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Cock shots

Sinful Sunday: Kneel

It’s the last weekend of the month, which normally means an Anonymous Sinful Sunday post. Unfortunately I fucked up this time, and only posted reminder tweets this morning; with only one submission sitting in my inbox, I’ve decided to postpone till next week. If you’d like to submit a photo for inclusion in that post, check out all the details here and drop me an email.

In lieu of an Anonymous post, I thought I’d share the following photo instead…

—

My job is project-based, and that means spikes of stress as deadlines approach. I’m hands-on in the way I work – I don’t expect to sit back and light a cigar while my team does all the heavy lifting. I’ll roll my sleeves up, put in the hours, and sleep soundly afterwards in the knowledge that I’m not enjoying the credit for someone else’s hard graft.

I’m not one to crack the whip, and I believe the carrot always works better than the stick. It’s better to be collaborative than dictatorial; to encourage rather than demand. It’s how I get results professionally, and while I view it as a conscious choice, I also don’t think it’s something about myself that I could easily change.

It’s different with sex. With sex I’m more flexible: I know that there are times when the stick works best. When the best way to encourage is to be demanding; dictatorial. When rolling up my sleeves means something very different…

There was a point last week, between conference calls, when I caught myself tapping my foot impatiently against the floor under my desk, and drumming my nails on the notepad I’d filled with crabby scrawl. I shifted on my chair and felt my cock stiffen in my suit trousers. More than anything at that point, I wanted to take it out on someone; to release all the irritation I felt at my client in one long, calming burst.

I didn’t want to shout, or scream, or throw things at my colleagues. No.

What I wanted was to unzip my trousers in a meeting room or toilet cubicle. To see the artificial light gleaming off my belt, and my cock twitching in the cool air. To wrap my hand around it and feel the hot skin under my palm. To run the fingers of my other hand through someone’s hair; to pull and twist, just – just – enough for it to hurt.

What I wanted was someone to kneel.

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Uncategorized

Maybe

Some conversations are like London buses: you don’t have them for ages, then suddenly they pop up three times in the same week. The only real difference these days is that with the conversations there’s no app to warn you that they’re about to appear; all you can do is frantically gather your scrambled thoughts and try to respond.

Her: Do you ever want to have kids?

Me: …

In fairness, it’s an easy, throwaway question to ask when you’re 23 (thanks Dawson!), and on that first occasion I was the one who raised the subject. I was telling Ella about my weekend plans, which involved visiting my best friend from university. He’s just become a father, and on Saturday morning I travelled to Birmingham to bear witness to his virility.

I don’t know what inspired me to do so, but on the train up from Euston, I made a mental list of the men my age who I’ve considered close friends over the years, from school right through to my first couple of serious jobs. It’s a small group – people generally have to work pretty hard to get close to me – but of the 10 guys in it, I realised that nine are (or have been) married, and eight have at least one child. The one chap who falls into neither category recently bought a house with his girlfriend, and I’d put good money on him ticking at least one of the two boxes in the next couple of years.

The same pattern broadly applies across my female peers. At 33 – and six weeks to the day from turning 34 – I stand, if not alone, then certainly out at the margins of my various friendship groups, simply by virtue of being unmarried and childless.

For the most part, I’m ok with that – I like being everyone’s surrogate uncle! As I told Ella – and the other two people who asked me about it recently – if fatherhood happens, it happens, but I’m not going to make having kids a priority. I struggle with the notion of a child as an abstract goal, and always have done; I instinctively connect it to a wider set of aspirations, though that’s undoubtedly rooted in my own fairly conventional upbringing.

