Kink of the week: Going commando

New Balls Please

Going Commando is probably one of the earliest sexual rites-of-passage I can remember, marking a point when ‘forgetting your pants’ morphed into something else. I think I was about 14 when I forgot to take pants to change into after swimming, having worn my trunks there. It was a mind-blowing realisation, on the bus on the way home: the arousing power of air, skin and space on my junk, and that NO ONE ELSE COULD TELL, as long as you were sitting down. Almost as much as the fearful, and sudden, realisation that I would have to get off the bus with six inches of lead pipe down my trousers.

The next week I ‘forgot’ my pants again, and had crossed the line from joyous discovery to masturbatory fantasy. The physical feeling of everything touching it, the constant potential for arousal as it dangled, combined with an almost as powerful thrill that no one could know for sure. For someone who was basically a hormone and cum factory on legs, this was potentially bad juju.

It highlights an important difference between men and women’s experiences of going commando. When the ladies go sans knickers, it really is between you and your jeans; your skirts and the strong winds; or your daring and the man opposite you on the Tube. We may speculate, if we see you wearing a very sheer and tight garment around your derriere, but we don’t really know. It’s hot fun for you, but a secret from the world.

Men, on the other hand, ever since they emerged from the primordial soup, have insisted on evolving genitals on the outside of their bodies. This is great for having a waz, cleaning or putting through holes in the walls of public lavatories. Less good for contact sports, cold weather and hanging unsupported inside clothing in a office-based job, thanks to some very important facts about willies.

A complete list of things which CIS-gender straight men can find sexually arousing

  1. Ladies’ breasts
  2. Ladies’ bums
  3. Ladies’ fannies
  4. Ladies’ legs
  5. Ladies’ feet
  6. Ladies’ hands
  7. Ladies’ hair
  8. The sound of ladies’ voices
  9. Any conceivable other body part on a lady, including internal organs
  10. All other phenomena known to humans within the observable universe

Then we need to consider when men are most likely to be sexually aroused. 

A complete list of occasions when men can be sexually aroused

  1. All
  2. The
  3. Fucking
  4. Time

These two factors, when combined, make going commando for men who have to hold down a job that requires them to leave the house rather complex. Not so much a sexual thrill as an exercise in sado-masochistic awkwardness as you spend the day hiding your groin behind the nearest available office furniture. To which I add another layer of complexity. Literally.

As someone who wears a cock cage, I am already wearing a layer before the pants are applied. So most days I am, effectively ‘double bagged’. Going fully commando is double jeopardy for me.

Going commando for most men is like playing tennis without an umpire: the boundaries are still there, but you’re not quite so sure, now it’s up to you to judge them and make calls on what is in or out. Whereas going commando for a cage wearer is like playing tennis without a net.

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Wicked Wednesday #274 – Celebrity: Swallow

Me: a hired tuxedo, £50 max.

Her: Rani Zakhem evening dress, £1,000 minimum

I’m comfortable with this, dressed in monochrome. I’m so anonymous, I’m flat, I almost fade into the walls. She literally shines, wearing a sliver of silvery sparkles that somehow describes every inch of her in three dimensions. The rustle of the clusters of gems that cling to her body. I walk two paces behind her, because that is what her control requires. But it may as well be twenty because I can’t even get close to her poise. Her dress whips around her legs, swirled by hips that roll low, elastic and wide. Her head set dead level, despite the piles of hair skewed and spiked with bobby pins, clips and fixatives, like an Escoffier creation made human. A gossamer of shimmery glitter clings to her shoulders and chest, making the flesh of her plunging neckline a thousand points of light.

We are making a direct line for our object, cutting a channel through the seas of sequins and satin, and eddies of black ties, leaving everyone in our wake. We’re stepping out of the spotlight. Because she needs some of the darkness. She needs to get out of this hangar-sized ballroom and into something more appropriate. A more earthy space. Right now.

We walk through the door marked STAFF ONLY, and take a flight of stairs down to the basement. She moves quickly despite her heels, and I have to skip quickly to stay ahead, until I find the room I found earlier today, as part of my recce. Because it all has to be right, and we always need a Plan B wherever we are. It’s my job to manage this.

