Cocked and loaded

So, this week’s Quote Quest teaser is:

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

– Seamus Heaney

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His cock twitches in my hand.

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

“Hell, fuck yes!” he gasps.

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

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

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

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

Helping hands

As much as I enjoy using my fingers to pleasure myself, there is something quite wonderful about having another person stick their fingers up my cunt. Whether it be the sort of gentle caressing, teasing type of fingering that “The Girl” employs, or the rough, hard, finger-fucking that I can expect from Master C, I love that feeling of having someone else play with my cunt.

Sometimes, it is a delightful form of foreplay; getting me wet, opening me up in readiness to receive a cock. On other occasions, Master C, “The Other Guy” or “The Girl” will use their fingers to bring me to orgasm, usually while their mouths are kissing and sucking on my nipples, or sometimes while their tongues are lashing my clit.

When you consider that, for most of us girls, I suspect, getting someone’s fingers pushed up our cunts was one of the first overtly below the belt sexual experiences we ever encountered, it’s amazing how much pleasure we can still experience from this most simple form of play; not least given that we have since become accustomed to having much longer and thicker objects inside us.

In my case, that first, fumbled, furtive fingering happened, alliteratively enough, when I was fourteen. We were supposedly watching a movie, don’t ask me what it was, I was much more interested in the fact he had one hand up my top, playing with my boobs, and the other inside my knickers, fingering my cunt. I didn’t come, I’d frigged myself into a frenzy often enough to know that, but it did feel wonderful. Let’s be honest, what randy fourteen year old girl, in the first flush of hormone-fuelled lust, doesn’t like getting her boobs played with? Getting fingered at the same time was was the icing on my very creamy muffin.

Maybe if he’d used a bit more pressure or spent a bit more time on my clit rather than inside me, and maybe if he’d also been a little less gentle in the way he treated my nipples, I might have got there; but hey, I wasn’t complaining. I was fourteen and getting my cunt fingered in a public place and it felt great. Besides which. I was able to finish myself off later on my own, while imagining it was his fingers that were bringing me off.

I’ve had many fingers up me since then, both male and female; and in the main, they have been much more experienced and a lot more successful in their application, but that first fingering will always remain with me.

I will always welcome a helping hand…

Watching him

There is something magical about watching a man masturbate. The whole process, from the first stroke to the final messy eruption is, I find, mesmerisingly hypnotic.

I love to watch a man as he slowly teases himself, transforming his soft, slightly comically, flaccid penis into that steel-hard, solidly erect pole that I long to feel inside me.

It’s such a simple thing, fingers wrapped around those inches of proud flesh, rubbing it, stroking it until he pushes himself over the edge. And yet, despite the inherent simplicity of the act, there are as many variations in technique as there are men. Some stroke lightly, from start to finish, keeping an even pace. Others start slowly and increase the pace as their climax approaches. Still, others beat frantically, turning it into a sprint to the finish.

Some men grip tightly, their fingers wrapped around their shafts, gripping it like a baton in a relay race as they pump up and down. Others circle their cock with their thumb and forefinger, teasing, caressing, almost coaxing their eventual climax.

I’ve watched quite a few men get themselves off, and every one did it differently, applying different amounts of pressure and beating out their own particular rhythms in the pursuit of their pleasure.

I love to watch the expressions on their faces. I love to listen to the various sounds that they make. I love they way that they are inhabiting their own worlds, and I have no idea what thoughts they are relying on as they travel to their orgasmic destination.

And then there are those little signs that speak so loudly of the state of a man’s arousal. The changes in his breathing, the tension in his thighs, the tautness of his lower torso, the tightening around the eyes; all indicating that the pressure for release is building inexorably inside him.

A soft sigh, a deep moan, a slight tightening of his grip tell me that he is on the brink. His free hand presses firmly against his inner thigh as the tension grows.

A grimace, a tightening of the jaw and the muscles around his eyes tell me he is trying to hold back, delay the inevitable, extend his pleasure.

And then there’s that magical moment, that split second when he succumbs to the inevitable, that briefest instant in time when he realises that, like King Canute standing before the incoming tide, he can no longer prevent the what is about to occur. There is something almost bittersweet for him in that moment; the sweetness of orgasm, the bitterness of ending.

And then he comes. Thick jets of sticky white loveliness erupt from his cock. As he sends this lovely substance shooting through the space between us, the tension visibly drains from his body. His breathing is laboured, his heart pounds in his chest, sweat forms on his brow; yet at the same time he relaxes, drained, content, satisfied.

