It’s all sex

The current prompt on No True Way is:

Sex means PIV*

Everything else is foreplay, petting, making out, etc

*PIV means Penis In Vagina

I suspect that it will probably come as no surprise to anyone reading this, that the above statement is one that I disagree with pretty strongly.

As recently as my previous post, I wrote about what fucking meant to me. I get fucked in my mouth and throat, I get fucked in my cunt, I get fucked in my arse, Master C fucks me, “The Other Guy” fucks me, “The Girl” fucks me, random strangers fuck me, and I fuck them. It is me that is fucking and getting fucked, the particular hole or erogenous zone in use at any given time is simply the means by which my partner is fucking me at that point in time.

Now, I’ve also written about foreplay. In my view, depending on how you define it, any activity can be foreplay. Kissing, cuddling and caressing can be foreplay. Having my boobs played with can be foreplay. Me sucking a partner’s cock can be foreplay. A partner licking my clit and/or fingering my cunt can be foreplay. At the same time, having Master C walk into the room and sternly telling me to “Bend over!” can, for me, be foreplay.

For me foreplay isn’t any particular act; foreplay is about working on my mind, it’s about getting me aroused and ready to fuck. Foreplay can often be a series of text messages from Master C, spread throughout the day, telling me what he intends to do to me when we’re together that evening. It can be Him coming up behind me and kissing my neck when I’m busy in the kitchen. It can be me feeling the hardness of His morning erection pressed firmly against me as we snuggle together, barely awake in the time before rising from bed to start the day. It can be Him bending me over and thrashing my arse with His belt as I atone for some misdeed.

For the most part, foreplay acts on my mind. That’s not to say there is no physical activity involved, because often there is, but it is the process of turning the abstract into the actual; it’s about flicking all the right switches that move me from a state of being potentially available for sex into actively desiring and needing sex there in that moment.

The form that the sex takes depends largely on who I’m with and the mood we are in. With “The Girl”, it will involve a lot of kissing, caressing, exploring each other’s bodies with fingers, lips and tongues. It may involve toys, and it will absolutely involve fingering and feasting on each other’s cunts. There are no penises involved, but it is very definitely sex.

With Master C, or “The Other Guy”, it may be that all that happens is that I suck their cocks. Often when Master C is tired, I will give Him a long, slow blow-job to help Him unwind and relieve the stresses of a hard day. He might fuck me later, or He might not, but it’s still sex. It may be that Master C, or “The Other Guy” decide that they are only interested in fucking me in the arse. I’m certainly not going to complain; I’m still getting fucked, and it’s still sex. I may have one of my random encounters where all that happens is that I get down on to my knees and suck them off in a dark alley way. That is very definitely still sex. If I am in a threesome and I’m going down on one partner while the other fucks me in the cunt or arse, I am not engaging in foreplay with one while having sex with the other, I am fucking and being fucked by both of them; it is all still sex.

If I were to try and define both in simplistic terms, I would describe foreplay as being about arousal whereas sex is about gratification; they both take many forms and involve different acts depending on the circumstances they are performed in and the person (or persons) they are being performed with.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the feeling of having my cunt stretched, filled and pounded by a cock, but that is just one particular sexual activity. I equally love the same being done to my arse. similarly, I love having my cunt feasted on and I love feasting on another woman’s cunt, and I definitely love sucking cock. All of these, to me, are sex.

I guess, what I’m saying is, sex is simply whatever you decide it is.

Thoughts on foreplay

Women, we are constantly being told, want/expect/demand^* (^*delete as appropriate depending on your chosen woman’s magazine) more foreplay. There exists, so it would seem, a direct relationship between our enjoyment of sex and the quality/amount of foreplay we receive. Apparently we cannot have a fulfilling or satisfying sexual experience with out it.

But what, exactly, do these glossy fonts of all knowledge actually mean by foreplay? What counts as enough? Is all foreplay the same? How do we judge its quality? Do we, in fact, actually need it to enjoy sex?