The funny thing is that 10 years ago I was sure that I would have kids by my early 30s. I was born shortly after my Dad’s 28th birthday, and for years I viewed that as the ‘right’ point in life at which to start a family. At 23, I envisaged meeting someone, getting married, and having two – or maybe three – children together. I was far clearer about that than pretty much anything else in my life; even as I dithered about what sort of job to get, or whether to go travelling, or where to live, I could have told you with complete confidence that by 34 I definitely wanted to be a happy, settled, married father…because that was the happy, settled model I’d grown up with. My dad was 33 when his third child – my brother – was born, and for years I just sort of assumed that in that area, at least, my life would follow a similar trajectory.

I can’t pinpoint exactly when that changed (or evolved) but my previous certainty on the subject definitely makes my current situation feel just a little bittersweet. Maybe I’d been slightly softened up by the London bus-like questions, and by my Birmingham visit on Saturday, but when I saw this tweet from the lovely Malin James today, my heart sort of clenched and bruised and ached, all at the same time.

My sister is a Daddy’s girl. Or rather, she’s my Dad’s favourite. The one song guaranteed to make him cry just a little bit is ABBA’s ‘Slipping Through My Fingers’ – though I suspect he’s not alone in that among fathers of his generation. He loves me and he loves my brother too (for all their horrendous fights), but my sister will always hold an extra-special place in his heart.

I look at their relationship sometimes and wonder what it would be like to have a daughter of my own. How I’d raise her, and what I’d teach her, and the fierce pride I’d feel in watching her grow up to be a strong, confident, independent woman. The (sex) advice I’d give her as a teenager.

The thing is though, it still feels like a fantasy, rather than something tangible or imminent; in some ways it’s even less clearly defined than it was 10 years ago, because at least then I had broad timings in mind. Now I sort of shrug my shoulders and say “yeah, maybe – or maybe not”. More than anything, it feels like my own time that’s slipping through my fingers. I feel guilty saying it, but I don’t want to be an ‘old Dad’ – unable to play football with my kids, or too tired to keep up with them in their active teenage years.

What very few people know is that it could have been different. It nearly was different, in fact, on a couple of occasions. Those are hard to write about, if I’m honest. Abortion isn’t easy on anyone involved, even when it’s clearly the right option for one or both of you. I’ll never forget the day my ex and I sobbed in each other’s arms in her kitchen, after making the decision to terminate our (unintended) pregnancy; nor the sombre silence in which we drove from Oxford to Reading a few days later; the numb, floaty, slightly surreal feeling when we walked out of the cinema that afternoon, after killing the time between appointments in a screening of the latest X-Men movie. I’ll never forget the sex afterwards either; sex we shouldn’t have had, but sex we needed to have, in the same bed where a few weeks earlier we’d set those painful events in motion.

I thought about that day when I saw Malin’s tweet, and about the déjà vu I felt a couple of years later, sitting in a different clinic with a different partner, going through the same horrible process – for the same good, practical reasons.

It’s much easier for men to take a long-term view when it comes to parenthood. We’re less bound by either biology or social convention, and the physical implications of having a child – or not – are obviously much less serious, especially as we get older. Nevertheless, I wonder sometimes whether I’ll reach my 40s – my 50s – and regret not taking a different approach to the whole subject. I look at how happy my 8-out-of-10 friends are with their sons and daughters, or how wonderfully well the people I’ve met through Twitter and my blog combine parenthood with an active sex/kink life, and I worry that I’m missing out somehow. That I’m allowing my upbringing – and my instinctive caution when it comes to big life decisions – to rob me of an experience that I’ll find myself craving in later life, long after it’s passed me by.

I thought about Malin’s tweet later on today as well though, in the pub with my colleagues. One of them was talking about a university friend of hers, who made it almost six months into her pregnancy before realising that she was carrying a child. She had the news confirmed just a few days too late for her to have the abortion she would otherwise have wanted, and is now the mother of an eight-year-old daughter. “Yeah, but she must be so glad now that she went ahead with it,” someone ventured. The colleague telling the story paused for a few seconds, before starting to speak…and pausing again. “It’s been…difficult,” she said. And we moved swiftly on.

