Wicked Wednesday: Black and white

We work together in black and white. But we live in the grey in between. Newspaper advertising sales. We divide the spaces between the stories. We work out what each is worth. We calculate the page yield – what we can afford to sell each for. We work side by side.

She runs the team. Every week we go head to head with the target. We succeed or we fail. We hit page yield or we don’t.

She sits in her office, behind that big desk, fitted black power suit to match her thick black ringlets. She is about my age, but far above my status. She rose effortlessly to the top. She is decisive, clear-sighted, ruthless.

I’m in the team. Every week I work to meet the target. I succeed or I fail. I err, I hesitate. Things are black and white. Especially with her. I want her so badly, it hurts. But I can’t have her. That much should be simple.

Then things start to go grey. She knows I want her. An office party, a drunken pass. A hard slap across the cheek. And then a softer, comforting touch, stroking the pain.

And now this. In her office, summoned. She’s sat behind her gleaming ebony desk, suit buttoned up, but there’s a lot of flesh, as though she’s wearing nothing underneath. It seems whiter because of the contrast. She sees me looking at her plunging neckline. Undoes a single button.

She passes me a note, and then dials a number. It’s head office and she’s talking ad volumes and yields. I open the note:

You can’t have what you want. But I can. I want to see you yield to me. Can you take it?

Then get on your knees. And come and get it.

There it was, in black and white.

I kneel down and watch her on the phone, sliding her chair back. I can see her under the desk, as she slides out into the light, she’s wearing only cheer black stockings below the waist. And I know what I have to do.

I crawl like a dog on heat under her desk, as she slides her hips forward. And then she opens the jacket, and I gasp. Not just because of the weight of her breasts, tumbling out, with dark, puckered nipples. But between her legs at eye level is her cock.

She’s wearing a black leather harness supporting a black silicone dildo, life-size. I pause and look up. She’s looking down at me, ear pressed to the phone, but she mouths “Come and get it.” And I know what I have to do. Grabbing the toy, I open my mouth, and tentatively suck the rubbery end.

As I do so, I notice the harness is positioned to rub her clit. But before I can think about this, she grabs a handful of my hair and forces me down onto the dildo. Hard. It hits my gag reflex so quickly I swear I’ll throw up, as she circles my head, grinding my whole throat against its gritty texture and chemical taste. After what seems like an hour, but was probably only seconds, she releases the pressure, and I reflexively recoil from her lap, trailing slobbering ropes as I wheeze breathless gasps, clamouring for air in my newly liberated throat. I pause, swallow down stray saliva and fresh air, but once again she pushes me down, her hand hard against my skull and, as I gag and struggle, I can sense her own response to the movement against her clit. A sharp intake of breath, as she finishes her call.

Then I’m on my feet, swaying slightly from the rush of blood and the oxygen denial. I lean on her desk to steady myself. She gently bends me forward and starts to rub my back. Where she grabbed my hair, now she carefully massages and I feel her hot breath tickling my ear.

“I need you to take this for me. Never doubt that this is where we stand, you and me”.

And she eases down my trousers, pressing my hips onto the cold, varnished wood, my cock splayed on the table under my tense stomach. I can feel that wet plastic cock resting at the top of my arse. And again, I am down. She extends her arm suddenly and I feel the full force of her desire, my head slammed against the desk, pinned at the shoulder by her elbow. I can see her silhouette reflected in the glass of a framed picture on the wall. She looks magnificent. Imperious, and totally focused.

I hear her spit, and a second later feel the lubricating fluid between my ass cheeks. Her hand is in the middle of my back, but I no longer need her restraint. I open my legs slightly and listen to her soothing words: “Breathe out slowly, just empty your lungs and relax”.

I do so, and at the end of the exhalation, I loosen automatically, and feel the head of her dildo enter me, wet from my own saliva. I’m pressed harder against the desk, my cock stirring from its constriction and the signals being sent from my brain. I cry out, and then bite my lip, as I surrender my desire to her pleasure. A kiss on my shoulder, a whisper of encouragement in my ear, and she’s further inside me, and I can no longer cry out. I whimper a low, drawn out moan, half crying, half in ecstasy. My cock is surging in response, forcing any remaining tension into my throat, where I feel my voice tightening.