The room is no more than a six-foot square, empty except for bare metal shelving down one wall, a pile of rags and empty plastic containers in a corner and a single 40-watt bulb hanging from the middle of the ceiling. Whatever its purpose was, it clearly has none now as evidenced by the sticky, dirty lino, worn through to the concrete in places. The dingy walls are chipped plasterboard and brick, the air hangs cold and damp, and the only additional source of illumination is through a high barred window that sends a sodium shaft of light onto her, casting her face into shadow. Though I can’t see her expression I feel her mood and I notice her ‘tell’ – a short, involuntary shiver. It is perfect.

Instinctively I look into her eyes for affirmation, to know I’ve done well to find this place. But that time has passed. Already, I can see the look of fierce concentration in her eyes. It is time to go to work.

I remove my jacket and lay it on the floor. Without warning, she kicks it to one side and roughly pulls off my cummerbund, while I untie my bow tie. My appearance is of no relevance now nor, apparently, the deposit on my suit. I stop undressing to await her direction. She looks into my eyes, daring me to look away, and I feel her hands down my trousers, greedy and fumbling. In her frustration, she tears at the waistband, ripping them open with force, before leaving them rent at my knees. Delicately now she parts the twitching curtains of my dress shirt, slowly undoing every button from the top until she finally reaches down to grasp my awakening member.

Despite the coolness of the room, her hands are warm and moist. She grasps me and pulls me downwards, indicating the floor with her eyes. She releases me and I take up my rightful position – kneeling, legs spread wide, looking up. She keeps her eyes on mine, and, by placing a six-inch heeled foot on the raised steel shelf, one thigh slips between the full-length slit up the side of her dress. Thrusting slightly forward, she slips a hand beneath the remaining material and just rests it there.

Although I can’t see, I’ve seen it often enough to know. Three fingers placed, just resting, two nudging open her labia, the middle one resting on her clit. No knickers, because they ruin the lines of the dress. She’s managing her own tease and denial, centre stage. My only task now is to provide the support.

I grip tightly and move in gentle rhythms of five slow strokes, from my balls to just under my cock head, supplementing the dampness of my own hands with precum that now dribbles in a steady stream and which wells into my fist as I pause at the final upstroke. As agreed. Always it’s as she’s scripted it before.

Her perfume and hairspray are masking the damp, noisome atmosphere of the cell. I can’t smell the scent of her arousal, but in the mortuary silence of our scene, the slightest sound seems amplified. The slick slip of fingers as she starts to part her lips and press on her clit. Her breathing that moves with the shimmer of silver on her tits, under her impromptu spotlight. The metallic rustle of her dress as she leans back into the shelving, testing its give and support. But the rest of the silence is suffocating. It sits on my shoulders, and I draw breath heavily, waiting for her.

She stops and looks down at my slightly raw and hardening penis, before expelling a large gob of saliva onto its already shiny head. She resumes her play, and I can see it in my mind: drawing her fingers up and down her inner lips, alternating between barely touching and flat-fingered pressing, her thumb now rubbing across the clit like a guitarist. As her fingers reach inside, she braces herself against the shelves, and her sharp intake of breath squeaks like a rusty door.

She’s watching me through slitted eyes, hand buried deeper, shoulder dropped to reach underneath herself, as though grappling inside a narrow-necked jar. “Not… Yet.” she wheezes, reaching up with her spare hand to slip inside the halterneck and cup her swelling breasts. She bites a lip, hard – as hard as she is pinching the nipple between first and second finger, like a clamp, scratching at the aureole with a frantic third finger.

“FUCKING CHRIST” she shouts, at no one in particular, and I know I have to keep up. The cramp in my legs is starting to burn, and a thin film of sweat is pricking under my shirt. I focus on her – thinking of what she needs from me, hoping I can do it. The thought of my role in her desire makes my nipples hard; I start to stroke my cock faster and grab my right nipple, hard, mirroring my mistress. I pinch it through my shirt and the pain helps ground me, keeps my mind on her need. That makes me harder and I feel an extra surge in my cock, rubbed red with my efforts.

I no longer need to imagine because a crash brings me back to her, as the shelves and wall absorb the impact as she slides down, her face a picture of desperation. Sweat has streaked her make up and wilted her hair. Thousands of pounds of couture is torn, speared with dagger heels. With all clothing and modesty pushed aside, literally, she sits, hips forward, legs spread with feet flat on the floor, now reaching two fingers up inside, pressing her g-spot as she levers off the thumb pressing on her clit. It can’t be long.

“DO IT, SLUT” she barks, and this is my cue. The words have their intended effect and an ache rising in my back is propelled through me, my hand, my cock, spreading across my body. I cry out as the first drops of cum hesitate to flow, before white arcs of my foiled desire fall out in jagged jets. I screw up my face, and focus on keeping my hands by my side, riding the agonising pain of the ruined orgasm as it tears through my cock like a shard of glass.