It’s easy to miss what you don’t have, especially when you see how happy it makes other people. The reality is that until it happens to you, you can’t know for sure the kind of impact it’ll have on your life. As I advance further into my 30s, the likelihood of fathering a child will slowly – but steadily – decrease. People will stop asking me the question, and I’ll stop equivocating when I answer. Or maybe I won’t. Maybe a part of me will always want kids, and maybe – just maybe – at some point it’ll happen.

Maybe…or maybe not.

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Cock shots Sinful Sunday

Sinful Sunday: Strumming

A few weeks ago I supplied a photo for the Oleander Plume ‘Friday Feature’ on the Chemical Sex blog. The brief was pretty clear:

“Oleander is a rocker – it would be awesome if you could do something around that. What about you naked (naturally) but with a tie and white sports socks pretending to play rock guitar on a tennis racket? But we can see your gentleman parts through the strings…”

Never one to turn down a challenge, I dug out my squash racket, turned the stereo up to 11, and got ready to rock out, well, with my cock out.

I ended up with two photos that I thought might fit the bill, and sent both to Tabitha Rayne for approval. She picked the one that eventually made it onto the blog – “Oleander likes ’em nice and hard” was the thrust of her feedback – and that was that. Job done…

…except, who should pop up as this week’s Sinful Sunday guest judge but the lovely Ms Plume herself, and with that in mind (along with the suddenly awesome performance of Chemical Sex in the Kindle Downloads chart), I immediately thought about using the other photo. It’s actually the one I prefer – it was a complete accident, but I like the way my cock ended up tucked neatly inside the curve of the Dunlop logo – and while I’ve never been a musician, sometimes it is fun just to bounce around your living room, pretending to be a rock star…even if I generally find something better to strum.

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Erotica

The Promise

With practiced ease, he flips a grey plastic tray onto the conveyor belt and starts to fill it. He removes his suit jacket and folds it in two, then unloops the belt from his trousers, placing both on top of his briefcase in the middle of the tray. Next come his watch and cufflinks, flashing silver as he lays them neatly inside the black leather coils. Finally, each pocket is emptied in turn. Wallet. Keys. Coins. Pen. USB.

Nail clippers.

—

He isn’t clean-cut, but she likes that. His hair is a bit too shaggy: in summer it tufts out of the open neck of his shirt, and creeps underneath his cuffs, like a previously well-tended garden slowly returning to the wild. Like heather on the moors, sprouting up wherever the sun shines. He wears shorts in spring and autumn, while she shivers in thick woollen tights. When he laughs, his eyes crinkle at the corners.

“Promise me one thing,” she says. “Promise me you’ll always cut your nails.”

—

Their first date. They’re in a cab back to her place and she’s squirming against the seat, his fingers jammed inside her cunt. There’s no finesse – he doesn’t know her yet – and he just allows her to grind down onto him, cocking her hips till the angle works, oh it really works; till the streetlights blur into iridescent flashes as she takes grateful, greedy pleasure from him.

Three weeks later. It’s Sunday morning and she wants to go for a run. No, come back here, he says, back here under the covers where the only ache you’ll feel is…well, y’know. He laughs and buries his head in her hair, wishing he knew how to do this properly. She takes his hand and guides it between her legs. His fingers relax, softening against her warm, buttery skin. Yes, she says. Yes, I’ll stay. Just don’t stop till I…ahh…

The ritual of it. Drawn out more and more as the months go by. When they have time, she throws her head back and opens herself up to him. He licks his middle finger – a long, slow swipe of his tongue – and drags it up between her labia. Don’t say it like that, she says. Call it my cunt. Touch my cunt. Oh God, please…touch my cunt.

Where else, he says? Where else should I touch you?

—

Each time he learns a little more. How to use the heel of his hand to massage her clit. How to curve and bow his fingers inside her, the knuckles little knobs of pleasure for her to squeeze and rub against. When to be soft and slow. When to tease – and when not to.