And then she is fully inside me, and we are finally united. I’m muzzled, pinned and held by both the pain and pleasure, years of frustration at her hands now released as tears running down my cheeks. She holds me tight, gripping my shoulders and grinds up and down, rubbing her cunt against the dildo wedged tight in my ass. Faster. And harder. It feels like forever.

I want to erupt, to shout, and cry, to bellow with a force that I feel being pushed into me. But I don’t want this connection to end, she riding her desires through me, finding her pleasure in my pain. “Feel me come inside you,” she gasps, as the wave of her orgasm travels down into the core of my being.

My own orgasm is now so close, and the conflict and confusion of feelings so stark, I can’t find the words or even the noises to express it. As she dismounts from my back and pulls away, I feel it hit, starting in my spine. I can barely breathe as it spills out between my belly and the table. My final offering to her, now seeping wet and unwanted, pools of white against the black table.

We work together in black and white. But we live in the grey in between. In the spaces between the words. We work out what each other is worth. We work side by side. But it will always be me who yields.

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Sinful Sunday 331: zipwire

The mix of pleasure and pain is H.O.T. And a simple way of giving Mistress pleasure through a bit of self-administered pain is a zipwire: pegs, clipped to flesh, connected by a rope. Then pulled off like a Band-Aid. 

Sometimes across the nipples, or balls, cock or inner thigh. Clip and pull – and that lovely feeling that just makes you need to touch yourself. Just the eight this time. How many next time, ma’am?


See who else is getting snappy this Sinful Sunday by clicking on the lips below.

Sinful Sunday

Blade stunner – part one

You’re sitting at the long wooden farmhouse table, hunched forward leaning on your elbows. One hand is spinning a knife, the point twisting a divot in the surface, one finger pressing it down on the tip of the handle. You’ve kept me standing in front of you for five minutes now and I’m almost hypnotised by the pirouetting blade. You’re gazing at its shiny wooden handle, turning and catching the light, and without looking up you eventually speak.

“Do you know what this is, slut?”

“A knife?”

“Wrong.”

I shift nervously from foot to foot, trying to work out if this is a test. I’m trying to guess your mood, wracking my brains for evidence either way. You’ve certainly been pissed off with me lately. You told me outright my need for reassurance is whiny. You also said my tone seems to question your demands. So I don’t think I’m here for a reward from you. The cold from the flagstone floor is numbing my bare feet and rising up through my body. All the surfaces seem cold and hard in this dungeon-like room.

“This isn’t a knife, boy. It’s a Böker Vollintegral 2.0 Palissander hunting knife. Perfectly balanced, with a bespoke shaped handle and so sharp it could shave fluff off a peach.”

The temperature drops another degree. I can feel the cold sweat on my back. You look simmering hot, though. You’re positively glowing. You stand up and so does the knife, embedded upright in the table, quivering. Instinctively, I step back and you don’t seem to want to stop me. As you circle the table I find myself backed up against the rough wooden door. You stop, lean back against the table and a cold smile creeps across your face. Your eyes are inscrutable. The smile doesn’t seem to have reached them.

You walk slowly towards me, keeping eye contact, until you’re almost on my toes. I may be 5 inches taller than you, but I am in no way looking down. Any thoughts I had about talking my way out of this are soon removed, as I feel the point of the knife at the base of my throat, between the two points of the clavicle. The knife I had thought was stuck in the table. A twist and the point is through my t-shirt and it is cold on my flesh.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

I’m thinking of a reply. Hopefully one that won’t provoke another twist. 11cm of razor-sharp steel at your gullet makes you cautious about what to say next. But you don’t wait for a reply. Instead there’s a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye, the sound of tearing cotton and my t-shirt front is in two, opening my bare chest and two very hard nipples. Grasping the blade between your teeth, you gather the remains of my t-shirt and hoist it high above my head, snagged on a hook over the door that looks put there for that purpose, pulling my arms up and twisting them over so I am bound like St Sebastian waiting for the arrows.

