Let’s be upstanding


I absolutely fucking love cock. There, I’ve said it, “I love cock”. It’s probably fair to say that I love all cocks but, in particular, I love Master C’s cock.

I find penises endlessly fascinating. I love the way they change from their wrinkly flaccid state into an angry and swollen full-scale hard-on. I love watching this transformation in Master C’s cock as I slowly play with it, teasing it, turning Him on, arousing Him until he is fully erect and ready to pound my cunt with its lovely thick hardness. I also find those little involuntary twitches it makes in response to my touches amusingly endearing.

When it slips into cunt, I love the way it stretches me, and the pressure as it slides into me, inch by delicious inch, filling me. As I clench myself around it, I can feel those twitches inside me as it slides in and out.

As Master C fucks me, I imagine I can feel the head swell inside me as His orgasm approaches. When He cums, I feel His cock pulse, feel the eruption as His load is unleashed deep inside me.

Afterwards, the combined tastes of our juices is intoxicating as I take His cock into my mouth to clean Him. Then, as we lie together, His cock slowly shrinks back to its pre-aroused size and shape and I’m already looking forward to the next time I can make it hard and feel it inside me again.

Penises are very simple creatures that act as a barometer of their owner’s arousal. A hard-on can’t really be faked and are a very obvious mark of sexual approval. If you’ve given a guy a hard-on, he’s probably going to want to fuck you with it; and in Master C’s case, as He has such a fine specimen, it would be churlish of me not to let Him put it to good use.

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Sometimes, you don’t have to fuck her hard…


I enjoy a good, hard fuck. I will be the first to admit that there are times when, quite simply, Master C cannot fuck me hard enough. When I’m in the mood to take it rough, I want it rough: hair pulling, arse slapping, nipple tugging, hands around my neck… When I’m in that sort of mood, anything, absolutely anything goes. I love it, I crave it, hell, I’ll admit right here, I need it sometimes.

Not every time though. For all I’m a filthy little slut who enjoys being royally seen to, I am still a woman, and I do have my softer side. As much as I love being Master C’s naughty little fuck-toy, sometimes I want to be desired, I want to be loved, I want to be cherished.

Sometimes, all I really want is, for want of a better term, to be made love to. I want to lie back and enjoy every sensation as Master C explores my body with His fingers, lips and tongue. I want to feel Him slowly slide into me, filling me up, stretching my cunt with His wonderful cock.

I want Master C to take me slowly, so I can feel every thrust, experience every inch of Him as He slides in and out. I want to savour every moment as He takes me, from the first thrust to the last.

I want to feel the tension mount in His body; feel the tautness in His thighs as they move against mine, feel His breathing deepen as Master C works towards that moment of final release.

Finally, I want to share that moment of His climax; the shuddering eruption as He unloads deep inside me His cum filling my cunt; so warm, so rich and full.

And then I want Master C to collapse, spent, on top of me, crushing me to the mattress, His heart pounding in His chest, His ragged breathing warm against my neck as He holds on to me, cherishing me, yet still claiming me as His.

Yes, Master C doesn’t always have to fuck me hard…

#MasturbationMonday

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.

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 it 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; holding me in place as I endure the pounding of His cock in whichever hole Master C has chosen to take His pleasure from.

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

Most of all, however, I love the way it marks my pale white skin, branding me; a mark of Master C’s ownership, his domination, his mastery of me.

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

#MasturbationMonday

Terms of endearment


Language is a strange thing; what is one person’s compliment can be highly insulting to another person. Take the word slut for example. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m not averse to being called a slut on occasion, in fact, in certain situations I’d feel cheated if I didn’t get called that or something equally degrading.

Now, I must confess, that like many women, I am, deep down, a soppy romantic at heart. As such, I am a sucker for the words, “I love you”. When spoken intimately and when meant can give me a me a warm glow all over.

