My flavour


I am, as I suspect many women are, very familiar with the taste of my own sexual fluids. By which I mean, many women are familiar with the taste of their own, not with mine; although there are a fair few who are familiar with mine too. I digress…

Almost from the very beginning, from pretty much the first furtive fingering I ever gave myself, I have been fascinated by the scent and flavour of my cunt. As I experimented, I began to notice the subtle changes in both consistency and flavour depending on my level of arousal and where I was in my cycle. Despite those variations there was an underlying intrinsic “meness” that, as I became acquainted with the taste of other vaginas, I released that I, like every other woman I tasted had my own unique flavour; my own essence.

I can’t really describe my flavour. It has a rich, slightly bitter, musky tanginess. At the point of orgasm, my flavour becomes sharper, richer and more intense. Many partners have commented on the fact that, when they are going down on me, they can tell the moment that I come simply because the way I taste changes; becoming stronger and (apparently) more intoxicating.

Now, I’m not sure about the intoxicating bit, but I will admit that tasting myself while masturbating has always heightened my arousal and intensified the sensations. When I wank, my fingers will travel between my cunt and my mouth many times as I drive myself towards orgasm; it is an intrinsic part of my self-play.

It isn’t just when I’m flying solo that I get to taste myself. I am fortunate that in Master C, “The Other Guy” and “The Girl”, I am blessed by having partners for whom going down on me is something the do with relish and gusto. I love tasting myself on their lips as they kiss me, my essence on their tongue as it snakes inside my mouth. I love it when a partners fingers, glistening with my juices, are pushed into my mouth to be licked clean. I can never get enough of the taste of myself on Master C’s or “The Other Guy’s” cock after it has been inside me.

I particularly love the combination of flavours when my cum is mixed with that of my partner’s, whether that be when Master C commands me to lick His cock clean after He has fucked me, or when I gather up our mixed essences as they trickle from my cunt and lick my fingers clean.

I have made no secret in this blog about how hungry I am when it comes to having my partners’ cum in my mouth but, it seems, when you get right down to it, I’m every bit as hungry for the taste of my own.

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Fuck love


I’ve never been fond of the term “making love”. To me, love is something that you feel, not something that you do.  That’s not to say that having sex doesn’t make you feel loved, it can, and when it does, it can add a whole other level of intensity to proceedings; but sex and love are not the same thing, and you can have one with, or without the other.

I like to use the word “fuck”. It’s coarse, it’s earthy, it just sounds right for an act that, when we get right down to it, is basically an animalistic coupling. Yes, sex can be gentle and tender and, dare I say it, loving; and it is great, but it can also be rough, and hard, and, well, animal, and that’s pretty damned amazing too.

I also quite like “shag”. I’m not sure if I can differentiate between a shag and a fuck, or even possibly a screw (although that’s not a term I particularly like), but that’s not important. The thing is, you can fuck, shag, or screw someone without loving them; I know I certainly have.

I’ve never really understood the euphemistic term: “sleep with”. Yes, OK, so I have (literally) slept with a few of the partners, both male and female, that I’ve had sex with, but there have been more than a few guys where no sleeping was involved whatsoever. Similarly, I have shared a bed with (so, again, literally slept with) a guy and not had sex with him. So, generally, it’s a term I avoid.

Euphemisms and slang aside, I will generally just describe it as “sex” or “having sex”. Granted, in the heat of passion, I have never huskily whispered the words “Have sex with me,” into a partner’s ear. I have, however demanded, quite forcefully on occasion, that said partner should “Fuck me!” and that sometimes they should “Fuck me harder!”. Could you possibly imagine asking someone to “Make love to me harder”? No, didn’t think so.

On a similar vein, I have absolutely never asked some one to make love to me in the arse, although I have very definitely asked, begged, pleaded, demanded to have my arse thoroughly fucked.

Sex is our most basic, animal pleasure. For me, words like “fuck” and “shag” have an animal quality that fits so well.  And, as Tina Turner once said, “What’s love got to do with it?”

