A man on the brink

One of my favourite parts of sex, apart from my own orgasm, is that bit just before the man comes. It’s that eternally long drawn out moment where he tries to hold back and I agonise in a state of heightened anticipation, waiting for his release. There is something purely animal about a man who has reached the point of no return and is just about to flood your cunt full of cum.

I love to feel the tension in His body as Master C tries to hold on, milking every moment of His pleasure before he erupts. I love to feel the way His breathing becomes more laboured. I love the involuntary moans Master C makes in those final moments as He fights to contain the inevitable. I love the way his Hips thrust of their own volition between my thighs, counting down to the moment of eruption, knowing that His climax is inevitable.

What I love most of all, however, is the fact that, deep down, I know Master C, or indeed any man in this position, isn’t thinking of me any more; In those moments those men aren’t even fucking me, they are simply fucking. At this point in the proceedings, it doesn’t matter how considerate a lover the man in question is, the only thing that matters to him is his own climax; the fact that it’s my cunt his cock is buried in no longer matters, it could be any cunt; my body is simply the means to his end, my cunt, the receptacle for his seed.

As those last powerful few thrusts fill me, as his body goes tight, as the pressure insides him mounts and the doomsday clock ticks down to the point where Master C can hold back no longer, I know He isn’t thinking of me, He isn’t thinking of anything; He is simply a male in rut, just like any other, and the overpowering need for release blinds Him towards everything else.

Ironically, at this point, I am completely His. Master C owns me; He has used me and I long to feel Him release inside me, filling me, emptying Himself into me.

Time seems to come to a standstill. That final moment; that eternity of anticipation and then, with that last surging thrust, He comes. The tension drains from His body as His cum drains from His cock. As He comes, Master C moans my name; I have Him back, He is mine again and I am very definitely His.

When Master C slumps, spent on top of me, kissing me passionately, stroking my hair from my face, His cock making those post-climax, involuntary little thrusts as He basks in the afterglow of His release, I know Master C has retuned to me; He is once again the caring, considerate lover and no longer just a man driven by his urges and I am, once again, His devoted submissive and partner, not just a female body to be used for His pleasure.

Time begins again, and afterwards, as we lie snuggled together, I am so grateful that I am His and that Master C is mine.

Your sub, your way?

When it comes to sex, I love having things to be done to me. I enjoy being spanked, I love being restrained, blindfolds figure quite frequently in my sex play and I thoroughly love being taken, by a strong, confident man who is comfortable and secure enough to use my body in a way that brings him, and ultimately me, pleasure.

I’ve used that word: “taken” again. As I mentioned in a recent post on the subject of blow-jobs, the vast majority of sexual acts are done, no matter how actively and enthusiastically we participate, to women. Nature has designed the female body to be the receiver. Not that I’m complaining, I do like being on the receiving end of a bloody good fuck, and both Master C and “The Other Guy” are particularly adept at dishing those out. The result, I believe, is, that the sexual act is inherently submissive from the female perspective. We give our bodies to our partners, and men take their pleasure from us. Even when we women initiate things, ultimately it is our legs that part and we offer ourselves up to our partner.

Now, again, I’m not complaining; I love that feeling of having whichever hole is being taken stretched and filled by a cock. I love being pinned down beneath a guy as he thrusts into me, filling me with those rock hard, proud several inches of flesh.

I’m all in favour of sexual equality, but the male and female bodies are not designed to be equal.

Now, I like a little tenderness and romance; I am a woman after all, but I also like a man who knows what he wants. I want my men to be, well, manly. I want them to fuck me properly. Sometimes this can be slow and gentle and loving, other times it can be rough, fast, hard.

It’s a huge turn-on for me, when Master C comes home, kisses me roughly, spins me around, bends me over the table, flips up my skirt and just takes me roughly from behind and just pounds my cunt or arse until He comes hard inside me. It’s a sign that He wants me for that purpose and that purpose alone. I know, because I’ve asked, and He’s admitted, that at that particular moment, it doesn’t actually matter that it’s me He’s fucking, all Master C is aware of is His own need; to all intents and purposes, I am simply an object for him to take His gratification from and, ironically (and I’m aware the rabidly feminist of my readers will be appalled by this), as a woman, I relish in this. It’s primal, it’s animal and it’s knicker-moisteningly good.

