Category Archives: Guest contributions

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Guest blog: the joy of unexpected sex

I often walk down the street and imagine a hot guy (who probably looks a bit like David Tennant but with piercings and maybe a bicep tattoo) stepping out of a nearby shop and saying “hey there, you look incredibly attractive and exactly my type – do you fancy coming into my dungeon so that we can have all the sex?” Sadly my life is not a porn film, and the closest it’s ever come to one is that one time a plumber came over and I’d forgotten to put trousers on before I answered the door. That’s where the similarity ended, though, as he blushed a bit and I had to pretend that my boxer-brief/jumper combo was how I greeted all my house guests.

This week’s guest blogger has had far more interesting experiences, though, and he’s here to tell you a couple of deliciously exciting stories about unexpected sex. Take it away Simon…

Guest blog: the joy of unexpected sex

Sex is fun, exhilarating, a relief, all sorts of things. When it is unexpected it is even better – and I don’t mean when your partner suddenly decides that “Tonight’s the night, dear” when you’re settling down in front of Match of the Day. I mean when someone you know, but haven’t paid a great deal of attention to, surprises you with an out-of-the-blue session that leaves you completely sated. It’s happened to me twice and both times were mind-blowing.

I used to work at a hospital. A bunch of us would get together once a year to put on a show – all very silly and amateur but we took it fairly seriously and I had massive, full-on lustful cravings for one of the nurses who was part of this group. Very sexy, black wavy hair and a cracking smile and laugh. A real shame, as my amorous advances were never returned and she ended up with someone who I considered far behind her in evolutionary terms. What I didn’t realise was that another nurse in the group (I’ll call her Evie) had her eyes and ideas set on me and I was totally unaware of it.

We gathered one evening in my flat – I lived quite close to the hospital – was the usual messy, friendly  hilarious rehearsal for the show, spurred on with more than a few drinks and everyone (I thought) left quite late. I ushered them all out of the front door, dumped the empties by the bin, washed, brushed my teeth and jumped into bed to find Evie there wearing nothing but a chunky necklace. Genuine blonde, booby and a seriously gorgeous figure. This was well before the acronym “WTF” was invented but that’s probably what I thought at the time. (I should have written it down and patented it). However, being unmarried, unattached and certainly not one to look a gift nurse in the mouth, we had a rompingly good time involving massage oil, hands tied together, feet tied together, clothes pegs – use your imagination – and a pair of airline eye-shades. I am fairly certain I had four decent orgasms over the following hours and I am not sure I have managed that in one session at any time since. I know I was very late for work the next morning and several more in the following few weeks.

Wind the clock forward quite a number of years and I am on the way to deliver some training in the north of England. This is to an outfit whose manager I have known for some time on a purely professional basis – friendly, but definitely professional. I am due to be at her office between 8 and 8.30 a.m. but I get a call to ask if I can swing by her house to pick her up and drive us both in, then (she says) we can use her parking permit at work. So I drive up at about half past seven, ring the doorbell and she answers the door wearing a dressing gown.

That stopped me in my tracks for a start – I was expecting business attire and a “Let’s get the day started” attitude – but she had the gown open quite low, her hair was down and she did look absolutely drop-dead gorgeous and more than just a little sexy. Even more so when she reached past me to shut the door, then walked a few steps into the house, turned round and let the dressing gown fall away. It had the sort of effect that she obviously wanted. My jaw was probably following the dressing gown on its way down to floor level and my cock inside my trousers responded with a speed it hadn’t displayed for a while. I can’t remember if I actually said anything but, if I did, it was probably gibberish and pointless. She looked pleased at the effect she was having, climbed a few of her stairs and sat down, waiting.

I really didn’t need too much encouragement after that. Would any man? My jacket and tie came off remarkably quickly and I positioned myself at her feet and opened her knees wide, kissing and licking up the inside of her thighs as she lay back on the stairs and closed her eyes. I found she was extremely wet already – and extremely tasty, too – and the next few minutes were spent teasing her, opening those beautiful cunt lips to admire a swollen clitoris and to help it to swell even more. I slipped two fingers into her and she arched and shuddered and came hard and it was all I could do not to join her, though I was still mainly clothed. I stood up and started to undo my trousers and let my aching cock into the light; she turned her back on me, climbed another couple of stairs and stuck her arse out towards me, presenting me with a picture that most red-blooded men would like to frame and keep. Still with my trousers around my ankles, I slipped straight into her and she braced herself against the stairs with one hand and pulled me harder into her with the other. We fucked in that position harder than I had known for ages – the excitement of the situation, a new experience with someone who was almost a stranger made me rock hard with pleasure and I came like a train inside her, flooding her with my come for what seemed an age. For some inexplicable reason – guilt, pleasure, surprise? – we both collapsed and started laughing helplessly on the stairs and slithered to the bottom step in a sticky, tangled heap.

