Tag Archives: sex toys
On electricity
I’m not talking about the sparks that fly when you meet the eye of a hot person across a crowded room: this is about real electricity. Sparks and stimulation of the purely physical kind.
There’s a type of sex toy that used to utterly terrify me: electric sex toys. The idea of these is to use electrical current to produce sensations – either for pain, pleasure, or a shuddery mixture of both.
I’m a wuss
Some people are adventurous types: the kind who’ll suggest drunken skinny-dipping at midnight or taking drugs then listening to albums backwards. Because I don’t want you to get the mistaken impression than I’m exciting, I should tell you that I am not one of these people – I’m the sort of twat who ruins adventures by asking about health and safety.
So when I was first introduced to electric sex toys, at an erotic convention many years ago, I was initially reluctant to even hold them in my hands, much less to let someone hold them against my cunt. They put an electric current through you! Like… plugs! I’ve always been told not to put my fingers in a plug socket, so I assumed that shoving a livewire inside me might be a bit of a bad idea.
I didn’t realise what I was missing out on until someone decided to push my fear a bit further than I’d thought they would.
Brace yourself
It was a bright sunny afternoon – not the kind of atmosphere I’d normally look for in a terrifying BDSM scene, but you get what you’re given when it’s real life. I was roasting hot, as was he, as were all the other people in the room we played in. I won’t tell you what the full scene was – that might be for another day – but in the microcosm that existed over in one corner, this guy had me strung up by my wrists, frilly dress lifted to my waist, naked from hips to toes.
He circled me in a deliciously menacing way, and tightened the rope that was keeping my arms in the air. It stretched and creaked, and I ended up standing on tiptoes to try and balance. Doing a series of less-than-graceful semi-hops to stay in control, I was pretty nervous about what he’d do next.
Then he blindfolded me.
I love blindfolds. I love the anticipation of what might happen next – what might be happening already, that I just can’t see. When all I can do is hear, everything sounds like fun. That swishing sound – was he getting out a whip? Was he removing his belt? The footsteps – is he coming round behind me? Then suddenly – the rough feel of his hands all over me, pulling down the top of my dress and pinching my nipples. Touching me all over. Slapping my face.
“Do you trust me?”
Yes. Obviously.
“Do you want me to hurt you?”
Oh God yes. I wanted him to wield a whip – lashing my legs and arse as I staggered to keep my balance. I wanted riding crops, straps, belts, whishing-slapping sounds and stinging pain.
But, being an experienced dominant – as opposed to someone I could easily wrap around my stroppy little finger – he didn’t give me exactly what I wanted. He introduced me to something new.
“This might feel… unusual.”
Then I heard a sound that was somewhere between a click and a crack. No ‘whish’ to announce the arrival of the pain, just a snapping sound and the immediate rush of a stabbing tingle high up on one of my thighs.
I leapt away from him, my tiptoes carrying me as far away from where I thought he was as possible: tripping, nearly losing my balance, trying to take the weight on my wrists and force myself back into control. He circled me for a bit longer, and I turned round to try and work out where he was, where the next shock was coming from.
“Did you like that?”
Yes. No. Wait, maybe. Do it again.
Crack. Tingle. Why was it hot? It was hot because it was so different. So… odd. And because I couldn’t hear where it was coming from. I was blindfolded, nervous, off-balance, and completely at his mercy.
Where he touched me my muscles clenched, and I felt even more off-balance. I don’t know if it was to do with the pain or the spasm, but he’d clearly chosen well. For this position, with me balancing precariously and trembling uncertainly, this toy was the perfect thing to knock me off-guard. The whack of a crop was expected. A belt last would be something I could anticipate and push back against. Given my determination not to fail him I could probably even have taken cane strokes. But electricity? Twitching? Forced tingles and that weird static crackling sound? That was too much. I wobbled, and tripped, and felt the rope biting into my wrists as my legs gave way.
I loved being beaten, being fucked and used, but I very rarely lost control. By using something completely new and different, this guy made me do just that.
Fuck me with power
It’s not necessarily about the physical sensation: after we’d finished he let me play with it, pressing those weird static crackles into the palm of my hand. They sounded loud, and tingled a bit, but didn’t hurt as much as I thought they would. The toy itself clearly had way more bark than bite. The sensations and the joy and the fear running hot through my trembling legs was clearly about the power. Using something completely unique gave him much more power over me.
The one time I got to turn the tables and use an electrastim dildo on a willing gentleman, I made sure that the physical sensations were way more than just an aside. With insertable electric sex toys, the focus is more on what the electricity does to the muscles. The way it twitches them, contorts them, and allows you to bend someone’s involuntary actions to your will.
