Casual fucks and infidelities

The prompt for Mindful Moments this month covers the subject of shame. In a way, this post is something of a follow-up to the previous post I submitted to this meme. It is, however, taken from something of an opposing viewpoint; largely on the grounds that, growing up, I was taught that sex was natural, to be enjoyed and it was not something that I should ever fell ashamed about. That is an attitude that, more or less, I have managed to live by and why, as documented in my previous post, I proudly consider myself to be a slut.

A case in point to my unashamedly slutty nature is my attitude towards casual sex. It is something I have always and, still do enjoy, and something that Master C lets me enjoy so long as I am prepared to accept the consequences for my actions and submit to His discipline when I transgress.

Now, when it comes to casual sex, the relationship status of the person I’m fucking has never been a concern of mine. Singles, committeds, engageds, marrieds; I’ve fucked them all with a totally clear conscience. At the end of the day, the reason I indulge in casual sex is that I enjoy having sex. I’m not looking for a relationship, I already have a fully rewarding one with Master C; I’m simply looking for sex. If the person I’m having sex with is already in a relationship, how they justify their actions is up to them; I’m not going to judge them on their unfaithfulness, although I may judge them on how good or bad the sex turns out to be.

As I see it, if some guy would rather spend an hour, or an evening, sticking his cock in my holes rather than those of his partner/girlfriend/wife, then that is wholly and entirely up to them; I don’t need to know about it. I don’t need to know how the spark has gone out of their relationship, I don’t need to know if their partner understands them or not, I definitely don’t need to know how guilty cheating on their partner makes them feel; if that’s the case, why the fuck are you cheating on them. No, all I want is a fuck. That’s all I’m there for. Hopefully it’ll be a good fuck, possibly even a memorable fuck, but if not, if nothing else, at least it was a fuck.

Do I feel any responsibility for leading these people astray? The simple answer is no. It’s not as if I have ever forced anyone to fuck me. OK, so I flirt; I make it known that I’m available, but after that, it’s up to them.

Everyone who has ever cheated on a partner has, at some point, made the decision to cheat on their significant other. They can rationalise and justify it any way they choose, but in the end, the responsibility for deciding to cheat rests with the cheater. As someone who has been cheated on myself, and knows how utterly shite that betrayal feels I do have empathy for those partners, but I feel no shame for my own actions. If they weren’t using me as an outlet for their infidelity, they would almost be using someone else and, may indeed, also be using someone else.

The only exception to this was many years ago, before I met Master C, when I spent several months fucking an ex, while he was cheating on the woman he cheated on me with and ultimately left me for. That was an amazing damaging and fucked up period of my life, and I did feel a degree of shame, both in myself and for myself. It was painful, but it taught me some valuable lessons.

At worst, I am an enabler; I am an outlet for their infidelity, but I am not responsible for it, all they had to do was say “no” to my advances. I can accept refusal with as much grace as I do acceptance. After all, if one prospective partner says “no”, the chances are there will be other potential options.

I realise that this post is sounding preachier than I intended; it’s not meant to be preachy at all. As I said at the beginning, I don’t judge. I accept that other people, regardless of their relationship status, enjoy the thrill of a random, casual sexual encounter as much as I do; and if they choose to enjoy said encounter with me (and I always do my best to make sure they do enjoy it), then that’s really a win-win for me.

In fact, there’s really only one reason for establishing the relationship status of someone I fuck, and that’s because it has an impact on the number of lashes of Master C’s belt that I receive as a result of being unable to control my sluttiness.

The point of all this is that I enjoy sex, and I enjoy having sex with multiple partners. I don’t feel shame about the number of partners, male or female that I’ve fucked, nor do I feel any shame on their behalf for the consequences of them fucking me. As I say above, I have never forced anyone to fuck me, so if there are ramifications for them as a result of them fucking me, that is neither my concern nor in my control. Any regrets on my part are limited to the fact that the fuck I received turned out not to be as enjoyable as I had hoped/thought it would be.

I am a slut. I am shameless. I am me.

What is a slut?

Having gone to an all girls private school, a slut was someone who was known to be (or at the very least believed to be) sexually active and was known (or believed) to have had sex with more than a “socially acceptable” number of partners. Now, I’ve no idea what that “socially acceptable” number is, but given that I had fucked a fair number of partners, both male and female, before I left school, I dare say that I qualify on those grounds. I’m certainly not going to quibble about the number itself.

A definition in an old dictionary I once found was something like this:

Slut: A sexually promiscuous woman. Differentiated from a whore insomuch as she gives freely of her body, whereas the whore doth give use of hers by way of commerce.

Well, as I am by pretty much any definition a sexually promiscuous woman, it seems a safe bet that I qualify on those grounds too.

Another definition I’ve encountered is that a slut is someone who has had more sexual partners than birthdays.  Guess what? Yes, quite clearly, I qualify here too.  In fact, I qualified somewhere between my 16^th and 17^th birthdays and, even if I were never to shag another person in my life, I suspect I actually wouldn’t live long enough to ever discharge my insluttedness.

