Hooked up


So, this week the questions related to “hook-ups” and I suspect that it will  come as no surprise to you that this is a subject that I have a certain amount of familiarity with. Actually, it would be more accurate to say it’s a subject I have had experience with, as it tends not to be something I actually do any more.

It’s not that I’ve given up on casual sex. If you’ve read any of this blog you will know that I am very much a cock-hungry slut and I still enjoy random casual encounters. By and large though, these encounters are not planned; they are, as I said, random. And by random I mean that I haven’t previously arranged to meet up and fuck them, they are simply someone who has caught my eye and I’ve decided I want to have some fun with them.  Probably the only things that come close to being “hook-ups” for me nowadays are when I make plans to get together with either “The Girl” or “The Other Guy”. Given that these are “established relationships” that I have, I suspect they aren’t really “hook-ups” in the sense meant by the question, but that doesn’t make them any less enjoyable when they happen, or in any way dampen the anticipation I feel when waiting for one that has been arranged to happen.

For me, “hook-ups” in the “traditional” sense happened in the period between breaking up with my ex and meeting Master C.

Almost invariably,  they were arranged via sites like Plenty Of FishAdult Friendfinder or Fabswingers (don’t bother looking for me on any of those, my profiles are long gone). Contact was made, messages were exchanged and, if all went well, plans to meet were agreed. The “usual” protocol was that first meeting would be “social” to see if we clicked. Generally though, if we did “click” we’d be out the back of the venue for a blow-job/quickie and before heading back to whichever of our respective places was nearer for one or more encores.

Not only did I meet guys locally, I also used to meet them when I was away for work in places like London, Bristol, Birmingham, Cardiff, Belfast or Newcastle. After all, if you’re going to spend a night or two in a hotel, you might as well have some fun while you’re at it.

The sex, as sex does, varied in quality from pretty rubbish to pretty damned amazing. On the whole, I never had what you might call a bad experience (I was always quite lucky that way), although I did have more than a few that, in sex terms, might be described as disappointing.

For me, it was a convenient way for a cock-hungry slut to get herself fucked on a (fairly) regular basis. Today, of course, I have Master C, “The Girl” and “The Other Guy” to attend to most of my needs and, so long as I am prepared to face the consequences of my actions, as much random casual sex as I can find for those times when I fancy something a little bit off menu. I can, it seems, have my cake and eat it (as well as being frequently and expertly eaten) and, on the whole, I for one am not complaining.

Food For Thought Friday - #F4TFriday
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Changing room fantasy


This year’s 6 Nations tournament is just around the corner. I have a bit of a thing for rugby players; those big, tall, strapping, muscle-bound guys who play hard and tough and get themselves dirty. Given that, I guess it was almost inevitable that at least one of my men, namely “The Other Guy” would be one.

Now, I have a bit of a recurring fantasy that has me servicing “The Other Guy” and his team-mates after a game; either in celebration or as a consolation,  I’m never entirely sure, but I guess it doesn’t matter.

It starts with me being smuggled into the team’s changing room during the closing stages of the game. “The Other Guy” orders me to strip, then blindfolds me before tying my hands to the bench so that I can’t escape (not that I would want to).  He leaves to rejoin those players on the bench, and I am left alone, naked, blindfolded and in the dark, just waiting for what is to come.

I can hear a clock tick. As each second passes, my anticipation builds.  My cunt grows wet. I squirm on the uncomfortable slatted wooden bench below me.  Each tick of the clock is an increasing agony of arousal.

Finally I can hear voices approaching. I freeze as the door squeaks open.

“Fucking hell guys! What’ve we got here? Come and take a look at this!” I hear someone call out.

I sense the room fill with strong male bodies.  The air is filled with appreciative whistles and suggestive comments. A coarse hand cups my cunt, a thick finger parts my lower lips, feeling how wet I am.  “This little slut’s gagging for it guys!”

My restraints are untied and I’m led to treatment table in the middle of the room. Hands grope me, squeezing and mauling my boobs, my arse; fingers invade my cunt.

