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Other photos Sinful Sunday

Sinful Sunday: The Little Things

Halfway through a leisurely brunch in a NoHo restaurant this afternoon, I got warm enough to peel off my jumper, exposing the shirt beneath it. My friend gasped, and clutched at my sleeve, dragging it towards her.

“You’re wearing cufflinks. Have I ever told you how sexy I find men in cufflinks?”

I watched her as she studied them, her face rapt. We spend hours styling our hair, doing our make-up, choosing our outfits, and tweaking a million different things about our appearance, with the aim of inducing that sort of response in a date.

Enough time and attention, in fact, to make us forget that sometimes it’s the little things that really count…

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Categories
Erotica

Hill Queen

The Van Cortlandt cross country course is precisely 3.1 miles long, and she knows it better than she does her own body. Its twists and turns.

Its roots and rocks.

Its humps and hollows.

She skips and skates through autumn leaves, ponytail swinging behind her with every step. Her cheeks flush red, and sweat pools in the dip of her collarbone; it glistens on the nape of her neck, releasing only to race all the way down her spine, till she can feel it sucking her shorts tight against her perfect ass.

That’s what he calls it, anyway. Perfect. He calls her the Hill Queen, and she burns with pride whenever she hears it. I’m the fucking Hill Queen, she thinks, teeth gritted into a feral snarl. She is not weighed down by self-doubt. She is 22 and she is indestructible.

He knows that all of us can be broken. He stands at the start line each day, stopwatch in hand, and stares as her perfect ass bounces off into the distance. He closes his eyes and tallies the seconds up into minutes. She is a sylph, a shimmering blur, but he remains completely still. As he waits, his feet sink slowly into the squelching mud.

Her only competition is the clock he cradles against his palm. In her head, she hears it tick over to the rhythm of her pumping thighs. She needs no other music. Its beat is implacable, relentless – a worthy enemy, and a hypnotic, seductive friend.

The final climb sets fire to her calf muscles, and sends the flame up to lick her lungs. She endures this fleeting reminder of her own mortality only because she knows it will pass. The Hill Queen may bend; she never, ever breaks.

She sprints the last 200 yards, knees high, and passes him for the first time. Despite herself, she glances across for the reassurance she already knows he won’t give. He is old enough to appreciate the value of well-timed cruelty.

Flicking her eyes back to the trail, she presses on. She runs laps, even though they no longer count.

Even though they hurt.

Sometimes, if she’s honest, she runs them because they hurt.

He watches her go, a frown fixed on his face.

The uncertainty gnaws away at her, sapping the strength from her legs. It is always close – a few seconds either way – and this precision, more than anything, tells her all she needs to know about him. About them. Her body is an instrument that only he can tune; when he lays his hand on her cheek in the morning she vibrates against him with barely-suppressed need. She sees his face go blank, as if he has to shut down part of his brain in order to understand what her hot, humming skin is trying to say. What her legs – her heart – are capable of giving him that day.

His eyes zero in on hers again only once the target has been set. She shivers and nods. It is the same course as it was yesterday, she tells herself, chin tilting up at him. I am strong and I can do this. I am the Hill Queen.

When she is almost bent double with exhaustion, she stops. Her skin is waxy and her muscles shake from the lack of glycogen. This brutal beast of a course has emptied her from the inside out, and it is up to him to fill her back up. She makes her way back towards the finish line, cunt wet with anticipation, even as the rest of her body is shutting down.

Before his blurred outline has fully coalesced into the broad, solid shape she knows so well, her brain is already screaming words that will never pass her mouth.

Have I done it?

Have I fucking done it, you fucking asshole?

She never hates him as much as she does in those final few metres, when she still doesn’t know, and the only thing keeping her upright is the fear that maybe today she’s failed.

That maybe today he won’t fuck her.

She looks at his long, thick fingers curled around the stopwatch, and the thought of not feeling them inside her that night, stretching her open, is almost enough to make her physically ill.

Because sometimes she does – fail, that is. Sometimes her legs and her heart aren’t quite strong enough to carry her home. She is not always indestructible.

He tells her gently, but it doesn’t stop angry tears gathering in her eyes. There will be more of them later, when the bedsheet is soaked through with the sweat from her hot, restless body, and the ache in her cunt is deep enough to push a sob of pain up through her throat.

Failure comes with a bitter price, but if it didn’t she wouldn’t want to win so badly. She needs his rules and his targets even more than she needs his cock. Killing herself each day on the back of that brutal beast takes hunger that can’t coexist with a simple, sated happiness. They both understand that suffering is the only whetstone capable of keeping her sharp.