The two things all these definitions have in common is that:

1. A slut is a woman; and
2. The woman in question has had multiple sexual partners.

Basically then, what I am saying is, that by any common definition you care to use, I am a slut!

There, I’ve said it, I am a slut and, frankly, I’m actually quite proud of it.  Not so much of the number per se, but from the fact that my wanton promiscuity has taught me a shitload about who I am and has made me the person I am today.  I wouldn’t be the Morag I am if I hadn’t become a slut.

Even today, with the guidance of Master C, I am still a slut. Very specifically, I am Master C’s slut, granted, but a slut nonetheless.

You see, to me, being a slut is an attitude, not the number of people you fucked.  It’s about being comfortably deviant in the bedroom (or kitchen, or driveway, or wherever…), it’s about being able to enjoy certain sexual activities that you could never imagine your parents doing (God forbid that my mum ever did even a fraction of the stuff I’ve done, and if she did, I never want to know), it’s about being confident in your sexuality and your sexual tastes and appetites and using that confidence to get what you want.

It’s not necessarily about being submissive, although you can be, and I most certainly am; but it is about exploring your boundaries and broadening them wherever possible. As I’ve said numerous times before, sexual acts are generally performed on us women because we are designed to be on the receiving end, but that doesn’t mean we have to take this lying down (unless we want to of course, and that’s fine too), we are free to have men, and other women, use our bodies in ways that satisfy us.

I confess that I have a high sexual appetite, (fortunately Master C’s is more than equal to the task of satisfying it) but even though Master C permits and ultimately corrects my promiscuity, it doesn’t mean that I leap into bed, or on to the back seat of a car, or behind some bushes or allow myself to be bent over the kitchen table for just anyone. I can still be choosy and I look after my sexual health but, at the same time I also enjoy the variety (both in terms of situations and partners) and if anyone thinks that what I do is wrong then, well, they are entitled to their opinion but, quite unashamedly, I’m never going to agree with them. Nor for that matter does Master C, who know all about my less than pristine sexual past, and who guides and corrects me in when my slutty nature gets the better of me.

So where does this tie in with the prompt? Well, it doesn’t really but it did get me thinking.

The first time someone called me a slut to my face was at university. I was aware, at school, of being considered to be “one of the sluts” because a) I wasn’t one of the “in crowd” and b) it was assumed (correctly) that I was sexually active; but no one actually ever called me a slut to my face. At university it was different. I had just broken up with a fairly serious boyfriend who turned out to be a cheating arsehole and I was getting over him by getting under as many guys as I felt was needed. It was one of these guys, whilst I was in the process of getting under, who called me a slut.

In fairness, I was, even for me, going through one of my more rampantly promiscuous phases. A night out just wasn’t a night out unless I had at least one cock in one or more of my holes. I had just intimated to the guy in question that I wouldn’t be averse to him fucking me in the arse, and that was what prompted him to call me a “nasty little slut”. It wasn’t the number of partners; he didn’t know how many I’d had, it was the fact that I was prepared to let him do something “taboo”. Had he known how many guys I’d actually fucked between discovering my ex was a cheating bastard and having this guy call me a slut, I suspect he’d have done a runner, but that’s irrelevant. The fact was, he called me a slut and I actually identified with the term. He hadn’t meant it in a denigrating way, at least not fully; it had an element of appreciativeness about it, but it was still a term I’d never had anyone call me before.

The more I thought about it, the more I came to recognise the accuracy of the appellation; I was, after all, undoubtedly promiscuous, I gave my favours to both men and women, I was happy to be fucked in any hole, I loved being taken by more than one partner simultaneously, I was a slut and, as it turned out, quite unashamedly so.

It’s a term that I have continued, and indeed, still do continue to identify with. I am Mòrag, and I am a slut, and I still feel no shame in being one.

So yes, I am happy to call myself a slut; and specifically Master C‘s slut, as I have already affirmed, but still a slut.  I am a slut who enjoys sex and enjoys satisfying my desires and appetites and I am always open to discovering new experiences. I also enjoy submitting to Master C and accepting the guidance and instruction he gives me, while accepting the punishment he applies as a consequence of the freedoms he allows me.

I’m not sure if all of this makes me a ‘dictionary definition’ slut or a ‘my definition’ slut or just someone who gets a lot of enjoyment out of sex in all its myriad of pleasurable forms and, to be perfectly honest, it’s not something I’m going to lose any sleep pondering over (although I do miss out on a fair bit of sleep participating).

 

A dirty little fantasy

A little daydream; inspired, in part, by the evenings getting longer and the easing of Covid restrictions meaning nights out and meeting people become possible again, and I might just get be able to “get my slut on” again…

While out with friends, I meet a stranger in a club or bar.

We sneak out, find some dark, out of the way alleyway, and then, without any preliminaries required, we fuck. After so many months of not meeting anyone, the thrill of being with someone else is electrifying. His cock feels so good fucks me hard, in my mouth, in my cunt and in my arse.

He pulls my hair as he fucks me; calling me a filthy slut. His cock pounds me with increased urgency.

