Love & Sex


This week’s Quote Quest teaser is one that I have some very strong thoughts about.

“Sex without love is as hollow and ridiculous as love without sex.”

– Hunter S Thompson

Now, I’m going to be honest and say right from the the very outset, that I completely disagree with this statement. My disagreement can be summed up by answering two very simple questions:

  1. Have I loved every person I’ve ever had sex with?
    Absolutely not.
  2. Have I had sex with every person I’ve ever loved?
    Again, a resounding “no”.

Sex and love are two separate things; although they can often be closely interlinked. Love is an emotion, a feeling, a connection of spirits and souls. Sex is a physical act, a joining and (sometimes literally) coming together of bodies.

To illustrate my point, there are many people I love (and have loved). I love my parents, I loved my grandparents, I (mostly) love my siblings. Have I had sex with any of these people? Well, no, absolutely not. I also have and have had any number of friends, with whom I have shared what I would describe as a deeply platonic form of love.

The flip side to this is that I definitely love Master C and I love “The Girl” and also “The Other Guy” and I absolutely do have sex with them. There are also a couple of exs in my past that I also loved and had sex with. However, as anyone with a passing familiarity with this blog will be aware, I have also had and enjoyed a hell of a lot of casual sex down the years; sex where it wasn’t uncommon for me to never even find out the name of the person I sucked and/or fucked. I think it goes without saying that there was absolutely no love involved in these encounters (unless my love of the act itself and the way that act made me feel counts).

In a way, this kind of follows on from my previous post. I completely agree that having sex with someone tat you love and that loves you is special; it adds a whole several extra layers of feeling and emotion to proceedings. Having Master C roughly fuck my arse feels different from some unknown random fucking it, even when done with the same force. Why? Because I have a deep emotional connection with Master C that adds to it. Having Master C or “The Girl” or “The Other Guy” go down on me feels so much more intense than having someone else do it, irrespective of how skilful that person is. Why? Well, aside from their knowledge of what really presses my buttons, again there is the emotional overlay.

Don’t get me wrong, I (mostly) fully enjoy my casual encounters. If the person you with knows what they are doing, and is in any way considerate to your wants and needs, what isn’t to enjoy about getting soundly and thoroughly fucked? What is their not to enjoy about getting your cunt skilfully eaten out, or going down on someone else?

Good sex, even great sex, doesn’t require love for it to be satisfying. I have had casual encounters that have resulted in me being reduced to a dishevelled, sticky, spasming mess; fighting to bring my breathing and or heart rate back under control, that come close in intensity to anything that I have done with those that I love.

There is a difference though. Those casual encounters are physically satisfying and, to a certain degree, emotionally so as well. Sex with Master C or “The Girl” or “The Other Guy” also satisfies me on a “spiritual” level. Where a great casual fucking may satisfy me in body and mind, a fucking from Master C or “The Girl” or “The Other Guy” also satisfies my soul.

So, to me, sex without love is far from hollow; if it were I probably wouldn’t engage in it. Yes, there have been disappointments; there have been encounters that, with hindsight, would probably have been better avoided. There were times in my past where I’ve got under someone to get over someone else, but those are a minority. But for each of those fucks that have been less than great, there have been many many more that have given me everything I have wanted from them and, sometimes, even more.

Full disclosure; no one makes me feel the way I feel when Master C and I fuck. No one knows what my body, mind, soul and spirit needs more than He does. Sometimes, however, all I need is the “thrill of the chase” and the “surrender” that comes with letting myself be caught.

What can I say? I’m simply a voraciously happy slut that loves sex.

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Living life fully


The teaser on Quote Quest this week is:

“You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough”

– Mae West

It is, as I’m sure anyone who reads this blog on even the most casual basis, a view that I am fully on board with. I try to apply it as much as possible in all aspects of my life.

Pre-pandemic me loved to travel (and hopefully one day that will be possible again). I love discovering new places, immersing myself in different cultures, seeing new places, trying new foods and, when inspiration files, adding new locations to the “I’ve been fucked/gave Master C a blow-job there” list. Actually, that last was pretty much a given, but there is something about being somewhere new, whether it be on the other side of the world, or just somewhere a few miles down the road that you’ve never visited before, that adds to the richness of life.

I also enjoy trying out new things, from rock climbing to scuba diving, downhill skiing to white water rafting, pedalling sedately round the village, to long tours on my trusty Kawasaki. I do, however have one rule: never jump out of a perfectly serviceable aircraft; parachute jumping is not for me.