At other times, what starts off as slow and tender can, as the passion mounts, slowly grow until it becomes a full-on cunt pounding, and again, that’s great.

We women are receivers; men are givers and takers; that’s how nature has designed us. That’s not to say that we women can’t use men for our own pleasure; of course we can. I do frequently, and I’m sure most, if not all women reading this do, or have done so.

But for me, much of the pleasure comes from tipping the man I happen to be with, whether it be Master C, “The Other Guy” or some random I’ve met in the pub, over the edge so he releases his inner Cro-Magnon. Much as I love tenderness and romance, I also love it hard and rough; the kind of sex that leaves both participants sweaty, exhausted and, in my case at least, satisfyingly achy in places.

So I guess some of the submissive in me that comes, for no other reason, than the fact that I have a vagina, and I love having it stuffed full of penis. Sometimes I think that the human body is the model of bad design, but in sex, I think nature got it about right…

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.

Sharing the love

We met Lucy and Pete (not their real names) several years ago through fabswingers (don’t bother looking for us, we are no longer members). Lucy was looking for her first experience of being with another woman and Pete wanted to watch. We exchanged emails, swapped naughty pictures and arranged to meet at a local pub to break the ice.

Pete was in his mid-thirties, about the same age as Master C. He was about 6′, fair haired and not bad looking in a fairly non-descript kind of way. He did have a very sexy laugh however. Lucy was quite a bit younger than us, in her late-twenties, about 5’2″. Short, bobbed, dark brown hair and had just the faintest hint of a Scandinavian accent.

We chatted easily, got on well, and, ultimately agreed to meet up at ourselves at the weekend and “see how things went”.

On the afternoon in question, my preparations were meticulous. I showered, moisturised, made sure I was nice and tidy “downstairs”, spent absolutely ages picking out sexy undies, and a nice outfit that conveyed relaxed and sensual rather than in your face, I want to fuck you, slut. Master C, being a typical male, was no use at all, insisting that whatever I wore would be fine as it wouldn’t be on very long anyway. For my part, I told Him to fuck right off and banished Him downstairs to make sure the house looked presentable and that the drinks and snacks were sorted. Sometimes even the most subservient of sluts have their limits.

I was excited. My cunt had been moist since the moment I’d woken up. I was also nervous. Not at the idea of being with Lucy; I’d been with girls on numerous occasions. No, I was nervous because Pete and, more importantly, Master C would be watching. I’d always made a point of describing my girl-on-girl experiences to Master C in full and graphic detail, it always turned Him on to hear about them, but He’d never witnessed such a thing before. I hoped the reality would live up to his mental images of me. The fact that Lucy had never been with a woman added to my nervousness. I wanted to put on a great show for the guys while ensuring that Lucy had a memorable (for the right reasons) first lesbian experience.

By the time they arrived, I was a mess of nervous anticipation. The guys sat on the armchairs on one side of the room, and I sat next to Lucy on the sofa opposite them. We chatted, drank a little to loosen any inhibitions and made it clear to Lucy that things would only proceed as and when she felt comfortable.

As we chatted, I occasionally stroked her leg. I could feel how tense she was. After a couple of drinks, she noticeably relaxed and, tentatively at first, began to reciprocate. The feel of her hand on my thighs made my breathing deepen, my pulse race and my cunt moisten. Eventually I asked her if I could kiss her. She gave Pete a nervous glance and he nodded his agreement. I touched my lips to hers. She returned the kiss, tentatively at first, but with growing confidence.

As we kissed, I ran my hand up and stroked her boobs through her top. She kissed me with increased passion and I felt her nipple stiffen beneath my palm.

Being the considerate hostess, I suggested that, in her own time, she might want to undress me, at least as far as my undies and, I would do the same to her.

Our tops were first to go, and I encouraged her to explore my skin, partially by demonstrating, and also by telling her how good what she was doing felt. Our skirts were next to go and we continued to explore each other’s bodies with our fingers and lips; me becoming less anxious and Lucy growing in confidence with every kiss and caress.

At some point I removed my bra and wriggled out of my knickers. I figured it would put Lucy more at ease if I were the first one to be fully naked. She complimented my boobs and I invited her to kiss and lick them.

As she did, I helped her out of her bra. I guided her hand between my legs. Essentially, I used her hand to wank myself off, but the effect was the same, as she sucked and kissed my boobs, I came as I pressed her fingers to my clit.