The trickiest bit was walking into her offices, washed and cleaned, over an hour later and keeping myself from smiling inanely while trying to train her staff with her present in the room.

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Guest blog: sex after a C-section

As a childless sex blogger, I’m prone to getting stuck in a bit of a bubble, in which I assume that any ‘sex issues’ are most likely to be about protection from STIs, dealing with weird fetishes, and other things that have affected me throughout my life. I forget, of course, that there are a million and one sex issues outside my direct experience which are massively important to highlight.

This week’s guest blogger, Danielle Meaney, has something really important to tell you about sex after a C-section. Something that her doctor didn’t mention, that I’d never heard of, and that she’d never been told before she gave birth.

Sex after a C-section

I have had one baby and one emergency Caesarean section. The two things are not unrelated.

I had wanted to give birth to my son in an all natural home birth, so having him delivered with the intervention of a scalpel and what felt like eighteen pairs of hands was something of a disappointment. However, I consoled myself throughout the entirely necessary surgery by loudly pointing out that at least my vagina would still be intact; nothing like fear and morphine to remove those inhibitions.

Imagine my horror then, when my husband decided to take it for a spin six weeks down the line, only to find that, never mind intact, the bloody thing had all but closed up. I had done this incredibly grown up thing in bringing a human into the world, and had had The Super Virginity bestowed upon me as a reward. I wasn’t a particularly big fan of my virginity the first time around; I certainly didn’t want it back now that I was a wife and mother. Yet here I was, on the sofa with my legs in the air, and feeling a deep, shooting pain in my pelvis that suggested my husband was trying to enter me with nothing short of a battering ram. Wincing with pain, I pushed him away from me and told him that I needed more time to heal. He’s a patient man and tearfully agreed before locking himself in the bathroom for fifteen minutes.

A few weeks later, we tried again. The pain was still there but I insisted that we push through it. I assumed that the pain was a result of tension in my muscles – it had been months since we’d had sex at this point, I was nervous – and that once we got going, everything would eventually loosen up. Only it didn’t. The pain continued every time we had sex, regardless of position or wine consumption, for a couple of months before I finally gave in and went to see the doctor. She helpfully told me that she had no idea what was causing my discomfort, but that it was more than likely as a result of some infection or another. With that firmly in her mind, she had a speculum up there before you could say “feet together and drop your knees”. After taking approximately one hundred and forty two swabs, she informed me that I may have to have the tests repeated as the light in her office wasn’t much good.

Sure enough, a week later I was in with the nurse and her head torch, explaining every symptom again in painstaking detail. She looked up at me from between my legs and sighed.

“You do know this is normal, though, right?”

I wouldn’t have thought that the position I was in at that moment particular suggested that I was aware of it being normal, but I bit my tongue and kept my knees relaxed. She finished what she was doing and clicked off her head lamp, before informing me that painful sex after a Caesarean was absolutely to be expected. I was slightly flummoxed; why hadn’t the doctor mentioned this to me instead of poking my cervix with cotton buds? Did she just not know herself?

Here’s the thing about Caesareans: they’re usually the last resort to a problem that is making a vaginal birth difficult. Quite often, they’re performed unexpectedly, as in my case, and in those situations you don’t really have a lot of time to research the future effects on your sex life. In fact, I think that us women give so much thought to what happens to our vaginas once when we push a human through them, that we completely neglect to give any thought to what happens if one comes out of the sunroof. Like me, I think that most women assume that everything below the incision will remain completely as it was before, and that just isn’t the case. The lovely nurse at my surgery explained that the incision is actually very low – my scar is about an inch below my bikini line – and goes through seven layers of abdominal tissue. Not only that, but they make it as small as possible and then stretch and pull until it’s big enough to get a small head through. How on earth did I ever expect for there to be no effect on my lady parts, sitting mere inches below and connected internally?

More alarming than my own ignorance is the fact that none of this was mentioned to me by any doctor or midwife. After a cursory search online, I found that I am far from being alone. In fact, many women report far more difficulty with sex after a C section than with a vaginal birth, and yet it is a subject that isn’t being discussed by the professionals. Instead we are left to worry that we’ve somehow been left damaged or infected, suffering hideous speculum examinations and endless trips to the toilet with sample pots.