With everything though, context is important. The words “I love you” said spontaneously by Master C as I’m leaving the house for work in the morning, or whispered in my ear just before I fall asleep at night, have a completely texture and effect than when they are gasped between clenched teeth while my lips are wrapped around His cock and He’s about to explode in my mouth.

Having said that, having Master C moan my name and call me His “good girl” at the point of orgasm just before he floods my cunt with cum and collapses, spent on top of me, pinning me beneath Him is always guaranteed to make me melt.

Getting back to the term slut; while I accept that some people find the term offensive, there are times, for me, that it is the highest compliment that I can be paid; particularly if Master C is calling me His “good little slut”.

When Master C is tugging my hair, fucking my arse mercilessly, I long for him to call me His “filthy little slut” or “dirty fucking whore”. As He sprays His load over my face and boobs, there’s nothing I want more than to have Master C call me His “dirty little cum slut”.

As I said before, the context is what’s important. Depending on the circumstances, being called a slut is every bit as endearing as being told that I am loved.

Language is a rich and varied thing, and there a many ways to express how much another person means to us. Slut, whore, love, fuck; all words that, depending on how they are used and who is using them can make someone feel wanted and special.

#MasturbationMonday

Body image and nudity


I like my bum. Sadly for it, in terms of the attention it gets from oglers, it is most definitely overshadowed (not literally, obviously; that would be freaky) by my boobs. Now, as it happens, I like my boobs too most of the time, but I happen to think my bum is my best feature and it gets somewhat neglected in the getting checked out stakes.

For everyone, especially us women, body image is a very complicated and very personal thing. I am quite fortunate that I happen to like (most of) my body. My face is nothing special (yet another reason for not showing it) and I hate my feet. As for the rest, it’s pretty much how I like it. OK, so it’s size and shape changes from time to time, but it’s been pretty much constant since I was about 16/17.

That’s not to say I’ve always been as self-confident. My boobs in particular caused me a lot of grief in my early teens.

As I’ve mentioned to the point of nausea, I went to an all girls school. I was also quite an early developer on the boob front. As such I got quite a lot of teasing from my still flat-chested classmates. You might have thought that this would have lessened as their own boobs sprouted but alas no. Mine, having had a head start, stayed pretty much out in front on account of their size. Being a 32D at the age of 13 is not the blessing you may think it is, although my boobs did get me noticed by boys, which of course just added to the torment I received from my peer group. I was still in my first year of secondary school when someone first came up with the nickname, Morag McNipples (it being a supposedly clever play on my actual surname), and it was to follow me throughout my school days.

Of course, the only people who ever saw me naked in those days were the same sneering classmates in the showers and changing rooms after PE at school, and , of course, “The Girl”.

The change in my attitude to myself came, quite naturally I guess, as I began to become sexually active. The first time I got naked in front of a guy was nervewracking, but in actual fact, I guess I needn’t have worried; I don’t think he actually took his eyes off my boobs the whole time after my bra came off. We didn’t have sex that time, but we did spend ages lying naked together, exploring each other with out fingers and, I think, during the course of the afternoon, he had complimented every inch of me (but my boobs were definitely his favourite bits).

Allowing men, and women to see me naked taught me to look at my body in a different light. I was (and still am) to a certain extent slightly self-concious about my ladybumps, but I have come to love them almost as much as any other part of me.

Going abroad on holiday in my early teens was always a bit traumatic. My mum has (and possibly still does for all I know) never had any issue with sunbathing topless. She even refused to cover up when her offspring were going through that awkward stage. I was 15 when I first decided to brave discarding my bikini top. I was quite envious of all these other women (my mum excepted) being brave enough to bare their boobs and enjoy the freedom of the sun and the sea on their skin.

My sister (who is almost two years older than me) and I decided to leave the family group and set off further along the beach. Once we were certain we were far enough to be out of view, and with a lot of nervous giggling and a few false starts, we eventually plucked up the courage to discard our tops. I think I was slightly disappointed at the lack of any reaction when there I was, my boobs out in public for the first time, and no one paid a damned bit of notice. Of course, what were two (or four if you count my sister’s) more boobs on a beach where you could see countless pairs of them in any direction?