Not surprisingly, when it comes to sex, my approach is pretty much the same.

When I split up with my cheating ex, I embarked on what could have been a very destructive path, but, in terms of my sexual personality, turned out to be very much a voyage of discovery. Even before him, I’d already discovered I enjoyed my casual encounters. I’d already participated in and enjoyed group sex activities, but in the aftermath of that break-up, I learned to fully embrace my inner slut and let her out.

Id never felt shame as to my casual fucks before, but I learned that “numbers” didn’t matter. If I wanted to fuck someone, and they wanted to fuck me, then the best thing we could do was just get on with it and fuck. If, on any given night, I found myself in a situation where I couldn’t decide between which of two guys I wanted to fuck more, I’d fuck them both; and if that happened simultaneously, so much the better.

I discovered my penchant for sex that is definitely not vanilla. The masochist in me began to bud (although it would take Master C for it to fully bloom) and I began enjoying sex that was rougher and darker than the sex I had had up until then. I would let partners restrain me more often, I would let them spank me, I would let them pull my hair and occasionally choke me. My latent submissive was being awoken and, when Master C, finally unleashed it, that was the game-changer.

Some of my partners had called me a slut in the past, but under Master C’s tutelage, I began to identify as a slut; I was His slut. Being Master C’s slut allowed me a degree of freedom that I’d never had in a relationship before; I was free to fuck whomever I so pleased so long as I was prepared to pay the price and accept the consequences of my actions.

I wasn’t just Master C’s slut, I was His submissive slut. Through my submission, I found a way to fully explore my relationship with pain and its juxtaposition with desire and pleasure and the exploration of my masochism deepened.

I would find reasons for Master C to thrash me, yearning the kiss of his belt on my buttocks. We would go out in the evening, and I would have clamps on my nipples and a plug up my arse. I would let Him choke me, almost to the point where I would lose consciousness. When His belt wasn’t enough, I would conspire to be flogged or caned instead; the lattice of deliciously painful, angry welts on my arse making me squirm in my seat days later.

And then there was our “Sharing Circle”; that close network of other likeminded D/s participants that added an extra element; whether it be in participating in group activities, or allowing me to explore my humiliation/degradation fetish. There is something about to kneel, naked and bound in the corner of a room watching your Master and several others giving pleasure to another woman while being told you aren’t worthy of their attention, then, to add further insult, have that woman thrash you on their bequest, as they call you a worthless slut, before she “services” them again, before finally, at the invitation of Master C, some of the men shoot their cum all over you, that just does something to me. The pain of being rejected, the jealousy of seeing another woman get to enjoy my Master, seeing her enjoy the attentions of several men while I get nothing but insults, the humiliation of being treated with contempt; they all combine into something that, for me, is so deeply arousing that makes the fucking I will eventually receive from Master B later, when we are on our own, when He rewards me and calls me His “good girl” so much more intensely satisfying than it would other wise have been.

So, yes, for me, a big part of living a full life is that I get to be the masochistic submissive slut who loves to be humiliated and fucked every which way she can. I’ve enjoyed it so far and I hope that I continue to live it fully for a long time to come.

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Cocked and loaded


So, this week’s Quote Quest teaser is:

“Between my finger and my thumb the squat pen rests; snug as a gun.”

– Seamus Heaney

Well, it wasn’t a pen between my thumb and finger, but those three letters definitely featured.

“The Other Guy” moans as I slowly stroke his cock, occasionally circling my thumb over the tip before encircling the shaft once again and working my slowly down, then back up again.

It’s been far too long since we last saw each other, far too long since I felt his tongue on my clit and his cock inside me.

I’ve already tasted his cum; rich and thick and so welcome after so long.

My cunt aches pleasantly from the ponding it received from his cock. My clit still throbs from where his tongue so expertly lashed it and drove me to a series of shuddering climaxes.

We’ve already done so much in the time we’ve had, and there is still so much more to do. My body is his to use until it is time for me to leave.

His cock twitches in my hand as I kiss him firmly on his lips, his tongue snaking into my mouth. I can taste my cunt on him; intoxicating, fuelling my hunger for him. I tighten my grip around his cock.

Up and down, down and up; I stroke those proud, stiff inches of flesh, refamiliarising myself with its contours. It’s been almost a year since I’ve had any cock but Master C’s, and I am so glad that it’s “The Other Guy” who is able to give me the first extra-curricular penis since the lifting of lockdown restrictions make such happenings possible again.

