You said “foo foo”. Our survey said…

Pussy, twat, twinkle cave, flower, fanny (mostly UK, particularly Scotland and Northern Ireland), fud, growler, foo foo, sex, mound, box, cunt, CUNT, CUNT!!

The English language apparently has over 1,000 recognised euphemisms for the female genitalia. I’ve listed a few, off the top of my head, above. Seriously though, 1,000 euphemisms? Somehow I can’t quite see Nick Knowles ever asking contestants to name as many of those as they can come up with on the Saturday night lottery “Who Dares Wins” quiz show… And as for a question on Family Fortunes: “We asked 100 people for a euphemism for vagina…”, Can you imagine it?

Being Scottish, I’ve always quite liked “fanny”; there’s something humorously endearing about it. As often as not, we use it as a moderately insulting term for someone who annoys us, as in: “See him, he’s a right fanny!”, or when someone is dithering, as in: “Stop fuckin’ fannyin’ aroon an get oan wi’ it!” We might even describe someone who is a bit dim as a “Fannyheid”. It’s probably for these reasons that the word “fanny” as a term for vagina has, largely dropped out of use, increasingly replaced by the almost ubiquitous, “pussy”.

Now, we Scots being who we are, are not only increasingly using pussy instead of fanny when referring to a vagina, it’s also beginning to replace fanny in the contexts quoted above as in: “Stop being a pussy” or “Stop pussying about”. I don’t think I’ve encountered the term “Pussyheid” yet, but I’m sure it’s time will come.

Personally, I’ve never liked referring to my lady-bits as a pussy. Firstly, simply down to the fact that for most of my adult life, I’ve kept mine smooth, so there is no luxuriant fur to stroke and secondly because, well, it’s a bit limp really. This is the bit of our body that when used and abused in the right ways, ignites a pleasure in us that the company of a house pet can never match (and if it can, I seriously worry about you). A pussy is a soft and cuddly domestic animal which, fair enough, can be a vicious beast at times, sleeps a lot and needs constant feeding and affection.

OK, so, it’s true, some of the above also applies to my vagina but only in the most oblique of ways.

No, for me, the descriptive word is “Cunt”. It has such a vulgar, earthy sound to it, it rolls satisfyingly off the tongue and is of good, solid, old Germanic/Scandiwegian/Anglo Saxon origin.

A cunt sounds like something that wants, no, deserves to be pummelled and pounded until its owner is a quivering, orgasmic wreck. A cunt sounds like it is there to be invaded, impaled, filled and abused. A cunt sounds as if it was designed for filthy, deviant, sometimes painful but ultimately enjoyable and satisfying things to be done to it, and for them to be done again and again, over and over until all parties are satiated. Whereas a pussy should be petted and stroked, a cunt deserves to be taken, used and fucked.

Another advantage is, that in the derogatory sense, calling someone who is pissing you off a “cunt” is infinitely more satisfying than calling them either a “pussy” or a “fanny”.

Fanny will always hold a soft (and moistly warm) spot in my soul but it’s my cunt that routinely gets fucked.

 

Cunt

I love the word cunt; so coarse, so harsh a word for something so warm, soft, inviting and, ultimately welcoming. It is, however, a very satisfying word. Cunt: it just rolls of the tongue. It has a lovely, earthy Anglo Saxon feel about it, the way so many of our sex words have. Cock, cunt, fuck; such short forceful words that combine so well together, both on the page and in the flesh.

It hasn’t always been my cunt. When I was much younger, it was my fanny. When I was a bit older, it became my pussy. Occasionally, mostly because I’m redheaded, it got referred to as a minge, because that rhymes so playfully with ginge.

I never really liked pussy as a descriptive term. Yes, mine is sometimes “furry” after a fashion, and it does love being stroked, but in its own way pussy always seemed to be almost as childish a name as fanny.