If I weren’t so hungry for the feel cock inside me, I could happily watch men do this endlessly.

Flying solo

I love sex. Nothing beats a bloody good seeing-to from a partner who (literally) knows you inside and out, and knows exactly what buttons to press to guarantee I get as much pleasure as possible. Yet despite having a ready supply of cock on hand (not to mention in mouth, cunt or arse), that’s not to say I don’t still enjoy a bloody good wank.

I started wanking when I was 12. Of course, I didn’t call it wanking back then; I didn’t think girls could wank; wanking was something that boys did, or sometimes had done to them. I had several girlfriends who had mentioned that they had wanked their boyfriends off, and I knew boys who wanked, so to my inexperienced mind, wanking was something that required a penis.

I was wrong of course, but that is of no consequence. Ultimately I didn’t care about the terminology, all I cared about was how fucking amazing it felt. I almost couldn’t wait for bedtime to come around, just so I could I stuff my fingers up my cunt and bring myself off again and again; the need to keep the volume down so as not to betray my nocturnal fingerings, only intensifying the sensations.

My fingers were to be nightly playthings until I bought my first vibrator when I was 16; although, on account of the racket the made, they were still my go to orgasm provider unless I was sure I had the house to myself.

Of course, the other great discovery was the fact that I didn’t have to do it to myself, someone else could do it to me, and I could do it to them. That first time that “The Girl” brought my to orgasm with her fingers was a real eye-opener. No one, other than myself, had ever made me come before and after that first fingering from “The Girl” I made sure my boyfriend of the time got in on the act, and his fingers in to my cunt too.

Even after I’d discovered cock, and was getting fucked on a “regular” basis (I was a teenage girl still living at home remember) my fingers remained a constant source of satisfaction that I could depend upon when my boyfriend and I couldn’t find an appropriate degree of privacy. Nowadays, of course, I can have cock whenever I want; be it Master C‘s, or that of “The Other Guy” or even just some random guy (or guys) I’ve decided to favour. I also have an extensive array of toys, including my Doxy, but still my fingers are an important part of my self-pleasuring.

The thing with wanking is you can do it pretty much anywhere, whenever the mood takes you. I’ve wanked at work, I’ve wanked on public transport, I’ve wanked in pubs and in restaurants. But mostly I wank at home.

Sometimes if I’m in the mood, I’ll wank sitting on the sofa. I may watch some porn, I may not. I’ll just undo my jeans or hitch up my skirt, stick my fingers down my knickers and rub one out. It’s a great way to relieve the stresses of a tough day at work.

Sometimes I’ll bring myself off, snuggled up to Master C, strumming my clit as He whispers sexy nothings in my ear to urge me along. Occasionally I’ll stroke His cock, its hardness showing that my moans and sighs are turning Him on too. Wanking, after all, does not need to be a solitary activity.

If time permits, and I’m going for an extended session, then my bed is the place to be. I can arrange my favourite massage oils and creams, I can lay out my toys. I can take my time and really enjoy it. Massaging my creams and oils into my skin, using my fingers to get me started, using my toys to finish myself off, spending anything up to an hour to work myself to climax after delicious climax until my orgasm-wracked body can take no more.

Possibly my favourite wank location is in the bath. Relaxed, with a glass of wine; the water allows my hands to slide effortlessly over my body, whilst providing an almost weightless feeling. The warm water allows the blood to flow to where it’s needed. My cunt, already slick with my juices is so warm and inviting, and my nipples are oh, so sensitive. The wine and the hot water relaxes me and the increased sensitivity of my nipples and clit mean I come so easily.

So yes, while nothing beats a good fuck, a bloody good wank runs it a close second.

Theory & practice

Growing up on a farm, I learned at quite an early age that when “daddy cow” climbed on “mummy cow’s” back it would, ultimately, result in the arrival of “baby cow”. I also learned that the same thing went for other species as well; the reason there were baby animals was because at some point the male animal did something to the female animal. Having put two and two together, I remember coming to the conclusion that something similar must have occurred between my parents that resulted in me and I remember asking my mum something along the lines of “Did Daddy have to climb on you to make me?” and being delighted that I was right when my mum confirmed this with a very simple, but affirmative “Yes dear, something like that.”

So I had the theory of mammalian reproduction understood at a very basic level but, of course, I didn’t really know about sex, or the fact that the majority (or in my case and that of many others, the entirety) of sexual activity has nothing to do with reproduction.

