A woman’s body?


So, it seems I’ve attracted the attention and ire of  the “outrage for hire” brigade. I suspect it was always likely to be a matter of when, rather than if, so at least I’ve got it out of the way.

So what, pray tell, was the reason for incurring their wrath?

Well, it appears, I had the audacity and temerity to say that my body is a woman’s body and, that in doing so, I was being cis-sexist and trans-exclusionary.

My simple, and in eloquent response to that is that they are talking bollocks.

I am, after all, a woman and, if you prefer, a cis-woman. However, in the context of my use of the term “woman’s body”, that “cis” prefix is nothing more than meaningless padding.

Why meaningless?

Simply because the term “woman” in the context that I use it means all women, be they cis, trans, or any other label they prefer to use. The basic fact, and the central core of my point is that anyone who identifies as a woman is a woman. There is nothing exclusionary about that. I use the term “woman” as a shorthand for all women, regardless of their assigned gender at birth, or their reproductive biology. If you accept that definition then, from there, it follows that all women, have women’s bodies and that there is nothing cis-sexist or exclusionary in that either.

In my own personal context, my own “woman’s body” happens to have breasts, a clitoris, a vulva, a vagina, a womb, ovaries, etc. Mine does and, I think it’s reasonable to say, so do the bodies of the majority of women. Yes, some cis-women, as a result of surgery may not have all of those parts, but that doesn’t negate the fact that cis-women are the majority, that this is true. However, not all women are cis-women, and as such, their bodies may (or may not) have penises and testicles. They are, however, in my opinion and mode of belief, still women’s bodies, because they are the bodies of people who identify as women and, therefore, are women.

When I blog, I am generally blogging about sex and the people I have had sex with. Over the 30+ years that I have been sexually active, my partners have all been cis (or at least were presenting as cis when I had sex with them). Again, this isn’t prejudice on my part, nor is it exclusionary, it’s just simply a fact. In that context, when I use the terms man/men or woman/women, in my blog, there is an implicit assumption that I am using the cis variant of those words, but I am not excluding anyone, nor am I being biased in favour or against anyone. I am simply recounting my experiences from my point of view and my assumed point of view of the other participants in the activities I am recounting.

Now, the purpose of this post is not to change anyone’s mind. It was simply to illustrate that people, particularly those of a self-righteous disposition, are often far to quick to assume a negative interpretation of something, without bothering to avail themselves of the actual facts, simply because that snap condemnation fits their narrative. Perhaps these people just need to lash out, and adopting a position of righteous indignation whenever they find something they can take exception to provides them with outlet, or a coping mechanism of sorts. Of course, the could also just be bullying narcissists who get off on attacking people to attract attention to themselves; who can say?

Language is flexible and always evolving, but language without context is merely words; context is everything. Attacking someone’s words without first trying to understand their context or the meaning intended by the person who wrote them is just lazy bias on the part of the reader – it is nothing more than noise. The fact that some people need to take offence simply to validate themselves is a pity, but it reflects more on them than the person they are taking offence at.

Romance?


The alarm clock hasn’t gone off and we’re having our wake-up snuggle. Spooned together, I can feel the firmness of Master C’s early morning erection press against me. I wriggle against it.

Master C’s hand cups and squeezes my boob. His thumb flicks over my nipple. It stiffens in response and I squirm against Him.

He kisses my neck, then announces, quite simply, “I’m going to put my bit inside your bit and slide it in and out until I release a quantity of sticky fluid inside you.”

Master C disentangles His arm from under me as I roll on to my back and open my legs.

He moves above me, His cock pressing against the entrance of my cunt. “I’m putting it inside you now,” He says, matter-of-factly.

“Oh, yes please, please put your bit inside mine,” I reply, not altogether succeeding in keeping a straight face.

I moan softly as Master C  slides into me and duly begins to “move His bit in and out of mine”. Slowly at first, but with firm and steady strokes, filling and stretching my “bit” with His.

The pace increases, as does the force of Master C’s thrusts. Before long, He is fucking my with an urgency that is matched by mine. “Keep moving!” I urge, “Please, uhh.. keep moving, ahh… inside me ohh!”

He does; harder, and still more forcefully. I know this phase; in this moment He is lost to me. In this moment, it isn’t me He is fucking; He is simply just fucking. In these moments Master C is at His most primal; rational thought has been replaced with animal instinct. I close my eyes and arch my back beneath His as my own body begins to respond in kind.