I can’t exactly remember the first time a partner referred to it as a cunt. I do remember thinking, “Yes! That’s what it is. It is my cunt!” I remember enjoying the things his tongue was doing to my cunt. I remember how I felt as his cock fucked my cunt. That wasn’t just its name, that was what it was. It completed the unholy trinity of C words: cock, clit, and now cunt.

From then on, when a guy, or girl, went down on me, he/she licked my cunt, tasted my cunt, ate my cunt. When I had sex with me, he fucked my cunt. And when I masturbated, I would frig my cunt.

Frig. Wank. Cock. Fuck. Arse. Cunt.

Such short, sharp, harsh, vulgar yet, at the same time, beautiful words.

And then of course there is one more; slut, for that is what I am. A filthy, greedy, insatiable, submissive little slut. A slut who craves nothing more than Master C’s cock, whether it be in her mouth, her arse or her cunt. A slut who loves to be told how warm and tight her cunt feels around her Master’s cock. A slut who loves to fee Master C’s tongue lapping her juices from her cunt. A slut who just simply loves her cunt licked, fucked and generally used however Master C deems fit.

The “truth” about size

Having been a member of numerous adult contact sites in the past, and having browsed a few profiles on those same sites, I wasn’t all that surprised when I noticed that a lot of women want the men they meet to be “well hung”. What did surprise me was the number who insist that only men with cocks greater than 8″ (or in some cases the specification was greater than 9″) should bother contacting them.

This got me to wondering just how many “genuine” contacts they get.

It is generally accepted that the average length of the male organ, when erect is approximately 5½-6½”. Now, I know, averages being averages means that there must be a distribution of lengths on either side of that figure. Fair enough, I get that. I’ve had quite a few cocks in my life and some have been longer and some have been shorter but, typically, they’ve all been much of a muchness (thickness, on the other hand…)

Anyway, back to my point. When a woman specifies such a requirement, how does she actually know what she’s getting in advance? OK, there are pictures on these sites (believe me, there are lots of pictures…) but, to be perfectly frank, these don’t actually tell the viewer anything about how long they are.

So, given that the photos aren’t much to go by, unless there’s some frame of reference to give an idea of scale, It does beg the question about how she knows the cock she is going to get meets the required specification.

Do these women insist on documentary evidence?

Do they carry a measuring tape around with them at all times?

If the latter, what happens when they unwrap the aforementioned ‘gift’ and discover it is short by a fraction? Do they just kick him out and dig out their favourite toy instead?

That said, even if the guy does actually measure up, it’s still no guarantee of success. The biggest guy I ever had claimed to be 9″. I took that with a pinch of salt and was right to do so as, in reality, he was probably nearer to 8″ (no, I didn’t measure him, Master C’s cock is the only cock I have measured and that was simply as a bit of a laugh, but with hindsight, the cock of the man in question wasn’t really that much longer than Master C’s, and I know how long 1½” is, and he wasn’t that much longer). The sad thing was, he was probably the crappest shag I’ve ever had. He was so impressed with his size (and naturally assumed I would be too), that his technique was sadly deficient. 10/10 for content, certainly, but only 2/10 for application.

Now, the simple biological fact is that the most sensitive part of a woman’s vagina is in the first 3½” – 4″ so, as long as your cock is at least that long, you’re probably going to be stimulating all the right nerve endings. Anything more than this is simply filling. Don’t get me wrong, I do love to feel full, but I get more pleasure out of feeling stretched. If I’m being totally honest, once a guy is inside me, unless his cock is so long that the head of it is continually banging against my cervix (not a sensation I enjoy, believe me) then I haven’t really got any idea how long or short his cock is.

And, the thing is, guys who have (or perceive themselves to have, regardless of whether or not the actually have) do, in my experience at least, tend to try harder to satisfy us women. They tend to be better with their tongues, they tend to touch more, they tend to engage us more in a sensual way than their longer phallused counterparts. My simple rule of thumb, derived from bitter experience, is that the bigger the dick the guy has, the bigger the dick he tends to be. My alleged 9″ guy was so impressed with his cock that he seemed to think I should, I don’t know, swoon in it’s presence or bow down and worship it, or something. He certainly seemed to believe being penetrated by it should provide me with all the pleasure I could possibly want. Sadly, that wasn’t the case.

