Tuesday, 27 June 2017

The spectre of false consciousness is sharp and clear, and it's wielding a double-edged sword

This is NOT a smutty story, and it's not an attempt at analysis of some kind of kink-related issue or fetish. Content note for possible triggers re non-con sexual activity. 


I was pretty slutty in my young years, and more so by the standards of the time and place (long ago and far away). Not completely sexually incontinent, but I had no objections to one night stands, or two night stands or to fucking my male actual friends now and then when the fancy struck us. I also tended to pick and choose, grab and grasp and had I been a man, I would have probably been seen as out of order on several occasions. As I was a woman, any discomfort I might have caused was expressed as slut-shaming and I shrugged it off in a you-win-some you-lose-some attitude. This was before the phrase erection does not equal consent became a thing, before the idea that lowering someone's inhibitions and insecurities using substances was unethical, and before open and straightforward negotiation of sexual interaction using your words rather than touches and gropes became de rigeur. 

Considering all that, it was probably lucky that I never became a victim of a traumatising sexual assault. Thick skin and a well-developed ability to say no probably helped as well, and to be honest here, I remember being spat at or yelled abuse by women on couple of occasions more than anything else. 

And yet, there were events that I can easily imagine being traumatic to other people. There was a guy who gave me a lift 24 hours into my longest ever hitchhiking journey who, although he didn't persist when I moved his hand off my thigh, refused to release my rucksack from the boot of his car before he jerked off on the ground in the wooded car park by a waterfall while I stood there with my back turned away, tapping my foot, smoking and repeatedly shouting ''I want my bag back'' in English he probably didn't even understand. 

And then, there was a party in a shared house - a progressively more drunken one - during which at some point I retired upstairs to my bedroom with a guy I occasionally and enthusiastically hooked up with. We had some fun, we went back downstairs, I drunk some more and eventually crawled back up to bed, collapsing into something half way between sleep and a blackout. I came to with a cock between my lips and I immediately knew that it wasn't my fuckbuddy but a completely different guy. I don't recall how I felt, or whether I even expressed my surprise but I certainly proceeded to suck him off without protesting in any way. He left, I went back to sleep, and woke up few hours later to a raging hangover, a vague ugh feeling and a phone number written in pink lipstick on my dressing table mirror. I didn't own pink lipstick, so that part has always remained a mystery to me. 

I never thought about this event much until quite recently, when I was reminded of all these issues by my own children's fast approaching age of sex, booze and drugs in a world where discussing various aspects of consent is much more common than it was twenty or thirty years ago. 

This is an admirable state of affairs and I do think we need more of it. Teaching people that they always have a right to say no, always have a right to say stop, regardless of what they did before, either with the person in question or others, goes a long way towards making consent more sacrosanct and central to how we talk and think about sex. Hearing or reading stories of violations people suffered is part of this process. Redefining rape and sexual assault away from violent assault by a stranger towards something that focuses clearly on the aspects of consent and violation will undoubtedly help many people to understand - and perhaps deal with - their own experiences. 

An yet I have a nagging doubt at the back of my mind about possible side effects of such a public discussion. 

It's difficult to avoid being influenced by the prevailing mores. It's difficult to find a balance between saying yes, this was an assault, your consent was violated, this was wrong and what he/she did was wrong and there is absolutely NOTHING wrong or abnormal about your feeling violated and traumatized on one hand and saying - or at least implying - yes, this was objectively an assault, what he/she did was wrong but it's absolutely fine if you don't feel traumatised or violated. Because, well, c'mon. You were actually, technically, objectively raped and it didn't even make you feel terrible? You must be deluded. In denial. There is something wrong with you if you don't feel the way normal people feel. 

It's difficult to define non-consensual touch or sexual approach as legitimately wrong and yet NOT to make people who might not have been bothered by it redefine their own experiences in one way or another. Feelings don't exist in a social and information vacuum. Feelings are often a result of a cognitive interpretation of events and are subject to cognitive interpretations themselves. 

The spectre of false consciousness is sharp and clear, and it's wielding a double-edged sword. 

I wasn't sure about posting these thoughts here, because I didn't want to appear as a rape apologist who tries to muddle issues up with her ''it's complicateds'' even though emotionally, it often is and the same thing that will fuck up one person for life will flow off another like water of a duck's back, with pretty much every option in between. 

But you know what?

It doesn't fucking matter. It doesn't matter in the slightest. 

It doesn't matter because morality is not, and should not be, about how any particular victim feels. Empathy and sympathy might be one of the driving forces behind ethics, and probable traumatic consequences of unethical behaviour are one of the reasons we deem certain actions wrong. But trying to work out how someone might feel about something can be a poor and often unreliable guide on how to act. 

The reason you must not rape or otherwise violate consent is not because you might scar a particular person for life. The reason is that's it's wrong. As simple as that. 

The guy who stuck his dick in my mouth while I was passed out at that party in a shared house thirty or so years ago did a wrong thing. The fact that it didn't traumatise me is neither here nor there. I don't need to feel terrible about it to be able to condemn his actions. And my lack of trauma should never be used to explain or excuse him. It was wrong. As simple as that. 

Monday, 26 June 2017

Scene, set

The room is large for a bedroom and dimly lit in general, warm shadows cushioning the corners and making play of the patterns of light on the larger surfaces. Only one spotlight throws a more focused beam onto the bed placed in the middle of the shorter wall, opposite the small sash window set in the thick wall. Wooden floor with a large Persian rug. A fire in the grate.

We spent the previous hour or so elsewhere in the house, chilling out, maybe drinking, comfortable, but with an underlying tension building, some little touches and not-quite-spelled-out suggestions of violent intimacy scattered with matter-of-fact discussion of technicalities of perversion.

Your head in my lap, I held your head in place - gently, no yanking - fingers of my left hand in your hair, and run my right hand's fingers along the lines of your face, down the middle of your neck, rested the index and middle fingertip in the small, soft hollow between the clavicles, my thumb on the collarbone, the palm and other fingers on your sternum, your body free and calm. This might be one of my favourite places to touch you, this might be one of my favourite ways to hold you, your breath and your heartbeat steady under my skin. The stillness of the now was braced against its opposite, against a ghostly image of touch more than gentle, of breath not freely flowing, of fingers pressing hard, and harder, of limbs struggling against restraints, of heartbeat racing to the verge of panic and beyond.