I move so that I can playfully kiss and tease the tip with my tongue as I stroke the shaft. I am rewarded with a familiar moan; a moan that means so much more because I haven’t heard it in so long. It’s a moan that confirms that I haven’t forgotten what “The Other Guy” likes, how he likes to be touched and teased. It’s a moan that tells me how much he has missed my attentions and how much he is enjoying experiencing them again anew.

The head of his cock swells a deep angry purple. I tease the underside with the tip of my tongue as I drag my nails lightly along his length. I can taste the nearness of his climax. I feel the tension in his body mount as I slide my thumb and finger up to concentrate on the area just below the head; knowing that this is the area that gives him the most pleasure.

“I’m going to come soon, Morag,” he half sighs, half moans.

“Good!” I breathe, “That’s what I want.”

My hand moves a little faster. His breathing deepens; his hips begin those tell-tale involuntary movements.

“Oh… Oh Morag!” he moans. “So close… So, so close…”

I have a decision to make; where do I want his load? In me, or on me?

His cock twitches in my hand.

“I want you to come on my boobs, then rub it in as you eat my cunt,” I tell him.

“Hell, fuck yes!” he gasps.

We pause briefly to change position, in readiness for what comes next. It’s the briefest respite for him but one that is short lived.

I circle his cock once more and stroke, hard, fast, eager for his inevitable eruption.

“Morag!” My name called out, a final groan, and then I feel his sticky warmth on my skin as unloads over my neck and boobs.

A small tremor runs up my spine. I know I’m really going to enjoy what will happen next…

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Blow-job art


There seems to be something of a theme with the current round of memes, but fortunately they focus on a topic that I never tire of, and that is the art of sucking cock. The current teaser on Quote Quest is no exception:

“A good blow job is fucking art. It’s like playing jazz piano blindfolded for an audience you’re desperate to please. It’s improvisation and communication and skill and practise and a whole lot of love.”

Girl on the Net

I love sucking cock. It’s been over 30 years since I first sucked one, and I genuinely cannot remember how may different cocks I have wrapped my lips around.

Am I any good at it? Well, I would like to think I am, but it’s kind of hard to say. I’ve never had any complaints and, in the majority of cases, the owners of the cocks in question have been highly complimentary, but they could just have been being nice to me I guess. According to Master C, I am an Olympic medal standard cock-sucker and He frequently calls me His “good girl” when I have used my mouth to bring Him to climax; rewarding me with a wonderful rich mouthful of His manly essence. Ultimately, as a cock sucker, that is kind of the ultimate confirmation.

The problem, I find, is that when I’m in my rhythm, sucking a guy off as if our lives both depended on it, I find it hard to stop and ask for instruction. I have learned to take identify certain cues; cues that apply almost equally to some random guy I’ve never met before, to one of my more frequent partner, all the way through to Master C himself – the moans and sighs that they make, the involuntary flinches and twitches, the increasingly laboured breathing, the way they will grab my head and start to thrust their cock between my lips. sometime the recipient of the blow-job will tell me how good it feels; they will compliment me on my skills. That kind of talk will invariably be rewarded with me trying to up my game further and make it even more enjoyable.

With Master C, there is also the advantage of familiarity with both His cock and both its and His responses. I know exactly how He likes the slit to be teased, I know how He loves it when I take the head right to the back of my throat and make swallowing movements, I know how He likes me to drag my fingernails along the surface. Master C will often tell me how good it feels, how much He is enjoying what my mouth is making Him feel. He doesn’t actually need to; I have learned to read his unconscious vocalisations and involuntary movements, but it gives me a real sense of pride when He does. Let’s be honest here, no one is ever going to object to compliments, and I am no exception.

For me though, the greatest reward, the confirmation of my skill, is when the recipient of my cock-sucking repertoire fills my mouth with a thick load of cum. The male orgasm is such an inherently honest response that tells me that I have done this, I have made this happen; this eruption is my doing. I take a great satisfaction in bringing another person to orgasm, man or woman, but there is something about being rewarded with a mouthful of cum that is almost impossible to better; except when Master C moans my name the calls me His “good girl”, of course.

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Suffering in silence


When it comes to expressing my pleasure/enjoyment of something, I am quite a vocal person. I don’t mean in the asthmatic banshee wailing of women in porn kind of way, just that I like to be able to “release” vocally (albeit often incoherently) as well as physically, emotionally. With that in mind, here is my take on this week’s Quote Quest prompt:

“To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves.”