It’s now eight months since I had my baby, and sex is just about back to normal, albeit with the addition of plenty of lube. If you’ve had a Caesarean and you’re worrying – you’re not alone. You haven’t closed up, your bits aren’t broken and you probably don’t have infection, but at least now you’re armed with the facts if you do need a check up from your own doctor.

Take your time and ease back into it; I promise you, it will feel good again.

If you’re struggling to have sex after a c-section, Dani’d provided a couple of links that explain the issues, and give you some tips on how to ease back into sex. Please do check out Dani’s parenting blog too, because it’s ace.

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How not to be a dick about nude selfies (a bonus guest blog)

Today I have a BONUS GUEST BLOG. I know. It is literally more excitement than I can handle and I have had to go for a lie-down. Luckily, I can hand over to the more-than-capable TNW, who is here to talk to you seriously about nude selfies.

I didn’t write anything about the recent ‘Fappening’ because, in all honesty, I found the whole thing so miserable that I just wanted to cry, and then punch internet twats, and then cry again while punching internet twats. As someone who has taken nude selfies before, and been torn with the panic that ‘oh God someone will find them’ as well as banging the drum of ‘it’s your right as an adult to take pictures of your body if you wish‘ I just couldn’t bring myself to wade into the murky mire of sex shame surrounding the debate. However, TNW has picked up the mantle, and written a comprehensive breakdown of just what is wrong with the ‘fappening’ and some tips for your own nude photos.

Editor’s note from GOTN: I don’t agree with his third tip, but that’s only because I have received so many cock shots in my time as a sex blogger that if I sent as many as I received I’d be the most documented person on the planet.

How not to be a dick about nude selfies

When I was 19 years old, I used to send off my camera rolls to a company who would process them, and post them back. They would send you a normal print, and a smaller print attached. My then partner and I decided to snap ourselves whilst having sex and we could split the photos like trophies with each other.

With some considerable pride, we got our photos back with a warning slip, which flatly stated that some of the photos we’d taken were illegal to send in the post, as it was tantamount to the developers “distributing pornography.” That was trophy enough for two little show-offs like us.

Later, with a different partner, we took some dirty photos and brazenly got them developed at the local camera shop. On picking them up, the developer winked “you might want to get a couple of those enlarged.” The absolute cheek. We later bought a Polaroid.

Of course, people wanting a record of their sex, proof they were good-looking or just the thrill of wanting to do something risqué, is nothing new. A lot of people have indulged in their exhibitionist sides, from sending photos to Reader’s Wives or fucking outdoors on the promise that there’s a chance they might get caught. People go dogging or attend sex parties. It’s all great if you’re into it and tutting in disapproval just makes you a shit-wipe.

The element of being caught has been a titillating thrill since someone invented shame.

When digital cameras became commonplace, things changed. People were now allowed to have some fun without the need of getting caught. There was no need to include anyone but yourselves. Computers with webcams, phones with camera’s built-in – there was now a whole new crop of people wanting to get naked and shoot the results.

Soon enough, everyone had an email address and rudimentary photo-editing skills. While many still hide under the bedsheets and fuck with the lights off, there’s an entire generation of people who now completely accept that naked photos are part of a healthy sexual life. You can now creep off to the toilets at work, take a naughty photograph and send it to the object of your affections through Snapchat or WhatsApp without anyone noticing you’ve been away from your desk. Couples can now make short movies with their phones and watch them back together.

Naturally, some of the more shy people get a flash of panic at the very idea of it, which is fine. Nothing is mandatory. The more conservative will wag a finger of disapproval at anyone who dare mention that they might indulge themselves in this way. Quite why, is something to scratch your head over.

It is with the latter that things get ugly.

With the ‘Fappening’ that took place recently, where a lot of young, female celebrities had their naked selfies stolen from them, there was an idea that they were somehow to blame. “If you don’t want people seeing them, don’t take them in the first place!” Of course, no-one ever applied that judgemental, dim-witted logic to having your money stolen from your bank account. “If you don’t want people stealing your money, don’t get a credit card – you should hide all your money under your bed where only you can get at it.”

What is particularly odd about this kind of Mary Whitehouse response is that there’s an incredibly positive thing in all of this. People are much less Catholic than ever, no longer believing that they have to be chaste and pure for no good reason. People are getting more and more expressive with their sexuality, which can only be a good thing.