I look down at the puddle and streaks of cum on the dirty floor, a reversed out Jackson Pollock of the expression of my soul at the moment of climax for her. And yet still I must finish this. But not until I hear her say the words.

And when they come, they are barely a whisper above the furious beating of my own heart and liquefied mashing of her fingers in her cunt:

“Eat it.”

I prostrate myself as if in prayer, close my eyes, and lick. I chase my cum with inexpert lips until I’ve retrieved an oyster-load that sits in the well of my tongue.

Kneeling, I show her the bounty in my mouth, and then I know I have done well. It has primed the pump of her own orgasm, released by a hoarse grunt. She flops forward, convulsing with an electric charge, finally subject to a force even beyond her ability to control.

Unseen, I swallow, gag, cough, swallow. And it is down. I kneel, head bowed, awaiting her verdict.

“Did you take it, slut?”

Her voice sounds burnt. I open my mouth to prove my obedience.


That single word my only reward.

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Sinful Sunday 333: Lockdown

This week has been about the cage. I finally got around to writing my piece about cock cages and my personal experience of them, which, in turn, provoked a few interesting conversations with a lot of lovely, and curious, people on twitter. It was such a lovely thing to have lots of different people read and comment here.

I also enjoyed the usual level of lockdown at Her demand. That feeling of secured, held-in arousal. Under her lock and key.

So this week’s image reflects those themes. Getting up close and personal with my chastity lock.


See who else is released from the shackles of every day, to show a bit of sin this Sunday. Click on the smackers below:

Sinful Sunday

Armed to the teeth

I come to you with lips and tongue.

Muscles of love that connect your body to my throat.

That lick flat, poke, curl and thrust, winkling out your clit, lifting your labia.

Flicking at the goosed-flesh aureoles, retracing the wipe of my weeping cock.

Muscle memory.


You come to me with teeth and nails.

To sink into skin, carve flesh and scour surfaces.

Raking and ravishing the wreckage of my offering.

To stab at my heart.


Wicked Wednesday #273: Crawl

I knew from the note what I needed to do. So I strip down to my cage in this strange kitchen. I kneel on the rough stone floor, feeling it bite at my knees. And I say the words, loud, as a proud oath.

“You own my cock. It’s all about your desire”.

I say them so often now, I don’t stop to think if you can hear them. But you can, because you are somewhere in this dark, unfamiliar house.

I lean forward onto all fours, and I begin to crawl, crossing this wide stone floor to the next room. It’s awkward, ungainly, and by the time I reach the door my skin is broken at the knees. Small blood kisses start to mark my path, the pain makes my crawling slower and more considered. I feel how heavy my cock cage feels with no support, swaying as I limp like a wounded animal through to the next room.

The wooden floors provide some relief, but I’ve got to up my game now. Down, bitch, the instructions read. I drop my shoulders to hunker down on my elbows and forearms, leaving my ass high in the air. I move in a sort of rolling gait to the middle of the room, and wait. In that forbidding darkness, I’m desperately trying to hear sounds of movement, breathing, or a presence. But there is nothing except the rattling wind outside.

And then I feel you move among the shadows. But before I see you, I feel a sharp pain drawn across my ass at speed, wrapping round my left cheek. It feels like a whip. But then there’s another, followed by three more in quick succession, a new stroke landing before I can process the previous one’s pain. I cry out, more in surprise, until the heat kicks in, after the initial pain is gone – a delayed reaction as the welts rise on my skin, breaking the quivering flesh.

I see you move through the door, more of the after-image of a shadow than a corporeal presence. Despite the pain in my stinging ass, and bleeding knees, I crawl as best I can, haunches and shoulders rolling like a cheetah, my breathing getting faster after our brief connection.

In the next room I pause, and I feel your heeled boot upon my back. The ball of your foot presses the middle, the heel at the small of my back. “Down” comes the whispered instruction, as if the meaning from your foot wasn’t clear. I’m lying flat, chin resting on the polished floorboards, the lock of my cock cage biting into my groin. I want to scream my pain but a fear has gripped my throat, and frozen me. Doubts plague my mind – what if this isn’t you? Is this a test? Where is this taking me? Is there greater pain to come?

