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…

 

#WickedWednesday
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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.”

Learning about self-pleasure


The early ’90s were a crap time to be a teenager, and in particular a teenage girl, and especially a permanently randy, sexually frustrated teenage girl like me.

Teenagers today have access to the internet. Back when I was a teenager, the internet, such as it was, may as well, have not existed. It certainly wasn’t available to a certain permanently randy, sexually frustrated teenage girl growing up in the back of beyond in a remote part of Scotland, and even if it been, my family didn’t even own a computer until about a year after I moved out to go to University. We didn’t even have the option of the Ladybird Book of Masturbation for Girls; and even if we had, getting hold of a copy wouldn’t exactly have been easy, not in a community where everyone knows everyone else, assuming they aren’t also related to them too.

Guys, I think, have it so much easier. They have a very obvious protuberance that fits quite nicely in the hand. They rub it, it feels good, they keep rubbing it, they cum. Now, I know the same thing, more or less, happens when we girls rub our clits, but I’m pretty sure my 13/14 year old self didn’t even know that the clitoris actually existed, nor what it was for.

I knew rubbing my boobs felt nice, but that didn’t really help. In fact, it actually made things worse as it just got me worked up and I didn’t know what to do to finish myself off.

My brother’s well thumbed porno mags didn’t help either. They showed pictures of girls sucking guys off, which I was already familiar with and had a certain proficiency. They showed couples fucking, which I was familiar with the theoretical mechanics of even though I wouldn’t do the ‘practical exam’ until I was  almost 16. They showed pictures of guys cumming over girls’ boobs and faces, which I didn’t really understand at the time, even if it was something I would soon become addicted to, even before I lost my virginity. But nowhere could I really get any information on how I could bring myself off. I could have asked my girlfriends, I guess, but eugh, embarrassing…

Ultimately, of course, it was “The Girl” who was to impart the wisdom of her (slightly greater) experience upon me, describing in lurid detail her newfound hobby and the effect it produced.

That night, I took my newfound knowledge and attempted to replicate what “The Girl” had told me with my fingers. It felt good. It felt very good. I couldn’t believe that it was really that simple. I came and I came hard.  Once I’d got myself back under control, I gave myself another very thorough fingering until I came again, even harder. From that moment on I was hooked and when, after leaving home to go to University, I discovered the joys that toys could bring, my status as a first class wanker was confirmed.

And so I remain. A self-confessed, and thoroughly addicted wanker. I do it on my own, I do it with Master C watching, I do it when I want. While I may have had my share of crap shags, I think it’s fair to say, I’ve never had a bad wank.

So, if time travel were possible, I’d find away to give my teenage self some much needed instruction and save her from so much frustration.

Watching myself


I sit on my bed across from the full length mirror on the wardrobe door. I part my legs and see my soft, pink labia reflected back at me.

I watch as I run my hands over my body, paying particular attention as I cup and caress and squeeze my boobs. I moan as I pinch my nipples. Does my face really look like that as I become aroused?

I guide a hand between my legs. A sigh escapes as I trace a finger between my lower lips. I watch as I spread my labia, revealing the opening to my cunt. Even now I can see my juices glistening as they begin to seep from me.

I see my grimace as I tease my clit. I notice how vulnerable I look as I bite my lip as I slowly slide one finger inside me. Is this what he sees when he watches me? Is this what turns him on so much?

A second finger feels so good as I pump and twist them inside me. My moisture coats their surface. I pull them from my cunt and lift them to my mouth. I savour the taste. How slutty I look. Do I look anything like this as I suck My Master’s cock? I hope that I do.

Feeling braver, I reach inside the bedside drawer for a toy; A long, sleek, stainless steel vibrator. It is cold to the touch but I know how good it feels on my clit.

I flick the switch, it buzzes into life, I guide it into place between my now swollen labia.

The first touch sends a jolt through me. My eyes open wide, I can see the hunger in my expression. I slowly move it around, teasing myself, all the time watching myself as I turn myself on.

I slide it inside me. It feels oh so good; cold brushed steel against the heat of my vagina. I marvel at how easily it fits inside me and how my hips begin to rock as it works its magic on me.

My need for release builds. I hold the tip to my clit. I watch my moisture trickle from my cunt as my clit responds to the vibrator’s caress.

My expression looks pained as my climax approaches. My mouth is wide open as I begin to moan.