There’s millions of Tumblrs where people proudly show off what their momma gave them. Some stay anonymous by leaving their faces out of shot. Other men and women don’t care – they’re proud of what they’ve got and are Teflon to any potential leaks because they were public all along.

However, for those more reluctant, there’s a very real worry. While the ‘Fappening’ was dismissed as only a problem for the famous, and celebrities deserve everything they get (they don’t), there’s been a dreadful rise in ‘revenge porn’. Sites are dedicated to bitter exes or flat-out arseholes who completely betray the trust of someone by sharing their naked bodies with anyone who wants to look.

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.

See, it isn’t the naked photo that’s a turn-on. We’ve all seen enough nude bodies online to be desensitised by that. The real thing that gets your blood moving more quickly is that someone actively wanted to send you a naked photograph. There’s many people who have a folder of pre-taken photos ready to send, because sharing cheeky photos is so commonplace in 2014. However, the thing that makes your heart leap and your groin tighten is when, after the initial flirt, they take and send photographs just for you.

Sadly, in all of this, a lot of men have an attitude that is utterly dumbfounding, and it goes like this:

“You’re a slut for sending naked photos and you get what you deserve if someone sees them and you’re a bitch for not sending me a photo of you out of your underwear and I’ll share these photos online if you piss me off… but please, please, please, please, I’m begging you, please, please send more nudes.”

One of the most fulfilling things about sharing naked photos together is the exchange of trust. I know that, should someone send me nudes, one of the things that makes me dizzy with excitement is that they trust me enough to do so. I won’t betray their trust. Partly because I’m a decent human being, but if I’m being brutally honest, I don’t tear their trust apart because I’m greedy. I’m greedy for more photos from them. I’m excited and want to send more back. I’m absolutely consumed by the experience. It’s foreplay. It’s the tease. We might never even meet up in real life, but there’s this thrilling, abstract intimacy with someone wanting to show me their tits or dicks. Two people, showing themselves off to each other. It’s incredibly exciting and no-one should ever be burned by it.

Through this, I’ve developed amazing relationships with people. With that trust comes bucket loads of other amazing things. Sometimes there’s a hook-up. Sometimes you end up being much closer to someone that you imagined you ever would. Often, because they trust you with their naked body, they’ll also load you up with enviable or embarrassing sexual anecdotes.

Sadly, the ‘Fappening’ has underlined that women are still treated with a huge unfairness when it comes to sex. Women are still not allowed to own their lust. Even in 2014, you’ll be drowned in clucks of disapproval from all sides. Women shooting other women down for having the temerity of being sexually confident. Men laughing along at a woman being violated, even though it actually makes them feel uncomfortable, but they’re blighted by an old-fashioned masculinity that really needs to die off now. Some of the men who have laughed in the face of women during these photo-leaks are the same shits that send ugly, badly-lit, unsolicited dick pics through Tinder. If someone shared those with their parents, you imagine they’d be suddenly more reflective of the whole thing (but alas, women are so weary of these types of messages that they simply delete them because getting revenge on them would be a full time job).

Collectively, humans have always wanted to show off to each other. They’ve always wanted reassurance that they’re vital objects of desire. The only difference now, is that the process and technology has changed behind it. For the most part, people play nice and quietly get off on each other without fucking it up. Sadly, for the Fappeners and the Dick Shot Crew, they’re taking the whole process two steps back. People will never stop taking nudes – I know I won’t – but sadly, we’re in a situation where it is going to take twice the reassurance to actually enjoy the process.

Here are some tips for nudes:

  • Be grateful for what you receive and don’t pester someone for more than they’re comfortable sending.
  • Never, ever, ever, ever share them with anyone under any circumstance. Seriously. There’s no reason where it is acceptable.
  • Try and send as many nudes as you receive. It’s only fair. Don’t demand a dozen when you’ve only sent one.
  • Only send sexual photos to someone you’ve struck up a rapport with and even then, ask. Sending unsolicited photos is akin to walking into a pub with your junk on show and saying “GET SOME OF THIS!” If you think that’s funny, try it in your local and see how long you last without someone smacking you in the mouth.
  • Don’t shame anyone if you don’t get your way. Life doesn’t work like that and something as delicate as sex certainly shouldn’t. Tantrums never result in anything good. What are you? A baby?

Guest – adult chain story: a trip to the woods

Remember those ‘Choose your own adventure’ books? Well, this guest blog is a bit like one of those, only it’s pornographic. And instead of turning to page 24 to decide what the characters should do with their shivering arousal, I’m throwing it open to you to write the next chapter of the story.