He flexes his fingers and feels the muscle memory building inside them; her cunt clenches as she watches the confidence spread across his skin. It’s like stepping outside on a clear, damp morning and seeing the first green shoots thrusting proudly out of the soil. He barely grazes her clit now. She’s a lobster, sinking slowly, blissfully, into a bath of warm water, as his thumb pushes her closer and closer to boiling point.

—

Their world grows bigger. She travels for work, reluctantly at first. I love you, I miss you, he writes. Meet me at the airport, she replies. Don’t say a word. Just let me taste the salt on your skin as you push your fingers inside me.

Their time together feels snatched. Urgent, but focused. She drinks in his delight; the look on his face each time her eyes squeeze shut, and open again in startled, newborn wonder. Yes, you did that, she says. No, he always replies. We did it.

—

When he has to travel too, they’re forced to be creative. You’ll be back when, she says? What if I move my meeting back a couple of hours? Will that work?

They meet in car parks and cinemas; he fingers her in bistros packed so tight there’s hardly room to breathe, and on country lanes where the stars are the only witness to her gasping, mewling surrender. They fuck – of course they fuck – but it’s not his cock that makes her claw his skin. Not his tongue that stiffens her spine with each exploratory pass across the bumps and swales of her eager cunt.

No, it’s his fingers she craves. Not too big and not too small. Supple. Dextrous. Entirely ordinary to everyone but her. She learns their grooves and creases; she kisses the callus at the top of his palm, and her cunt gets slick and hot at the memory of the change in texture when he rubbed it over her clit.

She likes watching him talk to other people; his hands weave patterns around his words, giving them weight and shape. They conduct an orchestra that plays only for her, and she itches to be alone with him; to give the whole performance a special kind of standing ovation.

—

His fingers look different when he touches his own cock. Harder and more threatening. She likes the change, but it always leaves her feeling unsettled, as if they no longer belong to her. She kisses them afterwards, each one in turn, and presses her nose against his palm, letting the smell of him enter her airways. She grips his wrist and opens her legs, as his fingers reach out in search of her wetness.

She reclaims him as her own.

—

He passes through the security scanner and waits for his tray to emerge. He picks it up, takes it to one side, and starts to collect his belongings. Each item is returned to its original place, except for his jacket, which he folds carefully over one arm.

As he scans the departures board, he brushes a loose thread off the collar of his shirt and catches sight of his nails. He reaches into his pocket and fumbles through loose change till he finds the clippers. It’s a four hour flight and she will be waiting for him at the other end.

He turns and walks toward the men’s room.

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Other photos Sinful Sunday

Sinful Sunday: Little Black Something

This is a story that starts with a black shirt. Black shirts can, as Maria Sibylla diplomatically put it, veer into “Johnny Cash territory.” In fact, I tend to avoid black as a colour full-stop – or rather, socks aside, I use it judiciously: a fucking sexy Ted Baker jumper, and a tatty old one from Ben Sherman, retained only for its sentimental value (ahem, ex-girlfriend, ahem); sports wear, though not always out of choice; work shoes.

And then there’s the shirt. It’s sartorial Marmite, like my fuchsia trousers, my Versace (for H&M) boxers, and my blue velvet shoes. Yes, really – I went there. Some people love all of those, while others just think I look like a dick…and I’m fine with both of those viewpoints. It’s a long time since I really cared about what other people think of my clothes – or rather, it’s a long time since I let the negative opinions bother me. As long as I like something, I’m happy, and if other people think it looks good too, that’s a bonus.

So the shirt went online, and was swiftly followed by a description of my full outfit that day. It was only when I went to the bathroom shortly afterwards to take this photo that I realised the underwear I had on was in serious need of replacement. Luckily, Twitter was on hand to help. One particular suggestion resonated, mainly because it felt like it brought the whole discussion full-circle – black boxers rarely appeal, but as soon as @ferns__ tweeted this link, I was taken with the idea of buying a pair.

And so I did.

