Tag Archives: gay

SAS: Who Dares Wins kicks off a lot of filthy sex fantasies

“Tell me a sexy story,” I asked him, and he thought for a full three seconds before saying:

“OK. Picture the scene: you’re wandering past a bar, and inside there’s a raucous group of guys out on the town for a stag do…”

Although the reality of the British Stag Do is often cunt-witheringly unsexy, there’s potential there that he recognises as something I may well enjoy. It’s not just the fact that there’s a large number of men, although naturally I am a fan of any situation in which I am the sole sexual outlet for a gang of eager guys. There’s something about the stag do specifically that flicks that switch.

It’s often taken as a given that straight blokes will be keen on cheerleading squads, women’s hockey teams, and all the rest of it. They want to see the cotton-panty-clad pillow fights and soapy shower scenes that definitely happen when women get together (and they do, I promise. Like, that is literally all me and my mates ever do when we get together. Pyjama-clad romping, excessive giggling and showing each other our fannies). Yet when I have, on occasion, mentioned my desire to be wined and dined and slapped and tickled by an entire university rugby team, men I am with have expressed some degree of surprise.

I am thinking about this a lot recently, because I have got very solidly into a brand new trashy reality-TV show called ‘SAS: Who Dares Wins’ and apparently my overtly sexual running commentary on the programme is somewhere between ‘dogged’ and ‘aggressive.’ Long story short: I want to fuck all the men who are in it, over and over, until their dicks are raw and they can barely muster a single drop of wrung-out spunk.


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Guest blog: Still not straight

Today I have an awesome bonus guest blog – Danielle Meaney is an awesome blogger, and she’d like to have a word about bisexuality.

Still Not Straight

I’ve watched with glee as attitudes towards the LGBT community have monumentally shifted in recent years. Last week’s decision by the US Supreme Court to allow nationwide same sex marriages is just one act in a long list of  changes that mean more acceptance and tolerance for those that come under the LGBT banner, and by ‘those’, I mean ‘us’.

However, I feel like a forgotten member of the LGBT community; that really I have no right to identify myself as one of them, because no one else sees me as such. At least, not anymore.


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Guest blog: guys in the shower

There are certain places I’d give my right arm to get into. Gay saunas, comedy club backstage green rooms, all-male showers… Some of these are more likely than others – I’ve a story about the green room that I’ll tell you some time. But for now, awesome guest bloggers give me a glimpse into those worlds that I’d never get a guest pass to.

This guest blog, by Anandamide, is about guys in the shower…


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Guest blog: the glory hole

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.


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.