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Thrashed


So, as expected, Master C punished me thoroughly for my escapades with “The Other Guy”. I won’t bore you with the details of how the appropriate level of discipline was negotiated, but the result ended up being as follows:

I am bent over Master C’s “workbench” and He ties me firmly, securely in place. The ropes cut tightly into my wrists, my ankles and across my back.

My boobs are  pressed against the cold, hard, unyielding wooden surface, forcing the clamps around my nipples into their skin. It hurts with a delicious intensity.

Cold lube is dribbled over my arsehole. With one, then two fingers, Master C roughly opens me up, stretching my tight, tender rear entrance. Fingers withdrawn, I feel the cold plastic of a dildo being pushed firmly into place; holding me open for what will come later.

“Are you ready?” Master C asks, his voice oddly tender and concerned.

“Yes Master,” I reply, “I am ready.”

I wait. Seconds pass. Anticipation grows inside me. My cunt grows wet as I await the first kiss of His belt.

A finger runs between my lower lips. I feel my juices flow.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Master,” I admit.

“You’re a nasty little slut, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Master.” Again I can’t deny the accusation.

“What are you?”

“I’m a nasty little slut, Master.”

“And what happens to nasty little sluts?”

“They get thrashed, Master.”

“Yes they do. Yes they do.”

More time passes. The anticipation continues to build. Master C forces his finger into my warm, wet cunt.

“Are you going to thrash me, Master?”

“Yes I am, my little slut.”

“Will you thrash me hard, Master?”

“Yes I will, my little slut.”

“I deserve to be thrashed hard, Master.”

“Yes you do, my lovely, filthy little slut.”

His finger slides from my cunt and is forced into my mouth. I love the way I taste on His finger.

I hear the crack as Master C flexes His belt. I close my eyes, waiting to feel its first biting kiss.

Swoosh, SLAP! It cuts into my skin. I hold back a cry, pretending to be brave.

Swoosh, SLAP! Again it bites. Tears begin to well in my eyes. My face begins to redden, to match the hot, stinging glow that my arse is beginning to display.

Swoosh, SLAP! Another caress of leather. A small sob escapes from between my lips. My tears begin to flow.

Swoosh, SLAP! I want to cry, but I need to be brave for my Master. I need to show Him I can take my punishment.

Swoosh, SLAP! I can’t hold back. I cry out as the pain intensifies. My tears feel like burning rain against my cheeks.

Swoosh, SLAP! “Oh Master!” I cry, “P… Punish me, M… Master! Punish your filthy s… slut!”

Master C shows no mercy. His belt rains down on me again and again. The pain is so strong I can no longer feel the clamps around my nipples, digging into my boobs.

And then it stops.

The dildo is pulled from my arse, only to be replace by Master C‘s lovely thick cock.

His hand grabs my hair. He pulls my head sharply back as He fucks my arse.

As his cock pounds me, Master C slaps my arse cheeks with his free hand, never letting the pain subside. He tightens His grip on my hair, pulling it harder.

“Filthy slut!” He moans; His words punctuating the long, hard, punishing thrusts of His beautiful cock, “Filthy, little, dirty slut!”

His free hand moves around me to tease my clit as Master C pummels my arse relentlessly with His cock. Despite the pain, despite the agonising intensity of this treatment, I come almost immediately.

“Oh… Oh M.. Master! Oh thank you, Master!” I sob as my orgasm rips through me.

Master C releases my hair. His cock slips from my arsehole. Seconds pass until I feel the warm wetness of His cum splash over the burning cheeks of my bum.

It feels so good. It feels so dirty. It reignites my climax, pushing me beyond the brink of my endurance.

Master C unties me, picks me up and carries me over to the bed. I hear the crack of a bottle lid. The familiar scent of aloe, and the coolness of gel as He begins to spread it into my burning skin.