My climax ignites. My “bit” tightens around His, griping it as it powers into me. Through the daze of my orgasm, I can sense the approach of His; the sharpness of His breathing, the tension in His body, the urgency of His movements.

And then He comes. A long, strong, surging thrust as He releases inside me, followed by a series of shorter, less urgent ones as He rides the waves of His climax.

We lie, side by side, a tangle of arms, legs and hair. The air filled with the scent of our fucking.

“Did Sir enjoy moving His bit inside mine?” I enquire coyly.

“Sir did indeed,” He replied. “Did you enjoy me moving mine and releasing my fluid inside you?”

“Oh yes, definitely! My bit always enjoys playing host to yours, although other bits are feeling a little jealous of the attention that bit got.”

“The needn’t worry,” He replies, “Those bits will be seen to later.”

We both laugh at our continued whimsy.

The alarm clock makes its presence known. Another day begins. Who says romance is dead?

Happiness, is a mouth full of cock


I can’t deny that I love fucking and being fucked. Nor could I ever try to convince someone that I don’t love getting my cunt thoroughly and expertly eaten out.  The simple truth of the matter is if its sexual activity, I’m almost certainly your gal (well, strictly speaking, I’m Master C’s gal, but so long as I’m happy to accept His discipline, I could be yours too I guess).

Be that as it may (and it definitely may), when it comes to sex, I am almost never happier than when I have my lips wrapped around a nice, hard cock; especially (of course) Master C’s cock, but pretty much any cock, so long as it’s clean, will do the job.

It is no exaggeration when I say that in the years that have passed since my 14 year old self first performed the act, my mouth has had more cocks in it than both my cunt and arse combined; largely because it is almost my go to option when I’m having one of my drunken encounters with a random guy who has taken my fancy in a pub.

So why is this?

There are a number of factors.

It’s ideal for a quick and casual, no strings encounter. Get on your knees, take him in your mouth, lick and suck until he erupts, swallow and go. It’s just raw gratification. Even conversation is optional, although being a well mannered slut, I do generally utter a “thank you” for the load I’ve been given.

It’s convenient. There’s no need for undressing involved; he just needs to whip his cock out and you can get on with task in front of you (and it’s so much easier to hide the evidence if there’s a risk of being disturbed).

There’s also the fact that I get to enjoy their enjoyment of what I’m doing. Every gasped exclamation, every shuddering breath drawn, every involuntary thrust of the hips and twitch of the cock, every drop of cum released into my mouth is down to me; I have done that to them.

I enjoy the sense of empowerment that goes with it. Let’s be honest, as a woman, particularly a submissive woman, most sexual acts that I take part in are done to me, or at the very least, down to me. I am the one being fucked, I am the one getting my cunt licked out (unless I’m with another woman, of course, but let’s keep it simple), I am the one being disciplined; essentially I am, almost by default, the receiver. It is, after all, basic biology. Yes, I am curious as to what it would feel like to have a penis, and to have that penis sucked or for me to use that penis to fuck another person’s mouth, cunt or arse, but I don’t have one, so it will remain an intellectual curiosity. I do however, have a mouth for kissing, and sucking, as well as a throat, cunt and arse for fucking, and I love having all of these thing done to me. Giving a blow-job (and going down on another woman) is, however, me doing it to the other person. I am the giver in this situation.

Now yes, I know you could argue that when my holes are being fucked, I am giving the other person my body to use, but that is a passive form of giving. When I am giving head, I am very actively giving. My lips kiss the head and shaft of cock before me before stretching around it and sliding along its length. My tongue flicks and licks all over the cock’s surface, teasing and tormenting. My mouth is the tool I employ to pleasure them with, and I love to hear the sounds of appreciation that come from the recipient.

Being responsible for another person’s orgasm is a privilege and a responsibility that I never take lightly. It doesn’t matter whether I am giving Master C a long, slow, sensual sucking to help relieve Him of the stresses of a hard day, or if I am giving an unknown random a quickie in the alley behind the pub, I apply myself diligently to the task.  I want the person who’s cock I am sucking to appreciate and enjoy what I am doing to them. You could say I want them to be blown away by the way I blow them. And yes, it goes without saying, that I want to be rewarded for my efforts with a lovely thick load of cum to savour and swallow, I want to be connected intimately to the joy of their release. In that moment, I know that they are powerless to resist their own most basic reflexes and it is me and my mouth that is responsible for this.