A big cock doesn’t turn a crap shag into a great one, but it can turn a mediocre one into a towering disappointment.

So, getting back to my original point, why would any woman insist on a particular size given that there is no guarantee of satisfaction? Wouldn’t insistence on ability be more beneficial (if a lot harder to quantify)?

Don’t get me wrong, if a guy has a nice sized cock, and can use it (eg, Master C/”The Other Guy”) then this is great, but if I cant have size and ability, then I will choose ability over size every time. Life is too short to put up with crap sex and if the guy you’re with really knows how to push all your buttons and can fuck you seven shades of senseless, then his cock is quite clearly the ideal size for the job.

 

My favourite sex toy

Like many women, I love my toys. I have my ben-wa balls and my rampant rabbit, I have my discrete little vibrator that looks like a lipstick, I have my doxy that can take me from naught to screaming the roof off in a matter of seconds, and I have a lovely double ended dildo that not only fills my arse and cunt simultaneously, but has a little vibrating bit that stimulates my clit too. I have others, but those listed above are some of my favourites. My absolute favourite however, is thick, around 7″ long, thick, heavily veined and comes attached to a living, breathing, hard bodied, hairy man. I am, of course, talking about Master C’s cock.

Now, it should be abundantly clear to anyone who is even the most casual reader of this humble journal that I am submissive. I love when Master C takes control and dominates me. In fact, it goes much deeper than that, I NEED Master C to dominate me. I admit, however, there are also times when I very much need to be the one that is in charge. It is a side of me that that I don’t express very often, but Master C loves that, on occasion, I do.

It is not unknown for me to be waiting for Master C to come home from work, randy as hell, knickers soaked from anticipation, ready to jump on Him the moment He gets in. Usually, I would wait patiently, on my knees, for His return but in these situations I may simply drag Him into the bedroom, or push Him down on the sofa; sometimes I may even just have Him on the stairs in the hall.

Almost always, I will be on top. I’ll undo His trousers and pull them down, quickly followed by His boxers. Straddling Him, I’ll hitch my skirt up, reach back and grab His cock, teasing myself with the tip for several delicious moments or longer, before lowering myself on to it; impaling myself, inch by delicious inch on His length and feeling Master C stretch and fill me, as lower myself down.

Depending on what I’m wearing, I’ll allow my blouse to be unbuttoned, or my top to be pulled over my head, and my bra unclasped to allow Master C access to my boobs. I am, after all, a sucker for nipple stimulation.

Sometimes I will wake up in need of a fuck. Most often, wake-up sex is initiated by Master C, but sometimes it’s me. I’ll stroke His cock until He’s hard before climbing aboard and riding His cock with abandon.

Often, I’ll fuck Master C until He erupts inside me; flooding my cunt with His rich, hot sticky cum. At other times I’ll break off and move up, lowering my cunt to His mouth and have Him lick me to a shuddering climax or two before rolling over and have Him take me hard and fast. Sometimes, if I’ve satisfied myself on His cock, I’ll finish up by taking Him in my mouth; savouring the taste of my juices on his shaft, until Master C comes, our individual tastes mixing in my mouth.

I love the feeling of control. I love being in command of my own pleasure. I love occasionally being able to “use” Master C in a way that gives me sensations all over my body in a way that no simple piece of plastic, vibrating or otherwise can provide. I also love that Master C allows me to “use Him” in this way; not least because He will always punish me later for “getting above myself” and being impertinent.

Most of all though, I just love fucking and being fucked by Master C.

Waiting

I am on my knees; head downcast, naked, blindfolded, my hands tied securely behind my back. Helpless. Bound. At His mercy.