Having had a climax of my own. I removed her knickers and began kissing her, exploring her body with my lips and tongue. I asked if I could taste her. She nodded. I slid off the sofa and moved between her legs. Her mound was smooth and her cunt tasted heavenly.

She came quickly. I like to think I have certain talents in that department, but I suspect the novelty of the situation contributed to the situation. I kept licking and she came again, more powerfully; her juices flowed copiously over my face.

Finally she begged me to stop. I climbed back on the sofa and held her as her body trembled. After a while, I asked her if she would like to do the same to me. With a slight hesitation, she agreed.

For a first-timer, under my encouraging guidance, she did a pretty good job of eating me out. The orgasm she brought me to wasn’t the most powerful I’ve ever had, but it was still delicious.

After we’d finished, I remembered about the guys. They were sitting there, stroking the biggest hard-ons that I had ever seen. Lucy and I laughed about how we’d had all the fun and the guys had had to contend with being our audience.

An idea came to me. It was going further than we’d agreed, but I decided to test the water. I asked her if, assuming Pete was happy, she would like to suck Master C’s cock. She gave her man an almost pleading look. When he smiled and nodded, she kissed me and made her way over to Master C.

It was the first time I’d ever seen Master C with another woman and it was clear that He was enjoying the attention of Lucy’s mouth. I was so aroused that by the time Master C shot his load down Lucy’s throat, I’d fingered myself to another climax.

Master C then offered Pete my services. As I sucked on his cock, I noticed Master C and Lucy were cuddled together, kissing and caressing as they watched me feast on Pete. When he came, his rich thick load flooded my mouth. I savoured every last drop, sucking him dry.

All in all, it was an extremely hot and very satisfying introduction to the world of swinging. The fuck Master C gave me after Lucy and Pete had left was painfully intense and felt so good.

That was the first of many sessions we were to have together with Lucy and Pete until they moved to London a couple of years ago. Even now, we are still in touch and we visit each other when we can. Well be heading down to London later in the year and I know Master C is looking forward to that trip as much as I am.

Finger fucked at 35,000 feet

I have a confession to make: I am a late 30-something grown woman and I still have a comfort blanket. It’s from IKEA, red and made from a fleecy material. It’s soft, warm, snuggly and I love it.

“Well now, that’s all very interesting, but what exactly has this revelation got to do with the subject of this post?” I hear you ask. Well, that’s a very good question, so please let me explain.

When I say I have a comfort blanket, I’m not trying to imply that I take it everywhere with me like some red-haired, adult female version of Linus from the Peanuts cartoon. Usually I tend to snuggle it around me on the sofa in the evenings, especially during winter.

However, if I’m going on a long journey, say travelling for more than a couple of hours, be it on a train, or a plane, or even a long car journey, I like to take it with me so I can wrap it round me and snooze. I am a pretty lousy travelling companion, as any of my friends and or colleagues will tell you, mainly because I tend to spend most of the actual travelling time dozing.

Anyway, this particular incident relates to when Master C and I were flying home from a fortnight’s holiday in Greece. The flight involves being on a plane for the guts of four hours which, naturally, means the blanket came on holiday too, and made an appearance on the flight home as I adopted my customary travelling habit: as the wheels lift, my head goes back and Zzzzz…

Can you see where this is going yet? Is the connection becoming clearer?

At some point in the flight, my slumber was rudely, but pleasantly interrupted. Under the blanket, I felt a hand slide up the inside of my leg and under my skirt. My head was already resting on Master C’s shoulder, but I snuggled in more closely as His fingers brushed the gusset of my knickers aside. Casually, I wriggled a little in my seat, opening my legs as much as it is possible to do in the confines of an airline economy seat, to give Him slightly easier access to his goal.

My juices were already flowing and I had to suppress a moan as Master C slipped his long, strong fingers between my lower lips, teasing the entrance to my cunt.

Whether it was coincidence (highly unlikely), or whether He planned it that way (almost certainly), just as Master C thrust his finger fully up inside me, a member of the cabin crew enquired if we wanted anything to drink. While I feigned sleep and tried not to show any outward reaction to the “come here” motion His finger was making inside my cunt, Master C just calmly informed the stewardess that we were fine and didn’t need anything, thank you very much.

I turned slightly in my seat towards Him, allowing myself to open up a little bit more, and Master C took this as his cue to ram a second finger up me.