I honestly don’t know how many cocks I have sucked in the past 30 odd years, nor how many loads of cum I have swallowed. Some, I will admit, have been less pleasant than others (that is an occupational hazard for a professional cocksucker) but every load has been down to me; a “reward” for a (blow-) job well done.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an overwhelming need to have Master C’s cock in my mouth…

My “reality”


The current teaser on the ‘No True Way‘ site is:

Real D/s dynamics are 24/7

Not surprisingly, this got me thinking about my life, my relationship with Master C and or particular D/s dynamic.

First of, who am I and what is my “reality”?

Well, my name, perhaps un surprisingly, is Morag. I am a white, cis, bisexual, submissive woman, who is ginger, Scottish and, at the time of writing, in her mid(ish) 40s. I’m 5’7″/1.77m tall, my boobs measure 36/91C and weight is my own business. I live with Master C and have done so for 12+ years (we’ve been together for just over 15) and he is both my life partner and my Master. I am not His wife, nor am I His, girlfriend; I am His submissive and I am His slut, and very happily so.

Our D/s dynamic has evolved over over the years to it’s present form. What we have, doesn’t really fit any of the more “common” D/s labels; it isn’t a Master/slave arrangement, nor is it a Daddy/babygirl one or a Teacher/student one. If any descriptor comes close it would be that Master C  is my patient, if long-suffering, protector and guide, and I am His unrepentant, bratty, slut.

So that is who I am and a very quick “definition” of the relationship and dynamic I share with Master C.

So, is it real?

Well, it is our lives, so it’s is as “real” as any perceived experience. Of course, since no two people perceive the same thing in precisely the same way, my “reality” will no doubt have difference from “Master C’s” reality; we have, after all, our own sensory interpretations to the world around us, and our brains will interpret those differently, but there are degrees of overlap. Even when we are at our most intimate, these things will have different perspectives.  We will both be aware of the fact that He is fucking my cunt or arse, or that He is eating me out, or that I am giving Him a blow-job, but we will perceive these differently by virtue of the fact that we are experiencing the same thing from the perspective of the giver or received; how He feels His cock feels inside my mouth, cunt or arse will be different from how I feel His cock in my moth, cunt or arse, even though we are both feeling His cock in my mouth, cunt or arse. We are experiencing the same thing, but we are feeling and experiencing it differently according to our own roles.

Is it 24/7?

Well, life is 24/7, but does our dynamic exist 24/7? Am I still His bratty slut when we are both asleep, are we “living our dynamic” when we are both going about our individual jobs/tasks/activities? If a tree falls in a forest and no one is there to hear it, does it still make a sound?

Subconsciously, I would say that the answer is “yes”. We don’t stop being in a relationship just because we aren’t in each other’s presence. I am still in a relationship with Him when I am at work, or the gym (remember those) or in the supermarket. Master C is still in a relationship with me when He is working, or out with His friends for an after work drink (again, remember those?). We don’t stop being in a relationship just because we aren’t physically in each other’s presence, so what about our dynamic? Am I still His slut when I’m not being fucked, or misbehaving in a way that will earn correction from Him? Am I still His slut when I’m sat at my desk, listening to people discuss their lives and their problems? Is Master C still my Dominant when He is on call, when He is treating patients, when He’s driving to/from work?

I suspect, the answer, again subconsciously, is “yes”. Our D/s dynamic is part of our relationship, and if our relationship is always there, then it sort of follows that our dynamic is there too. We might not be actively participating in our dynamic, but it’s still there. I may not be sitting in my Counsellor’s chair listening to people’s concerns, squirming as my favourite butt-plug fills me, or my nipples scream in protest at the claps they are squeezed between, but I have been know to go shopping or to the pub, or cinema, or some other “in public” occasion plugged and clamped. My clothing may mean that it isn’t appropriate to wear my collar in every circumstance, but again, I have worn it suitably concealed in a number of locations where it would raise a few eyebrows if it were noticed.

