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 too 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.

What every (bad) girl wants for Christmas

Bad Girl's ChristmasIn the depths of the cold, bleak mid-winter, who wouldn’t want to feel a warm glow slowly spreading over them? I know I certainly wouldn’t; and if by chance I’m rewarded with a lovely thick, hard candy cane to suck on afterwards, I’ll be a very happy bad girl indeed.

Wishing everyone a very happy/naughty Christmas and kinktastic 2020.


So, it’s Friday again.  It is also payday. As such, a group of us from work will be going out which, of course, means alcohol.

Now, there are some people who manage to hold their drink with a certain decorum; despite being a little dishevelled they manage to carry it off with a certain style and classiness. You know they’ve had a few too many but yet, they still manage to convey a sense of elegance, if not quite sophistication.

Sadly, I am not one of those people.

No, despite being Scottish, when it comes to alcohol, I am a total lightweight; anything more than two large glasses of wine and I’m pretty much anybody’s. I know this from bitter experience. Although, to be fair, I am frequently quite literally “anybody’s” so it’s not all bad all the time.

So, do I ever learn from these displays of public embarrassment?  No, of course not.

I can guarantee that this evening, once again, I’ll be there, doing my best, but failing miserably as usual to keep up with my colleagues and friends, and before I know it, I’ll be drunk tweeting, will have probably bought, and smoked most of a packet of Regal  (Note: I don’t smoke, except when I’ve had too much to drink), will have sent numerous suggestive texts to Master C, “The Girl” and “The Other Guy” describing in graphic and lurid detail what I want them to do to me and what I want to do to them in return, I will almost certainly end up sucking some random guy off and/or getting fucked behind the pub and, finally, one of my friends will have to pour me into a taxi at the end of the night.

I know I shouldn’t do it, I am fully aware that I have no capacity for alcohol, I know I’ll end up making an utter mess of myself, and I know I’ll feel like death for the next few days afterwards, but I also know I can’t help myself sometimes and I’m going to do it anyway. On the plus side, if I’m very bad, I will almost definitely earn myself the attention of Master C‘s belt, so there is a potential silver lining to this particular cloud.

So, if during the course of the evening, you happen to stumble across someone looking like she’s only just managed to escape the fall of civilisation while picking your way through town, please be gentle with me.

The one where Mòrag gets herself Royally Fucked!

So, as I mentioned last night, I was under explicit instructions from Master C to “enjoy myself”. Suffice to say, I most very certainly did.

I won’t bore you with the earlier part of the evening, it was just your fairly typical girl’s night out; drinking, dancing, outrageous flirting and discussions about our live/sex lives and gossip about who is fucking who. It’s what we girls do.

OK, so the outrageous flirting is kind of peripheral to the main event of this post, but I’ll cut to the chase.

The evening proceeded in the way such evenings do and, at some point towards the end of the night, I found myself behind the club, sucking on a nice thick cock.  I will freely admit that this is not an uncommon occurrence when I go out drinking.

What I hadn’t counted on was the fact that at some point during the proceedings, he would text his friend to come see what he was doing.

With hindsight, I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised at this turn of events, if anything, I guess, I should be more surprised that it hasn’t happened before.

Needless to say, after servicing the first guy, I barely had time to lick my lips and catch my breath before I found myself sucking his friend’s cock too.

If I was randy at the start of the evening, by the time the second guy had pumped his load down my throat, I was ready for anything. While I’m not averse to fucking in dark lanes, I’d already spent enough time on my knees on a cold pavement and, well, if a girl is going to get herself double-teamed, she might as well do it somewhere where the participants can take the time to do it properly. Suffice to say, this slut ended up going back to a flat with them (texting the address of where I was to Master C for safety reasons), and that’s where the fun really began.

I’m not a stranger to threesomes, but it’s been a while since I last participated in one. There is something particularly cunt-drenchingly hot about having your body explored by two pairs of hands, being kissed by two sets of lips. If either of them noticed the dried in cum coating my boobs, they never mentioned it as they kissed, licked, sucked and fingered me.

What happened for the next couple of hours is a bit of a blur. I was groped, fondled, licked and fucked extensively. There is something so deliciously satisfying about sucking on one lovely thick cock while another equally delicious cock is pounding you hard from behind. What made it hotter still was that they changed places frequently, letting me taste myself on the cock in my mouth.