Sweat breaks out on my forehead, and I realise I’m shaking. I can’t physically move – I want to run, but I can’t. I want to stay but I can’t move. My heart is racing; I feel panic in my veins. But something talks to me, deep inside: “This is not about you. It’s never about you. You need to move”.

Slowly, I begin to crawl. Flat to the floor, knees weeping blood pumped by my thumping heart, my throbbing ass almost unnoticed in the pain from my cock. The sharp pain of the lock has been added to; as I pull myself across the floor, the metal ring from my cock cage drags against my scrotum’s flesh. It burns, long and itching, and I feel real tears of pain rising in my eyes.

Somehow I make it to the door. The next room is covered in a rough carpet that burns my crawling frame all over, but I barely notice. I make it over the threshold but no further. I’m paralysed by the fear, the pain and the darkness, which heightens all my senses, making everything almost unbearable.

And you are there at my side, and then I am calm. Because I know it is you. I know your scent, the feel of your hands as you stroke my back with your strong fingers. I instinctively flinch as you run your hand over each raised line on my ass, and then relax when I feel how gently you caress me. You carefully draw up my hands behind my back and tie my wrists, tying the final knot with your teeth, letting your tongue linger over the rough rope and my smooth skin.

You roll me onto my back, and pull up my knees, and I can feel you between my legs. I feel your tongue across my ripped knees, lapping flat at the leaking blood, saliva’s salt stinging my flesh, and making me groan at the delicious feeling. The intimacy of your touch at my wound is sending my body into overdrive; my nipples harden, my breathing is shallow and fast, my cock swells and strains against its confines.

You open my legs wider and my fat cock head pushes through the holes in the cage as your body presses against mine. You move slowly up until you are seated on my shoulders, three inches from my face. And all I can do is watch, as you part your outer lips and touch your inner wetness, starting to ooze onto my chest. One hand holds back your labia, middle finger pressing on your clit while the other hungrily reaches inside to find your g-spot. I can see the movement of wetness picked out by the minimal light, I can smell its freshness, and hear the pressing of flesh.

The fury of your desire is rocking you, crushing my chest, your movement fast and urgent. I hear you cry out, an animal howl, as one hand grasps desperately at your naked breasts. There will be no face fucking today. You pleasure yourself inches from my chin, and I can feel your cum seeping across me as you come with force and vigour. This is just for you. It is all about your desire.

You finish with a rolling moan that settles into a wheezy chuckle. Leaning forward on two hands, you tip your cunt to my lips, and the wetness of your orgasm pours into my mouth and across my face. You press it in, the roughness of your unshaven labia carving scratches into my pink cheeks. Two fingers then pressed to my lips demanding my pleading moans be silent. Then I am left in the darkness. With the darkness. With the leftovers of your pleasure on my leftover body.

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Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Rock of cages

To start, a disclaimer: this is not an article about the serious use of cock cages in long-term chastity relationships. I am not a chaste sub, and my use of cock cages is relatively new and intermittent. For insight about their long-term use, I suggest an expert blog such as Giles English’s.

I use a cock cage under direction from my domme, as one of a number of tools available to enhance denial and abstinence, for days rather than months or years. Because of its association with chastity, it doesn’t seem to have crossed over into wider public use or awareness unlike other aspects of kink culture. So, I just wanted to write about its use, some practical pointers and how it feels from my personal perspective as an off-on user, including frequent questions. Because, for an object with an apparently simple purpose, it can be surprisingly complex and nuanced.

Clearly its primary purpose is to deny me the chance to touch my penis sexually. The cage encloses the shaft with a covering – in my case silicone, in some cases metal – held in place by a ring around my balls. This is locked and the key holder determines access. This may be more symbolic than actual – since real life for real people with real jobs sometimes means access is needed or, more prosaically, it is actually quite easy to get out of some cages thanks to the expanding and contracting properties of male genitalia. So, in practical terms, for me, it is largely self-policing; wearing a cock-cage is not really a ‘punishment’ – it’s something you do voluntarily and joyfully. Because the physical containment is actually secondary to its symbolic meaning. By locking up your cock for your mistress, you are demonstrating their control over your sexual desire and activity as overtly as you can.

This symbolism is powerful in terms of its impact on the wearer. Because, for me, the psychological effects are more powerful than the physical effects (though the former clearly stems from the latter). It is an extremely powerful mood enhancer, and, unless you are aware of your emotional states and things you can do to control them, it can take you by surprise. So if you are feeling good, the cage makes you feel amazing; the first time I tried it, I was obviously excited. The package arrived at my office and I tried the thing on in the loos. And it was such an amazing feeling – being locked down, that sense of connection with Her, the sheer naughtiness of it at work – I felt bulletproof. I was energised, enthused, confident and happy at work. And I thought that was the effect it would always have.