I wasn't sure if you saw what I saw in my head, and I wasn't sure if I wanted you to, though maybe you could tell from the way my own breathing deepened and from the way my fingers on your throat started to shake just a little bit, enough to make me press just a little bit harder. I could feel you inhale deeply, exhale with a hiss, my hand moved, forced your chin up and backwards, pushed a long moan out of your throat.

''C'mon, boy. We have things to try.''

Monday, 19 June 2017


This is an alternative version of an earlier piece . 

My eyes are fixed on the exposed side of your neck. I touch you there, running my fingers down to your shoulder. Nails dragging from behind your ear down along the line of the tendon, catching on the clavicle. Again. And again. Not deeply, just teasing. You squirm. I wish they were longer or sharper. Deliberate again. I want to mark you. You are moaning, eyes closed, chest visibly lifting and lowering, long deep breaths. My desire coalesces in my mind.  I want to leave a row of short, parallel cuts on your shoulder. Not very deep, short ones, maybe two inches long each. I want it so much it makes me catch my breath and stop what I'm doing and think of a tool suitable for making a thin, neat, permanent ladder of little scars. One of them maybe a little less neat.

I tell you what’s going through my head, and you gasp, your breath hot and rapid on the damp skin of my wrist, ‘’ Yes. Please do that, M. I want to wear your marks. Permanent ones. I want the cuts. I hope they spill a little too much blood…’’ you’re talking in low voice, almost whispering, but it’s steady, as if you were out of the daze or in a different kind of daze maybe, slow and fluid and focused, and this steady fluidity make me feel floaty. You are fucking me up so much, still, after all this time. I love it.

You open your eyes and look up at me,’’Serrated blade, M?’’

‘’Maybe not as jagged as a cheap steak knife, something finely serrated. What you might slice a tomato with,‘’ you offer

‘’A small, fine metalworking blade,’’ I suggest, partially in jest, partially in earnest, my fingers resting lightly on your shoulder, my tongue running along my upper lip, my cunt throbbing.

This conversation, matter of fact and yet somehow surreal at the same time makes me giggle, seems as it should break the spell but actually doesn’t, makes me realise how comfortable we are here, doing this perverted thing that we do.

I think of your leaving and my leaving, of both of us going back to our respective realities, soon - too soon, and perhaps for good this time, because we never know when it’s going to be for good so it’s better to think this way, it’s better to think that this is all the time we have and that every time must be made as precious as the first time and must be treated as the last time, because it might end up being so.

I think of the time we have left before the fantasy ends and reality reasserts itself, and all that we will have done here will seem like a story told on a perverted erotica blog. And then I think of how much the lines between the fantasy and the real are blurred just now, so much that maybe we don’t quite know which is which and that if you really leave in two days’ time  with a neat row of cuts on your shoulder - one of them perhaps less neat than the others, perhaps left to heal without using butterfly strips to keep the edges together - if you take this mark back to your reality, maybe it will remain blurred forever, the curtain never pulled completely closed, a reminder always there, not just in the neural circuits of your mind but obvious, blatant, palpable in the most literal sense of that overused word, to be felt every time you put your fingers there.

This possibility is making my head spin and my breath speed up in a way that goes far beyond sexual, not that the sexual isn’t there, but it’s morphing into something else, something bigger if just a little lower key, a desire to own you -- or at least that part of you that you have given me -- not just fully but with some illusion of permanence, as symbolic and un-real as these things are.

I’m driven by the same impulse which makes people carve their initials in school desks and in living trees, the same desire that I indulged when I took the sharp little blade of a slightly rust-stained knife to the wind-bent pine tree overlooking the narrows the mainland and the island, with the view of that hill on which the last photo I’d sent you was taken before your arrival here, the same need that drove my request to carve a declaration of your submission in that board that’s now not just sanded and oiled but wet with your sweat, wax and probably quite a few drips of precum and saliva too.

It’s going dark outside but it’s a bright dusk, with pale blue-grey sky and a full moon high and silver above the hills on the other side of the water and, unheard of at this time of the year, it’s snowing. Slow, large flakes sailing slowly down, sliding along invisible air slopes, twirling in vortexes of light from the house’s large plate window.

I leave you there for a minute and return to the workshop, picking up possible tools for what I have in mind. My hands are shaking, just a little bit.

‘’Stand by the window, J. Spread-eagled. Legs wide, palms flat on the glass. Well supported, leaning a little,’’ I launch into instructions as soon as I walk back into the room and although you seem a little thrown by all that, you obey.

‘’Closer. Not as close as to touch glass with your cock,’’ I adjust you, using my words and soon after, my hands, small pushes and pulls to indicate the direction, ‘’Here. Yes. That’s great. Perfect,’’ I run my hands down your sides, then up your outstretched arms, checking the new tensing and flexing of the muscles, the changed way your skin stretches.

‘If anybody came round just now they’d be for a surprise,’’ I snort, my fingers playing with your erection, turning it larger and more rigid. I step away and look. Your body pale, despite the tan, in the low light of the room against the dark that has fallen outside. I switch off the light and now it's just a silhouette, and what seemed to be dark has turned into a purple grey, gently opalescent with the moonlight.

I want to leave you like this, forever, spread-eagled across the window, in the eternal violet charcoal of dusk. I want to keep you like this, forever, in the eternal glass case in the library of my mind. And some part of you, some version of you will stay there, like this, in some version of some reality, if only a sliver, a lab slice of a symbolic specimen that defies what what is or maybe is the only thing that is, that will be. 

I shake my head, almost violently, my hair spilling in a tangle rather than a stylish swish, step back. My palms on your shoulders, fingers moving to meet on your throat, thumbs pressing down, my mouth near your ear ‘’Quiet now. Quiet and still.” You whispermoan a ‘’Yes, M’’ and I start touching you. 

Methodically. Systematically. As if I was doing everything possible to memorise it all, as if there were obvious and crucial differences between the skin along your shoulder-blade and that covering the tendons of your neck and that over the soft flesh below the ribcage, as if I wanted to fix you in my head, on my lips, in the skin of my hands.

The touch varies. I press and stroke. I pinch and scratch. I move my face so close to you that my breath condenses on your skin, blow on you gently or fast, and brush you with my lips. I bite and lick. I leave trails of what remains of my lipstick and saliva and breath, pink grazes and teeth indentations and hickeys.

Then the cuts, fast and sure, as if out of nowhere, shallow, symbolic nicks more than deep slits designed to leave obvious scars. 

A spreading net of blood trickles is blooming on your back and there is a humming in my head. 

