When we walk in the door of the strip club, I can guarantee that the people his eyes are drawn to are the dancers. The one on stage half-naked, the ones hanging out by the bar flirting with customers, one or two emerging from the curtained-off booths at the back of the room. My eyes, on the other hand, are firmly fixed on the men – him included.

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This is ‘Consent’ – a story demonstrating why consent is sexy, written and read by JM Seaborn. Note that this story uses ‘Daddy’ as an honorific. All characters are over 18. 

Consent isn’t homework. It’s not the boring part or the legal disclaimer. It’s not the vegetables you have to eat to get to dessert. Consent is the pulsing electricity that will pass between us with enough power to blow the bulbs of a city.

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There are certain TV shows that make for awesome foreplay. Your choice of show will depend on your style and desires, but I’m sure you know the kind I mean: those which consistently give you flashes of horny fuck scenes that will play on your mind long after the credits roll. This week’s awesome guest blog is about a single scene in one of those shows. When he originally pitched it to me, I remembered the exact moment – “slap me” – from the mouth of a character who wouldn’t usually be submissive. And it gave me echoes of the horn that I felt when I’d watched that show too. I only wish I could have taken the cum-trigger hotness of it and put it into practice as spectacularly as this…

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I ask: “please will you hurt me?” and he stares down into my face. In contrast to my own childish eagerness, I always find this particular guy disarmingly grown-up. When I ask him to hurt me he replies, simply: “How?”. It’s not confusion, it’s a flex. He knows there are many ways to hurt me, and this feels like a way to neatly work in consent – giving me the task of articulating my desires aloud. In the moment I can’t work out how – my mind is just a blur of want. For him specifically. His strong arms, powerful muscles. The dominant way he carries himself. Combined, these attributes give a tall woman like me that precious, rare feeling of being outgunned. So I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind: “Just… fight me for it.”

Note: this post involves a super hot fuck that hinges on consensual non-consent, i.e. me pretending I don’t want to get fucked when actually I really do. The man who features in it knows this, and would not play this way with me unless he was confident I could (and would) withdraw consent if it all got too much. This post is not a ‘how-to’ manual on kinky fucking, there’s a lot of background chat behind this kind of sex.

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A few hours before we’re due to go out, I’m pottering around the flat and these two hot people are hanging out in the living room. You’ve met these filthy fucks already – a few months ago they absolutely annihilated me in the kinkiest threesome I’ve ever been treated to. I choose that phrasing carefully: it really was a treat. Like a brutal sports massage for my masochistic subby side, performed by depraved heroes who really leant in to my request: ‘please ruin me.’

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