Backside to the future 

As with many CIS straight men, the pleasure of penetrating my own bottom has come to me reasonably late in life. And so far it has been a solo performance as I have discovered the joys of the prostate orgasm. So when I think of how this might be done as a duet, I’ve had some fairly fixed fantasy ideas. Such as the one in the .gif below.

I think part of the point of this image was meant to be the drippy vagina, the long thread of mucus dangling as she pumps. But, to be completely honest, I didn’t even notice it was two girls when I first saw it, as I was so taken with the movement – the bouncy joy and the forcing of the receiver’s face into the floor.

I reblogged it on tumblr because it represents my usual feelings about pegging. When I eventually get to receive it, that is how I have always imagined it. Being ridden down into the floor, the sense of being filled combined with being face down eating the carpet. All the submissive vibes and sexual pleasure in one. Take that, dirty slut.

Don’t get me wrong, it is still very hot, but I now have a new focus for my fantasy. It is no longer an anonymous pegger fucking me. And that changes things, because it is no longer an abstract fantasy, but something to be realistically considered. And anal sex is a bit more complicated.

For instance, I think it unlikely I will get to a level of bouncy joyfulness like that shown until there has been some practice. Given my circumstances, I am not sure if that will happen very quickly. But it has also gone from being an abstract dangerous, delicious taboo to an expression of love.

I don’t want to be pegged like a dirty slut so much as fucked as an expression of Dommely love. So my fantasy is changing now. We are lying side by side after a long time kissing, touching and reassuring. My ass has been well lubed and fingers have been used to open me up, with kisses of reassurance and holding.

She is wearing the harness with the dildo we have chosen as right for the first time. I have shown my worship and submission by going down on her, fellating her harnessed peg, She has forced my head down onto it until I gag. It is slobbery and wet, and we lube it together.

I raise one leg and she pushes inside me, easing my fears and opening me with her words and gentle kisses on my shoulders. We make love like this, half spooning, with a half hitched leg letting her in. Once inside me, she just holds the position. Letting me get used to the feeling of being filled. Slowly she withdraws half way, and pushes back in; I am nervous but she strokes me, assures me with her love. She thrusts again. Better. Easier. By the fifth time I am pushing back to get her deeper.

And now she has taken me to the subspace. I am channelling the pain into joy, and the feeling of being filled and fucked by Miss. She is whispering the words that make me feel alive, the words that assure me I am Hers. She is Big Spoon curling around and inside me and now she reaches around and takes my cock, which is growing firm under her assurance and her still-lubed fingers work me harder, feeling the effect as I rise and clench around her proxy cock.

She is thrusting quite confidently now, and I am taking it with short jolts and grunts of joy as her hand works me nearer the edge. With something inside me, my tumescence is lessened so she is now stroking me faster, taking a run up towards the cliff edge. Her lips at my ears, her hot, fast breath whispers me to the edge, holding back at the last minute. On the third time her voice is insistent, her command unmistakable: “come for me, Darling”

And I am over, now free-falling, the spiralling spume now spilling over her knuckles and fist as she holds tighter, levering off my pouring cock to push harder inside me, deeper, utterly filling me at the back as she empties me at the front. I cry out in relief and pain, joy and hurt, and wonder and love.

Click on the lips to see who else is getting in on the action this week:


The gift



That simple word is as effective as any leash. Eyes closed, I raise my face instinctively to you. Your tone is soft now and its sounds are the only clues I have until I feel the chain fall away from my collar and your hands lightly on my shoulders, stroking, rubbing, reaching down, your black nails gently scratching my chest and pinching my nipples.

“Pray for me”

This is our code for my position. Still kneeling, shins flat on the floor, I fold myself over until my shoulders touch the ground and my face is forced to one side, ear pressed to the worn, damp and dismal carpet of this Victorian bathroom. You stand behind and inch my feet apart with yours so they sit wider than my shoulders, your hands resting on the small of my spine. What feels like the soft belt from your bathrobe is now tying my hands together behind me.

Now a gentle, rhythmic smack on the raised drum of my ass, then a finger slips between the cheeks to press upon my most vulnerable entry. The swelling between my legs when you bend to press one thigh between mine, its pair outside of my left hip, as you grind yourself into me. You are levering on top of me as though shielding me, and your left hand wraps the back of my neck, pressing me down into the floor. Four fingers slip inside the collar, it creaks as you twist and pull, compressing my throat and gripping like a wrangler with a bucking mule. I’m taken over with the weight of you, my breathing struggles, becomes shallow, I bend and open myself to you.

Slicked silicon, angled for my prostate, pushes at my perineum – a purr from you and it is in, inching up to press home a finger’s length inside.  I gasp but I am subdued by the pressure of pleasure that fills me as you switch on the vibration.

The whole of my pelvis feels its hypnosis, like a fuzzy hand holding me spellbound. You manoeuvre the length around inside me, pressing, teasing and firing bolts of pure dopamine through me as my mind shuts down all systems not focused on this overwhelming centre of sensuality. Soon there are no senses, as the throbbing takes over, binding my body with a magnificent shiver of abandonment.

The fullness in my belly paralyses my normal responses, my face pressed harder into the musty floor by the heel of your hand and your short breaths are now audible above the noise of the probe in my guts. I want to tell you of the joy I feel, the privilege of my submission. But I can’t. I need a new language to express this modality.

It feels like I am spilling over a cliff but swimming not falling. The floor feels undulating and untethered. The harder you hold me, the freer I feel. I am giddy from this gift you have given me – it is a lightning rod connecting me through your hand to the earth.

Your hand that now reaches down to touch my tumescence, stroking and stretching like a snake sloughing off its skin. You are gripping me at both ends of my body, stretching, choking, pulling harder, pressing down and rubbing yourself hungrily against my wavering body. I’m a liquid mess of pulsing desire, crushed between your insistent flesh and a ragged floor, a fissured dam due to burst.

The pipes rattle and the whole bathroom shudders through my body, as the boiler fires into life. And I pour out onto the carpet, my wheezing cry mouthing your name like a shibboleth. Mine is a carcass abandoned to a conqueror, an offering of appeasement.

Your wand has gone, you stand up to release the heated water in the taps that feeds the tub. I’m touching the side of my face, feeling the skin worn rough from the rug, silently sobbing as the collar at last fully opens my airway. I feel as a seasick mariner washed ashore, gratefully wallowing in the shallows of the surf, whose life feels truer for so nearly having lost it.