My first ejaculation was a terrible shock. Like a seizure. An unexpected and terrible ripping of reality. Electrical currents in blue and gold sending spastic spasms of pleasure up me vertebrae; skull crushed in a vise in those first few seconds. Those never to be forgotten throbbing, animal convulsions and my head filling with white noise…

Neurological eruption!

Sunday cum

July 16, 2017

witch-outline

Diary 5th March

There was a woman who lived alone at the end of Walton Drive. Her house was beside the “danger point” (its name came from the red and white sign in the centre of the road that read DANGER). Beyond the sign there was no more road, just a wilderness of trees and shrubs, nettles and brambles. A veritable jungle where kids could turn wild and play. And where the woman often walked alone on a winter’s evening.

‘She’s a witch,’ Susan said. ‘She goes down there at night and makes spells.’

‘She gave Maureen warts for cheeking her,’ Linda claimed.

The girls seemed convinced, but we boys were less certain. A witch? Did such things really exist?

One Sunday afternoon we were playing football in the road near the ‘point’ and Alan kicked the ball into the woman’s front garden. Little Billy went off to get it when the front door opened and the woman came out.

Standing in the road we could see they were talking, but couldn’t hear what was being said. The woman, tall and skinny, was dressed all in black, as usual. She wore thick black mascara round her eyes and mauve lipstick on her mouth, and she had silver rings on all her fingers – including her thumbs. We were surprised when Billy tossed the ball back to us, and followed the woman into her house.

Billy reappeared an hour or so later. His face was very flushed –as if he’d been running.

‘What did she want?’ Alan asked him.

‘She gave me a biscuit and a glass of orange juice,’ Billy said.

‘But you were gone ages.’

Billy’s eyes became suddenly cautious. He glanced to right and left. ‘She took my shorts down,’ he said quietly. ‘She touched my “you know what”…’

‘Your cock?’ Alan said. ‘She touched that? I don’t believe you!’

‘Well she did, see. Honest, she did.’

‘You’re a liar Billy. You’re making it all up.’

‘She told me to come back next Sunday when she had more time. She’d do something extra nice.’

‘Rubbish,’ Alan decided. ‘Boy’s gone sick in the head…’

Later, in Angela’s back garden, Linda told Billy not to go back. ‘She’s a witch,’ she said. ‘Witches hate little boys. She’s probably got this sharp pair of scissors to cut your thing off. She’s more than likely got a collection of boys willies in a glass jar, and uses them in her spells.’

Undeterred by this warning (or anything else) Billy returned to the witch house the following Sunday.

What went on there? I’ve no idea, and Billy didn’t say when he reappeared later in the day. Alan kept on at him, but Billy stayed stumm.

Linda asked him, ‘Did she touch it again?’

He wouldn’t answer.

Whatever happened, happened, and would remain a secret between Billy and the witch.

Then – perhaps almost a year later – I was walking with Billy through the churchyard one Saturday afternoon. We were talking about the future – the far future. All the technological changes that might take place. How we might each of us end up with our own personal robot to do all the household chores. And flying cars, of course. We’d each have one of those. And we’d be able to chose the sex of our children…boy or girl.

‘D’you really believe that?’ Billy asked.

‘Why not?’

‘The witch,’ he said, then hesitated.

‘What about her,’ I prompted.

‘She said if I tell about her, she’ll know it. Said she’d transform me into a girl, if I ever said anything about her…’

‘That’s nonsense, Billy. She’s not a real witch. She can’t do anything like that!’

‘Says you,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen some of the things she can do.’

‘When?’

‘I go to her house sometimes. I keep it secret, like. She doesn’t want anyone to know.’

‘So what does she do?’

‘I can’t tell,’ Billy said. ‘I can’t ever say…’

And that was that. Billy’s secret remained secret. And to the best of my knowledge he never ever mentioned the witch again. But often I’ve wondered exactly what it was he’d witnessed at the witch house that frightened him into permanent silence!

And was the experience real or an hallucination?

Did our witch put some narcotic substance, a small amount of peyote for instance, in his orange juice? A drug induced hallucination would be sufficient to confuse…

To terrify.

I imagine them both somewhere between taboo and transgression in her dark house: Billy experiencing the exhilarating sensations of her hands and her body; she over-stepping society’s limits with her unrestrained sexual license.

And beyond the sexual frenzy, the fear!