Suffice to say, I was squirming in my seat as I wrote the above; partially because my arse still hurts, but mostly because writing that has made me hot in places well under the collar.

If you’ll excuse me, I think I need to go and do something about my current worked up state…

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Helping hands


As much as I enjoy using my fingers to pleasure myself, there is something quite wonderful about having another person stick their fingers up my cunt. Whether it be the sort of gentle caressing, teasing type of fingering that “The Girl” employs, or the rough, hard, finger-fucking that I can expect from Master C, I love that feeling of having someone else play with my cunt.

Sometimes, it is a delightful form of foreplay; getting me wet, opening me up in readiness to receive a cock. On other occasions, Master C, “The Other Guy” or “The Girl” will use their fingers to bring me to orgasm, usually while their mouths are kissing and sucking on my nipples, or sometimes while their tongues are lashing my clit.

When you consider that, for most of us girls, I suspect, getting someone’s fingers pushed up our cunts was one of the first overtly below the belt sexual experiences we ever encountered, it’s amazing how much pleasure we can still experience from this most simple form of play; not least given that we have since become accustomed to having much longer and thicker objects inside us.

In my case, that first, fumbled, furtive fingering happened, alliteratively enough, when I was fourteen. We were supposedly watching a movie, don’t ask me what it was, I was much more interested in the fact he had one hand up my top, playing with my boobs, and the other inside my knickers, fingering my cunt. I didn’t come, I’d frigged myself into a frenzy often enough to know that, but it did feel wonderful. Let’s be honest, what randy fourteen year old girl, in the first flush of hormone-fuelled lust, doesn’t like getting her boobs played with? Getting fingered at the same time was was the icing on my very creamy muffin.

Maybe if he’d used a bit more pressure or spent a bit more time on my clit rather than inside me, and maybe if he’d also been a little less gentle in the way he treated my nipples, I might have got there; but hey, I wasn’t complaining. I was fourteen and getting my cunt fingered in a public place and it felt great. Besides which. I was able to finish myself off later on my own, while imagining it was his fingers that were bringing me off.

I’ve had many fingers up me since then, both male and female; and in the main, they have been much more experienced and a lot more successful in their application, but that first fingering will always remain with me.

I will always welcome a helping hand…

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Watching him


There is something magical about watching a man masturbate. The whole process, from the first stroke to the final messy eruption is, I find, mesmerisingly hypnotic.

I love to watch a man as he slowly teases himself, transforming his soft, slightly comically, flaccid penis into that steel-hard, solidly erect pole that I long to feel inside me.

It’s such a simple thing, fingers wrapped around those inches of proud flesh, rubbing it, stroking it until he pushes himself over the edge. And yet, despite the inherent simplicity of the act, there are as many variations in technique as there are men. Some stroke lightly, from start to finish, keeping an even pace. Others start slowly and increase the pace as their climax approaches. Still, others beat frantically, turning it into a sprint to the finish.

Some men grip tightly, their fingers wrapped around their shafts, gripping it like a baton in a relay race as they pump up and down. Others circle their cock with their thumb and forefinger, teasing, caressing, almost coaxing their eventual climax.

I’ve watched quite a few men get themselves off, and every one did it differently, applying different amounts of pressure and beating out their own particular rhythms in the pursuit of their pleasure.

I love to watch the expressions on their faces. I love to listen to the various sounds that they make. I love they way that they are inhabiting their own worlds, and I have no idea what thoughts they are relying on as they travel to their orgasmic destination.

And then there are those little signs that speak so loudly of the state of a man’s arousal. The changes in his breathing, the tension in his thighs, the tautness of his lower torso, the tightening around the eyes; all indicating that the pressure for release is building inexorably inside him.

A soft sigh, a deep moan, a slight tightening of his grip tell me that he is on the brink. His free hand presses firmly against his inner thigh as the tension grows.

A grimace, a tightening of the jaw and the muscles around his eyes tell me he is trying to hold back, delay the inevitable, extend his pleasure.