IMG_9442

What do you think?

 Sinful Sunday

(See below for other photos from this set)

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Sex

Q&A with Madeleine Holden

The one downside to March’s epic Q&A with Buzzfeed’s Gaby Dunn was that finding a suitable follow-up interviewee suddenly became a bit of a thankless task. Like a band wrestling with ‘second album syndrome’, I wasn’t sure whether to stick or twist; to offer up more of the same, or to seek out a completely different point of view.

Unlike Alanis Morissette, The Stone Roses, and The Clash, I eventually realised that if it ain’t broke, you really shouldn’t waste time trying to fix it. Smart, interesting, thoughtful perspectives on sex and gender politics will always be worth sharing, and the subject of today’s Q&A has plenty to offer.

Madeleine Holden (@moscaddie) is a lawyer and writer from New Zealand, who currently lives in London. She’s written for Vice, The Hairpin, and Wondering Sound among others, on subjects as diverse as rap music, stolen celebrity nudes, and why John Grisham should probably rethink his views on inequality in the criminal justice system. She is also the genius behind Critique My Dick Pic, a site which got added to my Bookmarks roughly 0.37 seconds after I clicked through to it for the first time.

Maddie was kind enough to give me some of her time this week, and to answer my questions on feminism, consent, life in London, and, first up, the art of the dick pic…

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Sex

Go fuck myself? Yes please

Her: Where would you go if you could travel back in time?

Me: Hmm, good question. I think I’d go back to one of the times we were fucking. And join in.

Her: Oh…dammit, you have all the best ideas.

I had that conversation a while back, with an old squeeze who sadly now lives too far away for anything other than occasional, flirty chat. It popped back into my head this afternoon, when I saw the following tweet:

How are the two connected? Well, while my friend was busy thinking about our time-travelling threesome, and enjoying the idea of being fucked by two guys, I had something slightly different in mind.

I was in my early 20s when I first started fantasising about being fucked by another guy. The details were usually pretty blurry back then, but whatever else the scenario involved, the dick thrusting in and out of my arse always looked like an awful lot like mine: same sort of size, same sort of shape, same circumcised head.

That sounds narcissistic, but looking back now it makes total sense – to me, at least – because at that stage I didn’t really have many other reference points. The porn I looked at as a teenager came in top-shelf magazine form, or on VHS from the local video shop; it featured plenty of anatomically instructive close-ups of tits and cunts, but no actual sex, and certainly no erections. Even at university, when internet porn was starting to become more widespread, I didn’t have my own laptop, and was too scared of being caught to do anything more than browse Literotica from time-to-time on the college computers.

By the time I was 22/23, I could probably count on one hand the number of hard cocks I had actually seen; when I imagined what it might be like to get fucked with one, it felt natural to use my own as a starting point.

My horizons have broadened somewhat since then, as has the level of creativity that finds its way into my sexual fantasies. Nowadays the guys I imagine fucking me tend to look very different, as do their dicks: they’re typically longer than mine, or thicker, or longer and thicker; some are cut, but many aren’t; some are carefully-crafted figments of my own imagination, others are dicks I’ve seen in porn clips, or Tumblr feeds, or dirty IM chats.

There’s one exception to all of that though, and it goes back both to the conversation with my ex-fuckbuddy and to one of my favourite novels, The Time Traveler’s Wife. In the latter, Henry has sexual encounters with various past/future versions of himself, as (I think) does his wife, Claire. When chatting to my friend, I was thinking less about how much she might enjoy being fucked by two versions of me at the same time (that really would be narcissistic), and more about a scenario in which I’d be able to have sex with her, while simultaneously being fucked by the other ‘me’.

The idea of that is really hot for a few reasons, but I think the biggest one comes back to that old chestnut, curiosity. I know how it feels to slide my cock inside someone’s cunt, and I know how it feels to squeeze it inside their arse. I know what effect it has when they slowly ease up and down the full length while sitting on top of me, or when they grind back against the base as I kneel behind them. What I don’t know – can’t know – is how that feels for them. What it’s like to have me push inside them, or how the rhythm of my body feels as we fuck.