Skip forward a few years to my first year in secondary school, age 12. If you are Scottish and of a certain age demographic, you will remember the big red Scottish Secondary Science Book and you will almost certainly remember chapter 6.6 with its outline drawings of the male and female reproductive parts. Again, we were taught about the mechanics of sex and the reproduction; about erections for boys and periods for girls; and that was really about as far as it went. I’m not, I hasten to add, being dismissive of trans-gendered people here, I am simply recounting the classroom language that was used; i.e. that sexual intercourse involved the man putting his penis in the woman’s vagina and moving it in and out until the man ejaculated inside the woman. Again it was the theory.

Of course, around about this time, I’d also started getting interested in boys and, of course, boys meant snogging. Being a fairly early developer, snogging also meant that boys attempted some awkward groping and, even in those days where such things were “top half only”, that hands on top of clothes progressed to hands under clothes. That’s where things started to get interesting.

I discovered that I liked getting my boobs touched I also discovered that when I was enjoying getting my boobs touched, I also got quite moist between my legs. I soon discovered that I didn’t need someone else touching my boobs for this to happen, I could do it to myself and, when I ultimately reached down to examine more closely what the effects of my boob play were having down there, I discovered that I definitely liked touching myself down there. Not too long after that, “The Girl” would help me discover that I really liked it when someone else touched me down there and that was where the theory began to turn into practice.

Why the sex education I got in school covered the basics of reproduction and the mechanics of penis in vagina intercourse and the fact that, if I weren’t careful, it might result in pregnancy, it didn’t go near masturbation, or oral or even hint that anal might even be a thing for anyone other than gay men. The sex education didn’t teach me about the pleasure or enjoyment associate with sex. It absolutely did not teach me anything about kink.

I was, however, fortunate that I could talk to my mother about certain aspects of sex and sexuality, but even then there were limits. I wasn’t going to tell her that I’d just sucked my boyfriend’s cock for the first time. She didn’t need to know exactly when a guy fucked me for the first time and she absolutely did not need to know about the first time I took it in the arse. What she absolutely didn’t need to know was that I’d reached this point on my sexual journey before I’d even turned 16. I could discuss masturbation, but she didn’t need to know how often I did it. I could admit that I was sexually active (although I was somewhat reticent about how long I had been), but she really didn’t need to know how may people I’d had sex with. I could admit to the fact that I felt an attraction to other women, but she absolutely did not need to know that “The Girl” (whom she had known forever) and I were more than just best mates and were “at it” whenever circumstances allowed.

The one thing that I am grateful for is the fact that the most important thing my mum taught me about sex is that it is absolutely 100% natural and that it is in no way shameful. I’m sure she probably wouldn’t have approved if she knew the full details of my sex life, but it would be from a position of concern about my safety and well-being rather than from a place of judgement.

Pretty much everything else, I’ve learned “on the job” as it were. My teenage years were kind of my “discovery years“; the years where I discovered what I liked and what worked for me, where I discovered that what worked for one partner might not elicit the same response in another. I learned how much I really loved sucking cock and I learned how numerous guys loved to have their cocks sucked. I learned how much I enjoyed having my cunt eaten out and how to eat cunt in ways that the recipient really enjoyed. I learned the positions that I liked most; I learned that sometimes my enjoyment of a position or a particular activity depended on my mood. At 18, during my university Freshers’ Week, I discovered that I enjoyed having sex with more than one person at once. During my 20s, I discovered that even though I didn’t have a “full time” partner, that I could still enjoy sex through casual arrangements.

I’d always enjoyed a rougher element to sex. From fairly early on I’d enjoyed a certain amount of restraint play, blindfolds, spanking etc. Meeting Master C and submitting to Him was what would take my exploration of kink to the levels it is at today. While I’ve never been especially good on the monogamy front, it would be Master C that would help me channel many of my promiscuous urges and redirect them into our poly circle, but also create the system of action and consequence, of responsibility and punishment that become such a central part of our particular dynamic.

And yet, for all that, I am still learning. The restrictions imposed by the Covid pandemic have meant I’ve had to come up with new ways to receive the discipline from Master C that I both crave and need so much.

If we assume that 12 year old me getting my boobs felt was the start of the practical part of my sexual education, then I’ve been learning for almost 35 years. I wonder how much CPD time I’ve managed to put in during those years?