My collar, the butt-plugs, the ben-wa balls, the nipple-clamps, the bruises on my arse, they are all expressions of our D/s dynamic, but they aren’t the totality of it. When Master C rubs my shoulders, or runs me a bath after a long, tough day, He is still being my supportive, nurturing Dominant just as much as when He is thrashing me with His belt to provide me with a necessary rebalancing. When I listen to Him describe the stresses of His day at work, fetch Him a beer from the fridge, I am still being Hs caring, supportive submissive, just as much as when I’m relieving His stress with a blow-job. We are still Dominant and submissive when we are snuggling comfortably on the sofa just as much as when we fucking vigorously on it.

A D/s relationship is, first and foremost, a relationship; it is still a partnership. It has forms and protocols but it exists whether those are being actively participated in or not.

So while we might not be actively and visibly D/s in our behaviour all day and every day, our D/s dynamic is real to us and, when you boil it right down, that is the only “reality” that matters.

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Cadged, benched and the sweet release of subspace


I’ve mentioned the cage before; about how it can be a place of punishment, and how it can be a place of retreat where I communicate my need of support. Last night, for reasons I won’t bore you with, it was most definitely the latter.

The process is simple: I finished work, logged off from my PC, undressed, closed myself into the cage, curled up and waited for Master C to discover me there.

I don’t know how long I was confined; time within the cage has its own special duration, it’s a kind of limbo where time has no meaning until I’m released.

“Is my little one feeling delicate?” Master C enquired softly on finding me confined.

I nodded. “Yes Sir,” I replied meekly, eyes downcast.

He left momentarily before returning; my collar and lead in one hand and a pair of cuffs on the other. “I think I know exactly what might help,” He said as He opened the cage and helped me out.

“Turn around!” a gentle command. I did as Master C bid me. The cuffs fastened around my wrists behind my back. The collar went around my neck and he fastened it tight. Attaching the lead. He turned me around, kissed me tenderly on the lips. “You know where to go,” He said.

I did. I know how this goes, but I still get a thrill of anticipation. “Yes Sir!” I replied.

“Well, lead the way then,” He said, giving my arse a playful swat.

I walked slowly thought to our playroom. In the middle of the room stood the bench. I glanced a coy look back of my shoulder. He nodded.

I walked up to the bench then bent over, my legs spread. Master C fastened the leather restraints around my ankles and then the side restraints went over my arms and fastened between my shoulder blades, holding me tightly in place. and then, I waited.

I waited while he pondered what implement to use. I flinched each time I heard a swoosh of air, only for flogger, or His belt, or the cane to land on the desk. I didn’t care which He used on me; any of them would hurt, any of them would begin my journey. I waited.

I waited, and the anticipation grew. I waited as he walked around me, scrutinising me, flexing the cane, or snapping the folds of his belt together in front of my face. I waited.

Again, that state of limbo, the passage of time meaningless. I waited.

SMACK! his belt struck across my arse. I cried out, as the stinging heat spread across my buttocks. SMACK! harder this time, or so it seemed. SMACK! harder still. His belt crisscrossed my buttocks; the intensity of each kiss adding to the fire of those that preceded it.

Hot tears fell from my eyes. Cries of pain were torn from my throat. His belt was merciless, His belt was harsh, His belt was unrelenting, His belt was just what I needed.

I didn’t count the lashes. This wasn’t a punishment where I needed to keep track, this was a centring, a rebalancing. My tears, my cries and my reddening skin were all that Master C needed to determine when I had reached the next stage.

Mt restraints were briefly undone. Master C repositioned me on my back, my head tilted back over the edge of the bench. The restraints were refastened, tighter; the one around my chest squashing my boobs and constricting my breathing. Slowly, Master C buckled his belt around my neck between my chin and my collar.

Tears still stung in my eyes, but I could see his lovely thick cock was hard. He slapped my face. “Open your mouth, slut! I’m going to fuck your throat.”

The words were what I needed to hear, and His cock was what I wanted to have. This wasn’t a blow-job, this wasn’t me worshiping His cock, lavishing attention on it; this was Master C fucking my throat, treating my mouth like just another hole.

He fucked me hard, rough, without mercy. I chocked and spluttered as He drove His cock down my neck; gasping for breath as He tightened His belt around neck. In… Out… In… Out… Again and again, over and over. The pressure around my neck making it almost impossible to breath around his cock.

Occasionally he would pull out fully, allowing me a few gasping breaths down my tortured throat before beginning again.

I was losing myself. I was become nothing more than something for Him to use.

