“I love fucking you by that corner in your room. It means I can brace both my hands against the wall and really go for it.”
I’ve just been watching an old episode of Misfits. Misfits, to the vast majority of people, is a pretty cool channel four drama series about some kids doing community service who turn into superheroes. Hilarity, tension and some great scriptwriting ensues, then tails off somewhere around the beginning of series 3.
To me, however, Misfits is one of those programmes that I watch when I think I’m probably in the mood for a wank but can’t quite be arsed. In every other episode there is usually a short but cracking sex scene which is worth some further study. Occasionally, in some episodes, they forget to put sex in, so it’s like a wanking lucky-dip.
Anyway, the point is that in this particular episode there is a scene between large-breasted angry Northerner Kelly and a guy who is a stunningly angry fuck. Like, properly angry. When they start kissing he pushes her up against walls, picks her up so she can wrap her legs round him, backs her into doorframes so he can force himself harder into her. This is hot. Very, very, very hot.
The climax of the scene involves him lifting her up and resting her arse on a shelf inside a cupboard. Filth, obviously, but not as filthy as what comes next – he grabs hold of the cupboard with both of his hands to give himself purchase – he braces himself so he can slam his cock into her with even greater force.
Men who do this are like Gods to me.
This bit requires a sub-head
Fun though hitting is, you don’t need to hit someone to be dominant. You don’t even need to call me a bitch, or spit in my mouth, or do any of that fancy stuff. You just need to make sure that when you’re fucking, you’re fucking hard.
One of my boys from many moons ago bought a piece of equipment (which I probably still have somewhere, for nostalgic value) that was sold at the Erotica festival. It was billed as a bit of kit that helps you swing your lady into the right rhythm when you’re doing it doggy style. I’m sure he was a bit nonplussed at the words ‘swing’ and ‘rhythm’ but what he did spot was that it was essentially a big thick padded belt with handles just slightly wider than my own hips.
In other words: excellent bracing material.
Later that evening he stripped me, and pushed me over onto the bed. With my legs hanging off the side and just in bare feet, it was hard for me to find a purchase. He wrapped this belt round my waist, so it was pressing against my stomach, and shoved himself nice and hard into me.
As he fucked harder, he pulled the belt up – effectively lifting me up to meet him – groaning and panting at the effort of pulling me hard up onto his cock. Oh Jesus fuck it was amazing.
Each time I tried to find purchase – to brace my own feet in a position where I could fuck him back, he kicked my feet out from under me. He didn’t need me to join in – he didn’t want me to join in. He wanted to brace me against something and use me until he was done.
GOTN, get better at thinking of sub-heads
Another gentleman, far more recently, has a couple of spots in which he prefers to fuck me bent over. Why? Well, these spots happen to be places where I can kneel spreadeagled on the bed while he braces both his hands against the wall behind him.
He looks down at me while I’m bent over, and I can feel his eyes watching as his cock slams home. As he pushes harder than he ever could before, each thrust feels like a spectacular punishment. I can feel his huge cock filling me up, and taking my breath away with each stroke.
It hurts. It hurts. It’s forceful and bad and it makes me feel like I’ve done something very wrong. It makes it hard to join in, because he has the power, he decides the rhythm – he is the one who has something to push off from.
And every time I gasp or squeal or speak he fucks me harder. And I can almost hear him grinning at the force with which he’s pounding his cock into me.
Oh *slam* Fuck *slam* Ouch *slam* Fuck *slam* Yeah
It’s not ‘fucking’, it’s ‘being fucked’ and it’s sex at its exquisite, violent best.
‘Spanking’ encompasses a range of things – you can be spanked by someone who is giggling and brandishing a pink heart-shaped toy from Anne Summers. You can be spanked by a teacher, parent, boyfriend, girlfriend, or midget in a gimp suit. You can be spanked until it just about hurts or you can be spanked until the agony is so much that you want to bite straight through the pillow and into your bottom lip.
You can be spanked by someone who can’t get hard unless he knows you’re uncomfortable – who digs his fingers into the back of your neck and forces you over his knee, yanks your knickers down and rubs his cock into you while he whacks you. You can be spanked by someone who’s afraid that if he gives you more than a light-hearted slap you’ll report him to the authorities.
So the question ‘do you like being spanked?’ is about as relevant as ‘do you like food?’
Like ‘food’, I think everyone likes spanking. Be it a gentle tap on the bum to demonstrate ownership or so they can see your butt jiggle as they’re fucking you from behind, right up to a full-on gutwrenching spitefuck accompanied by slaps so hard they give you stars behind the eyes.
The question might open things up for more discussion and more extravagant play, but I’m always wary of giving a fully honest answer. Yes, of course I like spanking. But I’m loathed to tell you how I like it in case you spend the next five fucks trying to get the tone, the rhythm and the strength to my exact specifications.
So I think what I’m proposing is that we come up with a Universal Spanking Declaration, along the lines of:
“I like being spanked in some way, shape or form.”
That way we can assume everyone likes a bit, and push things gradually until we reach the point at which they say “oh fuck yes, that’s it.” After all, that’s basically what we do with sex itself, right? No one says “once my penis is inside you, do you want me to maintain a fairly steady, slow rhythm, or would you prefer me to tease you a bit then go at it hammer and tongs until you come all over my cock?”
No. With sex we play jazz. Because we assume everyone likes it we expend our energies working out how they like it best.
From now on, if you sign up to my Universal Spanking Declaration, I shall do the same. I know you like it, I just need to find out how; I’m going to play jazz.