My first vibrator

I bought my first vibrator when I was 16. This was in a pre-internet age, where I cut out a coupon from one of my brother’s naughty magazines, paid by postal order (I was too young to have a cheque book or credit card) and had to allow 28 days for delivery and then hope to hell that the discreet packaging it said it would be delivered in was, in fact, discreet, and that my mum didn’t open it for me.

Thankfully it was, and she didn’t.

On the day it arrived, I couldn’t wait to try it. Of course, this pre-internet age was also the age of batteries not included, and as it was a Wednesday (which meant half-day trading in those days, of course), the post hadn’t arrived until after the village shop had shut, I had to improvise.

Now, this was 1991. It was about 6″ long, about 1½” in diameter, shaped like a nuclear missile and, as I was about to find out, about as noisy as one too. It took two “C” size batteries for fuck sake. The only way I could power it up was to steal the batteries from one of the torches in the cupboard under the stairs. When I turned the thing on, I nearly leapt out of my skin; not because of the vibrations, which were powerful enough I guess (having nothing to compare it with), but because of the noise. Discreet, it most certainly was not. Even muffled under the bedclothes, I was certain that it could probably be heard downstairs; hell, my best friend could probably hear it and she lived on the other side of the village.

Suffice to say, while pleasant, and while I did, eventually, get myself off, the whole experience was spent on tenterhooks, expecting at any moment to have someone knocking on my bedroom door, demanding to know what was making all the racket.

The whole experience was, I’ll admit, somewhat disconcerting. Far from needing to peel myself of the ceiling as I’d expected, I found that I could come quicker using my fingers. The one good thing about it was that, when switched off, it made me feel deliciously full, albeit in a hard, inflexible piece of plastic sort of way, which certainly helped me.

As it turned out, it got used more as a dildo than it ever did as a vibrator, the only time I ever dared switch it on was when I knew I had the house to myself. I’d have probably felt safer if I had the entire village to myself, but sometimes you just have to go with what circumstances provide.

The one thing I did make sure of was that the next one I bought, was a hell of a lot quieter.

Friends reunited

As I mentioned in my last post, on Saturday, I managed to meet up with “The Girl” for the first time since September. Our reunion was everything I expected. There were smiles, there were tears, there were hugs, there was laughter and, yes, there were orgasms.

It was lovely to simply see her and talk to her in person again. Yes, we have kept in touch, but Zoom calls don’t quite do it. It was, however, pretty obvious from the outset that we were not going to be restricting ourselves to chat. From the very first peck on the cheek, the first hand on the other’s arm or shoulder, we both knew exactly where this encounter was heading.

So, not to beat about the bush, as it were, things moved in the direction we both knew they were moving and ended up exactly where we both wanted them to be.

Feeling “The Girl’s” body next to mine again, feeling her skin beneath my fingers as her hands caressed mine was simply wonderful. From the first kiss, we just melted into each other and let nearly 9 months of pent up hunger for each other fall away.

Fingers tickled and teased. Lips kissed and explored. Teeth nipped and nibbled. Tongues flicked and licked. Orgasms ignited, subsided and flared again.

It felt so good to taste her and to taste me on her. The scent and taste of her cunt was intoxicating as I feasted hungrily upon it. The intensity of the sensations as her fingers twisted inside my cunt, and her tongue tormented my clit was simply divine.

The last 9 months were simply stripped away as we took each to the heights of orgasm again and again; sometimes using our fingers to tease each other’s cunts, sometimes using our lips and tongues to drive each other wild.

Time, such as it had any meaning at all, was measured in heartbeats, in kisses, in sighs and moans, in climaxes and cuddles and it all felt so right, so wonderful.

Afterwards, at home, Master C, as I knew he would, required me to recount every detail; making me relive the events of the afternoon and evening as I told Him everything. Occasionally He would require more specific detail. Sometimes He would stop me and do to me the very thing I had just described that “The Girl” had done earlier.

“Did she do this?” He’s ask, pinching my nipples as His tongue beat on my clit. “Was it like this?” He’d enquire as He slid one, then two fingers up inside me and twisted them around. “Did you taste like this?” He’d ask, lifting His fingers to my lips and slipping them into my mouth.

When I’d told Master C all the was to tell, He spun me around, told me to brace myself, and reminded me of the one thing “The Girl” couldn’t do.