Going swimming topless for the first time was exhilarating. The contrast of the heat of the sun and the coolness of the water made my nipples stand out, and feeling the waves splash against them sent almost orgasmic like shivers through them.

Except for those parts of the world where it’s required, I’ve never worn a bikini top abroad since, although it took a couple of further holidays before I was comfortable getting them out with my mum and dad present.

Nude sunbathing was something I tried for the first time when I went on an all girls holiday just after finishing school. If you’ve ever been to the Greek Island of Corfu, you may know that on the northwest corner there is a lovely beach just to the north of the village of Arillas. The beach, set against the backdrop of imposing clay cliffs has some of the clearest blue waters off any of the Greek islands. It is also a beach where not only is nudism tolerated, it is, as we discovered, almost expected. Being already completely comfortable with being topless, and seeing all the carefree nudity around me, it didn’t require much persuasion for me to go the whole way and discard the bottoms too.

The thing I discovered very quickly is that nudity, when it is all around, is not sexy nor is it arousing, it is simply nudity. I saw bodies of all shapes, colours, ages and sizes and no one seemed to be either attracted or repulsed by it; it was simply perfectly acceptable. It was also, I discovered, a hell of a lot more comfortable than having soggy, hot, uncomfortable bikini bottoms clinging to you after you’d been for a swim too.

For me, I think, despite never really having any serious body images, that week of just lying in the sun with other naked people lying all around me, just going about and minding their own business, transformed the way I thought about my body and myself. It certainly taught me that I needn’t have hang-ups displaying it and, if a guy was willing to get naked for me, there wasn’t any reason why I should worry about getting naked for him.

I am not a naturist or nudist by any means, but I do admit to enjoying being naked outdoors and, when I go abroad, I do try to ensure that there is the opportunity to sunbathe nude. Not because I want to show off my body, because in all honesty, the only person that will probably even be looking at it is Master C and he sees it every day, but because I enjoy the freedom and the comfort.

As for hang-ups about my boobs, they are mostly relegated to the past, although I still think my bum is cuter.

#MasturbationMonday Food For Thought Friday - #F4TFriday

Verge


It’s those final moments. Bound, helpless, vulnerable. Completely at His mercy.

He looks at you like a predator contemplates its prey.

You are naked, more than naked; your soul is bared to Him as you endure the intense scrutiny of His gaze.

His hunger is palpable; you can feel it in eyes as they feast on you, devouring you where you lie.

Anticipation builds inside you.

Whatever He chooses, you are helpless to resist.

The clock ticks, seconds pass, each one an eternity as you wait.

You sigh as He traces the contours of your spine with a finger.

You wince as you hear the snap of His belt.

You melt as you hear the words you have been waiting for: “Are you ready, little one?”

“Yes Master,” you reply, and you brace yourself, waiting for the first kiss of His leather on your skin…

#MasturbationMonday

Trials, tribulations and (un)wanted distractions


You would think writing a sex blog would be a fairly easy thing to do, wouldn’t you? After all, what is easier than sex? We all do it after all. Sadly though, it’s the universal nature of sex, combined with the individual likes and dislikes of those participating in it that can make it tricky to write about.

Firstly, my particular kinks and preferences may not appeal to you, endless reiterations of the subject of how much I enjoy having Master C’s cock inside me may, just possibly, get a bit boring.

Then there is the act itself. At the end of the day, sex is simply sex. In purely heterosexual terms, it is the insertion by the male of the species of his penis into an available orifice in the body of the female of the species (Note homosexual options are also available) and rubbing said penis inside said orifice until he ejaculates. For the purposes of reproduction, the required female orifice is the vagina, but for recreational purposes, the mouth and anus can, depending on the female in question, also be acceptable alternatives.

There are only so many ways the above process can be described. If you are reading this, the likelihood is that you are familiar with the mechanics of the sexual act.