I take my eyes off you for what’s intended as a split second but ends up much longer.

It’s still snowing. Huge flakes whirling down slow and thick  to settle on the grass, to cushion everything, to muffle time and slow down sounds.

I pull the belt out of the loops of my skirt, double it up in my hand, position myself and take aim. The crack of leather on your butt makes me shiver, as much as your stifled moan, a violent twitch and the way you move your hips in an instinctive flight response to then return to position, your back maybe arched a little more, your knuckles maybe a little whiter on the narrow window frame.


You do, your voice sometimes steady and sure, sometimes breaking, sometimes hardly there, the welts merging together into a greater field of red, raised where edges of the belt hit, hot and tender to my hand when I touch them after the belt is dropped. 

‘’Well done, boy,’’ my left hand on your just-belted butt, my right one on your dripping cock, your long moan making my nipples harden against the lace of my bra.

It’s still snowing.

A little later, I will lay you down out there, the cold of snow a welcome soothing for your tormented skin, at first; the pink dissolving into dirty green mush under the combined weight of our bodies, later,  soaking into my clothes. I'll fuck you slow and urgent, deliberate and messy, until we both cry out,  until we come and come to.

We will return inside to tend to the cuts and bruises, to sleep - together this time, the toes of my left foot touching your calf, the fingertips of my left hand nearly - brushing your right one - to wake up to late morning of a pale blue skye, the last night’s snow all gone, a small, white sun and a huge daytime moon above us, fixed. 

Sunday, 18 June 2017

Rocks under my feet

I pulled over to the side of the road, the wheels crunching on the gravel, stopping just short of the soft grassy verge. 

''Here, just cross to the other side and walk along the stream. It's not as fabulous as the other place, but you will pretty much have it to yourself,'' I said, the hitch-hiker I picked up at the turn-off of the minor road getting ready to get out of the car. 

He was older than typical backpackers exploring the area in the summer months, maybe in his late thirties, maybe even a bit older, tanned and a bit weathered though cleanly shaven, his clothes practical and well worn rather than obviously designed and bought for the after-college gap year. 

''Thank you so much, I really appreciate this,'' the yawning American vowels made softer by a hint of the Southern drawl, the smile wide and nearly perfect between the narrow lips. 

He came out of the car, small backpack in hand, ready to get on his way but stopped when I got out too. 

''Just going to have a smoke,'' I took a packet out and extended it to him, ''don't suppose you'd like one?''

He smiled again and hesitated, ''Ahh, I'll have one, actually, thanks.'' 

We stood next to each other, leaning against the side of the car, looking at the path winding its way above the stream hidden from view, gently sloping up towards the grey massif of the mountain rising in the distance against the unseasonably blue sky. 

''You might be able to do some pool jumping... or a very small swim,'' I laughed. 

"I don't really have a change of clothes, so probably not... though it feels hot.''

I shrugged, ''You can skinny dip, there seems to be nobody here today. Then just dry out on a sunny rock.''

''That would be awesome!'' he exclaimed, and the sheer enthusiasm of that made me laugh. 

''Or... hold on...'' I moved towards the boot of the car and dug out a towel I carried for various kinds of unplanned needs and emergencies. 

''You can have this, it's still pretty clean,'' I handed the thick mink-colored bundle to him. 

''I couldn't take your towel... unless...'' he looked at me expectantly.


''You don't fancy a walk by any chance?'' the smile was there again, crinkling the skin in the corners of his eyes, softening the lines of his face, ''Or a... very small swim?''

I hesitated. I wasn't in a rush and it was not just sunny but warm. I hadn't been up the rock pools for months now, and although I didn't fancy a swim, even a very small one, I imagined dipping my feet in the mountain water. 

''Hmmm... maybe a paddle... though I don't have walking boots with me. It's dry,'' I eyed my high-tops sceptically, ''I should be all right in these for a mile or two I suppose.''

We talked a bit more for the first ten minutes or so, the standard not-quite-small talk of travellers meeting on the road, then walked in a strangely comfortable, companionable silence to the first rapids, past the smaller stone arch, higher up to where the water from the bigger cataract tumbled down a narrow chasm between rust-stained rock walls, pooled in the deep green of the basin below, the sun threading light through the gleam of emerald beads. 

I showed him the way round and down a narrow crevice that avoided the five foot drop and the associated mini-scramble down and we stood on the edge of the pool, the water lapping clear on the shallow, slowly sloping ledge in front of us, the rocks around us, not claustrophobically enclosing but providing a focus for the eyes, taking the line of sight to the peaks above us, now visibly nearer, the waterfall's rumble loud enough to mute everything but words said at close distance. 

''It's deep just there, if you jumped you would hardly touch the bottom,'' I indicted the darker part of the pool to our left, then looked up, ''Ohhh, look, an eagle!'' 

''Wow... awesome...''

His eyes followed the line of my hand to the dark angular shape soaring up the thermal to the south of the sharpest peak, wings unmoving, then kept following it when I crouched down to untie my shoes. 

My feet felt hot, not quite yet sweaty but constrained by the canvas, the seam imprints criss-crossing the skin like messy rope marks. The polish had flaked off some of the smaller nails and the still intact perfection of the deep red lacquer on the big toenail was underlined by a symmetrical crescent of dark purple, a result of a recent stubbing. 

I sighed and flexed my toes, the rock warm under my bare soles, its smooth folds and undulations pressing against the muscles, harder on the balls and heels, just brushing against the outer edge of the arches. I turned my left foot to its side, rubbed the edge on the rock, then did the same with the right one, pulled my shoulders back, tilted my head up to the sky, eyes closed; then heard a low, quickly stifled sigh, not quite a moan but not far from it, just audible on the background of the waterfall's rumble, but not loud enough to acknowledge it when I opened my eyes again. 

I lowered myself down a higher rock ledge to the side of the pool, pulled my jeans up a bit and dipped my feet in the water, small eddies swirling around my toes, the current slow here but still detectable, wrapping my ankles in ribbons of hillside iciness. 

Only then I looked straight at my companion. He was standing still, his face turned almost completely away from me, looking up at the sky again, his right arm hanging loosely down his side, the left one in his pocket. From the angle I was looking I could see a bulge in his trousers, not entirely obvious but unmistakeable, more pronounced because of the way the lower section of his back tensed and arched just a little bit, the dark khaki fabric stretched taut over an elongated shape of erection. 

