turned on by the idea of their partner fucking someone else are somehow constantly miserable. Feeling undeserving of love and so only able to enjoy it if they know it comes with the promise of betrayal. Maybe betrayal hurts less if you fetishise it.

I don’t think it’s that though. Guys I know who’ve enjoyed it cite a range of reasons why it’s hot: they get off on their partner’s pleasure. They get off on the pure visual of it: watching two people fuck and knowing exactly what one of them likes – like a personalised, explicit live show performed just for them. And some of them – yes – they like the conflict. In a world that teaches us that sex is precious – a gift you give to those you love and keep hidden from everyone else – then of course there’ll be excitement in watching that rule be broken.

Diary of a Library Nerd – specifically the cuckolding bit

This week I read a properly filthy book, in which the protagonist (a super-horny library worker) explores BDSM in a far more interesting way than Christian Grey did. She dominates a young guy, and is dominated by someone much older, and in the course of her sticky fucking she reminded me of just how hot I get at the idea of cuckolding.

I won’t give away too much of the book - if you want a copy it’s obviously available from Amazon, or from the publisher Sweetmeats Press. And I’ll take this opportunity to say that it was given to me for free, because I’m one of those people that publishers tend to give stuff for free to. Despite an impressive level of persuasion (Joe from Sweetmeats deserves a pay rise, if anyone’s listening) I’m not actually going to review it, but I’m more than happy to give it a mention because it sparked interesting stuff in my mind.

There’s a section of the book where the main character explores cuckolding. After a couple of hints to her submissive about what she’s been up to with her dominant, her sub begins pacing the room in a whirling conflict of jealousy and lust.

“What did you do with him?” is quickly followed by “tell me more…” and as soon as the second sentence came out I got a kick in the gut of pure horny delight, reminded of all those whispered dirty-talking fucks in which I regaled a guy with tales of others.

Cuckolding isn’t inherently submissive (or inherently male)

Alongside the ‘weakness’ thing, cuckolding is often seen as something only submissive men enjoy. Akin to a punishment (or sometimes a back-handed treat) that they’ll accept gratefully, on their knees and glistening with humiliated need. But I don’t think it has to be that way. The idea of being ‘shared’ by a dominant turns me on just as much, if not more – the explicit fantasy I have of being tied down as something to be used at a party thrown by my partner. Being passed around a group of men while my partner looks on – proud rather than humiliated. Generous rather than exploited.

Although there is a word for the gender-swapped position – cuckqueaning – I very rarely hear this fetish talked about from a female perspective, or the perspective of anyone in a relationship other than a straight one. Perhaps because so often the cuckolding is linked to humiliation, and while in the past it was considered intensely humiliating for a wife to cheat on her husband, our lopsided, assumptions-based sexual narrative tells us that it’s ‘to be expected’ that most men will cheat on their wives.

Whatever the reason for the imbalance, I’m pretty damn lucky to have met men who get off on this kind of play. For me, there’s an intense deliciousness in desperation, and the combination of sadness and desire that radiates from someone who wants you but who just has to wait. Not to mention that the exhibitionism of being watched having sex, and the ability to share a disgustingly filthy fantasy without breaking hearts. Oh, and the chance to fuck other men and know that the only repercussion will be a week’s worth of languid, dirty-talking reminiscence fucks as he quivers with the need to know every excruciating detail…? Yeah, cuckolding is pretty damn hot.

As long as I’m on the right side of it, of course.

Guest blog: Disabled people have kinky sex – who’d have thought it?

|
rope bondage - cannot get over the hotness of one-stocking-on-one-stocking-off

Image by the awesome Stuart F Taylor

This week’s guest blog is one I’ve been waiting to post for a while, so I hope it gives you something to think about. Writing a pretty personal sex blog means I end up focusing heavily on my own experience. If I’m challenging any assumptions, they’ll (usually) be ones that affect my life: the myth that men want sex and women want money, the idea that feminism is shit for men, the body myths about what exactly counts as ‘attractive’, etc. But we’re loaded down with a million more assumptions when it comes to sex, and I lack the personal experience to blog about them with anything other than an angry detachment. These things piss me off, but someone who has been directly affected by this bullshit is far better placed to explain why than I am.

So please welcome Richard. He’s an author, sick of the assumptions that people make about disabled people, who has written a novel that explores capabilities and societal limits, starring a disabled serial killer as the anti-hero. You can read extracts from the novel over on his Goodreads blog, or buy it from Amazon, and in the meantime check out his guest blog, and please don’t be surprised that disabled people have kinky sex too…

Disabled people have kinky sex: who’d have thought it?