And then there’s that magical moment, that split second when he succumbs to the inevitable, that briefest instant in time when he realises that, like King Canute standing before the incoming tide, he can no longer prevent the what is about to occur. There is something almost bittersweet for him in that moment; the sweetness of orgasm, the bitterness of ending.

And then he comes. Thick jets of sticky white loveliness erupt from his cock. As he sends this lovely substance shooting through the space between us, the tension visibly drains from his body. His breathing is laboured, his heart pounds in his chest, sweat forms on his brow; yet at the same time he relaxes, drained, content, satisfied.

If I weren’t so hungry for the feel cock inside me, I could happily watch men do this endlessly.

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Master C’s belt


There is, I admit, something about leather; the smell, the texture, the feeling of it against my skin. When it comes to leather clothing, the only items I actually possess are my motorbike gear. I don’t actually have any leather fetish items, although Master C does like to fuck His “Biker Slut” sometimes, so my biking leathers have featured in my sex life from time to time. The only other item that I own, that kind of counts is a pair of almost knee length “fuck me” boots which I wear very rarely because I would almost certainly fall over if I wore them for any prolonged period.

No, when it comes to leather, sex and kink, there is only one thing that really “does it” for me and that is, of course, Master C’s belt.

I both fear, and love, Master C’s belt.

I fear it for the pain it will cause me; the delicious agony of my flaming red arse cheeks as Master C punishes me for my various transgressions. I always know when I’ve done something that deserves the belt; I know when to present myself, arse bare, bent over, waiting for its chastising kiss. There is no escaping it. There is no point trying to resist it. When the belt is due, the belt will come, and I will bear it and endure it like the chastened little slut that I am. Forced to count the lashes, desperate to hold back the sobbing tears; Master C will thrash me until my defiance is beaten, my transgression punished, my submission complete.

When Master C thrashes me, there are always those moments of dreadful anticipation before the first blow lands; the calm before the storm, the silence as Master C prepares Himself for what needs to be done. There are the shivers of anticipation that run along my spine, the involuntary clenching of the muscles in my buttocks as I await the first contact, and the inevitable moistening of my cunt as I wait, exposed and vulnerable, awaiting my fate.

The tension mounts as the eternal seconds tick by; my stoic silence is a pretence at defiance, a challenge that requires to be met and for which Master C should show me no mercy.

And then, that brief, short swooshing sound as the belt moves through the air, gathering momentum as it makes that short arc that ends with a stinging crack as it bites into the flesh of my bare arse.

From that moment on it is simply about endurance; accepting each stroke that rains down, feeling the burn intensify with each lash as synapses linking my pain and pleasure centres go into overdrive.

Yet, for all that I fear it for the pain that it will inflict, I also love it.

I love it when Master C uses His belt to bind my wrists together as He fucks me from behind. I love the way it digs into my skin, tightening as I struggle against its binds, its surface chafing my wrists; holding me in place as I endure the pounding of His cock in whichever hole Master C has chosen to take His pleasure from. Once again, I am helpless as His cock pounds my cunt or my arse. My arms and shoulders strain as He pulls back, pulling me on to Him as He fucks me.

I love it when Master C fastens He belt around my neck, pulling it tighter as He fucks my mouth, forcing His cock deep into my throat. I love how His belt constricts around me, choking me, denying me air, making my lungs burn as Master C force feeds me His lovely cock.

Sometimes, when Master C fucks me, He will hold His belt across my neck as He drives His cock into my cunt; holding me down, depriving me of air. As He fucks me, He alternates His grip on either side of the belt, easing then increasing the constriction. When Master C fucks me from behind, He will pull more firmly on the belt, tightening it around my neck as He take me hard. In either way, with Master C above me or behind me, fucking my cunt or my arse, the anoxia intensifying the sensations as He takes me along the path to the brink of my climax; the need for release competing with the increasing need to breathe until, so often, it is that first shuddering inhalation that provides the spark to ignite my orgasm.