He fucked me hard, driving His cock into my cunt with powerful thrusts. Having been taken so tenderly by “The Girl”, it felt so good to be used by Master C; the differences so apparent as He fucked me; the rougher touch of His hands, the firmness of His body, the coarseness of the stubble on His face and, of course, His cock; His wonderful thick, hard cock that was pounding me mercilessly.

As the end approached, He spun me around again and demanded that I took Him in His mouth. For an intense moment I tasted myself on His cock before He filled my mouth with a deliciously think load of cum.

We would fuck again later; Master C eating me to the edge of another shuddering climax, having held me on the brink for what seemed like eternity before finally using His cock to ignite my release as He fucked me beyond my ability to hold on.

All in all, it was a fantastic day and a wonderful way to see in the new month.

Times are a changin’

If I’m being completely honest, my sex life is pretty much as perfect as anyone could hope for. In Master C, not only do I have a caring and attentive partner, who knows my body and my needs and attends to them regularly and fully, I also have a strict, but fair Master who allows me to be who I am and to do what I want with whom I want so long as I am willing to accept my actions have consequences. I get quality, quantity and variety. It’s a win-win that makes me a very happy slutty but satisfied submissive.

Of course, the one fly in the ointment has been that, for much of the past 12 months, I haven’t been able to enjoy the freedoms that Master C allows me to have.

Now, this isn’t exactly a hardship. I do miss spending time with “The Other Guy” and I also miss the thrill of my occasional random dalliances, but at the end of the day, other than novelty, they don’t give me anything that Master C doesn’t already lavish on me. If I want a cock in any of my holes, Master C’s cock will always be my first cock of choice and is absolutely my preferred cock. “The Other Guy” is also very acquainted with my body, and also elicits the most fabulous responses from me, but such encounters are occasional; at most 2-3 times a year. As for the randoms, well, that’s just fucking. They don’t know me, they don’t know what buttons to push to really turn me on, they are simply a form of “cock on demand” for when an urge that can’t wait until I get home (and the need to be soundly punished when I do) takes me.

No, all things aside, I don’t actually miss any of that.

There is, however, one person I do really miss, and that is “The Girl”. I’ve mentioned before that “The Girl” and I have had an intimate friendship stretching back over 30 years (we been friends for over 40 but the “intimate” is the key bit in that sentence), and she was the first person (other than myself) to bring me to orgasm. I always love the time we spend together, whether it be having sex or simply chatting over a glass or several of wine (although, more often than not, that often leads to sex too). I love exploring the soft curves of her body with my hands, lips and tongue. I love the taste of her cunt, I love the silly little noises and facial expressions she makes when she is aroused and when she comes and I love the things that does to me and how those make me feel.

I long to hold her and be held by her, to kiss her and be kissed by her, to feel her body pressed against mine. I yearn for the sensations of her fingers sliding and twisting inside my cunt, teasing me, tormenting me. I hunger for the taste of her cunt and the feeling of her tongue on mine; so different from Master C’s, but still able to take me to the edge of the precipice and hold me there before finally igniting my climax.

Mentioning Master C, I also miss the “punishment fucks” that sex with “The Girl” will earn me. The fucks where he shows me “what I was missing” and what “she can’t give me”. Those fucks are always wonderfully intense, especially since the retelling of what “The Girl” and I got up to allows me to relive those things before Master C fucks me.

So, where does this all tie in with the prompt? Well, it’s quite simple. Thanks to the changes in Covid related restrictions, in a few hours time, “The Girl” and I will be meeting up, in person, for the first time since September. This is “the change” I have been wishing for the most; not just for the sex, but for the chance to be with and catch-up with my oldest and dearest friend for the first time in what seems like forever. I’m imagining so many things; far more than can fit into a single afternoon encounter, and I’m hoping this means we will be able to spend many more afternoons together again. After all, we have a lot of catching up to do…

A cock in the hand…

Like a lot of women (and a fair number of men), I have a fascination with the male reproductive organ. There is something slightly hypnotic about the way it undergoes its metamorphosis from the wrinkled, slightly comical, flaccid unaroused state into a full, raging, swollen hard-on. And, for me, there is nothing more satisfying than knowing that I am the reason for that glorious transformation. A hard-on cannot, after all, be faked, and I am always grateful for that very obvious compliment of my desirability and, well, fuckability that the man’s hard-on so obviously bestows upon me.

I love to play with those lovely inches of turgid flesh; stroking them, kissing them, wrapping my fingers and/or lips around them and giving their owner so much pleasure.