–   Federico García Lorca

As I said, I tend to vocalise things; not just sexual enjoyment/orgasm, but any strong emotion. I tend to live on the very edge of my skin, and I have a need to let things out. I will howl with laughter at a particularly funny jock/sketch, I will scream with shock at scary bits in films, I will almost certainly let my partner know how much I am enjoying the sensations they are causing me to experience.

Sometimes I will manage to articulate these into actual words, telling them how good their cock feels inside me, or their tongue feels on my clit. More often, the deeper my arousal and closer I am to orgasm, the less articulate I become and my vocalisations are reduced to murmurs, moans, sighs, whimpers and the occasional hoarse profanity.

Of course, all of this is fine when engaging in sex in the privacy of your own home, a hotel room, or in the confines of a swinger’s club, but sometimes there is a need to be more circumspect.

Readers of this blog will be aware that I have a propensity towards sexual activity in less private places; whether that be in some secluded out of the way spot in the countryside to having a frantic quickie in a dark, back street/lane. While part of the enjoyment of these activities is the risk of the possibility of being caught, there is a need to try and mitigate this risk as much as possible. One of the ways to do this is to ty not to draw unnecessary attention to ourselves and what we are doing and, tat generally means needing to be quiet.

For me, as a vocaliser, this is often a source of added torment. Given the risky nature of what we are doing, my arousal is already heightened. If someone has their fingers up my cunt, or is fucking me with a sense of frantic urgency, the sensations I am feeling are going to already be intensely powerful. In “normal”, more private settings, being able to give voice to my pleasure helps release some of the pressure that is building inside me as the sensations move me along the journey to climax. The need to be quiet denies me that pressure valve and as the pressure builds, so the sensations intensify and the need for release increases. Essentially, at this point, I am a living, breathing uncontrollable chain reaction of pre-orgasmic energy. Where normally I would moan with carefree abandon, I am reduced to whimpers which do little to relieve the mounting tension until my climax eventually takes me and reduces me to a trembling wreck.

Of course, it’s not always when being fucked in such observable/overhearable locations that silence may be required. Often, Master C will require me to remain silent, as a form of control. This differs from being gagged in that, with a gag, I can still make sounds, they are just prevented from being articulated, where I am required to be silent, I have to remain silent by volition. When the instruction for silence is combined with a form of orgasm denial, it can lead to a build up of pressure inside me that is excruciating in its intensity that is not unlike that which I experience when I am being choked. In the same way that the first lungful of air when Master C removes His hands/belt from around my neck and pulls His cock from my throat provides a relief to my oxygen-starved self that is beyond words, so the final permission to come and to give voice to my release is of a similar magnitude.

It’s fair to say, I was not designed for silence, and being forced to be so is an almost punishment of almost unbearable torment.

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The making of me


The the quote for us to unpick on Quote Quest this week has got me revisiting my relationship with pain and my need to feel it again:

“It is always by way of pain one arrives at pleasure.”

– Marquis de Sade

It will come to no surprise to anyone that I am submissive and that I have been in a D/s relationship with Master C for  a large part of 15 years we’ve been together;  but what exactly does that mean? In particular, since the dynamics of every D/s relationship is different what does being a submissive and submitting to Master C’s will specifically mean to me?

For many who live outside the D/s world, there is a perception that it’s all about, bondage, pain and perhaps the various role-playing subcultures that exist within our particular sexual sphere. There is a fixation on the pain/punishment element without any understanding of how it fits within the dynamic of a particular relationship.

Yes, Master C does punish me and yes, it does hurt; but it is never pain simply for the sake of pain itself.

When Master C punishes me, it is because I have done wrong, transgressed, displeased Him, failed in some way. The punishment is, first of all, appropriate to the level of the transgression; Master C will never use his belt when his hand is more appropriate, and vice versa, and it is always intended as a lesson.

Before I met Him, I pretty much fucked whomever I wished, with no regard to the consequences of my actions. Now, because we are happily poly, I still have the freedom to fuck other men, but now I know that there will be consequences. As a result, I am much choosier about whom I decided to have liaisons with. This doesn’t mean I won’t have a drunken shag with some nameless stranger, but I know that such indiscriminateness will earn me a much sterner disciplining than I would receive if I exercise a modicum of restraint over my need to have a cock inside me.

The discipline serves as part of His guidance. It is part of the way Master C makes me a better person, instilling in me a greater awareness of my own worth. I may not be any less of a slut under His guidance, but I am certainly a much more discriminating slut as a result.