The names they called me as they fucked me made it better still. “Dirty slut!” or “Filthy whore!” or “Cock hungry little bitch!” In truth, I was all of those as they fucked me, used me, took their pleasure from me. And I loved every thrust, every lick, every slap, every tug of my hair, every load of cum that they dispensed.

By the time we had finished, Master C’s load was only one of several that I was wearing. Before I left them, I had had cum on my face, cum on my boobs, cum on my belly, cum on my back, cum on my arse, cum pretty much everywhere. I was pretty much a walking mess of cum with a decidedly sore jaw and an extremely well fucked cunt.

Retiring to the bathroom, I sent Master C a photo of my cum coated face and another of my very tender cunt. And I felt a warm glow when His reply, “Good little slut!” came through.

I was still buzzing when I got home. Reluctantly washing the dried in cum from my body in the shower only served to get my clit tingling again and, having finally crawled into bed, I used my fingers to treat myself to one last climax before sleep. I was so exhausted that I didn’t even notice when Master C got home and climbed into bed beside me.

Writing this has got me a wee bit worked up. My cunt is drenched again, partially from reliving the events of last night, but mostly in anticipation of the thrashing Master C is going to give me for being such a dirty slut. He decided to take pity on his worn out slut and let me sleep, but did warn me when He left for work this morning that “sleeping on the job” would require some additional punishment when He gets home at lunchtime.

I think it’s fair to say that I’ve earned every single lash of the belt that Master C decides to inflict on me. I hope He gets home soon…

Party night

I’m going out tonight. It’s not actually a Christmas night out, but a friend’s 40th birthday. It will be messy, and I am under strict instructions from Master C to “enjoy myself”.

This instruction was given to me when He popped in briefly after work to get changed before heading out to a Christmas drinks reception, and delivered while I was bent over, wearing nothing but my stockings, with His cock pounding my cunt.

It was quite plain that Master C was marking His territory; fucking His slut ahead of anyone else, making sure my cunt is fucked and ready to be fucked again.

He took great pains to explain how He was “letting me off the leash” and how He expected me to be a “good little slut” and how I should “make Him proud”. Master C told me all this as He fucked me, His cock pounding me, his strong hand pulling my head sharply back by the hair while emphasising His instructions with a serious of stinging slaps to my arse.

When Master C came, He spun me around and shot His load over my boobs before instructing me to rub it in as I sucked the last drops of cum from His cock.

Once His cum had dried, Master C assisted in selecting my outfit for tonight. A lacy black bra with just a hint of lift to fully show off my cum encrusted boobs, a low cut dress that He particularly likes, a pair of mid-calf boots and, of course, no knickers (because a good slut doesn’t need them).

Once dressed, I was required to suck Master C‘s cock  as a “thank you” for being allowed to indulge my sluttiness, and was rewarded with a nice sized load of cum to savour and swallow. My first of the night.

Now I’m on a bus, on my way to meet my friends. My Cunt is wet and I’m looking forward to getting it filled again. Every now and then, I catch a faint whiff of Master C‘s cum, even over my perfume, and my cunt grows warmer and wetter still.

I’m as randy as hell, gagging for another fuck, and really looking forward to the rest of the evening. Almost as much as I’m looking forward to my debriefing and punishment tomorrow…


One of the most important things about being in a D/s relationship is trust. In their 2000 song, Affirmation, Savage Garden wrote the line:

I believe that trust is more important than monogamy

If anything sums up my relationship with Master C, this does.

I am most certainly not monogamous. As I have mentioned before, I am free to fuck other guys, so long as I accept the consequences of my actions.

By way of example, on the night of my work Christmas party, I was under strict instructions from Master C to “enjoy myself” and, it’s fair to say that I most definitely did. I hadn’t gone out that night looking for a threesome with two guys, but when the opportunity presents itself, what slut is going to refuse? I certainly wasn’t going to. Refusing a threesome would probably have earned me a stricter punishment than accepting one.

Of course, being the slut I am, I accepted the threesome and the consequences that would come with it; namely a thorough thrashing from Master C’s belt.

A slut’s punishment should always be proportionate to the severity of her transgression. I had earned a thorough thrashing and for Master C to have given me anything less would have “devalued” my actions and undermined His authority.

And that is another area where trust in a D/s relationship is important. A sub trusts her Master to treat her firmly, yet fairly; punishments must be proportionate to the transgression and rewards appropriate to the service given.

All about boobs

Why is it that, in our society it is perfectly acceptable for a man to bare his chest in public, whereas, in the main, it is utterly unacceptable for a woman to do so?  Why, when the sun is beating down, Master C can whip off his top in public, yet my top has to remain at least partially covered?