The difficulty the sex blogger faces (well, this one certainly does) is to find ways to discuss different aspects of the topic in a way that holds the reader’s interest, bearing in mind that the reader’s knowledge of the subject is likely to be at least as proficient, if not more so, than that of the writer. With that in mind, I sometimes think it’s a miracle that I ever find anything to actually write about.

Then there’s the distractions. Real life has a habit of getting in the way and finding time to blog can sometimes be difficult.

But, assuming you have found the inspiration for an entry, and you have the time available, you’re still not necessarily home and dry…

I’m typing away, trying to get my thoughts out when Master C casually saunters past. Because He’s genuinely interested in what I write, He peers over my shoulder to take a look. Then, because what I’m writing gets Him a bit hot under the collar and because it’s so convenient, He begins to play with my hair and kiss my neck in a way that is absolutely guaranteed to make my clothes disappear. One thing leads to another and, before I know it I’ve gone from sitting at my PC, diligently comparing and contrasting the merits of smooth and spiky ben-wa balls, to being on my back, legs in the air, Master C’s cock in my cunt and his balls slapping against me.

Later, in the post-coital, and hopefully post-orgasmic, aftermath of his interruption, I cast my thoroughly distracted mind back to my blog, I find I’ve lost the thread of what I was trying to say and, with a resigned sigh, I hit delete and yet another post is consigned back to its electronic purgatory.

OK, so you could say that having sex is an occupational hazard for a sex blogger but, perversely, it doesn’t actually blogging about sex any easier.

#MasturbationMonday

Sometimes, I just need a cuddle


I love the affirmation of feeling Master C’s lovely, thick, hard cock thrusting inside me, filling me until He releases deep inside me. I love the closeness, I love the intimacy, I love the feeling of Master C claiming me and taking me. I love to fuck and I love being fucked, but sometimes all I really need is a cuddle.

This is especially true at the moment. On account of having a filthy cold, I’ve not been feeling particularly carnal, but I have been in need of a lot of cuddles. Fortunately, Master C is an exceptionally good cuddler.

Whether a cuddle leads to a fuck, is the result of a fuck, or is simply just a cuddle, it has the most amazingly restorative effect.

It’s the feeling of security, it’s the feeling of closeness, it’s a connection with the person doing the cuddling. There is an intimacy and a trust inherent in a cuddle; a sense of belonging and a feeling of being wanted.

The intimacy and, for me, the sense of feeling protected is intensified when the cuddling is done without clothes. The feel of Master C’s warm, firm, strong body next to mine gives me a sense of wellbeing. In a way I draw strength from the additional closeness. Feeling the strength but tenderness of His arms holding me, surrounding me, reassures me and makes me feel cherished and wanted.

In its own way, a good cuddle is even more intimate, even closer than sex; and even on those rare occasions when I’m not in the mood for fucking, I’ll never turn down a cuddle.

#Masturbation Monday

Finally


It’s such a wonderful feeling. The relief is as overwhelming as it is instantaneous.

Pushed to the brink of my endurance, taken to the very edge and the held there for what seems an eternity. I am way beyond tears. I no longer have the energy to sob and moan in my frustration. Every nerve inside me burns. The tension inside me is so great, I feel as if I would snap in two at the slightest pressure.

For minutes that seem like hours, days, an eternity, He has held me in that place, that deliciously agonising limbo

A slow boil.

A vigorous simmering.

The pressure mounting interminably, but the release valve locked tightly shut.

I want to explode. My need for release is a physical pain, burning through me. I both love and hate what He is forcing me to endure; craving release from my torment while knowing the longer He denies me, the sweeter, more exquisite will be my final surrender.

He is a maestro, a virtuoso; he plays my body skilfully and effortlessly. He has played and conducted his latest symphony upon me; and as the crescendo builds inside me, growing ever more intense, I await that flick of the conductor’s batton that will signal the grand finalé.