Now bend the fuck over.
Warning: don’t fucking try this at home. I like getting choked during sex, but I am aware that it’s quite a dangerous thing to do, and therefore I don’t want to encourage you to plough on with this without an understanding of the risks and ways to mitigate them.
Now that’s out of the way: choking is one of my favourite things. It’s controlling, it’s cruel, it’s taboo, it says “hey, I’m going to do this whether you like it or not.” It makes a lot of guys, even ones who are otherwise pretty vanilla, very hard indeed.
Number 14 wears leather gloves. When we go out for dinner – we always go out for dinner – he makes a show of taking them off and putting them on the table beside him. He’s calm. I’ve never heard him raise his voice, or get agitated, or even visibly excited. Number 14 is the domliest dom I know, and I’ve never had sex with him.
Why is he on the list? I don’t usually include people I haven’t actually fucked, but the things he’s done deserve more credit than the catch-all title ‘play.’ Play can be anything from a quick spanking at a party to a full-blown throat-fucking in a dark alley. The latter, I think, deserves a bit more credit.
He likes to find places that are private but public. Hidden nooks and doorways where he can press me into the wall and order me not to make a sound. It’s incredible what a pair of leather gloves and a calm demeanour can do to stop me from making the noises I’d usually revel in.
On the hunt for one of these places once he found what looked like an abandoned room just outside the entrance to a block of flats – just a door in a wall that took us into a place no bigger than a cupboard, with broken glass bottles on the floor and no lights.
He put his hand over my mouth and whispered to me not to make a sound, then yanked my skirt up and my knickers down and touched me until I was trembling and could barely stand.
Every time someone walked past the door, or I breathed too loudly or made any noise, he grabbed my throat and stopped me breathing until they’d gone. He kept doing this, then stopping, then doing more, then stopping, until I was so weak and frustrated that I was crying, and had we been somewhere no one would have heard us I’d have been begging him to fuck me.
When I got to that point he pushed me down until I was squatting on the floor and shoved his cock into my mouth, always maintaining his total silence and calm.
He held my hair with his leather-gloved hands and shoved himself right into my throat. It didn’t take long – after a few minutes, just as I started to choke and bruise, he came hot and hard into the back of my mouth.
Ever the gentleman, he walked me to the train station and held me up when I stumbled.
Red. Purple. Stop. やめて. Dead puppies.
Whatever your kink, if it extends beyond ‘tie me up with silk scarves and tickle me with a feather duster’ chances are someone’s suggested a safe word at some point. I think safe words suck, and here’s why:
They encourage you to push yourself further than you might like.
There’s a challenge implicit in a safe word. A safe word says ‘this is the absolute limit, as much as I can take. If you do anything more I will die/call the police/punch you into the sun.’ And so when you know that there’s a word you can use at any time to make it stop, all you’re trying to do is prevent yourself from using that word.
A safe word implies that you’re playing just to see how hard you can take it, so you want to prove that you can take it as hard as possible. You are superwoman – undefeated in all 12 rounds of this sex. He’ s beating/fucking/electrocuting you so badly that you’ve never been in so much pain – you’re gritting your teeth and biting your tongue and hating every miserable minute of it. Boy, you have never won at sex so hard as you’re winning now.
The challenge is not the fun bit – the fun is the fun bit. If you have a safe word that encourages you to push yourself to the point where you don’t like it, you might as well call ‘red’ right at the beginning and sneak off for a wank – you’re more likely to have a good time.
They curb your imagination
Hurting someone is a challenge, and one of the most difficult things to get right. You have to know roughly what they like, what they hate, and wobble uncomfortably on the high-wire that runs between those two things.
You also, if you want me to really love you, have to do some stuff that’s just for you. I might hate being caned (stupid stingy unsexy ouch fuck fuck ouch) but if you love it then it’s awesome, and I’ll grin and bear as much as possible, and even sneak in some brattiness between strikes if that’s what gets you off.
So yes, there’s a lot to balance. But sadly with a safe word there’s less incentive to work at that balance. If you give a girl a safeword, that’s a free pass for you to do whatever you like until she yells ‘stop’, which means that she and you miss out on the joy that can be had from playing around in that grey area – pushing things she doesn’t want to be pushed, into places she might not be keen on you pushing them.
They require negotiation
Anything that delays the sexual act, or requires chatter and discussion of a practical nature, will kill my drive pretty quickly. I love the pre-sex preamble where you chat about things you have done and talk about stuff you both find hot. It means that when you do get into bed you can experiment with the new knowledge you’ve acquired.
But if you chat around sex in order to tick things off a bizarre safety list, it’s no fun at all.
“So, you like to be spanked? OK. I’m going to spank you, and I’m going to start really gently, so let me know on a scale of 1-10 how much that hurts. And if I do anything too hard just say ‘red’ and I’ll immediately stop and give you a nice cuddle and a hot chocolate.”
See? It’s just not sexy. There’s no uncontrolled passion in that. As soon as you have to codify it and lay down rules, the spontaneity is ripped out of it and you end up fucking like you’re following an IKEA furniture construction leaflet. I don’t want to know that you’ll stop when I ask, I don’t want to know exactly how many strokes you’ll give me before we have a rest and a chat about my boundaries. I want you to do things you like, things I like, things you think we might both like, and see at what point I start tearing the walls down.
“So what turns you on?”
“This one time a guy bent me over and paddled me till I cried, then fucked me in the ass while he called me a ‘good girl.’”
“Take your fucking pants off.”