''Hey!'' I called, which sounded silly to my own ears but I wasn't sure what would have been better in the circumstances. He turned his head towards me, his right hand shifting, the fingers brushing along his groin, stopping briefly as if undecided whether to move up or return to a neutral position. 

I smiled, not flirtatiously but aiming for more of an indulgent acknowledgement, my eyes flitting briefly to his hard-on, then returning to his face. I patted the ground next to me, ''At least dip your toes if you are not up to jumping.''

He laughed, seemingly more relaxed and without responding, bent down, quickly undid his shoes, pulled them off. His t-shirt came off next, followed by a splash of a body entering the water, followed by a loud yell. 

''Ohhh fucking hell, this is COLD!'' His head appeared above the water, he took a big, gasping breath and disappeared again. I followed the undulations of the surface, his body a disappearing flash of gold and brown in the emerald. A few seconds later he emerged to the right of me, shaking his head again, a spray of icy water covering me, leaned forward on the stone bank, his elbow almost, but not quite, touching my thigh, the rest of his body almost, but not quite, brushing against my feet underwater. 

He wasn't looking at me when he said, stumblingly, still a bit breathless from the cold or maybe not just from the cold, ''Sorry... apologies for... earlier... I... kinda have a thing for....''

I laughed and touched his bare, wet shoulder. More a reassuring pat than an intimate gesture. 

''For feet, yes?''

''Yea...'' he mumbled, face still away. 

''Must have it pretty bad then, if a glimpse of that...'' I stretched my right leg and poked him somewhere in the region of his knee, ''...had such an effect.''

He tensed at that touch, inhaled deeply, rapidly.

''Yea... pretty bad, I guess. It's also this place... something about it... closed and open at the same time... I dunno...''

''And now?'' I moved my foot, now purposefully, pressing the wet fabric of his trousers along his inner thigh. 

''Oh God...'' he groaned, shifting his body, first away, then down and towards my foot. It was the sound of his, the low moan on a long exhale rather than the touch that made my heartbeat pick up, my breathing too, a shift from a one-sided flash of desire to an erotic charge between us, arousal spreading over my skin, my nipples hardening, my hands a little shaky. I decided to play it down for now. 

''Cold water isn't helping much then?'' I was laughing as I said it, my body leaning back, face to the sun, supported on bent arms, my left foot now wedged in his crotch, pressing against his growing erection, toes moving a little, him unmoving apart from the flexing muscles of his thighs.

''Maybe... a bit...'' he mumbled. 

I shifted back, pulled my foot out from between his legs, and both of them out of the water, bottom half of my jeans wet now, water dripping down, my knees bent, my feet flat on the edge of the rock. I could see him flinch, then turn his face towards me and move slightly in the water, his breath warm on my toes. 

I adjusted my position so my feet were placed wider apart, the left one still resting on the edge of the pool, the right lifted on its heel, toes brushing his chin. 

''Go on. It's OK.''

His tongue moved, pointed and stiff, along the groove between the ball of my foot and the toes, stretched up and slid in the gap between the big toe and the next one, probed all the gaps one by one, his breath faster, hotter. His lips closed on the toes in a prolonged sequence, sucking them, individually, slowly, then faster, more voraciously, two then three at once. I sighed, the sigh turned into a moan, looked at him, just the top of his head, the thick dark hair drying rapidly and untidily, visible through the gap between my knees. 

I lowered myself down on my back, legs spread, knees bent, my feet sideways on their edges now, his tongue flat and pliant on the sole, slow, long licks. The tip flipped to the soft skin of the arch and I moaned louder, slipped my hand behind the belt of my jeans, it was too tight, pulled out, undid the buckle and the buttons, slipped in again, my cunt wet and hot, my clit erect, sensitive, my fingers finding the right places and the right rhythm. 

''Get... out... up... here....'' I moaned. Faster than I thought possible he was out, dripping water all over the hot rocks, and me too, and I shifted again, spread myself along the edge of the pool. He crouched down, dropped to his knees, his hands as well as his mouth on my foot, waves of desire flowing through me, curves of lust in arcs connecting all the places: where his mouth was, my pulsing clit, my erect nipples, all breathing life into the glowing ember at the base of my spine, getting hotter, spreading.

I slow down, adjust, relax my muscles, find more comfortable places on the uneven rock floor, look down at him between my knees again. 

''The other foot now...shift... so you're on your side... I want to touch you... '' he seems to understand exactly what I mean and is soon holding, stroking, licking my left foot, his tongue changing from frantic to slow, from stiff and pointed to flat and muscular to gentle and soft. I push my right foot into his groin, find the rigid cock stretching the wet material of his trousers, slide my foot along it and flex my toes to scrape its length. He's moaning now, his hips moving to meet my touch, his mouth busy, his breath fast and shallow on my wet, slippery skin. 

My fingers rub faster, rub harder, and when his tongue swirls across my arch again, my knees lift up, my legs tense, my toes flex upward, I'm opening and presenting the right spots to his mouth, ''Lick... there... the arch... fuuuuck... yesss.... flat tongue... harder... ohhhh....'' 

He responds to my mounting arousal, his touch focusing where I want him, his cock hot and throbbing, and when I get to the edge, when I start plateauing, panting and almost incoherent, pleasure flowing from my cunt and nipples in spirals around my whole body, I push harder with my other foot and manage to moan, to shout ''Come now, come for me!'', the forward movement of his hips, his hardness pulsing, his pleasure spilling through the fabric into sticky warmth dripping down my sole push me over and I come in a long paroxysm, my scream bouncing off the rocks, flying up to where another eagle is soaring up the same thermal.

Friday, 16 June 2017

Labour of lust

Sometimes a prompt is what, well, prompts one to tidy up ideas about a particular subject. And never more than in this case.

Pornography is usually defined as something created specifically to arouse. There are other criteria, mentioning explicit character, obscenity even. But fundamentally, in my mind, porn has one goal: to arouse. You can see the problem with this definition from the users' point of view is, yes? What arouses one person will simply interest another, leave another one cold and repulse some. I prefer to think of porn from the point of view of creator. I have a reason for that, obvious to anybody who reads my blog: I write smut. I also write a lot of stuff that I don't consider porn, even if it features enough explicit sex to be seen as, ahem, erotica. Though I dislike that particular term because, again, how do you define erotica - is it simply ''classier'' porn? One in silk rather than polyester? One that features more developed characters, with more story behind the fucking? And visually speaking, is erotica more stylish, less in your face?