For all of the things I love about Master C’s belt and the way He wields and uses it to hurt me and pleasure me, what I love most of all, however, is the way it marks my pale white skin, branding me with the mark of Master C’s ownership, his domination and his mastery of me.

For all these reasons, and more, I love my Master’s belt; but behind that love, the fear remains.

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The cage


Ever since Master C installed the cage a couple of years ago, it has been a constant source of dread. It is His last recourse of discipline, to be used when a simple thrashing is not sufficient for the transgression that I have committed.

The punishment for those very worst offences is always the same:

  • Step one: I am thrashed/caned/birched soundly.
  • Step two: With my hands cuffed behind my back, I am forced to kneel before Master C as He wanks, then comes all over me.
  • Step three: I am pushed into the cage, the door is locked, the light is switched off, and I am left for a period, potentially even overnight, to contemplate my behaviour.
  • Step four: At some point determined by Master C, I will be required to apologise, suck His cock through the bars of the cage then, once released, submit myself for another thrashing.

I fear and dread the cage more than anything.  More than simply being thrashed. More than being denied the release of orgasm. I fear it because it may deny me a night spent next to Master C, feeling His body against mine, feeling safe wrapped up in His strong yet soft embrace. I fear it because it means I have done something so bad, I have temporarily lost the right to His protection.

And yet, the cage isn’t always bad…

Sometimes, when I’m feeling low after a bad day at work, or a particularly bad bout of PMT, I will retreat to the cage, waiting for Master C to return.  The cage becomes a sanctuary, a place of comfort and security.  When Master C comes home and finds me in my cage, He knows that I’m feeling particularly fragile, that I need His care and reassurance more than anything else. It is my sign to Him that the world is proving too much for me and I need Master C to look after me, to cherish me, to love me.

It is a sign that Master C knows only to well how to interpret. I need Him to be my caring, protecting Dominant. He never fails me.

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Same-sex sex


I have never made any secret of the fact that I am attracted to members of both sexes.  Having gone to an all girls private school, it was inevitable, I suppose that I would experience female nudity before experiencing the male equivalent and, it is fair to say, that I found the naked forms of some of my classmates to be very attractive indeed. Of course, being at an all girl school, I had to keep this fact pretty much to myself; if there is one thing “worse” than being branded a slut in such an environment, teenage girls being what they are, it was being branded a lesbian.  That, however, didn’t stop me being curious.

It was probably inevitable then, that the first time I ever came at (quite literally) the hands of another person, those hands would belong to another girl; “The Girl” to be precise.

“The Girl” and I have “known” each other pretty much all our lives. We went to the same nursery, primary school, secondary school and, although we did different courses at different universities, for a lot of our time as students shared a flat too. From the very first, we were pretty much inseparable; “The Girl” was, however, the dominant personality in our friendship, always the leader, and I was the faithful sidekick.

I can’t actually remember how we ended up coming to have sex that first time.  We were 13 and both still virgins and when it came to boys I, at least, hadn’t progressed much further than kissing and letting them occasionally put a hand up my top and squeeze my boobs through my bra; as for “The Girl”, she’d gleefully confided in me recently before this, that she’s given a guy in third year a hand-job. We had both, very definitely discovered wanking and orgasms though.

The fact that we were in bed together wasn’t unusual.  We’d been having sleepovers since we were about 4 or 5 and had often cuddled up under the duvet together; it’s just what we did. I remember that we had been talking about boys, and wanking, and orgasms, and how good they felt.  I also remember that they more we discussed such things, the more urgent the need to have a bloody good wank became. We were turning ourselves and each other on with our talk and, at some point we stopped talking and started kissing.  At some point slightly further in the proceedings, our nightshirts came off and I felt her soft, naked body against mine.  The kisses slowly moved down from our lips to our boobs and I remember coming hard as I furiously rubbed my clit while “The Girl” sucked on my nipples.  Once I’d recovered, I reciprocated until “The Girl” came too.  Then things got even more interesting…

As we were lying there, still extremely turned on, “The Girl” tentatively reached over to stroke my cunt.  The effect was immediate.  This was the first time anybody other than me had touched my cunt.  As I came again, I put my hand between her thighs and mirrored what she was doing to me on her. I can’t remember how many times we both came during that first orgy of finger-fucking but I do remember being relieved that it was a Friday night and we didn’t have to go to school the next day, as neither of us got a lot of sleep.