I watch as my cunt contracts. I see the rippling tightening of my abdomen. Does my left leg always tremble like that when I’m about to cum? Do my nipples always darken like that?

The pressure builds. I grip the sheets with my free hand. My knuckles whiten. My hips begin to buck.

“Fuck! Oh Fuck!” I cry as my orgasm erupts within me. I see my face, contorted with what looks like pain but what I know is pleasure, a face that he must see every time he makes me cum.

I fall back on to the bed, unable to sit up any longer. The vibrator rips another intense orgasm from me before I let it slip from my fingers, to roll off the bed and land on the floor.

Eventually, I sit up; my face serene, my hair a disaster, the insides of my thighs covered with the essence of my sex.

A wonderful way to waste half an hour.

#Masturbation Monday

Why, where, how, when and how often?


I am, apparently,  quite literally a wanker of the highest order; if wanking were an Olympic sport, I’d like to think I’d be a strong contender for a medal, but how typical, or indeed atypical a wanker am I? How do I compare and contrast with my fellow members of the Sisterhood of Self Pleasure? If you are in anyway even remotely curious, read on…

Why?
It’s a question I’m sometimes asked: why, when I have a bloke on hand, whom I can fuck whenever I please, do I still need to wank?

Now, my “vanilla” friends clearly don’t understand the D/s dynamic of my relationship; and while I do have a man on hand, basically I fuck when He pleases, not when I do. If I want to fuck when I do, that’s what casual sex is for. That small point aside however, the reason I still wank is because I bloody love wanking. It feels great, I can take time to wallow in it and more importantly, Master C isn’t always around when I feel the urge to get off. Self-restraint has never been my thing; I’m all about instant gratification, and the idea of waiting for Master C to get home from work when I’m badly in need of an orgasm, just doesn’t compute; especially if it results in a spanking for succumbing to my impatience.  In a nutshell (or should that be clam shell?), if I want to cum, and the situation is conducive to me cumming, then I will cum. If a man (or woman) is involved, so much the better, but if not, well I’m not going to deny myself.

Another aspect is that masturbation plays a very important part of our sex life. Master C loves to watch me wank, and I love to put on a show wanking for him.

Where?
The simple answer is wherever I can get away with it. Indoors, outdoors, in private, in public, on public transport; really anywhere is fair game if I think I can get away with it. Let’s be honest here, a little bit of risk only adds to the fun.

If I had to admit a preference though, much as I enjoy the risks associated with a bit of (semi) public, furtive fanny fingering, I do like my home comforts. Probably my favourite places are my bed, the sofa, and in the bath.

How?
I have my toys, a whole host of toys, that I use fairly regularly. I have my Doxy for when I need to cum in next to no time. I have a couple of rabbits, one of which is waterproof. I have a very discreet one that looks like a lipstick that I carry around with me everywhere in my handbag for those “emergency” situations. I still have my original “Trident Missile“, although that is simply for nostalgia given that, mercifully, for the sake of my neighbours ears and, more importantly, my own nerves, the motor burned out many years ago.

Now while I love my toys, more often than not, like apparently 87% of women, I will use my fingers. Don’t get me wrong, toys are great, especially if I’m in a hurry, or I want to “guarantee” myself an orgasm, but if you really want a long, satisfying, lingering wank, then nothing, but nothing, beats the “sex toys” you were born with.

Using your fingers gives you the ultimate control. You can set the pace and they are so much more flexible than a rigid piece of plastic. I’m not knocking toys, toys are great, but my best orgasms are always produced when I go fully DIY.

When and How Often?
I’ve linked these two because, well really, one pretty much depends on each other.

I’ve already alluded to some of the times I wank, for example: when I’m randy and Master C isn’t around, when I’m with a partner and want to put on a show for them, when I’m randy and I think I can get away with it. I am, what I would probably describe as an opportunistic wanker. I don’t really have a set masturbatory routine. Having said that, I will, quite often after a hard day at work, flop down on the sofa as soon as I’ve hung up my coat (sometimes even before this), shove my fingers down my knickers (assuming I’m wearing any), and frig myself off. It’s a great way to wind down and relieve the stresses of the working day. Some people drink coffee, others, alcohol, me; I wank (although sometimes I will have a glass of wine too).

I’ve also been know to wank myself to sleep; something that apparently 32% of women do. Generally this happens when Master C is away on business; it helps distract me from not having him there to snuggle up to. As a teenager, once I’d discovered the joys of masturbation, it pretty much was the last thing I did before falling asleep almost every night. Nowadays though, I’m slightly more restrained. A “goodnight” fuck is a more than acceptable alternative.