Foreplay can, and does, mean different things to different people. It can also mean different things to the same person depending on their mood and circumstances. I don’t want sex to be the same every time I do it, nor do I want my foreplay to follow some “tried and tested” formula. I’m all for a romantic evening on the sofa; kissing, caressing, slowly being undressed and having Master C lick me to a couple of orgasms before begging Him to fuck me. On the contrary, I enjoy that kind of thing when I’m in that kind of mood (and even the filthiest, submissive slut enjoys a little romance from time to time). But there are times, when all I really want is for Master C (or any guy for that matter) to tell me He wants me, throw me up against a wall, yank my knickers off and fuck my brains out.

Similarly, as a fan of early morning, wake-up sex, sometimes, especially during the week, time is at a premium. I’ll be honest, nothing is more likely to make me want to jump on Master C’s cock more than to wake up, feeling His finger already inside me. We don’t have time for a protracted, leisurely session (well, OK, so weekends are a different matter), so that intruding digit, waking me up, warming me up, is all that’s needed for me to know that we will both be heading to work with smiles on our faces.

Now all this seems a bit one-sided. “What about him?” I hear you cry, “Men enjoy foreplay too, you know.”

It’s true, men do enjoy foreplay. If I’m being honest, foreplay isn’t all about the “stuff” that’s being done to me. I love to turn my partners on; touching them, teasing them, sucking their cocks (assuming I’m having sex with guys). But turning them on, and knowing that I’m turning them on; that I am making them want to fuck me, is still a huge turn on for me too. Sometimes, just sucking a guy’s cock is all that is required as a precursor to a damned good fuck. Knowing how hard I’ve got Him, knowing how much Master C wants to fuck me, is all that is needed for me to want to have Him inside me.

So, anyway, getting back to what turns me on, well, in a word, anticipation. When I’m lying there, blindfolded, restrained, waiting to feel His belt on my arse, you can pretty much count on the fact that my cunt is doing its very own, one-woman impression of the great flood. By the time Master C has finished dealing out whatever punishment my transgression has merited, I am crying out (frequently quite literally on the crying part) for a good fuck. A fuck that tells me I’m still His good little slut, a fuck that demonstrates that, once again, my recalcitrance has been forgiven and my “sins” absolved.

Anticipation also handily leads into my next point; namely that foreplay doesn’t always require the other person to even be physically present. We all have mobile devices of some sort or another nowadays, and sexting can be a wonderfully protracted form of foreplay; a foreplay that can be extended over hours, days, weeks, and possibly longer. The anticipation builds with each reply, each suggestion so that, by the time you are actually in each other’s presence, all that remains is to rip each other’s clothes off, find a suitable surface (horizontal is preferred, but not essential), and fuck.

So, to answer my original question as to what exactly is foreplay; in my opinion, and for what it’s worth, it can be anything from a “Fancy a shag?” to a protracted session of kissing, caressing, sensual massage, and mind blowing oral, with every possibility in between. Its quality can be judged by how much it turns me on and how quickly it makes a mess of my knickers (assuming they haven’t long since been discarded). As for how much is required, If I’m begging someone to have their cock inside me, they’ve probably done enough.

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.

 

On display

It’s a nerve wracking experience, even for those of us who have a reasonably positive body image, letting someone see you naked for the first time. It doesn’t matter how many partners you’ve had, or how good you feel about yourself, the first time you expose yourself to another person, your latent insecurities come bubbling to the surface.

Will they really like what they see? Will they be repulsed by the various marks, scars and blemishes that a lifetime of simply living have inflicted on our skin?  Those bits of us that we personally despise for their imperfections: our knees, our legs, our bums, our tummies, our boobs, our necks, our bingo-wings all get magnified out of proportion when first exposed to a new partner’s gaze.

But the first time, the very first time, the time when another person’s eyes gaze on our naked bodies for the very first time is something, I suspect, we will never forget.