But smut is different. When writing smut I focus on one primary goal: the arousal. I write to get you, the reader, hot and bothered, and I write to get you off. Everything else is secondary, which doesn't mean limited or taken lightly, but the objective is to arouse.

And to do that, I believe that a piece of smut -whether a single strok-story or a chapter of a longer text - must follow the arousal curve. In some way the narrative arc must reflect the sexual act. And the most important part of that is the build-up. Smut writing is about creating desire, and arguably, it is much more about creating and building up desire than visual porn is. The ''action'' comes much later.

And speaking of ''action'', one of the most interesting (if you are nerdy about these things) factors when writing smut is placing and spacing of orgasm(s). It's not even that the piece has to have a climax at its climax - but it definitely gets received better if the main character - and it doesn't have to be the point-of-view character, but rather the one that the readers identify with - does orgasm. Orgasm-less smut is invariably received less enthusiastically. A cum-shot is clearly a thing in writing too. Spacing of multiple orgasms is also an issue: when one of my stories features several, I tend to choose one of them for the peak of the narration curve and temper the intensity of any others.

Talking of audiences, for a long time now, I have been really writing primarily for the audience of about two at any given time (that is including myself), and the fact that those stories seem to also have a wider, if niche, appeal never ceases to amaze me. The ones I like best are shared fantasies, or rather fantasies and narratives, written for particular people or with particular people in mind. But - I also have a little exhibitionist streak, and I find it very thrilling that such personal pieces seem to work, and appeal to other readers, at least occasionally.

But I do take the wider audience into account to some extent. Not so much in the themes I use, but more in the editing - for example how I chop up the multi-part stories.

As an example, I did have a longer story which turned from MFM to MMF scenes and I did cut it into two parts to separate the "normal" from the "dodgy" section. And I did tweak a couple of femdommey texts which went quite far into the realm of feminisation/crossdressing, to make it just a little less niche.

I also include descriptions of how my female characters look, almost entirely for the audience! I know guys like that kind of thing, so I do relent here, but it bores me like fuck to write them and read them. I used to make more concessions to the demands of the stroke-story genre, but ultimately, I write what and how I want.

My themes are familiar to those who read this blog, but one thing I have noticed is what I termed a ''first time factor''. It's only First Times that are interesting, aren't they? It's ALWAYS a first time. Even if it's not technically the first time at all. "It's impossible to remember every time we have fucked, because it must have been hundreds - maybe thousands - of times that we touched like that, that we entered each other like that, but there is still - there always is - that tiny moment of excitement, of the thrill, of what is it going to be like? without which there is no desire, just a bodily contortion or a chore."

So every story of mine is a story of a first time in some sense - otherwise what's the point? I am not interested in sex as a hygienic activity comparable to brushing teeth, OK, I will do it, of course, because teeth need brushing, but I will certainly not write about it.

It's boring if there is no door to open, no bridge to cross, no wall to bring down, no fear and no elation. I suppose I am a sensation seeker who thrives on intensity and novelty, more emotional/intellectual even if not physical adventure now I am older, so the appeal of ''first times'' is a default for me. Plus, even a stroke story needs a bit of a plot, in the sense of emotional dynamic and suspense, and there is no better way to generate that suspense that a first time experience of something.

Going back to the themes, though. Years before the whole kink bomb exploded in my head, I had been always aware of my own fascination - a fetish really - for bisexual or gay male sex. I have no idea how or why it started. I think I was always attracted to somewhat tortuously conflicted or socially unacceptable desires, but it's not just that.

Androgyny always interested me, both psychologically and physically, maybe because it's something I could never physically pull off, what with tits and ass and so called womanly curves. Not that I mind, but we do desire what we are not, no? Plus, I have always liked pretty men and fairly masculine women.

Ultimately I just find the idea of a MMF threesome, and even just two guys having sex pretty hot. I watch gay porn occasionally and much more than vanilla hetero porn, though I am pretty picky and generally watch very little. I think what appeals to me most about gay porn is - no smirks, OK - the faces. You rarely get male orgasm faces in FM porn, obviously because it's targeted at male audience. For the same reason I watch amateur male solo clips...

 But in writing, I think what I am most interested in is desire. To capture the essence of desire, and its various manifestations. We are nothing without desire. Desire, not just sexual desire, but that's the kind we are talking about here, and perhaps the most interesting one, is for me the essence of being alive. Obviously we have needs -- like thirst or hunger or sleep -- but these are physiologically necessary for survival. Lust is biologically wired in, but there is so much more to it. Some people long to be without lust. Others thrive on that ache. I am definitely among the latter. Once we stop wanting, we are dead.

Thursday, 15 June 2017

beyond the altar

I see the glade, and the altar, from behind a gossamer veil of shimmering air, drowning in a haze, and I see you, neither alive nor dead but suspended at the very peak of ecstatic arrival and departure, bleeding out and climaxing forever.


It's all fading now, not like a dream but some thing completed. I’ve surfaced somewhere from that place of blue and gold, but I don’t know where it is, I don’t know if this, this here where we are now and this now here, is the baseline reality, or some other one, or a dream within a fantasy within a hallucination, or a last gasp before dying.

It's dark, but it’s not a complete darkness. I am reclining on the ground, my back against what feels like a rock, though maybe covered with something. It’s cool and damp, with a briny feel to the air. He is laying across my lap, somewhat limply, and he feels cold. Not death cold but colder than he should, all things considered. Breathing, though. Apparently. I don't think I've actually killed him here, wherever here might be, but I think that what happened there, wherever there was, did something to him here. I think he’s gone  to some in-between place and all I can do is wait. It’s not in my nature to wait, but wait I do and eventually the cool peace of this place settles in my mind, calming it down and I turn inwards, until I can hear his voice, or his thoughts, coming through low, faint, but clear.

Holy fuck. I don't know anything right now. I can't see my surroundings. But I can see everything that's not visible. Spirits. But on closer look, not. A host of people, I know them all. They look like ghosts. I think they're manifestations of my memories. Like some version of my life passing before my eyes. They aren't really looking, just there, partially aware of me.  And I'm in a perpetual moan, black gas leaking from my mouth and wounds. But that's in this nether ether or whatever I'm seeing. I don't know who the projections are specifically, but I am aware that I know them or have known them. From this life or possibly a past one. I envisioned being light and free from whatever it was that was separated from me but I feel dense, heavy and thick. Immobile for the most part, though the ability to move seems to be coming back. There is light, too, pale and faint. I can feel your hand across my back.