What follows is almost indescribable. Cocks are thrust in my mouth, plunged deep into my cunt, rammed in my arse. I’m spit-roasted, DPed, made airtight as the guys all take it in turns to make use of my holes.

The fact that I can’t see who is doing what to me, I have no way of knowing what is going to happen next adds to the naughtiness of the situation. I am completely at the mercy of “The Other Guy” and his team-mates. They could (and do) do whatever they like to me. I am nothing but a slut to be used and demeaned by them, and I love every second, every grope, every flick of a tongue, every thrust of a cock. It is just be being used by an unseen, unknown number of men and I am in my element as they use me.

By common consent they agree not to cum inside me. Instead load after load of hot sticky cum is shot over me; coating my buttocks, my back, my boobs, my face.  Occasionally someone shoots a load in my mouth and I swallow it down hungrily.

At some point I hear a couple of the guys encouraging a team-mate. “C’mon Davy,” they urge, “We know you’re gay but just pretend she’s a guy with boobs and fuck her up the arse.” Whether he does or not, I’ll never know but the next cock to fill my battered and sore arsehole feels thicker and longer than some of those that had proceeded it and in my mind it’s Davy fucking me, pretending I’m a guy, fucking my arse the same way he would his boyfriend’s.

The abuse goes on for what seems like an eternity. Cock after lovely thick, hard cock fills me. Load upon rich, sticky load is dumped over me. My jaw aches, my cunt is tender, my arse is raw, my boobs feel bruised from the groping and squeezing.

Slowly, one by one, they shower and dress and leave, leaving me cum-drenched, sore but intensely satisfied.

I feel a hand undo my blindfold. It pulls the cum drenched material that has become stuck to my face away.  I look around.  There’s no one left but “The Other Guy” and me.  He smiles at me as he pumps his cock in front of my face. “I hope you’ve had fun, you filthy little slut!” he says as his cock erupts, spewing a final load other my face before making his way to the shower.

As he returns, I find the energy to stand.  “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he demands as I head towards the showers.

“Can’t I…?”

“No!”

He throws my coat at me. “Cover yourself up slut!” he demands.

I do as I’m bid.  My coat barely reaches below my cunt. I feel exposed, demeaned, degraded.  I love it.

I clean my face up and straighten my hair as much as is possible with my fingers, before he grips my elbow and leads me from the changing room to the club bar.

As I stand at the bar, sipping my drink, my arse barely covered by my coat, the eyes of all the guys who fucked me, and those of the opposing team are upon me.

I flush when I hear myself being discussed.

“She’s a total slut!”

“She took three cocks at once.”

“I had her in every hole.”

“The little slut loved every second.”

And the truth is, I did. Every filthy fucking second on it.

A great end to an otherwise shit day


So, I was in a right old grump most of yesterday.  It started when I had to spend 10 minutes scraping ice off my car windscreen and continued until well after I got home in the evening. In fact, my mood only improved (and it did so considerably) when “The Other Guy” called round unexpectedly on his way his way home from work.

He gently rubbed my neck and shoulders as I told him all about how shit my day had been. It didn’t take him long to have me out of my clothes and to have me feeling warm and relaxed as his hands worked away the tension in my back.

He did, of course, comment on the visible effects of my most recent thrashing; asking me what I’d done to deserve such punishment this time.  I told him, in great detail, about the fun “The Girl” and I had got up to on Sunday after our Christmas shopping excursion; to which he agreed that my subsequent thrashing had been more than merited. In fact, he even went as far as to suggest that, given how the marks had almost faded, I had, perhaps, been let off somewhat lightly.

I have to say, when I was enduring the kiss of Master C’s belt on Sunday evening, it didn’t seem like He was being particularly lenient. He really does know how to wield that belt; but I digress…

Of course, my lurid descriptions of my afternoon of  wanton, girl-on-girl debauchery had a very obvious effect on him; it was evident than “The Other Guy’s” cock was straining, desperate to be set free.