Sounds of voices and footsteps pass nearby. Have they seen us? I don’t care. All that matters is what his cock is doing to me and how it is making me feel.

I hold back a moan as I come hard, not wanting to betray our presence to anyone who may be passing. My restraint intensifies my climax. His laboured breathing tells me that his climax is approaching.

Suddenly, he pulls out, spins me a round, calls me a “dirty whore” before blowing his load over my boobs.

We straighten ourselves out, and return to the club/bar; going back to our respective groups of friends as if nothing has happened (although my top is sticking uncomfortably to my cum covered boobs).

We never tell each other our names.

When I get home, Master C thrashes me soundly for being an insatiable, filthy little slut before giving all three of my holes another rough and very thorough fucking and adding his load to that of the stranger’s on my skin.

I fall asleep; tired, sticky, a little tender and sore, but very VERY happy…

A time of rebirth

Two weeks ago, we still had several inches of snow on the ground; within a day or two, it would mostly all be gone. Today, I look out my window and the snow has gone, the skies are blue with only the occasional cloud, the sun is shining, birds are chirping and spring flowers are beginning to burst into life

It’s not especially warm; it is, after all, the west of Scotland, in February but there is almost no wind and, compared to the minus figures we were enduring just over a week ago, 10^oc feels positively balmy.

So, at lunchtime, I stripped off and walked round the garden, feeling the grass under my feet, finding the sunniest spot and just stood there for several minutes for no other reason other than the fact I could.

What little wind there was made the short hairs on my arms stand on end, but it felt good; good to feel the first feeble warmth of the pre-spring sunshine on my skin, good to just be part of that rebirth, that coming back to life after long, cold months of darkness and cold.

A few minutes was all I could manage, but it was all that I needed; it was all that I required to feel as if I had started to emerge from my winter cocoon to face the promise of longer, warmer days.

I can’t lie, I was glad to get back indoors and put my clothes back on; sipping from a hot mug of coffee, but my spirit was still out there, naked and free, acknowledging my part in the world.

We all need those moments; those times where we just shift phase and exist; a few quite seconds to be free of our burdens and cares. Returning to my desk, nothing has really changed; my workload is still what it was before I stopped for lunch, I am still the same person I was, and the world is largely no different from how it was half an hour ago. And yet those few moments of peace, those few moments of standing naked at the end of the garden, listening to the blackbirds and feeling a gentle warmth on my face have filled me with a promise of what will be.

In spring, we brush off the mantle of winter and are reborn.

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.

Sex with the ex

Some of the best sex that I ever had with my ex, was once he became my ex. That’s not to say that the sex we had when we were a couple wasn’t good; it most definitely was. If it hadn’t been good, I wouldn’t have carried on fucking him after he became my ex. No, in a particularly fucked-up kind of way, the reason sex with my ex was even better after we split up was purely down to the fact that he was my ex.

The fact that my ex had a girlfriend made it kind of forbidden.

The fact that his girlfriend was the woman he fucked behind my back then left me for gave it a sort of bitter sweet feeling of revenge.

The fact that he was still fucking me regularly now that he was living with her was deliciously fucked up.

That kind of sums me up.

It’s not that I wanted him back, I most certainly did not. He was a cheating bastard who couldn’t be trusted, the fact that he was still fucking me was proof enough of that. It was, however, that he was an extremely good fuck. In the four years that we had spent together, he had learned exactly what buttons to press, exactly the things to say and the tone in which to say them, that would turn me into a gooey, gagging mess. He knew exactly how I liked my cunt licked, he knew how I liked my boobs to be treated, he knew how to take me to the edge of orgasm and hold me there, deliciously, painfully, torturingly, agonisingly keeping me on the brink until, at exactly the right moment for maximum effect, he would lick that final lick of his tongue, or give that final thrust of his cock that would send me over the precipice into a shuddering, gut-wrenching, toe-curling climax that would leave me exhausted and satisfied.

When he left me, I didn’t really miss him, but I did most definitely miss the sex. When he first approached me about the possibility of hooking-up for a fuck because his girlfriend was away (his exact words), I am ashamed to say, I didn’t even hesitate to accept the proposition. Less than 20 minutes after receiving his text, I was receiving a load of his cum in my mouth. We spent a whole afternoon, evening, night and morning licking, sucking, fucking and coming; resting only in the time it took us to recover before starting again.

It was wrong and I didn’t care. It was wrong, and that only made it better. It was wrong, so wrong and that was what made it so amazingly fucking good.

Having let him back into my life, and in my cunt (not to mention my mouth and my arse), it would take me almost 18 months to finally wean myself off him. In the end, it wasn’t any moral compunction that made me end it, I simply met the first of my two current guys whom I could enjoy sex with every bit as much as I could with my ex, without the need for feeling any guilt that I might possibly hurt someone. After all, I finally realised that it wasn’t her fault he’d cheated on me, nor was it my fault he cheated on her; no one forced him to stray from either of us, he was simply a cheating bastard who took what he wanted in the guise of giving both her and me what we had become addicted to. It wasn’t healthy, and now I realise that what I have with Master C, The Other Guy and The Girl is so much more satisfying.