OK, so while Master C’s chest is broad, well-muscled and quite hairy, mine is smooth and has two rather large, bouncy appendages attached to it, but so what? In terms of the relative amounts of exposure, they are exactly the same.

So why is it that a man’s chest, no matter how awful, is socially acceptable but a woman’s chest, no matter now nice to look at, is deemed inappropriate for public consumption? Why are my boobs deemed to be offensive, inappropriate, morally scandalous, etc., yet any Rab C wannabe can whip off his string vest and flash his moobs and no one bats an eyelid?

Personally, I see this as discrimination. Did we girls ask for our mammary glands to become sexualised? I’m pretty sure we didn’t; but yet, if we tried exposing them in public, we could be done for indecency.  Indecency? Really?  Have you seen what some guys inflict on the poor unsuspecting public?

Now, in all honesty, I don’t really want to see even more flesh on display in and around the High Street during the summer.  And while I’m quite happy to get them out, where custom allows, at the beach, on in the privacy of my own garden, I very much doubt I would bare them whilst going about town; there’s a time and a place after all.  But, my point is, should I not at least have the choice to do so? Failing that, should guys be forced to wear vests?

I do wonder sometimes if our society has its priorities seriously mixed up.

Now, when it comes to my own boobs, I have something of a love/hate relationship with them. They are, very easily, my most noticeable feature.  At 34DD, they aren’t by any means massive, but they do get a lot of attention.

The Hate:

As I’ve just stated, my boobs get a lot of attention, they have done since they first began to swell when I was 12. Now, I don’t mind attention; the fact I write a sex blog kind of implies that I am, at least, a bit of an attention whore, but I do wish men would actually try and make eye contact with me some times. I am, after all, a living, breathing human being, and not just simply a life-support and transportation system for a pair of breasts.  Now I accept that men, and indeed a lot of women (me being one of them) like boobs and men are biologically programmed to ogle them, and I am more than happy to be ogled, but here’s the thing, they don’t talk back, and a little appreciation of the bit that does talk, when it is talking, and not just wrapped around a guy’s cock, would be nice.

Another issue with my boobs is that for one week in every four, they hurt like fuck! I have to sleep in a sports bra; I frequently have to wear two bras for additional support.  Showering the week before my period is due is a particularly painful experience; and as for being touched … well just don’t even go there. Sex during that particular week is something that has to be approached very tentatively and my boobs have extremely minimal involvement (which is a shame, as I love having my boobs played with during sex).

Then there’s clothes… Bra’s in particular can be a chore. Trying to find a nice/pretty/sexy bra that is comfortable, provides adequate support and doesn’t cost a fucking small fortune is extremely difficult.  But it’s not just bras, clothes in general can be difficult.  Being of otherwise average proportions, trying to find a dress that doesn’t just hang down from my boobs can be difficult.  Almost all of my dresses have to be worn with a belt. Now, I love sites like ASOS, their stuff is affordable and it’s nice, but I do wish they would occasionally employ some larger breasted models so that women like me can have a more realistic idea of what their outfits will actually look like when someone of a slightly top-heavy variety tries to wear them.

Then finally, there’s the biggie, which put at its simplest, and given my family history is that at some point in the future, they are very likely going to try and kill me.  Having lost my gran to breast cancer a few years back, and with my mum having recently had a lump removed (she has made a full recovery thankfully), it’s one of the reasons I devote so much time raising money for breast cancer research.

The Love:

Despite all of the above, and sometimes, in some instances because of it, I do, however, love my boobs.

Firstly, and somewhat ironically, my boobs get a lot of attention, and they have done since they first began to swell when I was 12.  As a result, I was always getting chatted up by boys in school and, as I got a bit older and going through my “promiscuous phase”, they definitely got me noticed, and almost certainly contributed to me getting shagged.  They also get a lot of attention from they men and women I have sex with; a different sort of attention, granted, but it’s an attention they enjoy very much, and leads me to my next reason.

They are super sensitive.  I am one of those lucky women who can come  simply from having their boobs and nipples stimulated. If you don’t believe this is possible, try this article from “Sex With Emily”. I first discovered this, on my own, when I was about 13.  Of course, I didn’t know it was an orgasm back then but it felt fucking fantastic.  It wasn’t until a few months later that I experienced an orgasm through rubbing my clit that I discovered it was a very similar sensation. When I was with a boy, I loved having them play with my boobs, whether through my clothes, or, with the more adventurous ones, when they put their hand up my top, nudged my bra out of the way and gave them a proper grope. My knickers would be wet with anticipation just at the suggestion that I was going to get my boobs felt up.