You will notice that all we did was kiss and finger-fuck each other.  Neither of us went down on the other.  It would be almost a year before we did that and only after we’d experienced having guys go down on us.  The truth is, it never even occurred to us.

That was the first of the countless times “The Girl” and I have fucked each other over the last 30 years.  Most often it was one-on-one, but sometimes we’d be the FF of an FFM threesome, and, on a few occasions, we were the girls at the centre of a group fucking.

She was my first girl, and since that night, there have been quite a few others.  Nowadays I generally fuck women on a one-on-one basis, or as part of an FFM threesome with Master C, but back in my adult contact site days, I did sometimes respond to ads from couples looking for a bi girl to join them and, as I’ve mentioned before, I’ve also had some all female threesomes.

Of course, it goes without saying that Master C knows all about this side of my sexuality and He allows me to explore it with His blessing.  There is, however, one condition to this freedom, and it’s one that I happily accept: namely that I have to tell Master C everything about these encounters, not leaving out a single detail.  This of course, almost always results in me receiving a thorough spanking for my misdeed, followed by a very rough, very hard punishment fuck; the purpose of which is to show me exactly what us carpetmunchers were missing. It’s fair to say, Master C does make an excellent point on these occasions, but for some reason, I never can quite learn my lesson…

Desire


How do we demonstrate our desire for something or, indeed, something? We can drop subtle hints, we can drop not-so-subtle hints, sometimes we can blatantly demand what is required to satisfy our needs and wants.

The “I can’t wait to get you home” when having a meal in a restaurant, the whispered “I want you so badly” when you’re in public, or the barked command to “Bend over!” can all, depending on the circumstances, be equally indicative of desire.

When we write, we use words like hunger, longing, yearning, craving, to indicate that state that is more than just simply wanting. The words we use say a lot about how we express our desires.

When Master C orders me to bend over, I know exactly what He wants. He wants to hurt me, He wants to punish me, He wants to fuck me roughly, treating me as His own personal slut. How do I indicate my reciprocal desire to be treated in such a way? I comply with his demands; acknowledging his claim.

In a D/s relationship, it is easy for the submissive to acquiess to their Dominant’s desires. It is, after all, our duty to do so. But what of the submissive? How do they articulate their desires? How do they illicit the treatment from their Dominant that they hunger for?

That, I suspect, depends entirely on the dynamic of your relationship.

I tend to express my desires by asking if Master C would like me to do something, or if He would like to do something to me.

“Would Sir like to watch me come for Him?” or ” Would Sir like me to suck His cock?” or “Would Sir care to taste my cunt?” are, for me at least, good ways of indicating what I really want. Of course, sometimes Sir does not care for such things, but that is His right.

Sometimes a more pleading, “Please may I suck Sir’s cock?” is appropriate, especially if I think I may be able to reverse an earlier rebuff.

Of course, because I’m a naughty, insatiable little slut, sometimes I take more direct action. When I really want to be spanked. I’m not averse to informing him that I’ve been a bad girl, baring my arse and bending myself over His knee.

Sometimes though, just sometimes, I pluck up the courage to actually make a demand; usually when His denials have pushed my frustration levels to breaking point. It’s a technique that I employ rarely, when I’m at the end of my tether, when “no” is simply not an option, no matter how disobedience it shows.