Whenever she wakes up like that, unfucked, the insides of her thighs sticky with her own need, it feels like the sunlight pouring through her window is just a little bit brighter. She springs out of bed as if she is already streaking away from the start line, muscles bunched and eager.

The course is precisely 3.1 miles long, and it doesn’t change. It was the same yesterday as it will be tomorrow, and all the tomorrows still to come. But today…today, she is the fucking Hill Queen, and she will win.

Categories
Cock shots Sinful Sunday

Sinful Sunday: Apple

It is that time of the afternoon when the sun has arced its way down between the two buildings opposite my flat, and is throwing its rays directly through my bedroom window. You sprawl out across the duvet and bask in their warmth. We have been outside recently enough to know that the heat is a happy illusion; autumn is in the air, and its bite is as crisp as the windfall apples piled up in a bowl next to the bed.

I roll over to grab one. I love the relish with which you bite into them, and how little you care about the sticky juice that smears across your lips and chin with every mouthful. You eat an apple like it is the best and last thing you will ever consume.

I’m stopped by your hand on my wrist, a gesture so unexpected that I flinch when I feel your fingers brush over my skin. The lunge has pulled hair across your face like a soft, dark curtain, which falls away again as you roll and burrow up the bed, between my legs.

Rocking back into place, I stare down at you, unwilling to break the silence. Your face is hard to read, even as it tilts towards me, your cheek coming to rest on my left thigh. I think we are both surprised by how gently I rest the back of my hand against it. You are solemn, your eyes wide, and I respond by cupping your chin; it stills you, as if the pressure of my thumb and forefinger on your jawbone has placed the rest of your body in a vice.

Slowly, my other hand curls around my cock. It has been hard ever since you peeled off your vest top and I saw the sun bathe your tits in a sudden rush of golden light. Now I can feel it throb in earnest; there is nothing false or fleeting about this angry heat.

Your mouth opens unprompted, then clenches shut again, barely stifling a low moan. I jut my hips up towards you. I feel like I’m floating above the bedsheet, even as fierce lust gathers in my stomach like a lead weight.

“You don’t want an apple, do you?”

“No. No, I don’t.”

Continue reading “Sinful Sunday: Apple”
Categories
Erotica

Wicked Wednesday: Something New

It always starts with a shopping bag. Without warning, she’ll casually dump it on the dresser when she gets home from work, or prop it up against the foot of the bed on a lazy Sunday afternoon. It’s an opening gambit designed to be ignored, and I do my best to play along, often for days at a time; I am unwilling to spoil her surprise, or to shake the Etch A Sketch grin of anticipation from her face.

The bag is not fancy. It is the sort of cheap plastic destined to hold tomorrow’s vegetable peelings, or the dirty laundry our kids bring back from school trips. When it curls up around its contents with a rustling sigh, I feel like I’m looking through a steamed-up window on a winter’s night –a soft blur of colour emerges from that inner fog, and I want to press my face against it till everything comes into focus.

Buying online just isn’t the same, she says, and besides, we should support a local business whenever we can. I nod vigorously, lips pursed in a poor attempt at solemn agreement, until she throws a cushion at me, both of us already laughing as it sails over my head. The shop owner is a kind man, and she is his favourite customer, but I know it’s the routine that she really loves; the continuity, stretched now across a fluorescent flickbook of galloping years and endless, meandering miles.

Sometimes I know when the moment will come. I’ll burrow down under the duvet and wait, my eyes flicking open just far enough to catch the first rays of that sunny smile as it dimples her cheeks. It’s enough, that little head start, and I don’t think she’d resent the deception. I’m not a morning person – far from it – so it helps to know when I need to respond to her alarm, rather than rolling over and counting to ten as she disappears into the dewy dawn.

I should be clear about one thing: we are not bored. This is a game, but a playful one. That flame does not need to be rekindled; instead we coax constant life from it, our touch lighter with time. We are sure-footed, not ham-fisted; comfortable in our own skin, expansive and generous with each other’s.

Still, there are times when I wonder whether anything has made me happier than the sound of her fingers working the knot at the neck of the bag. Even when I’m half-asleep, unwitting muscle memory kicks in; my brain will trip a switch and prompt my body to respond with a hazy reluctance that’s quickly cleared by the emerging heat.