Following a sip of her ‘special’ orange juice. Her conjuration made horrifyingly potent. Candles and darkness; smoke and mirrors…

Or was it all just a lie? Make-believe…?

Yes, I often wonder what ultimately became of our Billy.

Led by the Serpent

January 20, 2017

fist

Diary 18th January

What a busy little bee I’ve been. And yet I did manage to go out walking yesterday afternoon. It was a beautiful day full of sun, but cold for all that. Views to the coast from the top of the hill. Today, too, the weather is s’posed to be fine. So I’ll get out again later for a tramp across the moor.

Finished my story “A day-return to the Isle of the Dead”. Started a new, untitled story yesterday. Autobiographical in part, which is unusual for me.

The sky at dusk streaked pink.

19th January

Sleepless night and cold morning.

Walked up to the mast with Dee yesterday afternoon. Islands of gorse flowering everywhere. Confused by the mild weather, I s’pose. A cold breeze, however.

No one about on the moor. Dee opened my jeans. ‘Someone might come,’ I protested. ‘That’ll be you in a minute,’ her teasing reply.

Led off the path by my thing. Normally I walk here alone with only my ghosts for company. I hear a rhythmic clip clopping from behind. Glancing back. There is a woman on horseback trotting towards us. She can see quite clearly what Dee is doing. As she passes she calls, ‘Good afternoon,’ to us, a huge grin on her narrow face.

‘Afternoon,’ replies Dee, without slowing the rapid motion of her hand.

This horsey woman keeps looking back over her shoulder. Sees me cumming in Dee’s tight little fist. Waves her crop in the air, a salute to the God of handjobs. Disgusting to spy on us in that way. But Dee couldn’t stop laughing about it…

I feel strangely chained to this landscape. To its wild remoteness.

Went to the pub, drank Merlot in front of the roaring log fire. Cooked a vegetable casserole when we got home. Drank brandy and hot chocolate.

cats-eyes

Diary 23rd / 24th September

Astounding revelations that will hold you spellbound and make you breathe faster with new mental sensations…!

oh god it’s wonderful
to get out of bed
and drink too much coffee
and smoke too many cigarettes
and love you so much

oh, yes, yes – it is, it truly is…

#

Do you have a little voice in your head that tells you when you’ve gone too far? Yes? Well mine doesn’t do that anymore. Instead, it tells me to go that bit further! No more limits! None at all! Naughty little voice…

#

Like Antonin Artaud I have abandoned myself to the fever of dreams, in search of new laws, new possibilities. Ah, but to sleep so deeply – and then, perchance, encounter mademoiselle Lucifer…

What then?

#

Her hands were full of intent when they took hold of me. Subtle, featherlight touches of her fingertips, which felt as if she were writing a poem on my hardness, with unexpected words of fire…

#

‘I didn’t come out here to be alone,’ she said. ‘I needed to fart, is all. It’s that vegetable curry you made last night. I’m a bit ripe…’

#

D’you want to know the worse enemy to creativity? Yeah? Self-doubt, boys and girls. Self-doubt wins the prize every time.

#

I wonder what it is you hear in those silences that lay between us…?

#

The lights flicker. Dogs bark in the distance. A car grinds on the gravel outside. You’re home and the game is afoot…

Difficulties waking

June 5, 2016

wake up

birds and trees

Diary 21st May

‘You can’t have everything,’ I said.

‘Why not?’ she asked.

‘Darling, where would you put it all…?’

#

People tend to drain me. There are times I feel I’m in the midst of a huge masquerade ball where, come midnight, the guests unmask and I find myself surrounded by vampires of the most disreputable sort.

This bal masqué will, of course, be the death of me…

#

Rain yesterday and this morning. Rain on the slates shines sometimes in the smoky light. You know, I feel the future is to be found in the gull infested landfill sites near the coast. The gulls sense it and dig deep in the heaped detritus to find it. Simultaneously, starlings in great shoals abandon the present for the past. They are wiser, perhaps, than the gulls. We? We’ll fade gradually, ungracefully in a wreath of feathers and human hair…

#

This morning I’m too lazy to masturbate. So I inveigled my way into Gabriella’s good books, and she obliged with a sleepy, teasing handjob that resulted, fifty minutes later, in a nasty, nasty mess on my chest and belly.