Again, I had to fight back the urge to moan. The fact that I was being so masterfully finger-fucked while, less than a foot away, both in front and behind me, my fellow travellers were (I hoped) completely ignorant of what was happening almost under their noses (pretty literally in the case of those in the row behind us) was a huge turn on.

As always in situations where I have to remain quiet, the restraint required to avoid making any sound amplifies the intensity of the sensations. As powerful feelings grew inside me, I had to bite my lip so as not to cry out. At any moment I was expecting a member of the cabin staff to appear and reprimand us for disturbing the other passengers. That too magnified my arousal level.

Master C’s fingers continued their relentless probing. I struggled to contain myself. My fingers tightened on the armrest as the pressure for release grew increasingly stronger.

A convulsive shudder ran through me as I came, my cunt gripping His fingers tight inside me. I wanted to moan, I wanted to cry out, I wanted to give full voice to my orgasm but I couldn’t. To make matters worse, the very act of suppression only made my climax more powerful.

The tremors that ran through me almost had to have been visible if anyone had been looking. They continued for an age, even after Master C’s fingers were gone from inside me. As he extracted His arm from beneath the blanket, and wrapped it around my shoulder, He lightly brushed His fingers against my lips. The scent, the taste of myself on His fingers was intoxicating; I almost came again just from that touch.

Eventually my body settled down and I dozed off again into a very contented sleep.

Later, as the plane taxied to the stand at the airport, the pilot expressed his customary hope that we had had a pleasant flight. I think it’s fair to say that I most certainly had.

Call me

I’ve been a way for a while, for a number of reasons; some of them nice, some of them not so much. I’ll leave it there and won’t burden you with the details.

My experience with phone sex is somewhat one sided. It invariably involves Master C phoning me when He is away from home on business and giving me some very explicit instructions.

He will tell me which bits of me to play with; my nipples, my cunt, and what to use; my fingers, a particular toy.

He will tell me how much pressure to apply to my clit, how tight and how hard to squeeze and pull my nipples, how hard and how deep to finger-fuck my cunt and how many fingers to use.

As Master C instructs me, He calls me His “filthy slut”, His “Dirty whore”. I confess that I am. I tell Him how bad I have been, letting Him know how much I need His correction.

He tells me how He will punish me when He returns home; how He will bind and restrain me, how many deliciously painful strokes of His belt I will feel on my arse.

The words that Master C speaks are every bit as arousing as the things He makes me do to myself.

At His command, the silky cold glass plug is pushed up my arse.

Another instruction and I fasten the clamps around my nipples.

My fingers fill my cunt as Master C tells me to fuck myself more firmly; stopping occasionally to be allowed to lick my juices from their surface.

The tension builds inside me as I dutifully follow His every instruction.

Will He give me permission to come, or will He hang-up and leave me waiting for further direction?

My passion flares.

My need for release grows stronger with every second.

Have I pleased Him? Will He let my have my orgasm?

The tension mounts unbearably as I wait for Master C to announce my fate.

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.

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.”

 

For the love of cock

I love cock. Since my very first encounter with the male organ over 20 years ago, I have been endlessly fascinated by them. The come in all shapes and sizes and, big ones, smaller ones, thick ones, thin ones, I’ve pretty much had them all and loved every one of them.

There is something endlessly fascinating, almost hypnotic about watching those few inches of man unfurling themselves from a slightly comical, soft, wrinkled, flaccid state; transforming into a proud, hard, raging erection that will give me so much pleasure. A hard-on is, I believe, the most primal compliment a man can pay a woman, and the knowledge that you are responsible for this amazing metamorphosis is greatly flattering.

Of course, the cock isn’t everything. The man maketh the cock and, usually, it is the man I see first, not the cock. There is always a thrill of anticipation the first time you “unwrap” a new cock; that moment when the suggestion, the bulge in his jeans, becomes the reality of a living cock, released for you to enjoy, to explore with your fingers and lips, before it pushes inside you.

It’s fair to say, I’ve never encountered a disappointing cock, although I have been disappointed by the way a cock has been used. I won’t lie, I prefer my cocks to be on the bigger, by which I mean thicker rather than longer, side but I’ll take a smaller cock coupled with the ability to use it over a larger one attached to a guy who is an even bigger one. Ability, not size, is key. Size with ability is a very nice bonus.