By the time I lift my chin onto the duvet and manage to peer over it, she has migrated to the bathroom. The shopping bag has played its part; it lies discarded, its contents already unfurled  and admired, then hugged close to her naked body. She has pressed herself against me at night for 20 years now – long enough that I feel like a sofa cushion, scooped out with the indentation of her milk-white arse – but familiarity has done nothing to lessen the desire I feel whenever I watch her stretch in front of the mirror, or pad out of the shower, water flying off her skin with every step.

Why then, does this undo me with such unerring precision? Why does it thump away at some deep seam in the pit of my stomach? As I wait for the bathroom door to open, I blink away the sleep still furring the corners of my vision, and flex my thighs to an impatient, staccato beat. I prop myself up on pillows that smell of her mussed blonde hair.

She appears in front of me without any fuss. This is not a show. We take our running seriously, and at that moment I know she would happily dance out of the door and onto the street, her new kit practically shining in the emergent sunlight. It clings to her slender frame, its lurid colours throwing into sharp relief the simple lines that my hands long to trace. Her sudden indifference is intoxicating; perhaps that, above all else, is what hooks into me and pulls out the words in a rusty, ragged growl.

She freezes in place when the first plosive spits through the air between us. Her head is perfectly still, and her hands go to the waistband of her lycra shorts, as if she too is compelled by instinct to respond in the same way each time. I take a breath, and repeat myself, steadier this time.

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“No – come back to bed. You look too good to waste on the outside world.”

—

*Massive* thanks to the lovely @19syllables, whose photo inspired this story, and who was kind enough to let me include it in the final post. Make sure you go check out her brilliant haiku on Twitter, if you haven’t done so already.

WickedWednesday

Categories
Sex

Size Doesn't Matter

A few weeks ago I tweeted a link to this excellent post by Hyacinth Jones, on her love of big dicks. I thought the way she described her preference for well-endowed men was straightforward, honest, and wonderfully unapologetic; there was nothing spiteful or mocking in what she wrote, and as a guy of relatively average proportions I was turned on by her passion, rather than put off because it happens to exclude me.

Later that day, I talked to Malin James, who agreed with my take on Hy’s post, but wondered aloud whether it would be possible for a guy to write something similar about vaginal tightness without being crucified for it. Both of us could imagine the response to that sort of piece, even in what is generally a very tolerant and open-minded sex-blogging community; it wouldn’t be pretty, and any man brave or foolish enough to put something like that out there would take a lot of heat, regardless of how straightforward or measured he was when making his case.

Of course double standards often exist for a reason. While it looks like apples and apples, the reality is that women are routinely shamed for the size and general appearance of their cunts – not to mention the way they smell and taste, and the frequency with which they enjoy having things inside them. Cock size may be the subject of a few crude jokes, and I’m sure it must feel genuinely awful to be on the receiving end of one, but the way men talk about cunts is far more toxic – and laced with misogyny. It’s also rooted in a profound fear of female sexual agency, and in the pretty gross belief that virginity has value: abusing women for not being ‘tight enough’ is really just another form of slut-shaming.

How do I know this? Well for one thing, I have never – literally never – heard guys discussing cunt size when a woman isn’t around. It just doesn’t happen. I’ve listened to (and participated in) endless locker room conversations about so-and-so’s tits, or the cracking arse on some bloke’s girlfriend/sister/mum/etc. I’ve sat through detailed descriptions of blow job technique and prowess. Of sexual appetite and preferences. Of kinks and fetishes. Men chat a lot of shit to each other about a lot of things – and clearly not all of those conversations were beacons of sex-positivity and kindness – but not once have I had someone complain to me about the tightness of a partner’s cunt. It’s just not something we care about – except, apparently, when we want to make women feel bad about themselves.

Over the years, my own experiences have backed that up. I´ve fucked virgins and mothers of three; women in their late teens and women in their mid-40s; women of pretty much every different height, weight and skin colour under the sun…and not one of them has had a cunt that I wasn’t fucking delighted to be buried inside. I could honestly count on one hand the number that were memorably tight, and I wouldn’t need any hands at all for those that weren’t tight enough.

There is certainly no correlation whatsoever between tightness and sexual performance, nor has it ever had a material impact on my enjoyment of a particular partner’s body. 95% of the time, I’m not sure I even notice either way. The preference for bigger dicks obviously has an aesthetic element for a lot of people, but cunt size only really becomes apparent during penetration, whether with fingers or cock. At that point, there’s generally too much good stuff going on for minute differences in tightness to cross my radar, and I’m much more likely to get excited by how wet my partner is, or how good her skin feels pressed against mine, than I am to worry about whether she’s squeezing me as hard as the last woman I fucked.