I’m close enough to see your heaving breath mist up the shiny blade as you concentrate on my bindings. It is surprisingly cold when, having tied me fast, you hold it close to my chest and start to press. It bends into the flesh but doesn’t break it; I instinctively flinch, which makes you chuckle, and you whisper into my ear: “just be grateful your balls are already shaved”. You are trying to sound forceful, but I can hear the desire, a shallow pant, that belies the aggression.

You angle the blade and press it against my soft armpits and start to scrape. Your fingers touch so lightly and the blade maintains the softest tension. The edge of steel that scrapes me like butterfly wings, yet can lacerate my skin with just the slightest change of angle. It is so out of step with everything about your mood, the deep breaths of concentration, your simmering anger, that it catches me off guard. It also starts to arouse me. My cock is caught awkwardly in my pants and it swells into an agonising position. I’m trying hard not to think about your own downy armpits and cunt, and their sweet smell when your fire is up.

The hair falls away in gossamer drifts, and so my red flesh is bare. You lick me, and your rough tongue stings the exposed flesh. It’s a hungry, powerful lick that ends at my nipple. And a sharp bite that makes me yelp with pain, and buckle slightly at the knees. And now the knife is at my waist, you are forcefully sawing with it, removing my belt the hard way, until it slides away into two pieces. You take the buckled half and turn your attention to the freshly cut square end – and as if reading my curiosity, you lay it and the down gently and turn back to me.

“This is not your business, slut.” And you haul down my shorts and pants to my knees, releasing my sprung erection like a jack-in-the-box. Its presence seems an affront to you. You slap it once, twice, three, four times – forehand and back hand. Until a better idea strikes you. “Seeing as you like it so much…” you mutter as your voice trails off and you grab the knife. In a couple of strokes you’ve removed the elastic from my pants and start to truss my balls and cock like a turkey. You tie the knot tight and my cock seems all veins and blood vessels, trying to subside, but unable to under the pressure of the tourniquet. Then you turn me to face the door.

I can hear you cutting the belt some more, but I daren’t try to turn around. And then it is revealed, as you lightly trace my erstwhile belt across my nervously twitching ass. You trace it slowly down the curve of my behind then try to push it in; the belt folds and splits – and I finally understand what you’re telling me: you’ve made it into a tawse, its fingers walking across my most tender flesh.

Before I can take in what is going to happen, I’ve something more pressing to worry about. Literally. You let the tawse drop and I feel your fingers slip under my ass as you press against me, your middle finger stroking the length of my perineum while fingers to the left and right gently part my thighs. I bow my legs slightly to accommodate your hand as it scoops my tied balls forward as though about to pick a ripened fruit.

I can feel your swollen breasts press hard into my back, your nipples tickling my super-sensitive skin as your other hand is forced between my legs. As you extricate both hands, my balls come to rest on a sliver of cold steel. The Böker is cleaved into the wooden door at just the right height, blade up. I don’t need to stand on tiptoe to ease the weight of my balls but I can’t stand flat-footed either. I sort of bounce like a tennis player waiting to return serve. While I’m working out how to stand, the first stroke raps me hard across my backside, sending shocks through my entire body.

My lungs feel completely crushed as all the air escapes my body, as I’m desperately trying to process the pain. Instinctively I press myself against the door until I remember the knife beneath me. My cock is still thick and stubby with the trapped blood; as I breathe in and out hard to deal with the raging pain across my ass, I’m trying to arouse myself, to life my junk clear of the danger. I close my eyes and think. I think of you and imagine you now naked, sweat trickling down your sternum between flushed breasts, nipples stark and proud, wielding the tawse and panting with indignant fury.

But behind me you drop the shoulder and sweep my former belt like a slingshot, making it wrap around the curve of my ass and sear a welt on my right cheek. I desperately cling to my t-shirt cuffs like a drowning man to a lifeline, stifling the screams as I haul with all my might to pull myself clear of the steel. I can’t show you my suffering, I can’t feed your desire.

Three. And I’ve buried my face in my fists, the pain overwhelming any pretence of not suffering.