His body is feeling warmer; light, a faint light of a dawn, is starting to fill the space we are in, enough for me to recognise it. We are in the sea cave, the place of beginnings, the inbetween place where all the stories cross and in which all the stories start. I look at him and he turns his head slowly towards me, opening his eyes. I smile, and his faintly smiles back.

The light is growing, the opening high above us on the cave wall filling with blue, sunlight streaming in.

“Can you get up, J?”

He nods, and we both struggle up, using the rock wall for support, staggering the few steps to the opening of the rock corridor. We step through but instead of the stone passage, we emerge out on a grassy shore of a pine-forest-surrounded lake. The sky is pale grey, and mist is swirling low between the reeds but the warm air smells fresh and resinous. A dark-green wooden rowboat is bobbing few meters from the shore, its mooring rope loosely coiled around a large boulder semi-submerged at the water line.

I am smiling wide now. I know where we are. I pull the boat closer, clamber in and he follows me. There are no oars in the boat, but as soon as we get in it starts gliding across the water. We are going home.

Tuesday, 6 June 2017

To be had (and why earning orgasms leaves me cold)

I like the notion of orgasm control. I REALLY like the notion of orgasm control. I like it as an expression of power dynamics, and I like it as a play thing in itself: I like the asking, the pleading, the pleasure of saying no, the begging, and the pleasure of saying yes. I like the notion of orgasm ownership which is best expressed as when you don't come, you don't come for me, and when you come you come for me too. I think I like the ownership - the having of it - better than the control, better than the taking of it. I enjoy my playmates' orgasms vicariously as much as I enjoy their denial sadistically.

When someone I enjoy as a sub cheats, and owns up or gets caught, I am less offended or upset by their disobedience and more by the fact that I feel... robbed and denied myself. I feels that something that was - by terms of our agreement - mine was taken away from me.

What goes with the having vs taking aspect of control is that it's about me, and what I want, more than about what my playmate wants. This is how it should be with a dominat, right? Well, yes, right, but... there is a funny thing with male subs who are into denial and orgasm control. There is this notion of earning orgasms, of using denial as actual punishment, and certainly of using orgasms as actual rewards. For real.

It all boils down to using sexual release as a tool to achieve other things, be it a spotless house or numerous cunnilingus orgasms. And I could never, ever get my head round this, especially in a F/m context. And then I read Stabbity's post about domme sex and it all became much more clear to me. I urge you to read all of her post but the most important thing is here: I like control. If my partner can ‘purchase’ sex at any time by completing a certain number of chores, that takes control away from me. 

This is spot on, even if you replace/expand ''chores'' with ''sexual services'' and ''sex'' with ''orgasm''. I REALLY don't like the idea of such bartering. This, to me, is far from the control I enjoy. In fact, it turns me from someone in control, who enjoys the control (i.e. the dominance) for its own sake, who gets off on that control, into a contract-enforcer. A manager, with targets and performance goals for my underlings, with a clear reward and sanction structure. A fucking functionary. And although there is, absolutely, a place for contracts, particularly ones that specify limits and roles, I am not interested in a reward/punishment payout tables that include sexual pleasure.

To rephrase another point Stabbity makes: what happens if I want him to come before he’s finished re-tiling the bathroom? And more so: what happens if I don't want him to come because I really, really enjoy the way he whimpers and begs despite the fact that he did wonderfully in his last task (let's assume we do tasking for the purpose of this argument). Or if he's been really ''good'' but I don't feel all that horny and, fully aware of the whole time/age/libido relationship, don't want to waste his orgasm when I am not really into it?

And - perhaps most of all: if he's been not so very ''good'' but I want to enjoy him?

To put it very clearly: an orgasm that comes out of a set payout schedule is not an orgasm I truly control or own. It's transactional and not much fun for me. No, there is nothing you can do to ''earn'' one, though if you are slutty and filthy and demonstrate just how much you need one without sliding into annoying petulance, I might get turned on enough to change my mind.

But if I don't, invoking your good behaviour and trying to show me how much you DESERVE an orgasm will annoy me. Not into a mean domme frame of mind, but into a pissed off person who feels she's being controlled or manipulated one.


If I ever had a LTR RL dynamic in which some form of male chastity/denial featured, I'd like it to look a lot like what is described here on the edge of vanilla

And for my perfect fantasy version of orgasm control, see how it's starting to shape up in the new story sequence.

To have his cock [and lock it?] (3)

This is where they ended up in  the last instalment

You can't come, boy, echoed in his mind. Marie was laughing. You can't come until I tell you too. That's what you wanted, slut boy. She seemed both a little angry and amused, happy and a little contemptuous. Ian wasn't sure if this was a memory or a fantasy. He moaned, louder than normal, his cock getting sore, his arousal unabated. ''Please… I need to come so bad… please… please….'' he knew she liked him to beg, he knew it turned her on to say no, but sometimes it turned her on to say yes too. He tried to imagine her saying ''yes'', tried to hear her voice, conjure that permission, but it didn't work. He moaned louder, his muscles tensing, shaking, straining, the desire turning into pain. ''Please, Ma'am... ohhh god, please, please... I need it so bad....'' he felt himself turn to his side, curl up, then turn over, his painfully hard, dripping cock rubbing against the sheets, the humiliation of all the people that were watching his predicament flooding his mind, tears of frustration making his face wet as he humped the bed in futile search for relief. 

He was fucked. He was completely fucked and he had only himself to blame. It was perfect. 


Marie was waiting for him in what the OC-Lab called ''guest lounge'', and when he emerged she jumped up from her seat excitedly and almost run to him, a big smile on her face. 

Ian hesitated. His erection had subsided now, but the feeling of a nearly overwhelming and frustrated desire, of the desperate need to come, of the way his body shivered and tensed and whimpered on that bed, overlooked by cameras and attached to various wires, was still very much there, churning his insides and blurring his vision. Seeing Marie here brought it all to the forefront of his mind. For a split second he wanted to yell at her, for another - longer - he wanted to drop to his knees right here in front of her and plead for permission. 

She embraced him warmly and he could feel her soft breasts against his chest, her arms around him, the smell of her perfume and her skin, her whisper in his ear, ''That was so fucking hot, boy. Watching you there. I can't wait.'' She slid her knee between his legs and dragged it up and down along his rapidly returning erection. He groaned. 