The thing with cocks is the way they feel and make me feel. Much as I love the appearance of a lovely hard cock, it’s the way it feels when it is inside me that makes them so great. The way the head fills my mouth when I’m sucking it, the way the shaft fills and stretches my cunt or arse as it plunges deep inside me; these are the things that I love most about cocks.

And then there is the rich, thick eruption of his climax. I absolutely love watching a guy come. The way the shaft stiffens and twitches, the way his balls contract, the way the head swells and turns a deep, angry purple, and then it erupts. That moment when he can take no more, at his most vulnerable and knowing that you are the cause of it is one of the most erotically satisfying experience.

I realise that this post has nothing at all to do with the prompt subject of “Chemistry”, but from start to finish, in everything they do, I love cock.

 

Empowerment through sucking cock

I have to admit, I never really give a lot of thought to the mechanics of sex and their impact on the greater world of sexual politics; basically, if I enjoy it, then, fuck yeah, do it to me baby, is about as deep and philosophical as I get on the subject. However, with sex, as with all things in life, there is a certain power balance between men and women, and that balance is generally tilted in the direction of the man.

When we get right down to it, no matter how much we women enjoy it, or how enthusiastically we participate, the truth is that most sexual activities involve things that are done to us.  It is, at the end of the day, our cunts and our arses that are being penetrated and it is his cock that is doing the penetrating. Now, that’s fine, that’s the way nature designed us. As a woman, my body is made to receive, and believe me, I do enjoy being receptive; and the more forcefully a man gives, the more receptive I become.

Even the language of sex is orientated towards the male perspective.  We talk about women being “taken”, I will tell Master C that I want Him to “use” me, or that He“owns” me.  And, if we’re being brutally honest with ourselves, even our own bodies conspire against us, given that it takes us much longer, generally, to get off than it does for men.

There are a couple of activities however, where the balance shifts.  The first is the humble hand-job and the second is the blow-job.  With these two activities, it is us women doing it to the men.  OK, so ultimately it still leads to his orgasm, but we have the power to grant or deny that release.

I gave my first blow-job at the tender age of 14.  It was a special present for my then boyfriend’s 15^th birthday. With my lack of experience, I probably wasn’t very good, but as it was the first time that the recipient had ever had his cock sucked, he was hardly in a position to make comparisons. But even then, at that young age, with no experience at all, and a cock in my mouth for the first time, and me wondering if I was doing it right, the thing I became increasingly aware of was that I was in charge. The stirrings in his cock were down to me, the moans of pleasure were down to me. Even when he put his hand on the back of my head, trying to force his cock deeper into my throat, that was all down to me. He was going to come, and that was down to me.  I could choose to tease him, I could deny him his release and that too, would be down to me.

Actually, I was kidding myself a bit about denying him, given the novelty of the experience, he blew his load pretty quickly, but that in itself was confirmation; I had caused a boy to completely lose control; he couldn’t have stopped himself from coming even if he had wanted to, and that was all down to me, and the feeling of power it gave me was an immense turn-on.

As I grew in cock-sucking experience, I learned that my mouth could be used pretty much like a weapon, to give or deny a man pleasure at my choosing.

There is a contradiction to the blow-job. When you look at it in one way, getting down on your knees in front of a man and taking his cock in your mouth seems like one of the most submissive and subservient things a woman can do, and to an extent, this is true.  I love it when Master C orders me to get down on my knees and suck His cock, or when He force-feeds His cock to me after it’s been in my cunt, and it is covered in my juices. But, at the same time, however submissive I am, and however submissive the act of sucking His cock  may appear on the outside, knowing I have the power to grant or deny a man release, puts me, the cock-sucker, in a very dominant position over the cock-suckee.

Of course, most of the time, when I’m sucking a cock, I’m not thinking any of these things, I’m simply enjoying having my lips wrapped around a glorious piece of man-meat. Whether it’s part of foreplay that’s going to progress to me getting my brains well and truly fucked out, or whether I’m doing it simply because I think the man in question deserves a blow-job and I’m going to hungrily swallow down his cum at the end, doesn’t really matter.  At the end of the day, I’m a cock-sucking slut, who loves the feeling of a cock sliding between my lips, along my tongue until the swollen head lodges in the back of my throat, making me cough and my eyes water.

Sometimes, however, I take great satisfaction in knowing that, for as long as I have a cock in my mouth, I’m in charge…