Four. I cry out. I scream. I tear at the door with my nails, and I feel the blade scraping the soft flesh of my bound scrotum, but I don’t care. At this point I’d rather lose my balls than endure another stroke of this pain.

Five. And everything goes black.

(to be continued…)

Wicked Wednesday #271: Lick of faith

Sorry, I couldn’t get inspired by the prompt. I was full of thoughts of the Quid Pro Quo of denial. For Her. 

I don’t know how long you’ve kept me here, kneeling on a cold cement floor. My cock is tied around at the balls, and threaded under my arse to bind my ankles and my hands behind my back. I’m blindfolded. 

My thighs are numb. I can’t feel my feet or shins. I can’t move, in the dark. Suddenly I’m aware of you walking around. There’s a tapping sound – are you behind me, in front? I feel the trace of the leather flicker on your crop. Down my back, across my chest, inside of my thighs. 

I feel you now in front of me. I hear you touching your wetness, the smacking sound of fingers extracting.

A single finger on the tip of my nose. Instinctively I try to lick it but my tongue isn’t long enough. It’s a wet strip that is taking forever to work down to the tip. I hear you laugh at my attempts to reach it. 

Suddenly you force two wet fingers inside my mouth, and I forget the nose, I’m greedily sucking at your digits like a lolly. 

And just as quickly, they are gone. I’m trying to awaken my legs, because I’ve got a taste for it. But between the loss of circulation and my bindings I’m stuck. Completely at your mercy. 

You are so close I can feel the heat from your body in this cold chamber. There is a stirring in my tourniqued cock, a remembrance, stirred by the taste of your juices. A memory.

“Reach for me, slut”. Your voice is barely a whisper. But it’s loud in my ears in this silent cell. I hear the panting desire beneath its surface. I extend my tongue. It feels like I’m close but I reach nothing. 

“Higher, dirty bitch. Got to earn a taste of my cunt”.

Extending my tongue again, I go to try to stand. I’m stuck, but by straining at the ropes I can gain a few precious inches. I lurch, afraid of landing on my face, but my fall is broken as my tongue meets your sloppy cunt. Instinctively I began to lap, flat-tongued, until the scream. 

My scream. I cough and choke on your juices as I rock back on my heels, almost pitching backwards on to the floor. 

“You can taste as many times as you like, slut. But each time, I’m going to take my pain.” My cock and balls still stinging from the blow from your crop. 

Gingerly, I regain my position. Slowly, like I’m dipping toes into a bath, I rise, tongue out, to meet my reward and pay the price. To meet my pleasure with pain. To give both to you.

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Sliding Tawse….

Dear C

Forgive the terrible pun in the headline of this article, but this is some musings on What Might Have Been, provoked by an observation over the last couple of weeks of working through my ‘kink issues’. As a middle-aged man coming to submissiveness and BDSM later than he would have liked, I seem to be bang on the demographic, if the ‘kink twitter’ population is anything to go by. On reflection this is maybe not surprising: to admit to non-normative sexual desires takes a certain amount of self-confidence in a society that tends to ridicule such tendencies. The sort of self confidence that comes with middle age, a certain feeling of, if not exactly sexual confidence, then sexual competence at least. And a large dose of IDGAF. Also, the classic age when we become more aware of our mortality and don’t want to die not knowing.

For me this is not a new topic of musing but actually a chance to reframe some long-standing thoughts in a new way. In the way I used to look back on teenage years and realise the opportunities for early sexual encounters I had passed up through failure to read signs. So, without breaking down current compartmental walls of my life today, I need to talk about E.

E was a woman I met in my 4th year at university (I did a third year abroad, meaning my BA lasted 4 years). She was a third year history student, sharing a house with women from my course. We got to know each other and then drunkenly got off with each other at a student piss up.

I had come back from a celibate year abroad, on the back of a two-year relationship with G. at the start of university. As bookends to the Student Sexual Experience, they could not have been more different, and the women more different. Years 1&2 saw me and G.: two virgins fumbling their way towards eventual penetration, with lots of emotional learning, a few sexual techniques and an almost middle-age contentment in the rhythm of learning to go out with someone when you had your own bedroom.

