Call me


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another instruction and I fasten the clamps around my nipples.

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

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

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

My passion flares.

My need for release grows stronger with every second.

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

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

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Terms of endearment


Language is a strange thing; what is one person’s compliment can be highly insulting to another person. Take the word slut for example. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m not averse to being called a slut on occasion, in fact, in certain situations I’d feel cheated if I didn’t get called that or something equally degrading.

Now, I must confess, that like many women, I am, deep down, a soppy romantic at heart. As such, I am a sucker for the words, “I love you”. When spoken intimately and when meant can give me a me a warm glow all over.

With everything though, context is important. The words “I love you” said spontaneously by Master C as I’m leaving the house for work in the morning, or whispered in my ear just before I fall asleep at night, have a completely texture and effect than when they are gasped between clenched teeth while my lips are wrapped around His cock and He’s about to explode in my mouth.

Having said that, having Master C moan my name and call me His “good girl” at the point of orgasm just before he floods my cunt with cum and collapses, spent on top of me, pinning me beneath Him is always guaranteed to make me melt.

Getting back to the term slut; while I accept that some people find the term offensive, there are times, for me, that it is the highest compliment that I can be paid; particularly if Master C is calling me His “good little slut”.

When Master C is tugging my hair, fucking my arse mercilessly, I long for him to call me His “filthy little slut” or “dirty fucking whore”. As He sprays His load over my face and boobs, there’s nothing I want more than to have Master C call me His “dirty little cum slut”.

As I said before, the context is what’s important. Depending on the circumstances, being called a slut is every bit as endearing as being told that I am loved.

Language is a rich and varied thing, and there a many ways to express how much another person means to us. Slut, whore, love, fuck; all words that, depending on how they are used and who is using them can make someone feel wanted and special.

#MasturbationMonday

Fuck love


I’ve never been fond of the term “making love”. To me, love is something that you feel, not something that you do.  That’s not to say that having sex doesn’t make you feel loved, it can, and when it does, it can add a whole other level of intensity to proceedings; but sex and love are not the same thing, and you can have one with, or without the other.

I like to use the word “fuck”. It’s coarse, it’s earthy, it just sounds right for an act that, when we get right down to it, is basically an animalistic coupling. Yes, sex can be gentle and tender and, dare I say it, loving; and it is great, but it can also be rough, and hard, and, well, animal, and that’s pretty damned amazing too.

I also quite like “shag”. I’m not sure if I can differentiate between a shag and a fuck, or even possibly a screw (although that’s not a term I particularly like), but that’s not important. The thing is, you can fuck, shag, or screw someone without loving them; I know I certainly have.

I’ve never really understood the euphemistic term: “sleep with”. Yes, OK, so I have (literally) slept with a few of the guys I’ve had sex with, but there have been more than a few guys where no sleeping was involved whatsoever. Similarly, I have shared a bed with (so, again, literally slept with) a guy and not had sex with him. So, generally, it’s a term I avoid.

Euphemisms and slang aside, I will generally just describe it as “sex” or “having sex”. Granted, in the heat of passion, I have never huskily whispered the words “Have sex with me,” into a partner’s ear. I have, however demanded, quite forcefully on occasion, that said partner should “Fuck me!” and that sometimes they should “Fuck me harder!”. Could you possibly imagine asking someone to “Make love to me harder”? No, didn’t think so.

On a similar vein, I have absolutely never asked some one to make love to me in the arse, although I have very definitely asked, begged, pleaded, demanded to have my arse thoroughly fucked.

Sex is our most basic, animal pleasure. For me, words like “fuck” and “shag” have an animal quality that fits so well.  And, as Tina Turner once said, “What’s love got to do with it?”