The only exceptions have been the handful of partners who were so tight that I found myself having to really focus on not coming too quickly. That’s a bit of a mixed blessing, clearly; while that sort of intensity is very exciting, especially at first, it can also mean having to pick between a shorter fuck and one with occasional breaks to calm down. Both of those can be great, but there are times when I don’t really want either of them; and I’ve been on the receiving end of enough eye-rolls to know that the women involved were often similarly unenthusiastic about having to make that choice!

The bottom line is that cunts are magical things, and I’ve yet to meet one that I wasn’t instantly in love with. They’re supple, flexible, warm and soft in all the best ways, and always, always tight enough to feel wonderful around my cock. Malin was dead right, a heterosexual man sharing the equivalent of Hy’s big dick post probably would get slated – rightly so, given the wider context – but I also really struggle to believe that anyone out there would actually want to write it.

Guys might get hung up on all sorts of weird things, but I’ve seen no sign that we give a flying fuck about cunt size. Any nasty, sneering evidence to the contrary will always have far more to do with a wider hatred of women or with male insecurity than it will actual sexual pleasure.

Categories
Sex

The Male Perspective

Yesterday someone tweeted a link to something I wrote over 18 months ago now, about sex and periods. I don’t generally enjoy re-reading old blog posts, in the same way I don’t like listening to recordings of my own voice, but in this case it was useful for two reasons.

On a very basic level, it was good to realise that I still stand by every single word of something I wrote right back at the time I started blogging in earnest. I know for a fact that there are posts from early 2014 that I’d probably write quite differently now, but that isn’t one of them.

More importantly, reconsidering period sex nudged me to act on a conversation I had recently about other areas of sex and sexuality where a positive male perspective might add value or challenge conventional wisdom. Male desires and sexual attitudes tend to be represented in mainstream media in a way that ultimately harms both men and women. It’s simplistic, reductive, and laced with misogyny – I’m also pretty sure it’s wildly inaccurate.

That’s something I’ve thought about quite a lot over the last couple of months, especially after doing the dick pic interview with Rachel Kramer Bussel in August. I’ve always been wary of writing anything that implies I speak for all (or even most) men, but at the same time I recognise that sex blogging is not an area rich with male voices – and that as a result, there is a pretty healthy appetite out there for more insight into how and what men actually think about sex, about their own bodies, and about women’s bodies too.

That appetite is evident even in the search terms that people use to find my blog. Over the last 12 months, I’ve had countless hits from people clearly seeking information or just trying to satisfy their curiosity about men and sex. ‘How men feel about nudity’ is one that I see on a fairly regular basis, as are variations on ‘men who enjoy showering together’ and ‘male attitudes to oral’. More recently, my heart ached when I saw that someone had felt the need to ask a search engine ‘what does “you’re too wet for me” mean?’ – if that person is reading this post, let me tell you right now that it probably means you’re sleeping with the wrong guy…or at the very least, one who has a few things left to learn about how this whole sex business actually works.

These two posts about cock rings were sort of an initial attempt to dip my toe back into more informative/revealing waters. I’ve got one other thing sitting in my Drafts folder, waiting to be written up, but I’m also curious to know whether any of you have suggestions for topics I could pick up and run with over the next few weeks. Perhaps there’s a sex myth you want exploded (or confirmed), or a question about men’s bodies that you’re tired of getting the same, boring Cosmo answer to. Maybe you just want to know more about how guys masturbate, or what it feels like when you finger us during oral.

Either way, this isn’t just a lazy way to get other people to supply me with blogging material – I’d genuinely love to hear from anyone who has a ‘thing’ they’d like me to write about. If that’s you, just pop me an email, or leave a comment on this post, and if I think I can do your suggestion justice I’ll respond to it here at some point very soon!

Categories
Cock shots Sinful Sunday

Sinful Sunday: Pavlov's Dick

I wasn’t going to do a Sinful Sunday post this week. I was going to collapse for a couple of hours, post marathon, then go out with my sister and my friend to drink beer till I was ready to curl up in bed and sleep for a week.

I’m still going to do those things. However, a funny thing happened as I mooched around my AirBnB apartment earlier, looking at the sex swing my host had helpfully bolted to the ceiling. Suddenly, I wasn’t quite so tired any more. My legs still ached, but between them my cock had started not just to stir, but to tell me in no uncertain terms that I really should consider doing something about it.