As the guy lay on the bed, myself and an electrastim expert hovering over him, he looked up at me with very wide surprised eyes as his ass twitched hard and tight around the dildo we’d plugged him with.
“Oh… umm… fuck.”
“Good ‘fuck’ or bad ‘fuck’?”
He paused. Twitched. Turned his big eyes on me again. I reached to turn down the voltage.
“No no no. Good fuck.”
I turned it up.
By the end of the day we had him weeping with a cross between joy and misery, exhausted on the bed yet denied an orgasm, head spinning with all the things we’d inflicted on him. It was a different kind of control – being able to move his muscles at will. But as not all of it’s strictly electricity-related, I’ll leave that story for another time. For now I’ll leave you with the mental image of me, naked from the waist down, lashed to the ceiling by my wrists, sobbing “thank you for doing that weird, weird thing” as my kind dominant friend planted kisses on my neck.
Pain is hot. But so is power.
UPDATE: I have now tried full-on electro sex toys, from my site sponsors ElectraStim, and they are fucking exceptional. I have no idea what I was afraid of. Check out my post on having an electric vagina, using an electric dick-sheath and a brand new bit of kit that allows you to feel the thump of a particularly banging tune throbbing from a butt plug inside my arse.
On the Doxy massager: best wand toy ever
About ten years ago, my boyfriend bought me my first ever sex toy. We spent ages in the shop choosing, then eventually came home with a rabbit-type thing that the sales assistant recommended because ‘you’ll regret it if you go for the smaller one.’ That afternoon the boy hand-fucked me with a growing sense of awestruck wonder as I went from ‘oh that’s odd’ to ‘mmm fucking hell’ through to ‘DON’T STOP DON’T STOP OR I SWEAR I WILL EAT MY OWN TONGUE.’
On the three magic sex words
There are three words that, when combined, make me shiver with delight. I’m not talking about ‘I love you’ – they have their place but aren’t likely to get me hot and wet and trembling. These three magic sex words are like an aural orgasm – they pinpoint a perfect moment that makes me want to stop time and milk that one second until I’m satisfied I’ve made the most of it.
It’s explained better by example.
Lubed up masturbation
“Do you want to try this?” I held out a bottle of lube – “tingling”, it said, although I suspect what won him over was that it also said “new”. He held out his hand, squeezed a bit into his fingers, and rubbed it on the head of his cock.
I’m a sucker for guys rubbing their cocks.
Prompted, perhaps, by recent thoughts on guys and sex toys, and remembering how meltingly filthy it is when I get to pull him swiftly to the edge of orgasm using a dick-sheath, I lay him down on the bed and got out two possibilities. One black, solid, and narrow – squeezing it onto his dick is tricky but the effort is worthwhile. The second one is clear, jellylike, and much softer.
I went for the latter – I like the feel of it in my hands. Because it’s so soft, as I squeeze and rub him I can feel the rock-hardness of him pushing against the sheath. I can run it up and down, twisting and clamping it round his dick, feeling the head pushing against the end and through my fingers.
I love the rhythm of hand jobs. The up down up down, the friction. I love the smooth-sticky feeling of lube on my fingers, and yes – I love the control. I like knowing that every kick of arousal, every grunt and moan, every tingle and twitch, is down to me.
He put his hands behind his head and looked me directly in the eye. His eyebrows furrowed into a frown as I rubbed faster, squeezed harder. I revelled in the increasing frequency of the slick-slick-slick noises as I rubbed his dick. And then the three magic words:
“I’m gonna come.”
Ungh. Those words have such a beautiful, simple sexiness that they make me instantly taut – aroused and eager for the inevitable end. I did what anyone would do, and immediately slowed the pace, trying to keep him hanging there for a moment while I took in his frown and his rapid breathing, and the double-twitch of his cock just before he came.
It turns out restraint is neither my, nor his, forté. He arched his neck, leaning up towards me as he shot spunk into the cup of the jelly sheath. It’s clear, so I can see him filling it as he moans, and as his frown deepens. That’s what I’ve been waiting for – that’s what the joy of the control, the feeling of sticky-wet lube, the anticipation as I came home with the bottles – all leads up to.
I’m gonna come.
His pleasure. My achievement. The perfect combination of hot.