He has me exactly where, and how, He wants me. I can do nothing but wait for Him to use me as He desires.

The anticipation burns as I wait for Him. I endure His scrutiny; feeling His eyes on me as He slowly walks around me; occasionally filling my ears with the loud snapping crack of His belt.

He examines me. Although I cannot see Him, I can sense how He views me. I yearn for His touch. I hunger for His command; eager to obey His slightest whim.

His silence is agonising. My cunt is hot and wet. I long for Him to acknowledge me, to give me some indication of His desire, His need.

I wait in silence; enduring each second as it ticks by. My legs begin to cramp in the uncomfortable position of my submission to Him.

I wait in silence, as the sound of leather cracking against leather fills my senses.

Discomfort wars with anticipation, pain with arousal. What is His will? What does He require of me?

A shiver runs through me as the belt coils around my neck. It presses my skin as He pulls it tight.

A sharp tug forces me to raise my head.

I become aware of His breathing; rapid, laboured. I can almost feel His pre-climactic tension. Apart from His breathing and the rhythmic beat of His hand stroking His cock, there is silence.

He groans.

His cum strikes my face like a blow from His hand. Hot, rich, sticky; I feel it trickle down my face, warming my skin as moves.

At last, He speaks. “Open your mouth, little one. Taste your reward.”

I comply. His cock fills my mouth. I tighten my lips around Him and savour the taste of His essence.

Wet

It’s that moment. He has turned me on. His lips, his tongue, His fingers have all worked their magic. My body is a quivering mass of anticipation. My cunt aches with the need to filled. And then, just then, He touches me; tracing a finger between my labia, feeling my wetness for the first time.

It is a moment that I particularly love; that moment when Master C feels just how wet He has made me; just how ready I am for His cock to fill me.

That first touch can be all that is needed sometimes to set me off, to ignite my orgasm while at the same time wanting so much more.

Spreading me open with His fingers; coating them with my juices. Will He anoint my nipples with my essence? Will He make me taste myself on Him? His fingers in my mouth so close to my nose that I can inhale the scent of my arousal as I lick His fingers clean. Will He drive a finger deep inside me? In that moment, I am helpless, undone, His to do with however He so desires. Will He lick me? Will He fuck me? Will He tease me some more?

It is such a delicious moment; that moment where He discovers just how much He has turned me on, just how much I want and need Him, just how much I hunger to feel his wonderfully hard cock inside me.

And then, that almost agonising moment when His fingers are gone, and the anticipation builds for what He is about to do next.

Two words

“Bend over!”

I’ll admit, as foreplay goes, it’s not exactly extensive, but sometimes it’s all I need.

I don’t think there is any other combination of two words that can have more of an effect on me. Said in the right tone, and with the right degree of forcefulness, they can reduce me to a quivering mess of anticipation. No other two words will make my cunt instantly wet.

And as I comply with His demand I bite my lip as I wait for Master C to flip my skirt up over my arse, or pull my jeans down around my ankles, and yank my knickers out of His way.

With my arse exposed, I wonder what Master C has planned for me; is He just going to fuck me, does He plan to spank me, or will wield His belt?

In fairness, it doesn’t matter what His intentions are, I am ready; I want whatever Master C decides. As every second passes, the anticipation mounts, and my cunt grows hotter and wetter.

A hand slips between my legs, feeling how wet I am, how ready I am for Him. A shiver of excitement runs through me, my clit throbs slightly in response to His touch.

I want His cock inside me, filling me, pounding me, fucking me hard. I want Master C to take me, to use me, to release His cum deep inside of me. I don’t just want it, I need it. My whole body aches for Him.

Master C grabs a handful of my hair. He pulls my head back. Will it be His belt, or His cock? I still don’t know.

“Are you ready?” He asks.

“Yes!” I sob.

I brace myself for whatever is about to come next.

Sometimes “Bend over!” is all the foreplay I need.