I levered myself out of the lazy boy I’d been lounging in, and went over to sit in the swing instead, my cock getting steadily harder as I did so. What happened next? Let’s just say I had more energy left than I realised…

Continue reading “Sinful Sunday: Pavlov's Dick”
Categories
Erotica

Eclipse

I am propped up on pillows, in an ironic approximation of comfort. My fingers tense and flex as I watch him fuck you, and my wrists strain with the effort of remaining still. Inertia feels profoundly unnatural, given the waves of kinetic energy that tumble off your bodies at each roll of his hips; the rhythm is laced with the excitement of the unfamiliar, and your gasping, mewling cries crackle with an extra charge as they spit out towards me.

I am held in place by the awareness that moving would jar all of us back to an unwanted reality. There is a simple beauty to the way you piston back and forth on his cock; adding complexity at this point would drive only entropy, and an accompanying collective failure of will. Nevertheless, arousal and jealousy battle inside me, carried along on a surging swell of almost visceral frustration. I want to touch you both, but more than that I want to be invited in; to put myself inside your bodies and feel you fuck.

Despite our proximity, it is you with whom the disconnect is greatest. Your dark shock of hair brushes against my splayed legs every time he thrusts, but you refuse to look me in the eye. It is a test of my trust, I think, and perhaps my faith too, but it is also your way of losing yourself in this. You are tapping into a rich seam of pure pleasure, undiluted by caution or guilt, and your focus does not – cannot – waver. Instead you just stare blankly past me, or bow your head in silent submission to the physical punch of his dick inside you.

Half in shadow, he looms above both of us, his large frame made monstrous by my supine position. I look for uncertainty or triumph in his gaze, but can find only a curiously metronomic calm, as if he is maintaining control of his body through the suppression of any overt emotion. I am fascinated by his inscrutability, this other man of yours, and by the casual brutality with which he splits you open. There is no give to his body, no softness, and I flinch as your arms start to buckle and sag; he is a wrecking ball, pounding away at your fragile, crumbling facade, leaving it in pieces on the floor in front of us.

And it shocks me, how much I want him now. This stranger; this blank, brooding canvas you have brought into our bed. I want to step naked into the eye of the storm and let it batter me too, till I’m wrung out like a wet rag. Till I’m giddy and gasping and broken, all at once. I will kneel between his legs in genuflection, waiting for him to bless me with his big dick, coated in the sharp tang of your freshly-fucked cunt.

He sees it in me, I think, as we stare at each other over your upturned body, and I know then that you have already told him. It is why his violence seems so controlled; even as he unspools you from your reel, he is steadily taking the measure of me, turning each piece of visual data over in his head as he collects it. Reflexive shyness tugs my chin down and away, but it is flimsy and easily brushed aside. I want him to see it in me, this unchecked hunger. It will make me bold when the time comes.

You shudder against the bed, your orgasm forced out as a deep, gouging moan, and it is as if I can feel the vibrations in my stomach and thighs. Your hand gropes blindly for mine, but I don’t take it – not yet. Before you pull the three of us into the centre of your patch of light, I will stay out here for just a few seconds longer, bathing in its soft glow. Letting it warm my face as I move closer. Waiting for it to blind me.

Categories
Cock shots Sex

How to fit a cock ring…

…otherwise known as my very first attempt at video-blogging! This one, obviously, is NSFW.

(ALSO, my voice doesn’t sound like this in real life! This is Weird Video Voice, and I just…well, I can’t even…)

Categories
Sex

Cock Rings 101

So after I wrote this piece of (NSFW) whimsy the other night, a couple of people got in touch with more serious questions about cock rings. Questions like “hey, I don’t really understand cock rings – what exactly do they do?” And “ouch, that looks painful – is it painful??” I would never pretend to be a sex toy expert, but as this is one area where I have a reasonable amount of experience, I thought I’d answer their questions (and hopefully a few more) in a blog post.

First, the basics. A cock ring, as the name suggests, is literally a ring that goes around (the base of) the penis – and usually the testicles too. Typically made from leather, rubber, silicone or metal, it either stretches to fit over your genitals, or can be adjusted and tightened once it’s in place. Guys with especially large (or small) dicks may find they have to go for one of the adjustable options, and these do tend to be a little pricier, but for most men the stretchy rings will work just fine. I own one of each at the moment, both of which I’d happily recommend. You can see photos of them in use here and here (both links super-NSFW, obviously); if you want to know more about the specific models and where to buy them, just hit me up via email or Twitter.