For me, submission to Master C is not an abrogation of self, far from it; it as a confirmation, a validation of my worth as a person. It is a worth that grows under His strict, but fair tutelage. Yes, Master C punishes me when it is appropriate that He do so, but he also guides me, supports me, encourages me, protects me and, most of all loves me. Everything in our relationship is about making me the best person I can be. I have put that trust in Master C because he deserves it.

And that brings us back to pain. Pain is a reminder that I’ve misbehaved. pain is a reminder that I’ve done something wrong, or stepped beyond a line that I should have stayed within. Pain is a reminder that I ned to try harder. All these things are true, but when Master C cause me pain, He is also doing it because He loves me, He hurts me because He knows I need that pain; I need the sweet, exquisite release, to fully experience the pleasure of being broken down simply to Have Master C rebuild me.

Master C is, quite literally, the making of me.

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Love is blind(ish)


The the quote for us to unpick on Quote Quest this week had got my grey cells arguing with each other:

“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.”

– William Shakespeare

I think, for me, it depends on the type of love you are describing and the relationship between oneself and the loved one. Love, after all, comes in many flavours: we love our families (mostly), we love our friends, we (hopefully) love our partners. Love is emotional but how we express it, depends on who it is we are expressing it towards, and the nature of the love/relationship that exists.

I suspect, that the quote is really meant to focus on “romantic” love, i.e. the love between “lovers”, essentially those that we share our lives with and fuck.

Not everyone we fuck, obviously; I definitely have not loved everyone with whom I have rubbed bits and exchanged fluids with, but the important ones, the significant ones.

I think we also have to detach love from attraction. Attraction is, for most of us, very visual. We see someone we fancy, we think “Yeah, I want a bit of that,” we hook-up, date, fuck and maybe a relationship forms and, if it does, it’s possible that the emotional connection we call love develops.

And I think, it is possibly that at this point that the “blindness” develops. Let’s be honest, we all have habits that others find annoying. There are things I do that drive Master C nuts. There are things Master C  does that make me despair. If we didn’t love each other, those little annoyances would probably, over time, become unbearable; but because we love each other, we learn to ignore them wherever we can, and live with them where we can’t and, in some instances, exploit them if it means wheedling/provoking/providing an extra hard spanking out of  it.

Love allows us to turn a blind eye on things that if someone we didn’t love were to do them, would provoke a reaction from mild irritation all the way through to full on rage. Where we are not completely blinded by love, love filters and mitigates the annoyances that we cause our loved ones and they cause us.

I love Master C, for the way He treats me, the way that makes me feel, the strength, comfort and support He provides; that, however, is the emotional side of love. There is also the physical, which is largely based on the things He does to me, but also based on His physical attractiveness to me.

Now, I accept that I am coming from this from the perspective of a sighted person. An unsighted person would almost certainly find attractiveness in other forms and from other stimuli and, for them, I guess, in the visual sense, love truly would be blind. For me however, it is multifaceted; it draws on so many senses and stimuli that my brain then mixes together in some strange neurochemical imbalance to create this crazy little thing called love.

The darkness inside


Content Warning: Sexual Violence (Consensual)

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

“Don’t Worry About The Darkness In My Soul. It Ignites Me Like An Embered Coal.”

– Anon

I consider myself extremely fortunate that I have never suffered from a significant mental illness such as depression, anxiety or bi-polar disorder. I do, however, encounter these conditions and the people who suffer from, live with (and on occasions cannot live with) these conditions daily in my work. That isn’t to say that I never feel down, or disheartened. I have written a number of posts recently about the need for support from Master C; how much I rely on Him to recentre and rebalance me when pressures threaten to become overwhelming.

There is, however, something quite dark within me. I have written about it before. I have needs that need a certain edge to satisfy them. Partially, I think this is what has always driven me to sexual activities that are somewhat riskier; I need that fight or flight reaction that comes with the heightened sensitivity of increased risk/danger.

The past year has seen this darker side surface more often. Understandable perhaps, given the increased suffering I see due to Covid and the restrictions it places on lives, and the effect that dealing with other peoples’ live has on me; the extra pressures, the stresses and the increased feeling of helplessness in the face of something I cannot control.

All these things tap into my darkest desires, feeding my need for Master C to treat me with increasing roughness. I need to feel His hands tighten around my neck, starving me of breath as He forces His cock deep into my throat. I need the extra lashes of His belt, or strokes of the cane on my arse to unleash my tears and ultimately the healing flood of endorphins. I long to have Him grab a handful of my hair and pull my head back sharply, his other hand around my throat as He takes me hard from behind; fucking my cunt or arse with a force and brutal urgency that almost makes a lie out of the love Master C has for me.