I know it’s part of His plan. I know Master C does it to provoke me. I know it shows me for the selfish, disobedient slut that I am, but those occasional, exasperated, “Look Mister, will you just get your arse over here and fuck my brains out with that lovely cock of yours?” are never ignored. Oh. I accept that I will get a thorough thrashing first for my impudence, but in the end, I get what I desire.

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Casual consequences


Casual sex is nothing new for me. I’ve always found it exciting, I’ve always been hugely turned on by the experience of sucking some stranger’s cock and then having him fuck my brains out. I’d fucked around a lot before I met my ex, and after he finally left me for the girl he was fucking behind my back, the same girl who’s back he would soon come to fuck me behind, I found myself enjoying the freedom of picking up guys for random fucks.

It was, I admit, a case of seeking affirmation of myself as a woman that men find sexually desirable. It was a bit of an ego boost. In reality, whilst I had a lot of fun, the experiences were mostly empty. The guys I fucked weren’t partners, they were simply living sex toys, to be used for the pleasure derived from them, then discarded.

I fucked without caring. I fucked single guys, I fucked married guys; basically, I just fucked whomever I fancied without any care or consideration. That was, until I met Master C.

I’ll come back to him later.

My ex was a cunt. And, in a way, he turned me into one too. I carried on fucking him for almost 18 months after we split up. Not, I hasten to add, because I wanted him back, nor out of any desire for revenge over the girl he was now with. No, it was simply because the sex with him was the best sex I’d ever had.

He knew me, he knew my body, and he knew how to get inside my head. He could push all my buttons, give me the most amazing orgasms, and satisfy me in a way that none of my casual encounters ever could. Sex with him was a drug and I was addicted. And, like all addictions, it was potentially destructive.

Then I met “The Other Guy”. It should have just another casual fling, but somehow it became more than that. The sex was good, very good, he was interested in me as a person and not just as somewhere to stick his cock.

For a while, I was fucking both him and my ex and, I’ll admit, it was one of the most amazing periods of fucking I ever had.

Somehow, though, although there was no commitment or exclusivity between us, I valued the time I spent with “The Other Guy”. He made me feel special, he made me feel worthwhile. I was still fucking random guys but it was him, when he was available that I wanted to spend time with.

Push came to shove when both “The Other Guy” and the ex wanted to meet up with me the same evening. I had to choose and I chose “The Other Guy”. And that was it, the ex was finally out of my life. The fact that I sent him a recording of me having a tumultuous orgasm at the hands (and tongue) of “The Other Guy” was something I took great satisfaction in.

That might have been it, but it wasn’t. Despite the fact we enjoyed each other’s company (both in bed and out) and spent a lot of time together, “The Other Guy” weren’t a couple and definitely weren’t exclusive. He worked away a lot, and there were times when I wouldn’t see him for weeks on end and, well, I am a cock-hungry slut who likes fucking, so when he wasn’t available, I continued fucking any guy who took my fancy.

Then, a few months later, the man who would become Master C entered the picture; and with him I made the most earth shattering discovery. He unleashed Morag the submissive.

I’d never considered myself to be submissive. I’d enjoyed a bit of spanking play in my past, but who doesn’t? Looking back, however, the one thing that my most successful sexual relationships, both with the ex and with “The Other Guy”, and indeed, Master C himself, had in common was that they are all very physical and sexually confident men. I allowed them, albeit unconsciously, to dominate me.

Master C tapped into that side of me and nourished it, bringing it to the fore. I realised that submission wasn’t just about discipline, although that is very much a part of it, but it is about trusting the other person, allowing them the freedom to do whatever they will, giving them the power over you but knowing they won’t abuse it.

Master C has taught me, that it is perfectly OK to be a slut; that I am free to be who I am and express myself how I desire but there are consequences to my actions. I don’t need to seek affirmation from the guys I fuck, because I have a Master who affirms me. He doesn’t simply punish me with His belt, he teaches me and guides me. He gives me the confidence to express my wants, to measure my failings objectively and to see my own self worth. He is my guide and teacher as well as my Master.