''Or maybe we should get it out of the way now,'' her knee pressed harder and she bit his ear briefly, ''I've been thinking of having you come just here,'' her tongue was doing weird things on his neck behind his ear while the fingers of her right hand grasped his nipple. ''I came, imagining that, just before I drove to pick you up,'' Marie twisted his nipple. His low groan turned into a stifled whimper, ''I imagined telling you to come in your pants before we even got to the car,'' she was panting a bit now and he realised she was nearly as aroused as he was, ''I know how much you want to come, slutboy, I heard you whimper,'' Ian's head was spinning, his hips moving involuntarily, seeking stimulation of her touch, his cock painfully hard again, dampness of the precum noticeable in his pants. He was desperate to come, but he didn't want it to happen here, with others possibly seeing him, and he thought, as much as he was capable of thinking, that the occasion demanded more of an event. 

Marie stepped away, ''I decided not to, though. C'mon, boy,'' she pulled his arm and he followed, a huge frustrated erection throbbing in his jeans, his hands shaking. 


Ian was reclining on their bed, completely naked, his back supported by few pillows. His wrists were tied to the headboard, his legs spread wide and also restrained, albeit loosely, with ties stretching to the legs of the bed. 

His cock was painfully hard (again), precum dripping in a continuous trickle (again), the skin on the top stretched so tight that it felt like on the edge of splitting, his balls tight and full, his whole body trapped not just in the physical restraints (to which he submitted willingly) but in an invisible net of frustrated desire (to which he had submitted enthusiastically too).  A desire that could only be satisfied at Marie's will and whim. 

She was sitting on the side of the bed, watching him, her pupils dilated, fingers of her right hand twisting a nipple clamp attached to his chest. He groaned, waves of stinging pain spreading through his body, distracting him from the pulsing need in his cock. She reached down and stroked his shaft, her fingers flitting briefly over the cockhead. He bucked his hips, instinctively trying to prolong the stimulation. She laughed, a low chuckle of joy, and slapped his cock, hard enough to make it bounce. 

"I love this. I never realised how much I'd love this," she panted and lowered her head over him, her soft, wet lips closing on his cock, her tongue swirling. 

He moaned, unable to stop himself, ''Please, Marie... Ma'am, please... let me come... please...''

She lifted her face up and looked at him, ''No. I love you like this.''




It felt like each ''please'' made her more aroused, made her breathing faster, each ''no'' coming out more rapidly on a sharp exhale, each subsequent lick slower, each slurp more ravenous. She was feeding her desire with his desperation, literally, gasping and sighing her delight every time he whimpered or tensed up. And he was yielding, letting her have her way with his body, with him, and now she was taking him more fully, climbing on top and sliding her wet, warm cunt onto his cock, clenching and releasing, her hips rocking back and forth, the fingers of her left hand fast on her clit. 

She moaned, letting out short, sharp cries, her left hand moving all over his body, grabbing, pinching, scratching. It felt like she was masturbating on his cock, and it felt like his cock wasn't his cock any more but her toy, an object she used for her own pleasure. He wanted to fuck her, to thrust and pound, but some part of him already knew that there was no point to this, that she would do it the way she wanted, and if she wanted him still and filling her cunt, that's what she'd have. 

Marie lifted her hips up and slammed her arse onto him, then gyrated. His cock spasmed, filling her throbbing cunt even tighter, suspended tight on the edge of release. She moaned louder, freed her right hand, leaned forward, grabbed his hair with her left hand and pulled his head painfully back. The slap came unexpected, hard and swift, then another one, his whole left cheek burning, her face above him, her mouth open in a grimace of pleasure.

''You...fucking... bitch... ohhhhh... fuck. Fuck. Fuuuck. My fucking slut... ohhhh,'' another slap, then her hand soft on his cheek. She slowed down, then stopped. Marie supported herself on her hands placed on his chest, leaning over him. Her hair, damp with sweat and tangled, fell on her shoulders and breasts and his chest, her eyes locked with his, huge, pupils dilated into dark vortexes, the narrow band of a steel-blue iris swirling with sudden violet. 

She was still now, the only movements the rhythmic falling and rising of her chest and clenching and unclenching of her cunt on his cock. She was smiling. 

"I'm yours, Ma'am. Yours. Your. Yours, '' he moaned into those eyes, into that smile. She placed her hand on his mouth, gently this time, and nodded. 

''Mine,'' the hand adjusted so the palm still covered his mouth while the fingers closed on his nose, restricting but not completely blocking his air intake. Her ass lifted again and dropped down, her weight transmitted through that hand pushing his head into the pillow, her hips shifting and rocking, a series of low sighs and murmurs of delight coming out of her mouth as she adjusted her body and started to fuck him again, this time in a faster, more regular rhythm, the nails of her other hand digging into his shoulder. 

Ian felt his mind starting to dissociate, detach from his body, the body she was using now and that wasn't his any more. He instinctively tried to take a bigger breath, slowly sucked in more air than her hand allowed, was pushed down harder, the nails digging deeper, her moans now loud, animal-like. He was sinking into a space filled with velvety electricity, floating away from the pain and torment that his body was subjected to. The pleasure and the pain melded together and he felt his control - all of it, not just his ability to ejaculate as he felt he needed to - receding further, then disappearing. 

She was nearly screaming, shaking, slamming herself onto him, slamming him into her, her hand removed from his mouth, nails dragging along his cheek and the side of his neck. From afar, he heard her voice, "Come for me, boy. Come for me now. Now,'' and even though his consciousness, what was left of it, hardly registered it, his body must have done because he began spilling into her, his hips bucking to meet her cunt with his cock, each spurt making him almost black out in a paroxysm of pleasure and release, convulsing, becoming empty of everything including his own self, in the longest and one of the most intense orgasms he'd ever experienced. 

---tbc, maybe

Monday, 5 June 2017

To have his cock and lock it? (2)


His next memory was of coming to in bed of what felt like a cross between a modern hotel room and a fancy private hospital room. Ian could feel the cool, smooth sheets, the low, warm light and a light blanket or sheet over his body. It was only when he tried to move that he realised that he was naked and that there were wires stretching out and flat pieces of metal - electrodes? - stuck to his skin in several places. On his head, chest, hips, belly, feet, inner thighs. Other places. Including his cock. At least his cock was still there, he thought as he reached down to make absolutely sure. He had no idea what had happened, couldn't remember anything between the time in the waiting room and now. He had no idea how much time had passed or even if he still was in the same building.

Yet he wasn't scared. Not as scared as he should have been, all things considered. He looked around the room and saw a camera, no, two cameras, suspended from the ceiling and clearly pointing towards him.