Time stopped. The pain in my buttocks seemed to melt away, my jaw no longer ached. Tears still streamed from my eyes, but I barely noticed. This was it. This was that transcendent moment where nothing mattered, I just let myself go and get carried along on the current.

He came. Not down my throat, but across my boobs. I barely felt it, the fire burning in my veins was all consuming.

And then… And then… and then His tongue on my clit, His hands rubbing His cim into my boobs as He feasted on me.

My back tried to arch as I came for the first time. The restraints holding me firmly in place seemed to intensify the power of my climax. I cried a long, silent scream of release, my raw throat unable to produce sound. His fingers inside my cunt, His tongue on my clit, the pain, the power of my release. I was lost, powerless to respond. My consciousness seemed to float outside my body; I was a disembodied observer, watching on with fascination as Master C’s tongue and fingers relentlessly pushed my body beyond any last remaining iota of endurance.

Again, that timeless limbo, accompanied this time by a detachment from reality. How long had He kept me there? I’ve no idea.

The restraints were gone, soothing balm applied to my buttocks numbed the sensation of the soft sheets beneath me, the soft pillow beneath my head as Master C stroked my hair from my face, kissed me tenderly on the lips and slid into me.

He took me, slowly, languidly, but thoroughly. Never losing control, never allowing Himself to surrender to His inner primal animal self. This fuck was for me, to restore me, to bring me back to myself. I found my body responding to His, increasingly moving in harmony. I found the strength to raise my arms, to lift my hands to his buttocks, to slowly squeeze my fingers into his taut, firm flesh to let Him know that He didn’t need to be quite so considerate. I managed a very hoarse whisper. “Fuck me Sir! Your little slut needs to be fucked.”

He smiled down at me and thrust harder. I smiled back then closed my eyes, savouring His firmness inside me, His body on mine. Firm, yet gentle, strong, yet sensual, considerate, but always Dominant, He took me, He fucked me, He rebuilt me and made me whole again.

I came, feeling sore but secure beneath Him. And then, at last Master C came inside me and my worries and cares were banished again.

We had another slow, leisurely fuck this morning and, sore arse and slightly raw throat not withstanding, I’m feeling much more positive today.

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Guidance through discipline


I’ve touched on this many times in this blog, but discipline/punishment is a very important part of the D/s dynamic that exists between Master C and myself. Punishment helps define boundaries; not to confine, but to determine the “price” required to cross those boundaries. As I mentioned in this post, any corrections that Master C administers, are never delivered unilaterally; I am always required to consider my actions and what the “tariff” for any given transgression may be.

Punishments can, of course, take many forms. There are, of course, the obvious forms of corporal punishment: spanking, belting, caning, flogging; all always delivered to my naked arse, each one with it’s own unique form and intensity of pain, each one leaving a different mark on my skin.

Master C’s hand is usually for the most minor infringements; when I’m being particularly bratty or impudent, or when He knows I’m not trying my hardest. His belt, the flogger and the cane are used for more “serious” infringements. In those pre-covid days where such things were possible, a drunken blow-job with a random might earn me several lashes from the belt, fucking more than one random on the same night out might mean the flogger, and getting publicly fucked in the arse at a local dogging site absolutely  called for the cane.

Knowing the level of punishment I can expect, helps me determine the level I am willing to accept for any one act or transgression. In my mind, I know the level of recompense I am likely to have to pay, and this helps shape whether or not the “act” is worth the “cost”.

But punishments aren’t just corporal.

One of Master C’s favourite alternative punishments takes the form of denial. That can be denial of orgasm for me; where he takes His pleasure from me but forbids me to come. Another form of denial is when He fucks me, or requires me to suck His cock, He will deprive me of His cum. Master C knows how much I love to feel Him erupt inside me, He knows how I consider taking His cum in my mouth to be a reward and He knows how much I don’t like it when He chooses to withhold that from me.

Again, in the pre-covid days when we would get together with other members of our “Circle”, punishment could take the form of me having to watch him being attended to by one of the other women or for me to have to “wear” the cum of one or more of the other men (although having a big degradation fetish, this one never really seems like a punishment, but having it done to me then not being allowed to come myself does make this unpleasant).

Finally, there are those times when I overstep the line, I have gone too far in my misbehaviour, I have provoked Him beyond what He is prepared to accept. In these instances, I am subject to the ultimate punishment and banished to the cage. It happens rarely, but the threat is there.