I had blindfolded her and tied her to the bed frame. It had been an awkard enterprise tying her up. It’s more difficult than you might imagine restraining a full-grown woman and blindfolding her with her own stockings. Not because she was resisting, if that’s what you were thinking? In fact, the difficulty was all mine, not hers, she was an enthusiastic submissive.

The problem was caused by the fact that I’m a “crip” (that’s disabled person to you “non-crips”) and tying all those complicated knots and stuff with only one arm is difficult and annoying. To be honest bondage is not in my top 10 sexual activities, probably because of this.  But my lover was extremely keen on restraint and on all kinds of submissive activities. She loved being told what to do, what the rules were. It made her feel like she had a purpose and removed the mental chaos she felt if she had to work out what to do in sexual situations. She was also disabled. She was very high functioning ASD (Autistic Spectrum Disorder). She was a genius but had severe problems with social interaction. We had amazing sex.  She’d taught herself to orgasm at will. Lucky woman, you’re thinking.  Unfortunately that story has an unhappy ending.

So there you are; two different types of “crip” having kinky sex. Fuck me, who’d a thunk it?

The misconceptions most people have about the disabled led me to write a novel called Pavement about a disabled serial killer. He also has sex – with a non-disabled woman who likes him.  I’m interested in the limits society places around what “they” decide disabled people are capable of and if we exceed those limits, we are immediately placed in the “brave and inspirational” category of “crip”. This makes me mad and sad.  So I wrote a novel and I chose to have an anti-hero, someone with mental and physical problems, placed him at the bottom of societies pile (where so many disabled people reside) and then get him to take on that society and he does. It’s dark and funny and gruesome. I wrote it to try and make people think about the world and those of us who don’t fit in, who aren’t allowed to fit in.

I observe our society has an unfortunate default attitude to disabled people. They are “lesser”, a bit stupid, and in of need pity. The idea that they could have active and rewarding sex lives is not addressed, it’s somehow thought of as wrong. There is, however, relief ahead. Some residential homes for severely disabled people are now facilitating residents to access sex workers if so desired. It’s a controversial policy and the rules are odd. A care worker cannot call the sex worker direct but can dial the number and then the “crip” has to make the arrangements himself (and it is mainly men using the services). That’s fine, except if you can’t talk…

I have met several sex workers that work almost exclusively with disabled clients and they find it rewarding work; not only in a financial sense but in an emotional one as well. Ultimately, it would be most helpful if disabled people could find rewarding and attachment based relationships that included healthy sex. But then that’s not exclusive to the disabled. Everyone could benefit from one of those elusive prizes.

The disabled would like (yes, I speak for them all…) to feel they are included in society and that it’s okay for them to have sexual needs and desires of their own. Oh, it’s OK for non-disabled men to be devotees – that’s what non-disabled followers of amputees are called – they get their jollies from sexual interaction or fantasy with amputees and, again are mainly male. We can be objects or subjects but not, it would seem, participants in the sexual game. Disabled people have often been denied sexual happiness and expression and although attitudes are changing, there’s still a long way to go.

Blog posts are by their very nature short and so I can’t delve too far into the murky waters of sex and disability but I hope I to give you pause for thought. Oh, and what happened with my beautiful and brilliant autistic lover? She was unable to cope with the complete lack of support society provided for her and after a long struggle to “fit in” and with no warning whatsoever, she committed suicide.

My lover’s heartbreaking death illustrates that navigating life is difficult, sometimes insolvably so, and with a disability, visible or otherwise it’s even harder. Disability, like skin colour and gender, is not something you choose. It’s thrust upon us and the last thing we need is to be reviled, laughed at or to feel we can’t have an independent life and sexuality. The current trend is to demonise the disabled as somehow worthless and as a burden rather than as people that can make unique and productive contribution to society – so naturally the last thing they should do is have sex because then they might reproduce and then heaven help the rest of you.

So next time you see a “crip” try and imagine them fucking…Wait…No, not like that.

Coming too quickly – what is ‘premature’ ejaculation anyway?

|

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.’

Premature ejaculation

When I was younger I used to think that premature ejaculation meant something completely different – that it meant ‘ejaculating before you’ve had an orgasm.’ Because how heartbreaking: to have the spurt without the satisfaction. My heart went out to this unsung army of sexual heroes – those guys who could never reach the ultimate climax because they’d jizz before the joyful part, render their dick incapable temporarily, then begin the whole thing again in the vain hope that this time – this time – they might get an actual orgasm.

Eventually I found out that it didn’t mean that at all. That what I’d seen as a terrible affliction was far less tragic than I’d previously believed. These guys were still getting there – they were just arriving a hell of a lot more quickly than the other person traveling with them.