Honourable mention to the lovely PR person who gave me the lube (Durex Embrace) that kicked off this story. She challenged me to see if using it could bring on an orgasm in less than 3 minutes. For the record, I reckon the 3 magic words came about 2 and a half minutes in, so kudos for that. I don’t do product reviews and this is the first time I’ve accepted a freebie, but I was sort of intrigued by this lube (it’s actually two different lubes sold together that produce an intriguing sensation when combined), so it was the kick-off for this particular escapade. I hope you’ll not think me an awful sellout, and will agree that the story above is way better than simply giving something marks out of ten.
Male sex toys are awesome, and Jezebel can fuck off
“Ever seen a blog post about a weird sex toy designed to simulate the feeling of a vagina and thought, what kind of a lonely fuck would use one of those?”
No, I haven’t. And yet the author of this Jezebel post clearly has. If you ask me that says acres more about the author than about the many hundreds of thousands of people who enjoy using male sex toys.
(more…)
On mountains of sex toys
I am becoming a little bit uncomfortable with my apparent lack of sexual accessories.
There are some things you can’t really do without the equipment: pegging is tricky without the strap-on, you’d either end up humping lacklustrely at a rather bored gentleman or doing him an injury with something homemade and as unsexy as it is unsafe. But the vast majority of filth can be improvised – why spend £100 on a hand-cut leather tawse when you could just beat your loved-one with a flip-flop? You can buy them from the pound shop, and the sound is eminently more satisfying.
What’s more (and I feel I might have to hand in my sex blogger membership card at this point) the toys I do have spend far more time at the back of a cupboard than up against my cervix.
Reviewing sex toys
I’ve held off on doing it for this long, and every time a company approaches me asking me to review something or put an affiliate link on my site I’ve said no. Not because I’m a snob (if you can make money by slapping ads on your blog then you have my blessing and a fair bit of my envy as well) but because I can’t work out how to do it in a way that would be even vaguely entertaining for either my readers or, quite frankly, myself.
First someone has to send me a sex toy (which requires me to either give them my address or have a designated friend who is willing to accept daily dildos through the post), then I have to put it in my cunt, then I have to write approximately 600 words about it. No matter how skilled I am, I’m not sure I could muster 600 words about what is essentially just a wank. Most of my sex toy reviews would end up something along these lines:
“I put it in my cunt for a bit and it made me come. Would have been better if it wasn’t pink. 6/10”
Alternatively, I have to persuade a boy that rather than pull my knickers down and fuck me up against the mirror in the hallway, he instead has to ravish me with something provided by a friendly PR company, and dissect the whole experience ten minutes later. There might be giggly fun involved if it’s a particularly crap review, but I think the very act of reviewing something would give it a disadvantage: just as jokes stop being funny when they’re explained, being fucked with a ten-inch dildo would be far less sexy if you have to take mental notes.
What’s in your sex toy cupboard?
But when people ask me what my favourite sex toy is, or the sort of sex toys I’m drawn to, I have to admit to feeling a bit ashamed. A bit inadequate. Like I’m not a proper pervert because I don’t have drawers full of the things just waiting to be jizzed on at a moment’s notice.
I have a fairly decent box of tricks: buttplugs, sheaths, a couple of vibrators, a few hitting things, a strap-on, an amazing pair of nipple clamps with a heavy chain running between the two, an assortment of tools such as pliers that I leave in my toy drawer purely to scare the shit out of people. But the fact that I own these things proves nothing other than that at some point I bought them. I’m far less likely to use even my favourite toys than I am to just sit on a guy’s dick.
And yet people ask – how many do you have? Or ‘what do you have?’ Or ‘why don’t you do reviews?’ and I feel embarrassed. Like I’m not a real pervert unless my letterbox is clogged with suspiciously-shaped parcels. Some perverts like the parcels. Some people are more excited by a shag when they can use their kit and experiment with new ways to beat, whip, shock or fuck someone. And that is both admirable and hot. It’s just not me.
A tiny cynical part of my brain wonders if one of the driving forces behind the fact that we’re becoming more open about sex (which I think we are, hooray!) is that there are now far more ways to make money out of it. From making and selling sex toys to writing a dirty book or throwing wild parties which, for the bargain price of fifty quid, you can attend dressed only in your pants.
There’s nothing wrong with this, of course. Making money is good, sex is good, giving people a way to make money by providing things people can insert into themselves is good. But it, like everything else sexual, isn’t universal. For every toy-hungry pervert with a drawer full of wonders there’s someone like me looking blankly at my pitiful collection of underused dildos and wondering just what, exactly, I’m doing wrong.
So for those of you who are like me, who haven’t got a great collection and don’t crave the latest things, here’s the answer: you’re doing nothing wrong. You’re just doing something differently.