With E, things moved faster. We were together for the whole of our final year, breaking up in the summer of graduation, and when we weren’t in the library or working, we were basically fucking each other. It remains one of the most amazing years of my life that still gives me a warm feeling when I reflect on it.

E not only liked sex, she liked it hard, and she liked it brusque, quick and passionate, with lots of swearing. She was the first woman I heard swear in sexual desire, and it gave me such an enormous thrill. She could make me hard just by barking out in those no-nonsense North Yorkshire tones “Come here and fook me, you”. She had, in my limited experience at the time, an almost male sexual desire pattern – she would come quickly, preferred quick, frequent bouts to long, luxuriant lovemaking. The first week back after the Christmas holidays, when we hadn’t seen each other for two whole weeks, we went to bed for the day. I came 7 times in that time (the number sticks in my mind!).

In many ways, it was actually very vanilla – straight fucking. She didn’t like oral sex, either giving or receiving. Sloppy handjobs were the order of the day “when the decorators were in”. It was a great grounding. Straightforward Sexual Practice 101.

But from the start she was very much in charge. If Years 1&2 had been two naïfs not daring to ask the other to touch them in a special way, then E was all about demanding it on a plate (or the bedroom floor, bathroom, and living room if the others were out). Come here and fuck me, indeed. I adored it – not just because I was getting laid every waking minute, but I felt so secure in her control. She would tell me what she wanted, I’d (try) to deliver.

She loved torturing my southern mannered tendencies and natural shyness with women: through her language, being sexually explicit towards me. She loved to rake my back with her nails, and dig them in hard, when she came, squeeze my balls and cock in a deliberately salacious way, bruise and bounce off me and not be above a bit of biting. It was a whole new language of love to me, raised on chaste ideas of sexual propriety in the bosom of the church.

Looking back on it now, I realise the elements of Domme within her behaviour: Headstrong, clear-sighted in her desires and in requiring me to deliver on them. Even if I had ANY inkling at the time that I had submissive and masochistic tendencies – or that I understood what that meant – I still might have been slow on the uptake because of her narrow range of sexual tastes. I like to think, had we had the chance, we could have explored new territories together. I can’t help thinking that grabbing and biting could have led to spanking and slapping. Whether she would have the patience for complex or involved fantasy or D/s lifestyles is debatable. But she was crazy enough to have given it a go if she thought it was what she wanted.

All good things must come to an end, they say. Ours came when she dumped me over the phone when I returned home after my Finals. The slightly comic postscript came at graduation, when I knew we would see each other again. I didn’t want to go back and managed to avoid her all day, until the evening gathering at the Student Union. She drunkenly told me of her conflicted feelings. I walked her back to the same student house where we had fucked all those times. We ended up fucking again in the hallway, trousers round my ankles I managed to come all up the inside of her dress, while she howled with laughter at the sheer stupidity of it and us.

When I got back home, she wrote me to say she thought she’d made a mistake and could we try again. To my profound regret I said no – the reasons she’d originally given (distance, divergent careers) hadn’t changed so why should our decision. Mentally I had already moved on.

Our paths would end up crossing a few more times at reunion drinks in London, and were increasingly awkward. In a move that would be dismissed as ridiculous if you wrote it in a script, she ended up winning a lot of money in the National Lottery (!) and married a guy from uni we both knew who she initially thought was a creep. Now, I have no idea where she is and have never tried to find her on social media.

It is clearly not a good policy to base a long-term relationship on matters of sexual practice alone, but I think they can be revealing of far more than I used to give them credit for. As personalities go, we were very different – she: all fire and passion, flaring up, straight-talking, no-nonsense, active; me: middle-class reasonableness, equivocation, sensitive to others’ feelings, passive. In conventional terms, we probably made no sense as a ‘couple’ but, fuck, we might have been a hell of a D/s. She is still the one against whom I judge RL sexual feelings, satisfaction and desires, which I don’t really like to admit to myself. As I get older, the more I start to think about what might have been – while simultaneously admonishing myself for being a silly old man, looking back with rose-tinted glasses at what was, at best, a fun time but no more.