For me, the experience is more vividly remembered than my first blow-job and losing my virginity combined.

The boy in question had recently turned 16; I was still 15. I was a gawky teenager, my body still somewhere between that of a girl and a woman; a mixture of sharp angles and soft curves. I had spots, I had freckles, my boobs looked like they were at least one size too big for the rest of me, as if my body hadn’t yet caught up. I also had (and still do for that matter) ginger pubes.

There was a naïve nervousness combined with anticipation. Sure, he’d seen me in my underwear before, so he knew in general terms what my body looked like. He’d seen and played with my boobs before, so I knew that he liked them. Getting naked with him, however, was totally different.

Having him slowly remove my outer layers was intensely arousing. I was almost oblivious to the fact that I was doing the same to him. Having my bra removed and standing there in just my knickers sent shivers through me.

He took the next step, discarding his boxer shorts, to stand naked before me. I marvelled at his body. I loved how his cock, hard and proud, stuck out from his body. I’d seen his cock before, of course; I’d sucked his cock before. Now however, with his full body on display before me for the first time, his cock looked bigger, harder and more enticing than ever.

He sat on the edge of my bed, and I knelt on the floor between his legs. I took his cock in my mouth and sucked him hungrily. As I sucked him, my fingers explored every inch of him that the could reach. When he came, I swear it was the biggest load of cum I’d ever had to swallow.

I lay down on my bed and felt his eyes on me. I knew what was coming next. All that remained between me and him was a very small and very wet pair of knickers.

I closed my eyes as I let him remove them. I could feel his eyes on me, devouring my nakedness. In that instant I learned the difference between being unclothed and being naked. I’d been unclothed before, but for the first time, there in my bedroom, there with him, I was naked.

Naked… What a wonderful word. I was exposed. I felt vulnerable. There was nowhere I could hide. I was naked.

He explored my body with his fingers. He explored my body with his lips and tongue. He went down on me, and the orgasms he gave me seemed more powerful, more intense, than any he had ever given me before, and all because I was naked.

Afterwards, we lay in each other’s arms; holding each other, exploring each other with our fingers, feeling the warm of each other’s bodies.

I’ve displayed my body to many partners since then, and the first time I do so, still gives me goosebumps. That very first time however was special; nothing will ever feel like that again.

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.

Punishment fucks

One of the reasons I enjoy being such a bad girl is that I love being punished. There’s something about the prospect of getting my arse well and truly paddled until the tears flow from my eyes, followed by a brutal, merciless fuck.

Fortunately for me, Master C is always ready to chastise me for my misdeeds. If I’m being brutally honest, I regularly give Him reasons for disciplining me.

Of course, the most severe, and of course deserving, punishment comes from those times that I am “unfaithful” to Him with “The Girl ” or one of my other girlfriends.

Being unable to lie to Master C, I automatically have to admit to these indiscretions, knowing full well that I will be deservedly punished for them.

Usually, I am ordered to strip, to stand there naked and vulnerable as Master C interrogates me thoroughly; gleaning ever last sordid detail of my illicit encounter. As I recount my guilt, He gives no indication of what my punishment will be. Will He let me off with nothing more than sound spanking? Will He use the the paddle with its grooves that bite into my flesh? Or will He decide that my guilt deserves nothing less than the biting kiss of His belt? There is no way of knowing until I have fully admitted my guilt. Because I’m such a depraved little slut, the very uncertainty around my punishment makes my cunt tingle.

When I have fully unburdoned, I take my position, bent over the arm of the sofa and I bite my trembling lower lip in anticipation of what is to come next.

A spanking, a paddling or a thrashing, it ultimately makes no difference. Sometimes Master C will make me count out the strokes as my arse cheeks redden and sting and tears begin to well in my eyes.

Each slap, each stroke hurts more than the last, my sobs become increasingly pain filled, my cunt grows increasingly wet.