That hasn’t changed as I’ve got older.  Sometimes, when we’re lying snuggled (and fully clothed) on the sofa watching some late evening shite on the telly, Master C can bring me off just through gentle caressing and the occasional nipple tweak.

I love playing with my boobs and I love having them played with.  I love having them kissed, licked, squeezed, teased, nibbled, caressed and I especially like having a load of hot, sticky cum dropped on them.

On the whole, even though the hate can be quite intense at times, especially at the aforementioned time of the month, the love complete outweighs the hate.  In a very real sense, my boobs make me the woman I am. I just hope I have them for a long time to come…

Baring all

From snooker ball smooth to naturally wild and unkempt, and every variation in between, the way a woman chooses to style her pubis is a topic of much debate.

It’s fair to say, and I’m sure I’m not the only woman to whom this applies, that over the years I have had an off/on, and it’s fair to say mostly off, relationship with my pubic hair.

Being a (fairly) early developer, my pubes first made their appearance when I was 11. While in one sense this was quite exciting, it also caused me a fair amount of embarrassment on the grounds that I was the first girl in my year at school to reach ‘that’ stage of life (a fact that was apparent through the agency of communal changing facilities at swimming pools, the school gym, and other such places where circumstances dictated that I be naked in the presence of my peers). To say I came in for a fair amount of, albeit envious, teasing from my less developed contemporaries was an understatement.

My boobs had also began to develop but there wasn’t much I could do about that, especially given how quickly they ballooned, but my recently acquired soft curls, I could do something about. The solution was, of course, the razor. From then until I was 13, by which time almost all of my classmates had caught up with me, regularly de-fuzzing ‘downstairs’ became as much a part of routine as shaving my legs or under my arms and plucking my eyebrows. Fortunately, due to my hair being quite light in colour, once a week was generally sufficient for me to appear pre-pubescent to a casual glance and, at that age, the only person giving my cunt close attention was me… That said however, then even as now, I much preferred the way I felt when I was completely smooth. Whether it be shaved or waxed, nothing beats a freshly de-fuzzed mound for sensitivity.

Once I was 13, the balance had swung firmly back in the direction of pubic hair and, although I’ve already mentioned how much I liked my smooth self, I allowed myself to go au naturale with a certain amount of relief.

It was a relief that was tempered by the fact that, while it grew back in, it itched like hell. I came close to giving up on a number of occasions, and reverting to the smooth me but I persevered (ironic really, all things considered) until the future playing field was fully re-turfed.

I don’t know if it was because of my shaving regime or not, but, although soft, my pubic covering was fairly thick. Fortunately, due to some quirk of my genetic make up, it was never uncontrollably wild. It was certainly never as bushy as that of many other girls.

All in all, I came to love my soft, luxuriant curls. Running my fingers through them became as much a part of my self-play as actually playing with my clit or fingering my cunt.

And so it was until I was 15. The next change, of course, came about as a result of my discovery of oral sex and having my fingers supplemented by my then boyfriend’s (and one very special girlfriend’s) tongue.

As soon as I’d experienced a tongue between my lower lips, it’s fair to say, I became addicted and, luckily, the guy in question was more than happy to provide me with my regular fix. Much as he clearly enjoyed what he was doing (and the reciprocation from me by way of thanks for his efforts) there was always the ‘problem’ of him getting a mouthful of hair and getting stray ones stuck in his mouth and struggling (we’ve all been there) to remove the offending things. The solution to the problem of ‘nature’s dental-floss’ was presented to me by that particular girlfriend the first time I went down on her. She, you see, had hers neatly trimmed and, while that didn’t entirely eliminate the issue, it did reduce it substantially, so I decided to adopt the same approach.

My new look was a huge hit with my boyfriend at the time. So much of a hit, in fact, that the very first time he saw it, also coincided with the loss of my somewhat dubious virginity

The next step on the evolutionary path was, of course, the bikini wax. While I wasn’t averse to removing the excess around the edges with my razor, waxing was a revelation simply because, despite the initial discomfort (oh, OK, pain; yes, PAIN!), the results lasted a lot longer. Over the next 18 months or so, I experimented with different styles, from just a little off the sides to leaving just a small ‘landing-strip’. One day I finally plucked (no pun intended) up the courage to go the whole hog. To say that the guy I was currently fucking was impressed when he unwrapped me for the first time was, probably, an understatement. He spent so long down there with his mouth and fingers, I thought I was never going to feel his cock inside me. Suffice to say, eventually I did, and I thoroughly enjoyed its attentions; repeatedly as it turned out.