Why does any of this matter? We’re not together, I have no idea where she is, we haven’t seen each other for 17 years. I am clearly projecting my own fantasies upon a romanticised notion of a relationship that ran its natural course. But this is not a casual afterthought; it has been going through my mind for the best part of 20 years. It’s the itch that won’t be scratched away.

In one of our post-relationship meet ups in London, both of us were without our respective partners, just on our own. Of the three or so times we met up in London, as part of a wider group, it was the only time we freely talked – about what we were doing etc Didn’t discuss the past. It was, frankly, the only time we were civil to each other. We had a great night – and there was definitely something there. That look in her eye at the end when, as a group, we all went our separate ways back to our separate lives.

I think I knew then that the kind of sexuality we enjoyed was different from previous and subsequent relationships, but I didn’t understand why. I just assumed it was lust – teenage horniness (well, 21-year-old). I’ve been caught ever since in a pattern of wondering if it’s just my mind preserving in aspic something that was really not that big a deal, but it seemed perfect because of the circumstances: young, horny, freedom to fuck, no responsibilities. Would the same thing have happened if we had met while holding down first jobs in London? I didn’t have the language to describe the differences or to analyse it in terms of control, power relations, dominance or anything like that.

So, thought experiment time: what would have happened if I had? Would I have tried to persuade her that, in fact, we fitted in the shape of D/s compatibility (but I really don’t know, actually, if we did)? Would I have left my girlfriend at the time to go for it, despite a lifetime of passivity in relations with women? Did I want it badly enough at the time or did I think, as all young people do, that I had a lifetime of exotic, experimental and fulfilling sex ahead of me?

To return to the question I posed earlier: why does this matter? Are all of us destined to have one great relationship that flips on a might-have-been moment? Whereby the knowledge about what was the right thing to do would be years in coming?  Do we, then, have to torture ourselves with parallel universe imaginings? Is all of any of this – kink, D/s – a way of just trying to control something that is actually now beyond our control? Too late, but we do what we can before we rage against the dying of the light?

Or, to quote another Dylan: “But I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now”.

 

 

Press ‘P’ for orgasm…

As a sub, I’m pretty excitable, especially when there is something new to try. I call this my Giddy Kipper mode, and it can sometimes be endearing to my mistress. But if it goes too hyper, it comes across as sass, and I had overstepped the mark on Tuesday. A rebuke was due.

The reason for my excitability was a new toy. A ‘prostate massager’, which sounds like a Victorian medical euphemism, but is actually a cigar tube-size vibrator, with a stepped end, to allow you to press a flattened edge against your prostate through the walls of your rectum. She was going to get me to try it, but my deserved slapdown meant I had to keep my cage on for another 24 hours. This meant my cock was out-of-bounds in any ass play that night.

In many ways that kept things simple, and just allowed me to focus on the back door. I have a new, and uncertain, relationship with my ass as a sexual playground. Part of this is an inability to induce a cock orgasm with something in my back passage.  I don’t know if this is common, psychological or physiological, but at least it meant I could focus on the main task in hand.

Previously I had treated the ass as a source of pleasure through the insertion of dildos and other things to feel the pleasure from the pressure of the object, its length, girth and some indirect prostate play, though I realise now that was accidental. I also have to say I had also previously got some arousal from a sense of violation and feelings associated with being dirty, enjoying the shamefulness, which is a whole other topic for another blog.

When the vibrator started, I think the fact I was locked up helped – partly because of the tension between being restrained and having to give in to that – I was submitting my cock to Mistress’s will and that helped relax me. I started with some external simulation, to test how the vibrations felt against my skin. I tried it against my balls, as well as the soft part between thigh and torso, and purred at the sensual tingles I was experiencing.

But after the warm up, the main even kicked off. I lubed it up and then pressed it on my asshole. This is quite familiar territory from my previous manual ass play – I have stimulated my asshole with an electric toothbrush before, which is nice and rasping. This was a much gentler thing and it really relaxed me for insertion. I am pretty comfortable with putting small to medium things up my ass, and this size and shape was no problem. My ass hungrily swallowed it up, and I enjoyed a few minutes of sucking it in and out of my ass and pushing it all the way up.