When Steve got in touch with me to share a hot story he was writing, the fact that it had a ‘to be continued’ ending opened up a whole bunch of possibilities. I had a fairly clear idea in my head of what I wanted to happen next, but it occurred to me that others might have equally strong, but completely different ideas.

So here’s the deal: read the filthy sex story below, have a think about what you’d like to happen next, and leave a comment at the bottom of the post telling us what you think should happen in the next chapter. The guest blogger and I will pick one of the suggestions, and pass the story on to you to continue. Then someone else will pick up where you leave off, and so on, until our characters have gone on a rollercoaster ride through different fetishes, perspectives, sexual experiences, and sticky fun. A kind of adult chain story. Sound good? Sweet. Read on…

A trip to the woods (part 1)

The car engine judders to a stop, the sudden absence of noise exacerbated by the stillness and quiet of the woodland where we’re now parked. We’d driven here so fast that the journey had seemed like a blur, buildings and trees flashing past as we sped out of the city and onto the country roads. We both knew why we were coming here, to this deserted clearing in the woods, so the sense of urgency and anticipation had been strong.

But now we’re here in this woodland clearing – no sign of another human being for miles around us. The woods are eerily quiet now that the throaty rumble of the engine had died away. There’s just the faint ‘tink, tink, tink’ of the car as the engine cools.

We step out of the car, blinking slightly in the bright sunlight. You turn the full force of your smile on me, a smile which has the power to quicken my pulse and start my brain racing. I lean back against the car door and take your hands in mine, pulling you close to me. I can feel the heat of your body through the thin, summer dress and there’s a mounting feeling of excitement as you look up at me with those big, soulful eyes.

I feel your hand slide down my body and come to rest on my belt buckle. You look deep into my eyes and give a look that says ‘shall I?’ but without uttering a single word. I give an almost imperceptible nod, and stroke the palm of my hand over your cheek, before kissing you on those full, tempting lips.

Your fingers fumble briefly with the belt, finding the fastening and pulling it free. Then you start to unbutton my flies, revealing the inviting bulge inside my boxer shorts. In the harsh sunlight, the light casts some appealing shadows across my boxers, outlining the shape of my cock, already swollen and hardening at the thought of your touch.

You softly brush your fingers over the contours of my hard dick and give a mischievous giggle as you feel me twitch. I slide my hand down so that it rests on top of yours and our fingers entwine, both gently stroking along the length of my cock through the boxers.

You lean in for another soft kiss. Then, very slowly, you bend your knees and squat down in front of me, your hands reaching for the waistband of the boxer shorts as I lean back against the cold metal of the car. You tug hard on the boxers and pull them down just enough for my cock to spring forth. The thought of your touch has worked its magic and the shaft is hard and engorged, ready to please or to be pleased.

You lean in even closer, so close that I can feel your warm breath on the tip of my cock. You look up at me, checking the reaction, as I stare down at you, desire written across my face. You place one solitary kiss on the tip, your lips soft and tender as you run them down the shaft towards my smooth, shaved balls. I feel the warmth of your fingers reaching up to caress my balls, and then your lips are around the tip, taking me into your hot, inviting mouth and making me tense my hands against the cool metal of the car door.

Your mouth feels so hot, your long hair brushing against my stomach and my naked balls as you delicately suck on me. I run my fingers through your hair as you slide your lips back up along the shaft and let the wet tip slide out from between your lips.

You stand up and lean in to kiss me, so I can taste my own cock in your mouth and feel the tip of your tongue gently exploring mine. Then you pull back and gesture that we should move to the back seat of the car. I take your hand and open the door, wondering what pleasures await us…

To be continued…

If you want to continue the story, drop a comment below with a brief explanation of what you want to happen next, ideally something that is both a) sexy and b) carries on the plot of the story. Where do these people go next? Do more people arrive? Is there a car chase or alien abduction? Whatever your imagination throws up.

Usual erotica/decency rules apply: nothing illegal, discriminatory, etc. If you want to be picked, you need to use a real email address (which won’t be published) so I can contact you to let you know the baton is being passed to you. There won’t be a deadline, though, and it’s not a test, so don’t be shy. And, of course, you’ll receive the same payment as all other guest blogs and (unless you’d rather remain anonymous) you’ll have the chance to plug your own blog/Twitter feed.

What would you like to happen next? Let us know.

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.


Get down from the bar, who said you could jump up?!


Don’t bite my lip, I hate my lip being bitten.


If you want to get off all fours you ask me first. You ask with
respect. Who trained you, you stupid puppy?!


“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.