It’s worth noting that due to Him being particularly hirsute, Master C actually trims His pubic hair fairly short too, bless Him. We women are no more fans of nature’s dental-floss than men are after all, and the sensations of His coarse, short trimmed pubes against my bare clit and smooth lower lips are simply heavenly.

Nowadays , my basic style is to keep my lips smooth (since his mouth spends so much time down there, it reduces the risk of stray hairs getting in the way), while my mound is kept trimmed short and tidy. Sometimes I’ll fashion it into a neat triangle. On other occasions, as mentioned above, I’ll go for a narrow ‘landing-strip’. Sometimes, it’ll piss me off and I’ll shave it all off and start again.

The thing is, how I style it (or not) is my choice, and I like to surprise Master C  with what He finds when He gets my knickers off.

The smooth, pre-pubescent look seems to be very much in vogue these days. Porn seems to dictate that the only hair we women should have is on our heads. There is almost a pressure on women to conform to this “norm”.

The thing is though, pubic hair is natural and keeping yourself unnaturally smooth can be a hassle, and if you wax, is, as alluded to already, bloody painful.

How anyone chooses to style their pubic hair should always be their choice, it should never be something they are coerced into simply to satisfy someone else’s preferences. If a partner can’t handle pubic hair, then they clearly aren’t mature enough to be going anywhere near that region.

As I said above, there are times when I choose to go smooth. I like variety. However I choose to style my pubic region, though, is my choice and, in all honesty, I love the way my cunt looks when it is neatly tended to.

So ladies, if you want to go smooth, go right ahead. If you want to keep your curls, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. At the end of the day, our cunts are ours and ours alone, we simply allow our partners temporary use of them. How we choose to style them, or not, is nobody’s business but our own.

The one thing I have discovered is that the secret of a good waxing is proper moisturising afterwards. Based on past experience, I’m almost certain that Master C, “The Other Guy” and “The Girl” will do their very best to ensure the whole area is very thoroughly moisturised…

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My way

I am, by my own admission, quite unashamedly a slut. My attitude has always been, if I see a guy I fancy, I’m probably going to fuck him or, at the very least, suck him off. Whether I go back to his, or just suck/fuck him in some darkened back lane, it makes no difference. For me, a Friday or Saturday night out often isn’t complete without the feeling of at least one throbbing, rigid cock in one of my willing holes.

I’m shallow enough to admit that I select the guys I’m going to fuck based entirely on how attractive I find them and how wet just imagining them inside me makes me. Their relationship status doesn’t matter to me; I’ll fuck married guys just as readily as I’ll fuck single ones. If choosing to accept my advances means he’s cheating on his partner, then that’s his problem, not mine; I’m not forcing him to fuck me; I’m simply issuing an invite that he is free to accept or decline as his moral compass/conscience deems appropriate.

At the end of the day, I’m not looking for love, I’m definitely not looking for a relationship (I get both of those in full measure from Master C), I’m simply looking for some sweaty, enthusiastic, no-strings fun; some sexual gratification and, if possible, an orgasm or two.

Ultimately, I know that if I fuck someone else, I will have to admit this to Master C and accept whatever punishment my Master sees fit to inflict upon me for my transgression, but that is the price I willingly pay.

I’m a slut, and this is how I do it; my way.

Silk scarves

For some women it’s shoes, for others, it’s handbags, for me, while I am not immune to the female attraction of such items, it’s silk scarves. To say I have a bit of a thing for them is an understatement; I currently have about 300.

I was given my first one by my Italian grandmother then I was 12. It is still one of my absolute favourites. Since then, they have been an almost ubiquitous part of my attire. If you have ever met me, then unless I was wearing a swimsuit/bikini, or it was some other situation where I was skimpily attired, then the chances are, I will almost certainly have been wearing one.

As well as being part of my wardrobe, since embracing my submissive side, my scarves also feature quite regularly in my sex life. They can be used to restrain me; binding my wrists and/or ankles. They can be used to gag me. They can be used to blindfold me, they can be used to choke me.

They also have another very practical use. Should Master C be particularly rough, the scarf can also hide the belt marks on my neck.

So, as you can see, the humble silk scarf can be very versatile indeed…