The point, however, of all of these, is not to prevent me from doing things, but for me to respect the fact that my actions have consequences. They are a form of guidance as much as they are of correction; they allow me a degree of freedom to fulfil my needs and desires, while making me consider their worth and urgency. Punishment, for me, is a form of currency; I can have whatever I want, so long as I am willing to pay the appropriate “price” for it and it allows me to decide if the gratification I would receive is worth the price I would pay (while factoring in that the price is very much a part of the overall gratification).

There is one final form of “punishment” that I have still to touch upon.  This one is much more fun (although, again, current circumstances mean that I haven’t been on the receiving end for a while) and is “the punishment fuck“. It’s not really a punishment per se, and is reserved for when I’ve been with “The Girl” or another female partner. It involves nothing more than, after having provided Master C of a full account of what I’ve got up to with the other woman, He gives me a very thorough fucking, usually precluded by a spanking and almost always resulting in my mouth, cunt and arse all being roughly all being fucked by His lovely cock just to “remind me of what I missed”. With the exception of the watching and humiliation, the other punishments are still very much part of life (although I have to be quite creative to earn some of the harsher corporal punishments at the moment), but I do miss the punishment fucks, and I definitely miss the reasons for receiving them.

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Celebration


If there is one thing that 2020 taught me, it’s that we all need to celebrate things more often. Achievements come in all sizes, from running a marathon to, sometimes, just managing to get out of bed and get dressed. In the year that was 2020 and is now 2021, those “small” accomplishments can be the greatest achievements of all.

For me, in my own particular way, I consider my submission to Master C to be a celebration. It is a celebration of the fact that He can take so much pleasure from my body and give so much pleasure with His and, of course, vice versa.

Each interaction, each slap of His hand, each lash of His belt, each lick of His tongue and each thrust of His cock is a celebration of our relationship and the simple fact that we are alive and sharing our lives with each other.

When Master C brings me to orgasm, it is a celebration of the skill with which He plays my body; that deep, intimate knowledge of what I need, how to push me to the edge, hold me there before allowing me the exquisite agony of release from the pent up forces of desire He has caused to grow and build inside me. He is the virtuoso musician and my body is his instrument, the master artist, and my body is His canvas.

When Master C comes it is a celebration of the pleasure my body has given Him. When He comes in my mouth he is paying tribute to the skill with which I have sucked His cock. When he comes in my cunt, or in my arse, it is a celebration of the fact that I have provided Him with an outlet for the release that He needed. When He comes, shooting His thick load over my face or my boobs, I get the pleasure of witnessing that explosive moment of celebration as He marks me as His.

And then, when I am in His arms, either post-coitally or simple snuggled on the sofa in front of the TV in the evening, it is a very simple but effective celebration of the fact that we are together, a couple, a team; not just a Dominant and His submissive, but two halves of a whole.

Life is fleeting, so let us all resolve to celebrate it more.

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Impulsively bad behaviour


I think I may have mentioned that I am, quite unashamedly, a slut. Promiscuity has pretty much always been second nature to me and monogamy almost unthinkable. Even within the confines and context of my relationship, much of my submission to Him comes from the fact that He allows me to channel my impulsive sluttiness in ways that allow me freedom to indulge that aspect of my personality, albeit in a framework of control and discipline and a need to accept responsibility for my actions.

I’m not sure if engaging in casual sex is necessarily “bad” but in my younger days, it did have a lot of negative connotations. Yes, I enjoyed sex then just as much as I do now. I enjoyed the thrill of the chase, and I particularly enjoyed being caught (and sometimes being the one doing the catching). And while, in the main, the sex was primarily and mainly for the enjoyment of a good fuck, it had a darker side too.

Yes, I enjoyed the anticipation, the teasing, the flirting, the seduction and, ultimately, the gratification (whether it be a drunken blow-job in the pub car park or an all night one-nighter at their place – I almost never took my victims/conquests back to mine). The sex was absolutely about all those things. If, upon a night out, I saw a guy or woman I fancied, the chances are I’d have had some form of sexual liaison with them before my night was finished. Many a quick drink after class/work ended with a “walk of shame” in the early hours for a shower, a couple of hours sleep and a change of clothes before heading back to lectures/work.