The first fuck

He slipped inside me, trembling all over. I was trembling too, partly due to an overconsumption of RedBull, but partly because this was a guy I’d been wanting to fuck for ever. All the unspoken desires, all the nights spent lying awake next to each other determinedly not touching, all the nighttime fantasies – they finally came together in this moment, as he held himself up by his hands, and I opened my legs, and I lifted my hips to meet his stroke.

And again.

And again.

And then he came.

‘Oh fuck,’ he muttered. ‘I… God… sorry.’

That fuck was perfect. It did exactly what I wanted at the time, which was cement all the lust I felt for him and give me an image of his face, screwed up in concentration, trying so hard not to feel it.

Another guy, later, told me after a shag so brief he’d have beaten the Countdown music, that he’d had to think of something awful to stop himself coming.

And as I write this I know it sounds like bragging – it sounds like I’m saying ‘Look at me, everyone! I’m so goddamn hot that I can make guys come with barely any sex at all! They find me so hard to resist that they’ll jizz as soon as they get it halfway in!’ It sounds like bragging because I genuinely am delighted, and because I still touch myself and think about those times when guys came so quickly.

Because a hell of a lot of things are deeply erotic, but right up near the top of the list is the idea of a guy who wants so badly to fuck you that he fucks you so very badly.

Recreating the first fuck

Perhaps that’s why I spend so much of my adult life chasing new and exciting sexual thrills. Whether it’s a guy whose words I fancy saying something flirtatious on Twitter, or a brand-new person to fuck, or a situation so hot that the person I’ve fucked a million times before can barely contain his excitement…

The other day I used a particular toy for the first time. It’s one I’ve had for ages: a simple, slick vibe that’s exactly the right shape and smoothness to fit neatly into my arse. It vibrates in just the right way that, when I lie on my front and he pushes it into me, with his cock in my cunt, it pulses on the sensitive parts of his cock.

Four seconds. One thrust. A stillness as he tried to hold back. The inevitable quiet moan and pumping, twitching sensation, as I felt his resolve dissolve. He came hard and forcefully deep inside me.

‘I’m…’ he said. ‘Goddammit. I wanted that to be a long one.’

And I laughed, and rolled over.

‘Don’t, mate. That was amazing.’

‘Ah, but… I’m…’

‘Sssh, mate. Don’t you fucking dare be sorry.’

Shagging shouldn’t always be instant coffee: sometimes it’s a full-on, hand-ground, rich-flavoured art, and as a consequence it takes ages. You get a richer taste at the end because you’ve put in so much effort. And I know that in writing this blog I’ll get people asking ‘but don’t you care about your own pleasure?’ Of course I do. it’s just that sometimes, your ‘sorry I don’t know how that happened’ can give me far more pleasure than the kind of functional orgasm you could rub out of me if you’d really put your back into it.

If you touched me once and I writhed with joy, came instantly at the touch of your fingers and screwed my face up in joy and surprise, would you be sad? Would you lament the speed with which I got to the end? Or would you, quite rightly, look at your fingers like they were magical, and rejoice in the fact that you… well… you made that magic thing happen.

If you fancy doing the fuck-me-in-the-cunt-with-a-vibrator-in-my-arse thing, the vibe I used was a fairly slim, long-ish one. I’d recommend something like this, or if you prefer more texture then something like this. And because it’s on my sponsor’s site you’ll get 10% off it if you use code GOTN10

 

Spin the bottle – how many kisses is enough?

|

“I know I’m married,” she tells me. “But I haven’t snogged enough people.”

“How many people have you snogged?”

“Ten.”

“And what would be ‘enough’?”

She thinks for a bit.

“One more.”

Spin the bottle

It’s pre-Millennium. Mates of mine share a spliff made with some sort of plasticky hash concoction. I pass a bottle of cheap white cider to the girl on my right, and she instigates a game of spin the bottle.

“Fuck no!” We cry as one. “I don’t want to play!”

We play anyway, because contrary to our screeching protests, everyone really wants to. We like this game. Hinting, touching, furtively trying to work out in which order we’d like to paw lustily at our closest friends. Then hurling that order out of the window in favour of ‘whoever’s closest.’

James snogs with full tongue. Sloppy wetness and weirdly stiff jaw. Just poking it like he’s trying to push yours back in.

Ashley’s a bit softer – all gentle, tight lips and nervous hands hovering just above your arse.

Will has two techniques, depending on how stoned he is. Sober he’s like the snogs you see on telly: waggling heads and quick movements and the confidence to slip a hand up your shirt if you’ll kiss him enthusiastically back. Stoned he thinks he’s a lover, and will calm the pace until you’re not sure whether he really wants to kiss you at all.

Daz is fast. Gareth’s filthy. None of them would look twice if there wasn’t this excuse.

But here, passing joints and spinning bottles, they’re up for it because we all are.