So how often?  Well, I’m definitely in the 92% of women who regularly wank. In my case, very regularly.  I wouldn’t go as far as to say I have a wank every day.  After all, even the randiest of us have days where, well, let’s be honest, we simply aren’t actually in the mood. We’re ill, we’re too tired, or we simply can’t be arsed. Having said that, I frequently do have more than one wank during any given day; my record is, I’m pretty sure, in double figures. If you averaged it out over my wanking lifetime, it probably would work out pretty close to daily on average I guess.

So what have you learned from this? Other that I am a compulsive wanker, probably not much, and somehow, I suspect, you knew that much about me already.#Masturbation Monday

Getting off in public


There is, in my opinion, nothing hotter than having a very public, if secret orgasm. The fact that people are all around you, yet (assuming you are discreet) blissfully unaware of what is going on right under their noses, heightens the enjoyment of the experience.

I spend a lot of time on trains and planes, travelling for work. Wearing my ben-wa balls can keep me nicely simmering; however nothing, but nothing, helps pass the time on a long journey like a good wank.

Preparation is important. When I’m traveling by train, I like to make sure I’m wearing a skirt for ease of access. Wherever possible, I try to make sure I get a table seat. Once on the train, I open up my laptop, load up a meaningless spreadsheet that I can pretend to work on,  drape my coat over my lap for concealment purposes and, once everyone is sitting comfortably, I can begin.

The secret, I believe, is not to make any obvious movements. The naughtiness of the situation is already, for me, a massive turn-on. Just sitting there in the middle of the carriage, “minding my own business” as everyone else minds theirs, will have my cunt soaking in now time.

An occasional movement of the mouse, heightens the illusion that I’m concentrating on my work. In fairness I am, but the work in question is what my fingers are doing to my cunt.

I’ll order a coffee as the trolley goes past; sipping from the cup to make it look like nothing unusual is happening. Subterfuge and misdirection are the public wanker’s tools of the trade; drawing attention away from the “sleight of hand” that is taking place.

As my arousal builds, my cunt becomes increasingly wet. I become acutely aware of the soft squelching noises my fingers make as they play inside me.

I cough to stifle a moan; fanning myself with my free hand, trying to look for all the world like a woman who has taken too big a sip of her coffee and not like a wanton slut on the verge of a self-induced orgasm.

And now the fun bit begins; trying to keep myself on the brink for as long as possible. I stare intently at my laptop screen, not seeing anything as I hold myself on the edge. The pressure, the need for release become excruciating as I “suffer” in silence. The need for discretion adds to the intensity. Do I look flushed? Do I appear flustered? Is my coat still concealing what I am doing.

As the end becomes inevitable, I drain the remains of my coffee. Holding my now empty cup to my face for concealment, I surrender to my climax. I struggle to keep my body still as waves of intense pleasure spread through me. I bite down on the edge of my cup to stop myself from crying out. I’ve done this so many times, I know how to keep my climax from my fellow travellers.

As my destination approaches, I pack my laptop away, straighten my skirt under my coat, stand up and make my way to the toilet to wash my hands and my face. My knickers are uncomfortably wet, and I change them for the spare pair I keep in my bag for such purposes.

I return to my seat, continue to pack up, then alight from the train when it reaches my stop. I walk to the taxi rank, hail a cab, and set off, satisfied and relaxed ahead of my next meeting.

Finger fun


Much as I enjoy a good fuck, and I do, sometimes a good wank does wonders for the mood. I do love having Master C’s cock in my cunt, or his tongue on my clit, but sometimes He just isn’t there when I need to cum.

Sometimes, in fact often, if I’m being honest, I will call on the services of one or more of my toys, but sometimes a good fingering is the most effective form of pleasure. Ultimately the method doesn’t matter, it’s the results that are important.

After all, my fingers have over 20 years experience of making me cum and are very effective at the job in hand.

And, with that in mind, I’m off to make use of them for something other than typing right now…

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 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; and they didn’t stop providing me with pleasure even after I’d discovered cock. Nowadays, of course, I can have cock whenever I want; be it Master C‘s, or that 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 cum so easily.

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

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 1996. 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 cum 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.

Watching him


There is something magical about watching a guy 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 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 their 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; 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 cums. 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 watch men do this endlessly.