But, on top of the thrill and the enjoyment, often I was searching for a form of validation. I wasn’t good at relationships, but I was good at sex, or at least I hoped I was. As much as I crave those times when Master C calls me His “good girl”, I needed to hear how good a fuck I was, how amazing it felt when I sucked a guy off, how much a woman enjoyed me going down on her, how much partners of either sex enjoyed my taste. The validation was almost as addictive as the anticipation and gratification, and the more I received, the more I craved it. I was an addict searching for their next fix.

The irony was that the more praise I received, the less it satisfied me, and the more I needed but, at the same time, the very act of seeking it out had an almost cancelling effect on my self worth. I wasn’t just a slut, I was a worthless slut. I didn’t deserve gratification or validation because I was cheap, an easy lay, the town bike. Of course I could have a relationship because, once they’d fucked me, who would actually want a relationship with someone like me who was emotionally incapable of being faithful.

I’ve come a long way since those days. I’m still impulsive, I still have sex with random men/women on nights out, I still love all the things about these encounters as I did then: the excitement, the recognition and appreciation of me as a sexual and sexy person. Obviously, I still enjoy being told how good I am (or how bad I am if I’m being honest), but now, largely down to Master C’s guidance, nurture and discipline, I fully appreciate my worth, I am good enough. There is no shame to having a high sex drive and in allowing myself to act upon such impulses as feel inclined to act upon. I know now that I am not cheapening myself, I am simply engaging in an enjoyable pastime. I know that such “punishment” as is required will be agreed with and administered by Master C and that any acts of “atonement” will be performed willingly.

And that’s the thing, I’ve alluded to this before but, when it comes to discipline, Master C does not decide unilaterally what form my chastisement will take. As part of the acceptance of responsibility I am required to consider my actions, the seriousness of them and to consider what would be the appropriate “tariff” for the transgression. It maybe six lashes of his belt, it may be a form of humiliation in front of members of our “Circle”, it may be that he denies me an orgasm for a number of days or chooses not to let me receive His load when He comes. It could be a combination of any of these, but we always discuss and consider and ultimately agree what form it takes so I never have any grounds to complain that it is unfair.

Sadly, at the moment, my opportunities to engage in my bad habits are extremely limited and I look forward to a time when I can be impulsive again. Until then, when it comes to incurring Master C’s correction, I just need to be creative.

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What about love?


The current prompt on ‘Quote Quest‘ asks us to consider the following:

We waste time looking for the perfect lover, instead of creating the perfect love.
– Tom Robbins

Now, if I’m being honest, I don’t think I’ve spend much time looking for a perfect lover. I have spent a lot of time and effort looking for great (and often, not so great) sex partners, but lovers are a different matter. Yes, Master C definitely is, amongst other things, my lover and He is very definitely my love, and as far as perfection goes, well, I guess that in an imperfect world, they are as close as I’ll get, and I couldn’t be happier, or more satisfied than that.

Stepping back, however, when does a shag become a lover?

At the time, I was pretty sure that I was in love with the boyfriend I let fuck me for the first time. I was definitely attracted to him, I enjoyed spending time with him, as our relationship grew over the few years we were boyfriend and girlfriend; starting from just awkward kissing, all the way up to where he was fucking me in the arse, I’d enjoyed every stop on our journey of sexual exploration. I loved what he could do to my body and make it feel, and I loved doing things back; I particularly loved knowing I was responsible for his orgasm. I was heartbroken when our relationship ended after being so intense, but these things tend to happen, and I was possibly even more upset when he passed away after a short battle with cancer a couple of years ago. But, was it love, or was it just the hormonal rush of horny teenagers? I suspect it was a combination of both.

I’d had “boyfriends” before him, and I’m sure I’d told them that I loved them, but I suspect it would be fair to say he was the first boyfriend that was, actually, a lover.

We wasn’t, however, my first lover. That accolade goes to “The Girl”. With her it was a love that grew out of friendship and would become physical. She was the first person (if you exclude my own efforts) to bring me to orgasm. Almost 30 years later, our friendship is still intimate and physical (albeit we can’t be physical at the moment because of Covid) . We revel in each other’s company. There are few greater, yet more simple pleasures than when we get together, spend hours talking shite over a few glasses of wine, and generally fucking each other senseless.