Now, one thing that Master C has taught me is that I should always be fully appreciative when someone does something nice for me. As ” The Other Guy” had cheered me up no end, and had made me feel so nice as he massaged the strains of the day from my body, it was only right that I should show how thankful I was by releasing his cock from its straining confinement and subjecting it to the much more pleasant, warm and wet confinement of my mouth.

I may be a slut, but no one can ever fault my manners.

It seems he was every bit as grateful for the blow-job as I had been of the massage. I had hardly had time to get into my stride when I recognised that familiar pattern of breathing, that tension in his groin that announce that he is on the point of orgasm.

His cock erupted, deluging my mouth with a thick torrent of cum. Swallowing it down, I marvelled at how much he produced. “The Other Guy” is generally quite a heavy cummer, but anyone would have thought he had gone without cumming for weeks; whereas I know for a fact he’d been relieved of several loads just as recently as Friday

Once he’d recovered, we swapped places; me on the edge of the sofa and him on his knees, between my legs, as he embarked on a prolonged bout of “getting his beard moisturised”.

I wasn’t going to complain. When it comes to going down on a woman, both the men in my life are extremely talented. Both Master C and “The Other Guy” belong to that rare breed of men that, when they go down on a woman, they give their full concentration to the task that’s in front of them; they both take their time and do the job properly. With them it isn’t just a quick perfunctory licking, to be done as quickly as possible, they both actually seem to luxuriate in it.

Suffice to say, I came several times before “The Other Guy” finished his devotions. By that time his cock was fully restored and, with the aid of gravity, I slid off the sofa, on to the floor and, to my astonishment, found myself underneath him.

We fucked. We fucked slow, we fucked fast, we fucked long and we fucked hard. We fucked until my pussy ached, and then we fucked some more. His cock massaged my insides every bit as skilfully as his hands had massaged my outsides. I came hard on his cock, gripping it tight inside me, feeling stretched and full and fabulously fucked.

He pulled out just before the end and fed me his cock. I loved the taste of myself on its length and the flavour of my juices was quickly combined with the wonderful taste of yet another load of his cum.

We cuddled there, on the floor, for a while after that and then left.

And that’s pretty much how Master C found me when he got home. I didn’t even need any instruction; I meekly adopted the required position as He removed His belt.

The lashes that rained down mercilessly upon my arse were as painfully delicious as they were fully deserved. The pain made my face flush almost as hotly as my other cheeks.

Tears streaked down my face as Master C spun me around and forced his cock into my mouth.

“Filthy Slut!” He said with quiet authority as he fucked my face, driving His cock angrily into my throat as His grip tightened around my neck.

I knew I didn’t deserve it, but I hoped I would be allowed to take Master C‘s cum in my mouth. Instead, I got what I deserved. At the last second Master C pulled out and dumped a heavy load on to my face.

The rest of the evening was spent in acts of atonement. Once in bed, Master C fucked me gently and tenderly, letting me know that he had forgiven me.

My last conscious thought before I finally drifted off to sleep was, “well, today ended much, much, much better than it started…

Punished for my pleasure


So, having spent almost the whole of yesterday getting myself well and truly fucked senseless by “The Other Guy”, it was only right that last night I faced a reckoning for my actions.

Bent, bare arsed over Master C’s knee, I proceeded to tell Him all about my activities of the previous hours. Every now and then, my narration would be punctuated with a resounding slap of His hand against my arse as I recounted some particularly naughty transgression. My arse was already stinging by the time I finished my account, telling Master C how I had packed “The Other Guy” off to work on the late shift with a smile on his face after a final farewell blow-job.

As is always the case, I was required to assess my performance. How slutty had I been? How much pleasure had I given “The Other Guy”? How well had I attended to his needs and wants? What punishment did my wanton sluttiness deserve?

It was agreed that I deserved Master C’s belt. That was pretty much a given in these circumstances. It was also agreed that my blatant hedonism was deserving of 10 lashes.