As I stroke Master C’s (or, indeed any) cock, I love to watch His reactions; the little moans and sighs of pleasure, the involuntary flinches of His body, the way His breathing changes as His arousal increases.

I love the way Master C’s cock stiffens and swells in my hand. I love the way the head becomes engorged and full, I love knowing how much Master C is enjoying what I am doing to Him, for Him.

As Master C’s orgasm grows ever closer, I am fascinated by the way his body reacts; the growing tension in His thighs, the involuntary thrusting of His hips that grows increasingly urgent as that most primal urge begins to take hold. The closer His climax gets, the more His cock twitches and jerks between my fingers.

And then, when Master C comes, when I angle His cock so that it coats my skin with a lovely thick load of His warm, rich, sticky essence, I marvel at the force with which His cock erupts, pulsing in my hand, the way His face contorts in an agony of release as His cum is forced out of His cock and on to my skin.

Finally, as I lower my head, wrapping my lips around the head, to suck the last drops of cum from it, I love the deep sigh of contentment that tells me so clearly how much Master C has enjoyed my attentions.

The humble hand-job is an often neglected part of a couple’s sexual repertoire, but for me, seeing the pleasure it gives a partner, especially Master C, it can be a deeply intimate experience.

The great procrasturbator

Procrastination: what a wonderful word, and so very apt. I’m not sure where I first came across the word (pun possibly intended) but it’s fair to say I procrasturbate a lot; if it were an Olympic sport, I’d be a medal standard procrasturbator. All too often, I’ll have a wank simply because I can’t be arsed doing something else.

Whether it be contemplating the mountain of ironing that has built up from the weekend, scrubbing the bathroom, cleaning out the fridge, or feeding the cat (no, scrub that last one, if you want the peace and quiet to enjoy a good wank, always ensure the cat has been fed), there are very few things that cannot be put off until after you’ve devoted a little time to yourself.

For example:

You get home from work. If you’re like me, the first thing I do, after feeding the cat, is change out of my work stuff (unless Master C has previously indicated that he wants me to play the part of His slutty PA that evening, and even that requires some costume adjustment). Sometimes I’ll have a shower, sometimes I’ll just change straight into my jeans and a cosy jumper. Depending on the time of the month, I may or may not decide to dispense with the services of my bra. I know that, feeding the cat not withstanding, 100 of those 101 things that need to be done each evening still need doing. The dishwasher needs emptying, the living room needs hoovering, that lightbulb in the hall that’s needed changing since April still needs changing, but I’m naked, or near enough, and I’ve had a long, difficult day, and I need to unwind. Ironically, all the things I used to do in my student days to put off doing any actual studying are now the very things I’m about to have a wank to postpone doing because they actually need doing.

Cue, quick rummage in my toy drawer…

And there is one of the key points of procrasturbation, it itself can be delayed by deciding what kind of wank to have and which toys to employ. Do I want a fast, furious orgasm? Dig out my wand. Do I want a slower, but intense and prolonged climax? I may use my rabbit or one of my other vibrators. Do I want a longer, lazy build up where I can keep myself simmering for as long as I want before allowing myself to come? I may just forget the toys altogether and just use my fingers.

Tonight, I decided to combine the lovely full feeling in both holes by using my double dildo, while enjoying the slow burn of rubbing my clit to climax. In my mind, Master C comes home to find the housework still not done and his lazy slut pleasuring herself. I feel His belt for failing to keep house properly. He spanks me for not ironing the perfect creases into his work shirts. He stands over me as, naked and on my knees, I scrub the kitchen floor, His belt twitching in His hand, ready to punish me if I miss any bits that need cleaning.

When I complete my chores to His satisfaction, Master C bends me over His desk and fucks my arse, brutally and without mercy. His fingers dig into my freshly thrashed arse cheeks as he fucks me.

He pulls out and spins me around. I drop to my knees.

“Filthy!” Slap.

“Lazy!” Slap.

“Worthless!” Slap.

“Slut!” Slap.

My eyes brim with tears, which trickle down my stinging cheeks.

Master C stands over me, stroking His cock. The head swells, an angry purple, and as His cock erupts in my mind, covering my face and neck with a thick load of cum, back in the reality of my bedroom, my orgasm rips through me; claiming me, owning me, holding me in its embrace before finally releasing me.

Afterwards, once I’ve recovered and got dressed, I add ‘wash dildo‘ to my list of chores that still need doing.