“The Other Guy” is also someone I would put in the “lover” camp. He started of as a random fuck. I hadn’t yet met Master C and I was single at the time. We met via an online contact site, we fucked and, not only was the sex good, but we discovered we actually liked each other, so we decided we would fuck some more. And so we did; whilst never making it to “couple” status we did move from random, to what might almost be described as a “classic” Friends with Benefits relationship which, if you’ve read this blog before will know, still carries on (albeit currently with the same caveats as the relationship with “The Girl”) today.

Then, there is Master C. Again, we started of as casual. We evolved into the kind of Friends with Benefits arrangement that I had with “The Other Guy” and then morphed into a couple. We moved in together a couple of years later and the rest, as they say, is history.

But then, what about the members of our “Sharing Circle”? Are they lovers or are they just sex partners? Well, it’s true that I enjoy their company when we’re sharing (although, honestly, some more than others), and I definitely enjoy the sex, but that’s about as far as it goes. For the most part, these are people that I fuck and people who fuck me. They aren’t people I call up for chats, or spend time with simply for the pleasure of their company. I don’t miss them in the way that I miss “The Girl” or “The Other Guy”. There is no emotional bond. The sex is great and it offers some exciting variety but if the “Circle” ended, I wouldn’t be devastated; I wouldn’t long for and pine after it in the way that I would if my relationships with “The Girl”, “The Other Guy” and especially my relationship with Master C were to end. The are regular (to partners who to a greater or lesser degree I am friendly with rather than people I would consider friends, and certainly I doubt that any would evolve to become “Friends with Benefits” In that respect, I guess, they don’t meet the “lover” criteria, and that’s absolutely fine.

So could I say that I have a perfect love? Well, if I’m being honest, I have to say “no”. Master C and I are, after all, only human. We have our faults, we argue and get on each other’s nerves, we do things that piss each other off; but that’s part of what being life partners is all about. Is Master C the “perfect” lover? Well, certainly, He knows my body and the way it responds like no one else. He can make my knickers fall fall off and my cunt sopping wet and hungry for His cock with just a glance or a gesture. He can and does play my body like a maestro plays a classic instrument. But is He perfect?

Well, again, I would say “no”. Not because I don’t love everything about Him, the things He does and the way He makes me feel, but simply because, like me, Master C is human, and we are not perfect. Besides which, if things were “perfect”, there would never be the opportunity for things to be even better, I would never need to be educated, guided and, where necessary, disciplined, and how dull would that be?

So I will happily take our imperfect lives and the implicit imperfections of our love simply because those imperfections are part of what makes it so fucking great.

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Plans, goals & looking forward


If, at the start of 2020, you had told us we would be spending much of the next year in varying degrees of lockdown, I suspect we’d have thought you were having some sort of sick joke at our expense. Yet, before three months were passed, that was where we were.

Now, as we start another year, we find ourselves pretty much where we were back in March last year. Granted, there is slightly more freedom, there are hopes that vaccines might soon return some of our regular freedoms to us in the not too distant future, and yet, here we are, shut off from each other and unable to do so many of the things that a mere 12 months ago, we took so much for granted.

So what plans/goals do I have for the year ahead? Well, to put it quite bluntly, none really.

I long for the time when Master C and I will be able to meet freely with other members of our “Sharing Circle”, I look forward to the days when I can spend time with “The Girl” or “The Other Guy”, I look forward to being able to go out to the pub, meet then drunkenly fuck random strangers and suffer the consequences for my actions.  I want to travel again; to see new places and revisit ones that I’ve been to before and loved. I want to spend more time outdoors, and for more of that time to be in a climate where I can be naked. I want, I want, I want…

When will these things happen? Who knows? I live simply in the hope and belief that they will, one day, be possible again. Until that day, I have Master C, and for that I am grateful. My plans for 2021, such as they are, are simply to remain His obedient(ish) and dutiful(ish) submissive; to be the partner He deserves and the support and love He needs. I plan to submit to His will, to be nurtured, guided and, where necessary, corrected and disciplined by Him. I plan to suck His cock whenever He permits me. I plan to let Him fuck me, whenever He wants to, in whichever hole He chooses. Most of all, however, I plan to love Him, to give myself to Him and to be there for Him in the same way that He loves, cares for, gives Himself to, and is always there for me.

Master C is my steadfast rock in my see of uncertain waters, and I have no plans for that to change.

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