However, as I have mentioned before, Master C is a fair Master and He decided that the level of pleasure I had given “The Other Guy” over the best part of a whole day, especially the selflessness of the final blow-job deserved leniency. My punishment then was to be 8 lashes; 4 to each cheek.

My arse was already hot from where His hand had slapped it as I took position. I waited for the first kiss of His belt.

SLAP! “Count them!”

“Ahhh, one…”

SLAP!

“Ohhhh, t…two”

SLAP!

And so it continued, with me sobbing out each number as the leather bit into my skin; my eyes hot with tears.

The final lash landed. I was sobbing through the pain as I stammered out “ei…eight.”

Master C gripped my hips; His fingers pressed into my tortured skin as He pushed His wonderful cock inside me. He grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled my head roughly back as He fucked me, hard, powerfully, without mercy.

In and out, again and again, over and over; Master C‘s cock drove deep into my cunt. He tugged on my hair, slapped my arse, called me His “filthy little slut” as his cock abused me.

And then He was gone. I felt a sudden emptiness where He had been as He spun me around. I watched, transfixed, frozen to the spot as Master C stroked His lovely cock in front of me.

One stroke, two, then a third, and then He erupted; showering His cum over my neck and boobs before forcing His cock between my lips to suck away the final traces.

“Play with yourself, slut, I permit you to cum now,” He ordered.

I closed my eyes, rubbed His cum into my skin with one hand while I fingered my cunt with the other.

“Cum for me, little one,” He said softly, encouragingly, “Cum for your Master.”

I didn’t take me long; Master C‘s soft words of encouragement helped me along as my clit throbbed beneath my fingers.

“I’m cumming, Sir!” I sobbed. “Your little slut is cumming for you.”

As the sensations claimed me, Master C  kissed me lightly on the forehead. “Good girl,” He said, “You are my very good little girl.”

I think I pleased Him…

The bus ride of shame


The mid-morning bus wasn’t full, but my arse was too sore for me to sit. I wondered if my fellow travellers could feel the heat emanating from my glowing, recently thrashed cheeks.  Could they tell how moist my cunt was, having been fucked less than 30 minutes before?

Someone brushed against me as they moved to alight. I winced as they bumped into my  decidedly tender arse.

I wondered if they could smell Master C on me; the thick load of cum He unleashed over my boobs before rubbing it in, before I dressed with His cum dried on my skin.

The thought aroused me. My cunt grew warmer; I could feel my juices trickle down the insides of my thighs. Could anyone tell? Could they have known that beneath the primly, professionally dressed exterior there was a recently fucked and thrashed and seriously aroused, filthy little slut. Could they even guess that having been so recently and so very  thoroughly fucked by Master C, I was on my way to spend the day with “The Other Guy”, to be fucked some more? Could they possibly have imagined that the seemingly demure, professional woman in their midst was just a few stops away from having a second cock inside her, less than an hour after being so soundly fucked by the first?

The insides of my thighs tingled. A reminder of how Master C’s thighs, so firm and strong from years of playing rugby, slammed against mine as he fucked me. Could the other passengers sense the bruises He left there?

My stop approached. My arousal levels peaked. Could anyone see how pronounced my nipples were? Could they possibly imagine the reason for slight flushing on my skin?

I stepped off the bus, leaving my fellow commuters in blissful ignorance. The only thing I was caring about as I walked the 100 or so yards to The Other Guy’s flat was how quickly I could feel his cock inside me…

Casual consequences


Casual sex is nothing new for me. I’ve always found it exciting, I’ve always been hugely turned on by the experience of sucking some stranger’s cock and then having him fuck my brains out. I’d fucked around a lot before I met my ex, and after he finally left me for the girl he was fucking behind my back, the same girl who’s back he would soon come to fuck me behind, I found myself enjoying the freedom of picking up guys for random fucks.