I want to be fucked by another guy, in part, because I’m curious to know what it’s like to be penetrated in that way, rather than to be the one doing the penetrating; wanting to be fucked by my own cock – or wanting to suck it – is pretty much the logical extension of that curiosity. Whether it involves time travel, or a rapid acceleration in cloning technology, the first thing I’d want to do with an identical copy of myself would be to get down on my knees and find out what it’s like to experience a blow job, or a good hard fuck from the other side of the fence.

And that’s where the ‘Clone a Dick’ kit comes in. Or where it could come in, anyway. Like Abbi, I own a version of that product…except in my case, it’s been sitting in various suitcases, cupboards, wardrobes, and drawers for about the last six years. It was bought for me by one of my last serious girlfriends, at a time when she was planning to go travelling for a few months and wanted to take my cock with her. In the end the trip never happened, and we split up shortly after it fell through; the dildo kit is one of the few enduring legacies of that relationship.

I’ve thought about using it on various occasions since then, and have even discussed it with a couple of partners, but for whatever reason the box remains unopened. I suppose it’s partly fear of disappointment – for all that it should be incredibly sexy, I suspect that in the wrong hands the moulding process might just turn into a slightly tedious, awkward anticlimax – but there’s also an extent to which I haven’t really decided what I want to do with the finished product.

Right now, it’s basically Schrödinger’s dildo. As long as it stays in the box, it can be all things to all people; like the conversation about time travel, it acts as a catalyst for other thoughts and fantasies, with a resulting erotic power that exceeds what it could be reasonably expected to deliver in physical form. For my ex, and for a couple of playmates since her, the appeal lies in having a dildo modelled on my cock. Others think of it in purely decorative terms – “what a great ornament for my mantelpiece,” was one partner’s comment. I had incredibly filthy conversations with one woman who wanted to tie me up and fuck herself with the dildo while licking the tip of my cock till I begged for mercy; and even filthier sex afterwards, as she used one of her own toys as a stand-in, telling me the whole time how much better, how much bigger it felt than my dick would, and driving me crazy in the process.

All of those would be great options – and honestly, however I end up using the kit I’m sure it’ll provide a lot of enjoyment. However, running through all of the conversations I’ve had about it, and sitting somewhere at the back of my mind each time I’ve turned the box over in my hands when moving flat, or reorganising my stuff, has been one pretty basic thought…

“…I wonder how this would work with a harness.”

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Erotica

Woken

Jen winced as the floorboards creaked under her feet. Michael was downstairs in the study, tapping away on his laptop, and she knew he’d have music playing through his headphones as he worked through the night, but she worried about waking Pete. The spare room was uncomfortable enough to begin with, with its fold-out sofa bed and draughty window; further challenging their guest’s ability to sleep by clomping across the landing to the bathroom felt like distinctly inhospitable behaviour.

Jen still wasn’t sure what to make of Pete. He seemed friendly enough, but there was a distance in his eyes, and he rarely sat with them in the evenings, preferring instead to slouch into the tatty old armchair out on the porch and swig from the beer bottles Michael tossed him periodically through the kitchen window. He’d paid for the three weeks up front though, and Jen didn’t believe in turning down good money just to avoid a bit of social awkwardness.

The toilet flushed – why did everything in the house have to be so damn loud?! – and Jen flipped the lid down wearily. A nocturnal husband wasn’t so bad most of the time, but there were nights when she wished he’d go to bed at the same time as she did, so there was someone to snuggle up against after 2am trips to the bathroom. Someone to go downstairs and fill her water bottle each time it ran dry. Someone to roll over and slide a hand between her legs when…

Jen angrily pushed the thought out of her head. She knew she’d struggle to get back to sleep anyway, without reaching for her vibrator and starting something she’d only want Michael to come upstairs and finish. She picked up the bottle from the bedside table and gave it a rueful shake. Laziness battled thirst, and she considered switching on her phone to message Michael, in the hope he’d bring her a fresh bottle; as she reached for it though, her hand missed her own mobile and knocked against his, sending it skittering onto the floor and quickly making her mind up for her.