I have had experience of anal pleasure, though it has been hit and miss – because I now realise it was only by chance it hit the prostate. I had no idea where it was in terms of how far up. I had previously concentrated on shoving things up to enjoy the depth of penetration as my enjoyment from ass play. But two things happened to take this up about 15 levels.

First, I discovered where my prostate really was. I realised it had to be towards the penis side of things, but it was only when I tried sliding it in and out, to simulate being fucked, that I found it. It was similar to when I first discovered orgasms as a teenager – I distinctly remember that first point between masturbating and coming nothing but air, and then that first time when you produce cum and THAT feeling. That is how much of a revelation Tuesday night was.

The second thing was, I realised I had only been on half vibration speed. So I turned it up all the way and nearly blew my head off. Fuck. Ing. Hell. The mix of these two things, pressing it full speed onto my prostate was INCREDIBLE. All the time as I was struggling to speak, at the back of my mind was the thought: “WHY DOES NO MAN EVER TALK ABOUT THIS?? HOW COME I AM ONLY DISCOVERING THIS NOW BECAUSE I AM CURIOUS? WHY ISN’T THIS ON THE NATIONAL CURRICULUM?”

Fortunately, I had recently read a guest blog piece on Girl On The Net about the prostate orgasm, so I was a little prepared – otherwise, frankly I would have been terrified. I made a recording of my session for Her, and in it you can hear I still am a little scared in places at the loss of control – mainly because it is NOT how an orgasm is ‘supposed’ to feel to a bloke.

Although the relationship between orgasm, erection and ejaculation is not 100% clear, there is a pretty big overlap in the Venn diagram of these things. Orgasms are the peak of something, a tipping point. This was not ‘right’ because:

  • It didn’t peak. It kept on going, rising and falling. At first I didn’t know how to respond. It sounds ridiculous to say I didn’t know how to react to an orgasm, but it’s true.
  • My cock was soft. As I say, this is completely normal for me in ass play – I can never raise an erection with something in my ass. Never have been able to. But still, to experience intense sexual feelings with a soft cock is a little disconcerting.
  • I had a sense of flow in my cock, of impending something. Not sure if it felt like nearly coming, pissing or something else.

I could tell there was a small cottage industry of pre-cum being generated in my cage, but I was so relaxed that I knew I wouldn’t ejaculate. I learned to relax into the orgasm waves and surf with them. And just crash into them let them take me, throw me onto the beach, suck me back in and float.

All in all, I probably had the thing in my ass for 15 minutes. I have no idea if this short or how long I could have gone on, but, emotionally, I felt exhausted at this point. It was so many new sensations hitting me that I felt a bit vulnerable. Not like the traditional penis orgasm of ejaculation – that switch of mood like a light going out. But just a gradual awareness of feeling drained, a bit confused still, nervous about pressing too hard in my ass, a whole raft of emotions being tossed on a tempest of desire.

At first, when I came down, my initial reaction was HOLY FUCK, WHY DOESN’T EVERY MAN DO THIS ALL THE TIME? WHY IS IT A SECRET? I certainly felt it was something that could give the old-fashioned penile orgasm a run for its money. But the longer I went afterwards, the more I realised one important thing. The rising and falling nature of the waves of feelings were nice, but ultimately didn’t go anywhere. As a man you are so used to aiming to reach ejaculation (or NOT reach it, as the case may be – but either way, it is the acme of the act). But the fact that this didn’t have an obvious end, meant you only ended it when you got bored with the feelings. It was like a good wank without coming.

Crucially, it didn’t give the sense of release the ejaculation gives. When mistress allows me to come, because of the period of denial leading up to it means, the experience of coming is extraordinary. It’s a rumble that starts in my core and takes a minute to work fully through, and my whole groin area feels like it has been anaesthetised for a day or so after. After the prostate orgasm, I realised I hadn’t felt that sense of relief. In other words, I was still horny.

Stage two will be to combine with my reluctant shrinking cock, in a make-or-break partnership, to see if it can add to the intensity of ejaculation. If it does, it will be a real game changer.