My breathing is pained. Lights flash with brilliant luminescence behind my tightly shut eyes. And then I hear His instruction, I hear the words I have been waiting an eternity for Him to utter.

Two words; that is all He says. Two words that, when obeyed, ignite my climax. Two words that will give me instant relief and such intense pleasure.

Two words said softly.

Two words.

“Touch yourself.”

The consensual slut


I am a slut. There I have said it. I make no bones or apologies about it; I am wholly, utterly, and quite unashamedly a slut. Why this sudden proclamation of sluttiness?

Well, firstly the wonderful prompt image by lovely Jadis over at Tits and Test Tubes got more than just my creative juices flowing and, ever since I read the article:  The Consensual Slut Project: Proud to be a ‘slut’ by the fabulous Cara Sutra, I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be a slut and if, in fact, I am one. I even discussed it with Master C, when I was writing another post on this subject, who was more than happy to confirm my sluthood. Not only am I a slut, it would seem that I am a slut of the highest order; a wanton, filthy, submissive little slut. What is more, I am not just any slut, I am his slut. I have to say, this declaration pleased me no end and I was obliged to show my appreciation by giving him a blow- job.

But now that we have established beyond all doubt that I am a slut, what exactly does that mean; what is a slut?

In her first book, the lovely Girl On The Net describes a slut as someone who has had more sexual partners than birthdays. By this definition, as I confided in my previous post, I probably became a slut during my penultimate year at school, when I was 16/17. By the same definition, even if I were never to have another new sexual partner ever, there is no way, barring discovery of the secret of eternal youth, that I will live long enough to stop being a slut.

I fucked a lot of people, both men and women in my late teens,  twenties and early thirties. I still fuck a lot of people now, although since meeting Master C, I am aware there are consequences to my actions. I make no apology for it. Some of the sex was great, a lot of it fairly average, and some of it downright awful. I had a lot of one-on-one sex, quite a few threesomes, a couple of foursomes, at least one experience that could only accurately be described as an orgy, and at one particular night club during my student years, I sucked an awful lot of cocks through its infamous glory-hole.

The thing is, while I was doing all this,I would never have described myself as a slut. Granted, plenty of others would have, and more than a few did, but it wasn’t how I saw myself. Sure, I enjoyed sex. I had a lot of sex. I was promiscuous, I had a (pretty well deserved) reputation as an easy-lay and the class bike, but a slut? No, I just simply enjoyed fucking and being fucked.

It was only really once I’d met Master C, and began fully exploring my submissive side that the realisation that I might actually be *whispers* a slut began to dawn on me.

I’d always been aware I had, to put it mildly, submissive leanings. I’d enjoyed being spanked pretty much since losing my virginity. I had allowed partners to restrain me, albeit lightly, and I’ve always liked my male partners to be forceful. With Master C, I learned to take it to the next level. It’s not just the discipline, the roughness and the occasional degradation; it’s about the trust, the belonging, the willingness to serve. With Master C, I leaned to enjoy, want and need these things, and He willingly provided them. He became my Master, and I became His slut.

Now, I’m not for one second equating submissiveness with sluttiness. You can be submissive without being a slut and you can be a slut without being submissive. For me, however, it was the exploration of my submissiveness that triggered my recognition and acceptance of the fact that I was, indeed, a slut; Master C’s slut. The first time He called me his slut, while He was tugging my hair, with His  wonderful cock rammed deep up my back-passage, was one of the most intense sexual experience I ever had. It was an affirmation of His ownership of me.

The swinging scene adds an extra element. It allows Master C to witness my sluttiness; watching me suck and be fucked by the other men, seeing me play with the other women, encouraging them to use me, abuse me and punish me in front of Him.

So, for me, being a slut is nothing about how many people I’ve fucked; it’s an attitude, a way of being, an identity.

I enjoy being a slut, I love being a slut and, as I so often repeat myself saying, I am so very, very proud that I am Master C’s slut.

#Masturbation Monday