Eventually He stops, but the punishment has not finished. Master C begins to fuck me. There is no foreplay. There is no need, my cunt is already soaked. The is no tenderness; Master C simply grabs my hips and fucks me at full force.

As He fucks me, rough and hard, Master C pulls my hair and reminds me that “The Girl” couldn’t give me what He’s giving me now; how she can’t give me a cock, she can’t fuck me, she can’t abuse my cunt or arse the way He is doing.

Of course, Master C is right; my girlfriends can’t fuck me the way He does, they can’t use my body like He does, they have no cock to fill me, stretch me, abuse me with. And, as Master C punishes me, I become grateful for His reminders, I am grateful for His cock, I am grateful that His punishment has made me realise I need a man, I need Him, to fuck me.

Suddenly His cock is withdrawn. Feeling painfully abused and empty, I kneel on the floor before him to await my final humiliation.

“Have you learned your lesson, slut?” Master C demands, slapping my face firmly, yet tenderly with His hand.

“Yes,” I sob, my eyes filled with tears once more.

Master C doesn’t ask me if this is the last time I will stray with a woman, we both know I will; to suggest otherwise would be a lie and we both know it. Instead He strokes His cock, His breathing becomes laboured until finally He erupts, covering my face in a thick load of cum.

Sitting down, Master C watches me as I gather as much of His cum as I can with my fingers before licking them clean.

As I kneel there before Him, punished, abused and humiliated, Master C smiles and gently pats the cushion beside Him, inviting me next to Him.

As I snuggle, still naked, against Him, Master C puts His arm around me and holds me tight and I know I am forgiven, until the next time.

All relationships have their “traditions”; the unburdening of my various transgressions and accepting the appropriate punishment for them is very much one of the central traditions of ours.

Virtuoso performance

I love the feeling as Master C runs His fingers up the insides of my thighs. Teasing me; never quite touching the lips of my cunt, always pulling away at the very last instant.  The teasing is a delicious form of torture; I want Master C to touch me there; to feel my warmth, my wetness. I want to feel His fingers inside me, pumping in and out and twisting around.

The approach…

The retreat…

His fingers caress my skin like those of concert pianist stroking the ivory keys in front of Him.

Each time it drives me crazy. Each time it makes me that little bit more hungry, more desperate for that most intimate of touches. Each time I think He can’t possibly tease me any more, but He does.

And then I gasp, and quiver, as a finger brushes lightly against my folds. My legs part a little more, allowing Him more access should He require it.

A little more pressure, a slightly firmer touch; my lower lips part and my juices flow. My clit pulses as Master C presses his thumb to it and then, oh… oh! That moment when He slowly inserts the tip of his finger.

My body is a finely tuned instrument that Master C plays with an easy virtuosity that comes from knowing just which keys to press.

In He pushes, deeper and deeper. He pulls right back and I feel a second join it, stretching me as they work their way in. My cunt grips them tight as they begin to pump in and out. I squeeze my nipples as His fingers work their magic on my cunt. My moans, a counterpoint harmony to the soft sounds of His fingers playing my cunt.

What’s this? A third? I try to relax as Master C works another digit inside me. His thick, strong fingers open me up wide as He pushes them deep inside me.

He pushes in harder, He pushes in deeper; I tug hard on my nipples as He fucks me with his fingers. My moans become cries; a chorus that He is conducting.

And now a fourth squeezes inside me. Only his thumb remains outside to tease my clit.

Harder… Deeper… Rougher… It feels so good.

My orgasm builds with in me. My cunt spasms around His fingers. My cunt throbs under His thumb.

My back arches. I throw my head back and moan as the sensations consume me, claim me, hold me. My climax, a crescendo that demonstrates the skill with which He performs His art.

Again… Again… How much more can my poor cunt take?

And then he is gone. He touches his fingers to my lips, and I taste myself on his fingers.

A pause… Silence… The first movement is over, the second is yet to begin…