~

The stair runner beneath her feet muffled Jen’s footsteps as she padded down to the kitchen. Cool air crept underneath her night shirt, tickling the soft wisps of hair above her cunt. Her stomach clenched, and her brain noted with sleep-fuzzed detachment that she was slick and hot; pulsing steadily with a slow-burning need. She glanced across the hallway towards Michael’s study. The door was closed, but pale light leaked out from under it, and Jen thought again about the comforting weight of his body; the hitch in his breathing whenever he shuddered and came inside her.

On the other side of the hall, Pete’s door was ajar. A surge of guilt hit Jen for a second time as she remembered the noise her footsteps had made. Perhaps she’d disturbed him enough that he’d gone back out to the porch to enjoy some silence under the stars; if so, she should take him tea, or even a nip of the Scotch they kept in Michael’s liquor cabinet.

Jen took a step towards the kitchen then hesitated, suddenly torn. Tea was the sensible option, but fetching the whiskey would mean going into the study, and she knew that if he saw her like that, hair tousled and nipples hard against her thin shirt, Michael would find it hard to resist setting his work aside for the night and dragging her off to bed. She summoned a brief, familiar mental image of his eyebrows knotting in mock severity, and felt sure that any exasperation he felt at being interrupted would quickly be replaced by an arousal to match her own.

Her feet pre-empted the final decision, one heel spinning till she faced the study, and propelling her towards it. Jen smiled and reached for the door handle, only registering as she did so that the breathing she could hear against the quiet of the hallway was not her own. It came from inside the room: a low moan that seemed to die as it reached her, raising the hairs on her arms with its quiet urgency.

Jen pressed her finger against the door, half expecting to feel the wood vibrate from the sigh that passed through it. She nudged it off the latch and it eased open just enough for light to stream out. As her eyes adjusted to the change, Jen tried to focus on the source of the sound.

Pete’s head was tossed so far back into the heavy green curtain that it took her several seconds to struggle past the initial, surreal image of a department store mannequin propped up on the wooden desk, being enthusiastically blown by her husband. The grunt he made each time Michael’s head bobbed down to the base of his dick was unmistakably human though, as were the fingers that twisted and flexed in the kneeling man’s hair.

Jen knew she should swing open the door and stop whatever was happening from going any further. She blinked and swallowed hard, but her feet wouldn’t move; instead it was her fingers that jammed hard between her legs, as Michael spread and splayed his hands either side of Pete’s dick, like he was offering up a prayer as he sucked it.

With a flush, Jen remembered the evening she’d caught a glimpse of Pete slipping into the bathroom in just a towel. She’d wondered idly what sort of cock he was packing in amongst the bunched muscles and delicate ridges of his wiry frame. He’d half-turned, almost as if he sensed her presence, and she’d seen him in profile; just for a second, but that was enough to reveal the tight bulge he made in the cotton, and to send her scurrying back up the stairs in a mixture of embarrassment and slightly shocked arousal.

This time though the instinct to flee refused to kick in, and as Michael rocked back on his haunches she finally saw it properly, dark and heavy against the white of Pete’s stomach. It was so hard that her cunt ached at the sight of it, and at the thought of her husband’s mouth, hot and bruised from its fierce, swollen throb.

Jen rubbed frantically, and recalled the gentle, careful way that Michael’s tongue had flicked over her clit earlier that evening. As always, he’d been precise and softly percussive in his movements; likewise, whenever she sucked him it was done with a finesse guaranteed to make his toes curl long before she coaxed him to deep, shuddering orgasm.