However, I soon found to my cost it’s not that simple. On days when I am maybe struggling with the control: losing focus, maybe feeling horny, feeling vulnerable or even just sad or angry for reasons outside of your relationship. On those days, the cage can feel like a weight, a burden, and can induce panicky feelings or frustration. For me, the key is to recognise this, understand how to manage these feelings, be aware of them and deal with it. Which is, actually, a part of the sub’s life anyway. But when you become aroused, things get even more confused…

One of the first questions I am asked about casual cage use is: “What happens when you get an erection?” or even “Can you still get an erection?”. To which the answer is: “sort of”. Clearly, although physical stimulation is out, visual and aural arousal remains potent, not to mention the myriad other things that seem to give men erections. But clearly the cage, even a silicone one, physically prevents expansion, doesn’t it? Well, up to a point, Lord Copper.

So, when I am turned on wearing a cage, I find the cock head expands to fill the cage end, and the rest of the cock remains concertina-ed behind, like a loaded jack-in-the-box. So the head continues to send limit arousal sensations to the brain and often a feeling of the creation of pre-cum, though actually little physical evidence. Depending on the length and severity of the arousal this can be painful or it can be, actually, quite nice – again, depending on your own mood. However, I found that this makes it impractical for use at night; the ‘morning glory’ tended to fill the cage to the point where it was pulling it off, leaving my balls being stretched by the metal ring. I’d wake up at 4am in agony, which is certainly not the aim. So now I am a day-use wearer only.

Where the above-mentioned confusion comes in is sometimes it can create a feedback loop with the brain which is a little scary. So if you are experiencing some intense or sustained arousal, you get what I call a ‘surge’. It feels like something is flowing through the penis and, as noted above, is felt in the cock head. Depending on your mood, this can be nice or frustrating or scary because it feels like something is happening beyond your control; the pulses can also create a feeling that is hard for the brain to categorise, which induces a panic. The feeling that you are not sure whether you are going to come or piss yourself, which, for most people in most situations, is, at best, inconvenient and more likely socially disastrous. Again, it’s mood and mind control – refocus, breathe, manage it.

If this makes it all sound complicated or off-putting, it isn’t and it shouldn’t be. The dynamic it creates, the sense of connection, the powerful symbolism are all highly charged and powerfully sensual. If you’re thinking of trying it, I’d like to finish with a couple of tips:

  1. Most cages come with the shaft holder and the ring, and the thing is held in place by the ring, with the testicles acting as a brake against gravity. This means the cage in situ looks something like this:


This works brilliantly when you don’t have to wear any clothes, because most men do not keep their cocks in the middle of their trousers – we ‘dress’ to one side or the other. This means, in practical terms, the ring gets pulled out of position when pushed to one side, and it is common for your balls to slip through the ring, which leaves nothing holding it in place. There are few more disconcerting things than the feeling of giving a presentation to colleagues while worrying about a cock cage working its way down your trouser leg.

I found the solution to this was to construct a harness using elastic (actually a converted head torch holder, though a sports jockstrap would work as well!). Because even if your style doesn’t actually pull the thing off your bollocks when you are dressed and moving about during the day, it can still make it painful, awkward and uncomfortable, which isn’t necessarily the point. And makes you walk in a way that attracts the curiosity of your work colleagues and, no doubt, suspicious policemen on public transport.

2. I advise starting with silicone until you are convinced you want to try metal, as it is more forgiving and practical. I also advise getting a style that keeps the lock away from the body. In the image above, you’ll note the lock is threaded through the supporting ring, a very common design. Which this does mean is, apart from always pinching when you put it on, it’s very common for the lock to press in to the groin, causing agony.

3. You’ll need to piss sitting down. Better get used to that if you have a hang up about it.

4. Shave your balls and cock. Should be obvious why, but it makes everything much easier to manage. It’s not impossible whilst hairy, but the chances of catching something are increased exponentially.

Happy caging!

Sinful Sunday 332: shower 

This week I’ve been on holiday in a charming gite in France. And I’ve been in love with this shower. Wet-room style, hot and powerful, I love the enclosed space created in this huge room. To wash off the sweat of hot summer days, while letting your mind entertain less clean thoughts…

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Sinful Sunday