Cock rings work by constricting blood flow out of the penis. This means that blood stays in the erect penile tissue for longer, keeping everything nice and firm and ready for action. Unsurprisingly then, they’re great for guys who have trouble maintaining erections – or who just want to stay hard for a really long time.

There is also evidence to suggest that they can help prevent premature ejaculation, though solid research on this is hard to come by. When worn over the testicles, the ring puts pressure on the ducts that carry semen to the penis, potentially restricting the ability to orgasm; on the other hand, the increase in sensitivity and sheer, horny stimulation can easily have the opposite effect (trust me on this…), so I’m more cautious about endorsing that particular theory.

Either way, for all their practical value, the real joy of using a cock ring definitely lies more in all the fun, filthy ways you can incorporate them into your play, whether on your own or with a partner. Here are just a few of the reasons why I’m a fan…

  1. They do just make everything look – and feel – bigger. My dick, my balls, the whole lot. When I’m wearing a cock ring, my erection is almost painful in its intensity, as if the skin and veins are being stretched to bursting point. If huge, visibly throbbing erections are your thing, cock rings are the happy shortcut to getting them. When my dick is that hard, I can sometimes see the excitement on my partner’s face as she wraps her hand around it, or takes the extra girth inside her, and that obviously gets me even hornier too.
  2. All that trapped blood definitely does make my whole cock more sensitive to the touch. It doesn’t matter whether I’m stroking my hand firmly over the head, or just brushing a finger along the shaft, I notice the difference immediately; when someone else is touching me, it becomes even more achingly apparent.
  3. The contrast between that heightened sensitivity and the slight restriction on my ability to come, makes cock rings perfect for edge play and orgasm denial. I frequently use one of mine when I want to have a long, teasing solo session, sometimes coupled with a butt plug for a bit of additional prostate stimulation. Between the two, it doesn’t generally take long before I’m a squirming, sticky mess – my cock smeared with lube and pre-cum, and almost ribbed in texture, so prominent are the veins. It’s sometimes more than I can bear; the pressure gets more intense each time I coax myself closer to the edge, and eventually my whole body tingles with the need to let it all come flooding out.
  4. Of course, that kind of set-up is even sexier when it’s someone else calling the shots, whether in person or via phone/Skype. In a long-distance relationship, adding a cock ring to cyber sessions gives my partner an extra bit of visual stimulation, but it also enhances the dynamic whenever we decide to play around with that kind of voice control. The impact it has on my desire to come is very difficult to hide; even when she can’t watch my face screw up and my hands ball into fists, I know that the tension in my voice is enough to betray how riled-up and desperate I am.
  5. If my partner is in the room, more options open up. It’s a huge turn-on watching someone fit the ring around my cock and balls, for example, especially if she tells me while she’s doing it that I’m not allowed to come until she gives me permission to do so. That command might be followed by a long, teasing blow job, with every smooth swirl of her tongue its own little act of torture. Or maybe she’ll straddle my thighs and reach down to hold my cock perpendicular to my body, so she can just rub her cunt and clit over the tip for as long as it takes to make herself come, while I silently beg her to sink all the way down onto it.
  6. Then there’s the orgasms themselves, which as well as being more intense, also somehow literally feel hotter when I’m wearing a cock ring. It’s as if all that blood has raised the core temperature of my dick, so when cum pumps up through the shaft it reaches the surface charged with that extra warmth and energy. Again, that has a further, visceral impact on how my orgasms look. I shoot further and harder with a cock ring – spunk that might normally land on my stomach ends up on my chest or neck, if I’m coming on a partner’s face or body there’s apparently a greater ferocity to the way it spurts out over her.
  7. Finally, rather than softening shortly after orgasm, my cock will stay hard for a long time with the ring still tight around the base. As a result, if we’re fucking and she’s not ready to stop, leaving it there also gives us the option to carry on until she’s finished.

As for whether they’re painful? That’s an easy one – no, they’re not…if you know what you’re doing. Like all sex toys, cock rings need to be used in a safe, responsible way, and that means reading up on some of the dos and don’ts before you jump right into playing with one. I’m not going to list those, but there is plenty of guidance out there on how to choose and fit a cock ring, so please do check it out if you’re curious – Google is your friend on this one.

So there you have it: Cock Rings 101! If you have a question I haven’t answered, or there’s something you’d like to add that other people might find useful/interesting, please do leave a comment under this post – I’ll then edit and build on it accordingly.