It was, I admit, a case of seeking affirmation of myself as a woman that men find sexually desireable. It was a bit of an ego boost. In reality, whilst I had a lot of fun, the experiences were mostly empty. The guys I fucked weren’t partners, they were simply living sex toys, to be used for the pleasure derived from them, then discarded.

I fucked without caring. I fucked single guys, I fucked married guys; basically, I just fucked whomever I fancied without any care or consideration. That was, until I met Master C.

I’ll come back to him later.

My ex was a cunt. And, in a way, he turned me into one too. I carried on fucking him for almost 18 months after we split up. Not, I hasten to add, because I wanted him back, nor out of any desire for revenge over the girl he was now with. No, it was simply because the sex with him was the best sex I’d ever had.

He knew me, he knew my body, and he knew how to get inside my head. He could push all my buttons, give me the most amazing orgasms, and satisfy me in a way that none of my casual encounters ever could. Sex with him was a drug and I was addicted. And, like all addictions, it was potentially destructive.

Then I met “The Other Guy”. It should have just another casual fling, but somehow it became more than that. The sex was good, very good, he was interested in me as a person and not just as somewhere to stick his cock.

For a while, I was fucking both him and my ex and, I’ll admit, it was one of the most amazing periods of fucking I ever had.

Somehow, though, although there was no commitment or exclusivity between us, I valued the time I spent with “The Other Guy”. He made me feel special, he made me feel worthwhile. I was still fucking random guys but it was him, when he was available that I wanted to spend time with.

Push came to shove when both “The Other Guy” and the ex wanted to meet up with me the same evening. I had to choose and I chose “The Other Guy”. And that was it, the ex was finally out of my life. The fact that I sent him a recording of me having a tumultuous orgasm at the hands (and tongue) of “The Other Guy” was something I took great satisfaction in.

That might have been it, but it wasn’t. Despite the fact we enjoyed each other’s company (both in bed and out) and spent a lot of time together, “The Other Guy” weren’t a couple and definitely weren’t exclusive. He worked away a lot, and there were times when I wouldn’t see him for weeks on end and, well, I am a cock-hungry slut who likes fucking, so when he wasn’t available, I continued fucking any guy who took my fancy.

Then, a few months later, the man who would become Master C entered the picture; and with him I made the most earth shattering discovery. He unleashed Morag the submissive.

I’d never considered myself to be submissive. I’d enjoyed a bit of spanking play in my past, but who doesn’t? Looking back, however, the one thing that my most successful sexual relationships, both with the ex and with “The Other Guy”, and indeed, Master C himself, had in common was that they are all very physical and sexually confident men. I allowed them, albeit unconsciously, to dominate me.

Master C tapped into that side of me and nourished it, bringing it to the fore. I realised that submission wasn’t just about discipline, although that is very much a part of it, but it is about trusting the other person, allowing them the freedom to do whatever they will, giving them the power over you but knowing they won’t abuse it.

Master C has taught me, that it is perfectly OK to be a slut; that I am free to be who I am and express myself how I desire but there are consequences to my actions. I don’t need to seek affirmation from the guys I fuck, because I have a Master who affirms me. He doesn’t simply punish me with His belt, he teaches me and guides me. He gives me the confidence to express my wants, to measure my failings objectively and to see my own self worth. He is my guide and teacher as well as my Master.

Spank me! I’ve been a bad girl…


OK, so when I say I’ve been a bad girl, I haven’t done anything out of the ordinary (well, by my standards), but the truth is, sometimes I do deserve getting my arse spanked, and Master C is usually able to come up with some reason why I need a spanking.

Maybe it’s because I’ve made Him cum to soon. Maybe it’s because I am an amoral whore who has spent the entire day sending Him salacious text messages. Maybe it’s because I’ve succumbed (once again) to the softer side of my sexuality and had sex with “The Girl” or another woman, or I’ve been the unashamedly cock-hungry slut that I am and fucked “The Other Guy” or some other totally random bloke.