The contrast with the frantic hunger she saw on Michael’s face as he leaned forward to take Pete’s thick cock deep in his throat once again was enough to make Jen gush all over the palm of her hand. She slumped against the wall, her thighs tight and shaky but determined not to buckle. Inside the study neither man gave any quarter, and Pete’s moans as he thrust up from the desk were matched by the soft hiss of air that escaped Michael’s mouth each time the head slipped back out across his lips. Jen felt a second spasm knifing through her. She squeezed her eyes shut, and opened them again in time to see Pete curl a hand around his cock, using the other to hold Michael in place on his knees.

“Yes,” she heard her husband whisper, so loud that Jen thought for a second he must be talking to her. “Yes, fucking do it. Fucking come all over me.”

Pete pumped his length with rough, jerky strokes. Jen could see the strain in his hand as it bumped up over the ridge and covered the head. He kicked a heel against the desk with a violent thud and pulled Michael closer, forcing his mouth open again. Everything seemed to blur for one agonising second, before snapping back into sharp, forensic clarity. Jen bit down on her lip to stifle a gasp, as blurred ropes of cum flew between the two men, coating Michael’s stubbled skin. He sucked in air, chest heaving and eyes wide in what seemed to her a mix of shock and uncontrolled lust. Pete’s dick still oozed cum, and he brushed it over Michael’s lips like a make-up artist, painting them once, twice, with a sticky smear.

Jen waited, unsure what else to expect. The care with which Pete nuzzled his cock against her husband’s cheek made her wonder how many times they’d played out this scene while she slept. It also fired her curiosity: what else had they done together? And why hadn’t Michael said something?

Pete reached for one of the two glasses that sat side-by-side on the desk. He raised it in a silent toast and tipped his head back, draining the contents in one long pull as Michael looked on, seemingly too exhausted to move. Jen wrenched her gaze away from Pete’s cock – still somehow hefty and solid, even resting limp against his thigh – and crept back across the hallway. She felt like she was intruding on something she didn’t yet fully understand. Perhaps answers could wait for daylight.

~

Bundled up in her duvet, Jen fiddled with the alarm on her mobile. She set it for 02:00 the following morning and put the phone back on the nightstand.

Perhaps answers could wait for daylight. Or perhaps some things were only understood by embracing the darkness.

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Sinful Sunday: Anonymous (April)

Two fantastic anonymous submissions this week, very different in tone but both celebrating the joy that sex toys can bring to our lives, from the basic physical pleasure they provide, through to the ability they have to shape or enhance our sexual identity. Many thanks to the two people responsible, for their willingness to share them here.

Sweet Spot

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For me, androgyny is the sweet spot between masculine and feminine. I’ve always thought androgyny was beautiful, but it was some time before I became comfortable playing with it. The first time I wore a strap-on, I felt like an idiot. I was too insecure and sexually inexperienced to embrace having a cock. Now I love the sweet spot. I love the surge of hyper-femininity I feel when I slip into a harness and the low, steady hum what I can only describe as masculine sexual energy that accompanies it. It isn’t something I indulge in very often, but playing in the sweet spot is a tremendous treat.

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Fickle pleasure, sometimes it comes so naturally, other times it’s just out of reach…

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Sinful Sunday

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Cock shots Sinful Sunday

Sinful Sunday: Lazy Weekday Afternoons

Unemployment has been relatively kind to me. There’s been a sort of base level of stress, loneliness, and anxiety, and I won’t miss any of that one bit; but there have also been lovely holidays (Marrakech, Madrid, the Swiss Alps, Scotland), lots of time to read and write, the chance to align my sleeping habits with my natural body clock (distinctly nocturnal)…and lots of long, lazy afternoons in bed, enjoying sunshine and post-orgasmsic bliss while the rest of the world is stuck behind a desk.

Tomorrow I rejoin that more prosaic reality; tonight, I choose to remember the best bits of the five months I spent away from it.

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