I have never

Later, at Uni, things are harder. If you want to get laid you’ve got to hint at it. Seduce someone, albeit incompetently. Down shots and laugh at their jokes and tell them your halls is better than theirs and there’s usually a Wednesday night party. That’s your invite – your way of saying ‘fuck me’ – before you really know you can just say ‘fuck me.’

Older now, you go on dates. Eat dinner and drink beer and pretend that you care what they think about politics. You edge towards the bedroom with a cloud of irrelevant questions in your head. Will he think I’m easy? Will he call me tomorrow? Is he my boyfriend now?

And after that? After that you get it, sort of. You understand how to do this: with a wink and a smile, and no booze required. The mysterious and seductive secrets that eluded you fifteen years ago become clear, and disappointing: like a shit magician explaining a cheap trick.

You flirt, you ask, you fuck: simple.

And you watch all the couples hinting shyly over a shared plate of nachos, or the students competing to out-drink each other as if drinking will earn you a fuck more easily than asking will. You walk past the park, pushing kids in buggies and holding dogs on leads, and tut at the youngsters swigging crap lager out of tins. Their innocence looks like fun, so we pretend it’s disgusting, because we don’t want to say what we really, truly mean: I wish I could still do that.

So when my married friend tells me she wants one more kiss to top off her ten, she doesn’t mean she wants eleven. She means that ten, eleven, twenty, a hundred - no number will ever quite be enough. Love and comfort and hot sex are delicious and satisfying, but they never live up to the promise of just one more.

I want another date. Another complicated first-time fuck with a smiling stranger who can’t quite do it right. Another go at flirting. Another messy snog.

One last spin of the bottle.

I’m away at the moment with really limited access to the internet. Because I am an anxious person, I schedule things to go up while I’m away so I don’t get emails saying ‘OMG have you stopped blogging?’ but, as an anxious person, I am naturally then even more anxious in case what I’ve posted causes a massive row in the comments. That’s my way of saying that I hope this blog won’t offend any of you. Normal service will resume next week, but in the meantime if you want more hotness, check out some random archive posts, and please do come and vote on which of these pictures looks most like an orgasm. Gotn xxx

Sex blog guest posts: a selection of hotness

|

Some of the best things I’ve published on this sex blog have kindly been contributed by other people. I usually post a guest blog every Friday, but because I’m away at the moment I’m posting a random selection of excellence from the guest blog archives. Some of these are sexy, some thoughtful, some a bit of both. 

If you’d like to write one of your own, check out the guest blog guidelines. Normal service will resume next week with a new guest blog, but in the meantime please do check out the blogs below, and come and vote on which of these pictures looks most like an orgasm. Gotn xxx

An angry hatefuck

“We met for dinner and spent most of it swapping sex stories. He told me about his Icelandic ex and their tradition of women’s day, a man is expected to do whatever is asked of him. They had gone out for a meal and she told him to come to the bathroom of the restaurant with her to fuck. He complied.”

Read more: An angry hatefuck

An eloquent rant about nude selfies

“Predominantly a problem among young men, there’s a competitive element to gathering naked photos. They’ll bark at people with sex Tumblrs, saying exactly what they want and throwing hissy fits when they don’t get it. They’ll slut-shame someone for not spreading their holes open, when they should’ve been grateful for the photos they did get. They’ll try and amass as many naked selfies as possible, rather than getting turned-on by the few who wanted to send them.”

Read more: How not to be a dick about nude selfies

A relationship ending

“Open any glossy women’s magazine and there’s some ‘expert’ telling you how non-monogamy will nuke a marriage. Make it disintegrate in a mushroom cloud of jealousy and recrimination.

“By their logic, I’d paid the price for smugly assuming the rules didn’t apply to me. I deserved everything I got.

“Simple, right? Well, no.”

Read more: Closing the door on an open relationship

A sex worker’s story

“I know what you really mean when you ask if I enjoy it… your question is more complicated than that, as is my answer. You want to know if I actually wanted the sex I had with you, whether I fancy you and whether I enjoyed the things you wanted to do… if you’re the very rare and particularly sensitive man I get once in a while, you’re probably curious about how my needs and desires fit with this line of work, too.

“Well, here are the answers I’ll never give you to the questions you’ll never ask.”

Read more: Behind the scenes

A super-hot sex toy review

“I’m not particularly vocal when I wank and was desperately worried that all I’d end up with was five minutes of what sounded like a hungry walrus being denied a fish. I’ve also never really used a sex toy specifically designed for wanking before, preferring the god’s honest method of my hand, a bit of spit and maybe something in my arse if I’m feeling decadent.

“Still. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

Read the full blog: Pulse by Hot Octopuss