The reason doesn’t really matter. Suffice to say there is hardly a week that goes by where I don’t commit some transgression that doesn’t involve me bent over Master C’s knee with my skirt flipped up and my knickers round my ankles as His hand slaps my arse hard. Let’s face it, when you’re a naughty little slut like me, getting a good spanking every now and again is simply an occupational hazard.

Of course sometimes it may be something I’m doing during sex that results in Master C needing to spank me.

It’s possible that I’m not quite sucking His cock quite to His liking, and this will result in me getting my arse well and truly tanned until I learn to do it right. After all, He works hard to put food on our table (and for me to burn it) so it’s only fair and right that He gets his cock sucked to His satisfaction, and if I don’t do it right, well I deserve to be thrashed until I learn to do it properly.

Of course, sometimes a spanking is simply to remind me what a naughty and filthy little slut I am.

As He fucks me hard from behind, driving His cock into my cunt or my arse, Master C will often take advantage of my upturned arse cheeks to remind me of what a bad little girl I am and how I’m lucky that He is prepared to put up with me. If I’ve recently been with “The Girl” or another woman, having my cunt stuffed full of cock while He chastises me for my ‘indiscretion’ only helps to emphasis the fact that He is now giving me what that other woman couldn’t, i.e. a lovely, thick, real-live cock.

At the end of the day, there are always numerous reasons why I need to be spanked. The funny thing is, I never seem to learn my lesson…

Sex with the ex


Some of the best sex that I ever had with my ex, was once he became my ex. That’s not to say that the sex we had when we were a couple wasn’t good; it most definitely was. If it hadn’t been good, I wouldn’t have carried on fucking him after he became my ex. No, in a particularly fucked-up kind of way, the reason sex with my ex was even better after we split up was purely down to the fact that he was my ex.

The fact that my ex had a girlfriend made it kind of forbidden.

The fact that his girlfriend was the woman he fucked behind my back then left me for gave it a sort of bitter sweet feeling of revenge.

The fact that he was still fucking me regularly now that he was living with her was deliciously fucked up.

That kind of sums me up.

It’s not that I wanted him back, I most certainly did not. He was a cheating bastard who couldn’t be trusted, the fact that he was still fucking me was proof enough of that. It was, however, that he was an extremely good fuck. In the four years that we had spent together, he had learned exactly what buttons to press, exactly the things to say and the tone in which to say them, that would turn me into a gooey, gagging mess. He knew exactly how I liked my pussy licked, he knew how I liked my boobs to be treated, he knew how to take me to the edge of orgasm and hold me there, deliciously, painfully, torturingly, agonisingly keeping me on the brink until, at exactly the right moment for maximum effect, he would lick that final lick of his tongue, or give that final thrust of his cock that would send me over the precipice into a shuddering, gut-wrenching, toe-curling climax that would leave me exhausted and satisfied.

When he left me, I didn’t really miss him, but I did most definitely miss the sex. When he first approached me about the possibility of hooking-up for a fuck because his girlfriend was away (his exact words), I am ashamed to say, I didn’t even hesitate to accept the proposition. Less than 20 minutes after receiving his text, I was receiving a load of his cum in my mouth. We spent a whole afternoon, evening, night and morning licking, sucking, fucking and cumming; resting only in the time it took us to recover before starting again.

It was wrong and I didn’t care. It was wrong, and that only made it better. It was wrong, so wrong and that was what made it so amazingly fucking good.

Having let him back into my life, and in my cunt (not to mention my mouth and my arse), it would take me almost 18 months to finally wean myself off him. In the end, it wasn’t any moral compunction that made me end it, I simply met the first of my two current guys whom I could enjoy sex with every bit as much as I could with my ex, without the need for feeling any guilt that I might possibly hurt someone. After all, I finally realised that it wasn’t her fault he’d cheated on me, nor was it my fault he cheated on her; no one forced him to stray from either of us, he was simply a cheating bastard who took what he wanted in the guise of giving both her and me what we had become addicted to. It wasn’t healthy, and now I realise that what I have with Master C, The Other Guy and The Girl is so much more satisfying.