Introducing Jenby’s guest blogs makes me feel like a lowly intern announcing the arrival of the CEO: her adventures are as creative as her writing is exquisite, and I am always in awe of both. She’s the most prolific guest blogger here on the site, as well as almost certainly the kinkiest person I have ever met. Just this year she’s already told us about some fun (and romantic) sharps’ play, her first ever nyotaimori scene, and getting railed at an orgy while dressed as Marie Antoinette. I was telling a friend just this morning about Jenby’s recent hucow episode, in which she was literally milked in front of a lucky audience at a club, and my friend (herself no stranger to deliciously creative pervery) exclaimed in wonder – with wide, excited eyes – that she had just learned an awesome brand new thing. I am always honoured that Jenby brings this thrill of deviant discovery to my blog. Today she is here with another kickass story, and this one’s all about sweat. Buckets and buckets and buckets of it. Open wide.

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Almost every guy I have ever dated has told me that if they had tits themselves, they’d spend all day just staring at and playing with them. I am not getting ready to snark, or shame anyone for saying this, in fact I completely understand. Tits are fucking awesome. The thing that makes me horniest about my own body is the excellent rack stuck to the front of it. Although I don’t spend all day groping them or staring (I’m a busy girl), I do spend a fairly sizeable chunk of my time being aware of them – enjoying how they look and feel – so I thought I’d have a go at answering the unspoken question hovering beneath all those comments from all those past boyfriends. Here’s what it feels like to have tits.

Note: I’m a cis woman who has mostly dated cis dudes. I’ve tried not to be too gendered in this because tits are not exclusive to one gender, but my perspective is naturally coloured by my experiences. 

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I love receiving sexy threats – we’ve discussed this before. “If you don’t hold that position and I can’t come, I’m gonna beat you so hard.” But there’s one sexy threat that I enjoy above all others: anal as punishment.

Note: I actually don’t think this counts as ‘consensual non-consent’. I think there’s enough thirst from me as the receiver of this to move it out of any hinted ‘non-consent’ territory. However, I appreciate that the tone of it does play into a number of those tropes, so it would probably be irresponsible of me not to label it ‘CNC’ in some way – if that isn’t your thing, you might not want to read this one.

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We’re making out. It’s smoking hot. We started off with me folded in his lap, feeling soft and small. Delicate. Unequivocally his. Then, after some firm kisses that resonated deep in my cunt, I got a little yearning to switch. To make him mine in return.

CN: smoking weed, breath play

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Back in the day, I used to get annoyed with sex toy companies who were obsessed with making their vibrators ‘cute’. I was pissed off with the assumption that I wouldn’t have a wank unless someone had completely desexualised a dildo by slapping a rabbit on the front of it. Or a dolphin. Or Hello Kitty. I think I was mostly annoyed because this masturbatory menagerie only seemed to gather around toys aimed at women: I’ve never seen Fleshlight slap an adorable squirrel or a pair of googly eyes onto one of their dick sheaths. You can read my 12-year-old cute sex toys rant here if you like, but only if you remember that I had a lot of anger back then, was wildly cisnormative, and on balance almost certainly wrong. Because today I am here to sing the praises of a sex toy that is a) capable of delivering some very impressive wanks and b) undeniably cute as all fuck. Allow me to introduce the Doxy Go.

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