#

In the sitting room the chairs are quite still. After all they have nothing else to do. The books on the shelves are silent, exhausted perhaps after a night of whispering to each other. They rest in such impressive dishevelment, gathering dust and providing shelter to the occasional small spider, embarrassed by its nakedness and wishing to hide its shame from others.

Ah, if only we could dream on beams of silk…?

And still it’s feckin’ raining.

#

So many wild flowers blooming in the hedgerows. They’re awash with rain, dripping wet, on either side of the puddled lane. Even the gorse is in flower…

#

Out tonight, restaurant and drinks, with friends. Italian food and good conversation…None of us, I suspect, will be particularly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow.

Naughty Batman…

April 10, 2016

NAUGHTY BATMAN

S Pranam Singh Acrylic on Canvas Lady in Blue Mood
Diary 30th March

Hansa came into our lives when I was eight or nine years of age. She was a mystery to us, an exotic enigma beyond solution. My father called her the “Indian Princess”. Originally from Imphal, in India she came in search, perhaps, of a new civilization. An economic migrant that somehow washed up on our shore, to become friend, confidant, and companion to my mother.

I remember her first evening with us. It was winter and very cold. Hansa came down from her room to undress in front of the fire. I was fascinated by her. The beautiful silken sari in such startling colours. Her long black hair, swept back tight to the skull, forming a pony-tail that fell down the length of her long back.

She undressed without inhibition. After all my mother was another woman, and I, a child, was a non-sexual being to her mind. I remember in particular the firelight glow on her dusky arms and breasts.

Her father was a document writer who enjoyed a good lifestyle in India because of the bribes he was paid to “alter” or “adjust” documents in certain property transactions. Her mother remained an unknown quantity, as Hansa hardly ever mentioned her within my hearing.

Hansa on occasion took me to London, to Hamley’s, the oldest toy store in the world. She purchased scale model ships for me there (even then I had a love of the sea). The ships, I recall, were expensive, and she used her own money to pay for them…

I think she felt sorry for me at times. My strange existence on the periphery of my mother’s world was beyond her experience; its oddness, perhaps, unsettled her…

At age ten or eleven I regularly masturbated with my head full of images of Hansa. Her delicate brown buttocks, the vee of fine black hair above the meaty lips of her sex. I wanted to cover her body in fond kisses…

By that time Hansa shared both my mother’s bedroom and her bed.

One day I was unwell with a bad cold. Hansa looked in on me. I lay abed in my PJ’s, flushed and feverish. She opened my pajama jacket and began to massage a mentholated ointment on my chest. Her touch was magical…Her fingers beautifully cool on my hot skin. I became erect, and Hansa noticing this slipped a hand through the fly of my pajama bottoms.

‘Be good, little man,’ she said.

My face reddening, I reached for her breast…but she slipped away. Removed her hand from my pants.

‘You’re a naughty boy. What do you think your mother would say if she saw this?’

‘Not very much, I suspect,’ I mumbled. My cock was so stiff it ached. I felt swimmy-headed, my senses totally disordered by her brief touching of my penis.

Then, without any warning, her hand returned. Hansa grabbed my stiff cock and was rubbing it vigorously. Remnants of the mentholated ointment created a burning sensation. I felt my body tensing, preparing for that familiar orgasmic jolt…but no! Hansa again removed her hand, leaving me at the edge of the abyss.

‘I must get on,’ she said. ‘I’ve work to do. You’ll have to sort that dirty thing out yourself.’

‘Wont you touch it once more? Please, dear Hansa, I’m so close…’

‘Definitely not,’ she said.

I reached out and took hold of her hand. I was aware of a bead of perspiration funning from my hairline down my face. I gripped my cock with my free hand and tugged it. I looked intently into her eyes as I did this. I imagined touching her thighs, her cunt…and shot cum out over the sheets, spasm after spasm…

As my body relaxed, Hansa stood up. She leaned over the bed to kiss me gently on the head.

‘Clean up,’ she said. ‘Then rest, you naughty chap. You’re totally incorrigible…’

I don’t know how or why Hansa departed from our lives. It was in my fifteenth year. Perhaps a lover’s tiff? My mother could be very whimsical. I was away at school when it occurred, and remain ignorant of the circumstances to this day. When I came home for the summer break, Hansa was gone…

I never ever saw her again. She was a mystery left unsolved. But I still have those beautiful model ships she brought for me all those years ago. They are in a cardboard box beneath me bed. Sometimes, late at night, I take them out of the tissue paper wrappings and examine them.