I don’t just want this, I actually need it, I need to feel my oxygen staved lungs scream for breath. I need to feel the searing pain in my buttocks from whatever tool/implement He has used to turn them an angry, fiery crimson. I need to feel the harsh burn of the rope on my skin, bound around my wrists, my ankles, my arms, my legs, my neck. I need the agony of returning circulation to my extremities when He unties me. I need Him to slap me, to call me every abusive term He can as He fucks me with a brutal intensity. I need Him to bruise me. I need Him to use me.

I need the cathartic release that only Master C can deliver by taking me to the absolute extremes of my limits; and that only He can deliver simply because He knows how much I need it.

I know that these sessions are never easy for Master C. I know that they drain Him as much as, ultimately, they restore me. I know that He will require almost as much aftercare from me after one of these sessions as I require from Him. If you were to ask, Him, He would admit that this is one of the aspects of our relationship that He finds hardest; Master C is not really sadistic by nature, whereas I am very much masochistic. In the aftermath of a session like this, we heal each other. In a slightly perverse way, these sessions are where we recommit, unconditionally to each other.

My inner darkness can scare me, but Master C always manages to exorcise it, and to release me from its grip, until the next time it takes hold.

I don’t think it can be fully banished. I believe, even when dormant, it shapes so many of my wants, needs, desires and passions. It is a part of me that needs, occasionally, to be controlled, but it is what makes me the person I am. Master C understands this; He understands me. That, in a nutshell, is why I give Him my submission.

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Wake-up sex


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

“A morning coffee is my favourite way of starting the day, settling the nerves so that they don’t later fray.”

– Marcia Carrington

Now, I am not a morning person, and I will freely admit that coffee is definitely one of my vices, and once I’m up and out of bed, there is a certain truth to the above quote. When faced by a mountain of paperwork or case notes that need reviewing, there sometimes feels like there isn’t going to be enough coffee to see me through it.

Often though, my day starts much earlier than my first mug of coffee, and when it does, it often goes along the following lines…

I wake up feeling warm and relaxed. I can feel Master C’s body, hard and warm behind me as He holds me close, His breath warm against my neck. I wriggle gently against Him, letting Him know I am awake; pressing back against His early morning erection.

A kiss on my neck, a gentle squeeze of my boob is all it takes to ignite my desire. I moan softly and rock my hips, Master C’s cock slips between my legs.

His hand travels over my body, starting with my boobs; my nipples stiffen as Master C gently teases them. The stubble on His chin scratches my shoulder as He nuzzles into my neck and I feel my cunt respond, growing warmer and moister with every second.

His hand slides lower; I part my legs slightly to ease His access. A finger slips between my lower lips and works its way inside me.  I moan and grind myself against Master C’s hand. My cunt grows wetter and hotter as my body responds to His attentions.

Master C slips His finger from my cunt. I take His hand and lift it to my mouth. I take His finger between my lips, tasting myself.

I reach down between my legs. I wrap my fingers around Master C’s cock and begin to rub the head between my lips and over my clit; teasing myself, building my arousal.

His hands caress my boobs; His fingers tease my nipples. Tingles run through me as I work the head of Master C’s cock over my clit.

I shift on to my back, Master C moves above, positioning Himself between my legs. His cock, presses against me; I spread my legs slightly, moving, my hips, to accept Him.

He pushes into me; I clutch at His back as His cock fills me.

Our bodies move; Master C sinks into me, slowly but forcefully, filling me, stretching me. His pubic bone grinds against my clit, neurons spark in the pleasure centres of my brain.

The pace increases. Hearts pound, breathing quickens. My body begins to shake, my cunt grips His cock tightly.

Master C pushes harder, more forcefully, impaling me on His wonderful cock. My orgasm builds inside me. I moan more loudly as I let the pleasure wash over me.

He groans. His body tenses. A strangled gasp escapes Him as Master C erupts inside me, filling me with His seed; hot, thick and sticky inside me.

He collapses on to me, breathing hard, pinning me beneath Him. Finally, Master C rolls off; we cling to each other, holding each other close as His cum dribbles from my cunt.

We doze; that languid post-fuck drowsiness holds us until the alarm clock sounds and a new day starts.

So yes, my morning coffee is a very important part of my routine, but I think my favourite start to the day looks more like what I have just described; then followed by coffee, of course…

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What about love?


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

“We waste time looking for the perfect lover, instead of creating the perfect love.”

– Tom Robbins

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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