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…

The joys of sext

Now, I accept that sexting has come in for a lot of bad press. Mostly due to people (generally young girls, but not always) taking nude or sexually explicit photographs of themselves for the benefit of a partner, only to have these photos wind up on the internet through a breach of trust on the part of the recipient. Fortunately, I have never been on the receiving end of so-called “revenge porn” but I know people who have and, to say that it is not nice, is a gross understatement.

But sexting isn’t all bad; far from it. Used in a responsible way, it can be a deeply erotic and highly extended form of foreplay.

Take the following scenario for example. Master C was recently in London. Because I had been in meetings with clients most of the day, my phone has been turned off for the majority of it. Every time I switched my phone back on, there has been a flood of highly salacious and very distracting texts from Him.

Some were simply one word, eg:

“Slut!“

Others were much, much more explicit, eg:

“I’m going to thrash your slutty little arse and fuck you so hard you won’t be able to sit down or walk straight.“

I must confess that that one was a particular favourite; it definitely got me more than just a wee bit moist.

To be fair, the texts started not long after Master C left the house at half past four that particular morning; and they continued at irregular intervals through the day. Some mildly suggestive, some highly explicit, some telling me that I should be doing certain particular things like fingering my cunt before my next my next client meeting, or removing my knickers and making sure that someone, be it a client, a colleague, or a random passer-by gets to have a flash of my cunt. Some have simply been general enquiries about how my day has been going.

The whole point of it though, was to turn me on; to get me so frustrated and worked up that when by the time Master C got home, my cunt was soaked and I was absolutely desperate for Him to fuck me, or indeed, do whatever the fuck He wanted to me. Whether or not Master C actually did some, any, or all of the things He told me He would do to me is irrelevant; it was simply all about heightening my arousal, building my anticipation, putting me in the mood.

Master C knows exactly the effect that a message like:

“I’m going to bend you over the arm of the sofa, thrash you with my belt then pound the fuck out of your cunt and arse!“

will have on me, or that:

“I’m going to choke you with my cock!“

will have me instantly wanting to find the quiet seclusion of a toilet cubicle somewhere so I can frig myself into orgasmic oblivion.

But that, you see, is the only real rule to our little game; namely that no matter how aroused, how frustrated, how desperate for the release of orgasm I may be, unless I am explicitly commanded to do so by Master C, I am not allowed to do anything about it; I must endure and suffer until I am in His presence again, and He can then use me, or not, as He so desires.

Normally what happens at this point is a short, sharp, frustration driven fuck that has us both coming before we’ve even got each other’s clothes off. The intensity is overpowering. There is no need for any further foreplay. It is simply a fuck of animal like passion, each of us finally being allowed to give in to the frustrated arousal and use the other for almost instant relief and gratification.

After that, things will settle down. There will be kissing and hugging, teasing, licking and sucking, and almost definitely a whole lot more fucking before the evening is over.

Of course, sometimes, having been up so early, and getting home so late, Master C is too tired. If I have been an obedient slut during the course of the day, and done everything that He has demanded of me, Master C may allow me to come for Him and, if I’m particularly lucky and have been an exceptionally good and obedient little slut, He may also let me suck His cock.

If I haven’t behaved to His satisfaction. I may end up going to bed even more frustrated with nothing more to show for my efforts than a very hot, red, stinging arse.

However, assuming Mater C decides to relent and give me what I hoped He’d give me; when the dust settles and we collapse in a sweaty, post orgasmic heap, all of that will have stemmed from me sending him a simple:

“Hope you have a good trip xx“

Yes, when done safely and responsibly, sexting can definitely be a lot of fun.

The BIG reveal

It’s the final stop on the journey. The final revelation.

It’s those final moments before you reveal yourself fully.

It’s the anticipation you feel as you prepare to surrender to your partner’s scrutiny.

It’s the thrill you feel as you peel off your knickers and expose yourself fully to your lover.

It’s the excitement as you prepare to open up for him, to feel his tongue on you, or his cock in you.

It’s the big reveal…