They never fail to remind me of Hansa’s wonderful smile and the gleam of pleasure in her eyes when she first gave them to me…

#

Oh, dear, the shite seems to be hitting the fan –

‘MORE than half of French voters want their own in-out referendum on European Union membership, renewing fears in Brussels that a Brexit could topple the 28-country bloc.

‘With Britons set to go to the polls in June, there are increasing signs the UK’s referendum is paving the way for other European countries to question their own relationship with Brussels.

‘It comes after calls for Germany to have their own EU referendum in the aftermath of the migrant crisis. In a fresh blow to the EU, 53 per cent of the French people voted in favour of holding a UK-style referendum on the country’s membership.’

On the plus side, of course, when it comes to the EU neither Germany or France have any interest in “democracy” or a “free vote”. They had enough problems when the French people rejected the EU constitution in a free referendum.

It ain’t a mistake that’s going to be repeated.

a rub

Our man desires us to bring him to orgasm manually. How tightly will we hold his cock? Shall we simply stroke up and down his shaft? How should we position our fingers as we stroke him? In other words, what technique should we use?

Getting a man to experience orgasm as we touch him should be a prolonged, enjoyable process. Yeah, we feel clumsy about it, and we ARE sometimes clumsy about it, our wrist and arm begins to ache like hell before he cums. Then, in intense frustration, he moves our hand aside and does it himself.

Now bear in mind, that each man does himself in a particular way; they all have techniques that feel especially good to them. So you need to experiment, ask questions (in a sexy voice) and watch carefully how he does himself. (A Girl raptly watching him masturbate from close up is an actual turn-on to many men). You might need to give him some encouragement to let you watch him wank. Tell him he can cum in your mouth at the end, or over your tits as an inducement.

Take into account the closer they get to cumming, their rhythm and technique may change. Watch carefully. Don’t ask questions as he’s cumming. Just very gently play with his testicles, which is a good way to assist him meet his moment of truth…!

Men love to hear us squeal with delight as they start to shoot…Give it ago.

So, if you get your man to show you how he does it, you’ll be well in advance in the jerking stakes. Failing that, try these few elementary things:

Position your body where you can relax your wrist on his hip or tummy and still be able to move your hand an inch and a half, or two inches by way of flexing your wrist backward and forward. This will solve your fatigue issue.

I frequently lie on my man’s rightside, my shoulder about level with his. I put my head on his shoulder or on the pillow beside his head, then use my right hand to stroke him.

Wrap your first finger and thumb round his cock shaft, two inches under his glans (the lovable little head men have at the top of their cock). You’re going to move your hand from that vicinity to slightly below the head, but not on the head itself to begin.

Vary your stroking. Readjust your position beside him so that you could move your hand up and down his cock, by simply flexing your wrist, your wrist and forearm resting on him. This will take awhile, so get comfortable. Take your time. You want him to be gagging for those final, finishing strokes.

So stroke SLOW. Don’t wear yourself out going fast. Good GRADUAL actions up and down his shaft are the important thing. You’ll feel his cock harden…but if it softens, you’re doing it wrong! So gradually speed up a little, let your little finger caress his balls each and every time you come to the down side of your stroke.

Breathe in his ear, and whisper dirty things to him.

How tightly do you grip? Put three fingers to your mouth, and purse your lips around them. Now purse your lips (NOT your teeth) as tightly as you can. That’s how tightly you will hold his shaft in your hand. If you grip it properly you should then be able to feel the irregularities that lie underneath the skin of his penis.

The more aroused he becomes, the more you can stroke his glans, but GENTLY. If he’s uncircumcised, you need to peel back his foreskin and just gently touch the exposed head with finger tips…little butterfly strokes and touches.

When he is starting to stiffen even more, and his body tenses, DON”T speed up. Wait, make him ‘suffer’ as his body begins to beg for release. When his penis begins to rear in your hand and his balls begin to pulse, put your head in his lap and tell him out-loud to cum in your mouth. Then put your lips round his cock and take his gift to you.

He’ll be really grateful. You’ll see it in his eyes. Men love it when you take their cummies in your mouth and swallow. Their spunk is full of protein and goodness. It can’t harm you…

Pearl W
Sexperience: sex techniques for women