Someone must have seen that he was awake now because the door opened and someone walked in. A tall, dark haired middle-aged woman he vaguely recognised, but didn't remember.

''Hello. I'm glad you are with us again… fully, this time,'' she smiled.

''Ummm… what… I don't remember anything!'' Ian blurted out. His voice felt hoarse, straining. 

''No. You would not. I can assure you everything went according to plan. Your treatment appears to have been completely successful. Of course, we won't know until some time in… the real world passes, but you can leave as soon as you are ready.''

''So… excuse me, who are you?''

''I'm Annika Marsden. We met before, but the whole process tends to cause a degree of amnesia that temporarily extends beyond the procedure itself. The procedure will remain inaccessible to your conscious mind at all times. I have all the documents, including your consent forms, here,'' she placed a folder on a bedside table. ''You can look through it any time you want, and of course your partner was kept informed at all times. ''

Ian remembered now. Dr Marsden. The creator of the program and co-owner of the OC-Lab. He reached out to take the documents, the sheet covering him slipping down. He nervously pulled it up. Annika Marsden smiled at him. It felt like an indulgent smile, ''Don't worry about modesty. We have seen… quite a lot of your body, throughout the last few days,'' the smile looked just a little bit more like a smirk now. Ian shivered, his mind trying desperately to remember, remember anything at all.

''You remember WHAT we did, Mr Fergusson?''

''Yes… yes, I do…''

''For the next thirty days, give or take a few, your partner will have a complete proscriptive control of your orgasm.''

''Proscriptive control?'' Ian flinched.

''You will be unable to orgasm without her explicit permission or instruction. She will also have some prescriptive control, which means that it should be significantly easier for her to make you orgasm if she wishes to. This feature of our neural conditioning program for biological males is not quite fully develop yet, and for now comes as a… side effect of the process. Most of our customers welcome it, but some never choose to explore the opportunities it presents,'' Dr Marsden seemed a little sad at this lack of customer adventurousness. 

All this was said in a matter of fact, professional tone. Ian felt the implications sink in. 

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. He's done it. THEY have done it. Marie had a full control now. He actually won't be able to come without her permission. He felt his blood flow to his cock and an erection growing quickly, tenting the thin sheet covering him. He tried to conceal it with his hand, discreetly slid under the sheet, the embarrassment making him harder even faster.

''Yes… yes… I remember,'' his cock was now fully erect under his fingers. Dr Marsden was ignoring it, even though she obviously could see what was going on.

''Before you get ready to leave, we usually recommend that our customers test the bind we have created. I suggest you masturbate now, Mr Fergusson,'' she glanced at the sheet in his crotch area now, ''and check for yourself. We have cameras here, and the feed is available to your partner too. We can also switch them off, if you prefer. Though we'd rather not miss the opportunity to monitor your progress,'' she smiled beatifically, ''Or you can just go home immediately. ''

Ian felt his cock pulsing at the thought of Marie - and this woman, and possibly others - watching him masturbate. He believed what she said earlier, yet he didn't feel completely convinced. He'd never had problems orgasming. Even that one time when he was locked up in a chastity device by a professional domme keyholder, he experienced small orgasms, not very satisfying, but orgasms nevertheless. The idea that he would be denied without any physical constraints, however convincing the science spiel, was still a little preposterous.

''No, no… The cameras are OK. I'll… I'll try, I'll do it now,'' he groaned, his fingers grasping his rigid cock almost without his mind's participation. It felt completely normal, warm, hard, throbbing a little in anticipation of the pleasure. 

''Excellent, Mr Fergusson. I hope you enjoy your new wiring,'' Annika Marsden stepped away from his bed and walked out of the room.

Ian grabbed his cock firmly and started to stroke. He thought of the cameras above him, and threw the sheet off, arching his back a little and cupping his balls, full and heavy, with his other hand. He imagined Marie seeing him on her laptop screen. She liked watching him masturbate, and sometimes made him perform for her, dictating rhythm and count, teasing him or hurting him as he stroked. He shivered, his cock pulsing in his hand, precum drops appearing on the tip. He closed his eyes and sank into the sensation, his hand on his own flesh, waves of pleasure washing over him, his breathing getting deeper, faster, his movements getting into the old, familiar, perfect rhythm that he preferred and that always got him to the edge and over it without fail.

Images filled his head, not a specific narrative, but disjointed flashes; Marie straddling him, her hand on his throat, panting, her teeth exposed in a grimace of furious lust; her nails on his back, the sting of her crop on his butt, the names she called him and the low whispers of encouragement and praise that turned him on as much or maybe even more than the name calling; and other women, bodies and faces over him, perfect feet in heels so high that she just laughed at the idea of ever putting them on; a sequence of wet cunts pushed in his face to lick and pleasure until his jaw ached. 

His arousal reached its peak, his whole body electric with need, his whole being focused on one thing only, that thing he had to have, had to have now.

And he couldn't. 

However hard or fast he rubbed, and whatever image he called to his mind, he couldn't come. If felt like his balls would explode with the accumulated tension, the skin on his cock rubbed raw, stretched close to splitting, copious precum streaming down the shaft. Overwhelming pleasure turned into pain, even as frustration, paradoxically, made him even more aroused. He moaned, then swore, then whimpered. 

You can't come, boy, a voice echoed in his mind. Marie was laughing. You can't come until I tell you to. That's what you wanted, slut boy. She seemed a little angry and very amused, happy but a little contemptuous. Ian wasn't sure if this was a real memory or a fantasy. 

He moaned again, louder than normal, his cock getting sore, his arousal unabated. ''Please… I need to come so bad… please… please….'' he knew she liked him to beg, he knew it turned her on to say no, but it turned her on to say yes too. He tried to imagine her saying ''yes'', tried to hear her voice, conjure that permission. It didn't work. He moaned louder, his muscles tensing, shaking, straining, the lust morphing into pain. ''Please, Ma'am... ohhh god, please, please... I need it so bad....'' he felt himself turn onto his side, curl up, then turn over, his painfully hard, dripping cock rubbing against the sheets, the humiliation of all the people that were watching his predicament flooding his mind, tears of frustration making his face wet as he humped the bed in a futile search for relief. 

He was fucked. He was completely fucked and he had only himself to blame. It was perfect. 


I'd love any feedback, particularly from males who could comment on the physical sensations of frustration as I am, for obvious anatomical reasons, a little shaky on the detail there. Either comment, or email me via the contact form here.