My wife was drunk when she told me. She’d just returned from a ‘work’s do‘. She said she fakes orgasms with me, and I haven’t made her cum in two years – except when I’ve used my tongue on her. She said she goes to the bathroom after sex with me and plays with herself to reach orgasm…

Wow!

Gutted!

Source HERE

eat-him-whole-erotische-grotesken-erotic-grotesque-collection-of-12-erotic-etchings-in-colour-signed-pipifax-pseud-for-max-liebermann-1920s

Diary 3rd December

fragments of a spent life –

December, of course, is her birth month. That ragged old woman who lives for extremities. Whose soul is filled with screaming scars, and whose eyes burn with such fierce intensity – with such illicit desires. Her sins light the darkness round her, beacon bright. She wears her insides outside. Each line on her face a tragic reminder of time passing, and over a thousand one-night-stands.

Final memory?

My stiff, aching sex in her mouth. Suck, suck, sucking mouth. Ready to cum, when the key slides into the front door lock.

No…!

Pulling away. Surprise on her face as she looks up. ‘Quickly,’ I say. ‘Your daughter’s come home early…’

Fragments of her history told to me on earlier occasions: enduring the sexual abuse of a drunken stepfather at age eleven; then, shortly after her twelfth birthday, being photographed nude by an elderly neighbour. She enjoyed his attentions, or so she claimed, and asked him if he’d like to ‘do things’ with her? He gave her five pounds that first time.

It became a regular thing, his ‘doing things’ with her. He’d always give her a gift afterwards. She never had to ask.

Two younger brothers living with her at home. She got up to sexual shenanigans with them, too, during the school holidays while their mum was out. She saw nothing wrong in it.

She also masturbated local boys in the cinema for cigarettes and ice creams. She masturbated some of her brothers school friends behind the stadium in the recreation ground for small change.

Her terrible, abusive tales touched me deeply. But, were they true? I had already caught her out, once before, telling a huge whopper about a mutual acquaintance. I never challenged her on it – never challenged any of her stories or their many contradictions. She wore lies, I gradually realised, like a second skin. Reality, her reality, was a construct. Reinvented at will. Her lies served as a life jacket, keeping her afloat in the mundane, everyday world.

We coupled the first time in her car. That was in the countryside at night. It wasn’t very comfortable, but I mounted her and thrust inside her for almost thirty minutes. She told me to cum, if I wanted. So I did. She didn’t. I finished her finally by hand, and she came inhaling and exhaling very loudly, with her hands twitching in the air like a pair of nervous sparrows.

Today, I accept that rummaging in her soul isn’t a good idea; you’re liable to dig up something that should have been left to rest in peace. Her lies and half-truths have to stand as reality. But back then…?

She told me she married the first time (age 16) to get away from her stepfather. His deprivations were become more irregular. She married a builder of thirty-three, a dull, moonfaced individual, with ‘all the conversational ability of a plank’. One man, however, wasn’t enough for her. Never would be.

The builder took her to live in his three-bedroom semi. She spent her days seducing the coalman, milkman, postman, her husband’s brother – one time she even attempted fellatio on her father-in-law, but the old boy couldn’t keep it up. Or so she alleged.

She was, by her own admission, sexually insatiable. And well out of control…

Divorce was inevitable. There were limits to what her builder would put up with. He kicked her out after finding her in bed with a double-glazing salesman one wintery afternoon. Less than six months later she experienced a ‘nervous breakdown’; this coming close on the heels of her being discovered flagrante delicto with a close friend’s young son who she was supposed to be minding.

She was taken into hospital (a friend of hers confided to me, that she’d in fact been sectioned under the mental health act?) for an indeterminate length of time. She called the place the ‘Boobie Hatch’.

She related a number of stories about this time: she had carnal knowledge of her psychiatrist, and at least three of the patients on a semi-regular basis. She also masturbated up to ten times daily.

But then, depending on which version of the story she told, she was also a model patient – or a nightmare. Take your pick. The psychiatrist gave her an STD and she couldn’t have sex for months. Or the male nursing officer had her over his office desk every Friday afternoon, without fail, before teatime.

It just goes on and on. Even her shadow has a shadow…

‘They released me as cured,’ she said. ‘But they didn’t realise the truth. I was worse than ever…’

Her head brim-full of sadomasochistic fantasy, she took up residence in a small flat where she lived like a gypsy, a traveler, with no money. Candles on saucers after the electricity was cut-off. Lived on bread and tea made on a small gas camping stove in the sitting room. Began to work as a prostitute.

One time when her daughter was on holiday in Brixham she had me over to spend the night at her house on the common. I got no sleep that night. She kept the bedroom lights on, and positioned a full-length mirror beside the bed – so she could watch me ‘in action’!

‘Nice bum movement,’ she said.

A certain, not unhumorous, pageant of small talk followed each of our orgasms. She wore lots of make-up and glittery lingerie, looked like something out of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. She began pleasing herself, bearing down on my face at one point, griping my hard-on, twisting…

She frequently got up to go and make tea. Tea with shortbread biscuits.

She married again, to one of her punters this time, a sixty-two year old garage owner. He it was supplied the house on the common. He also, allegedly, fathered her first child. A beautiful baby girl.

They were together four years when a stroke took him from her life. Shortly after the funeral, she found herself pregnant for a second time and in due course produced another baby girl. She was a brilliant mother, spoiled them both rotten.

Our last evening together, before her daughter came home and ruined that living room blowjob, she told me, ‘I’m really going to spoil you this Christmas. I’ll make it the best Christmas ever…’

But it was another fantasy. Another lie. Unknown to me at the time, she’d already accepted the marriage proposal of a local man, owner of a garden centre and a Porsche turbo. A winning combination in her eyes, obviously. They’d been seeing each other for a few weeks, apparently. The proposal came out of the blue, and she said ‘Yes’ without really thinking about it. Or so she told friends.

So, in my blissfully ignorant state, she showed me out: kissed me a passionate goodbye on the front doorstep and told me she’d telephone tomorrow. ‘I’ll finish you off, then,’ she said.

But, of course, she never did.

Happy Birthday to you, anyway, Snaky. Where ever you might be.

 

two weeks in bed

November 27, 2016

release

After discovering him in his threesome, I spent the next two weeks in bed suffering from a severe case of vagina elbow. It’s a condition not unlike tennis elbow, but you get it from masturbating.

Chelsea Handler
My Horizontal Life: A Collection of One-Night Stands

masto2

I imagined being with a guy in a stairwell. Him pulling up my dress, ripping my tights, gripping my thighs so hard it hurt and then slamming me up against the wall and fucking me mercilessly with his pants around his ankles. All the while whispering how dirty I am and telling me to keep quiet while I bite my own shoulder or his lip.

That’s about as far as I got, I came quickly with my fingers deep inside, still fully clothed. Damn I’m good. Imagination is a powerful thing.

Back to work!

Stephanie

Girl with a White Dog - Lucian Freud

If you’re late for a date, don’t worry. If you’re very late, just tell him it’s because you were masturbating – no man is going to worry about the late part, believe me!

immortal

SPECIFIC WAY TO CUM

December 14, 2015

legsandcandles

He finishes and he slides down my body, plopping down on the bed. I curl up next to him and get into position: right hand between my legs, left arm draped over his chest. I have my face turned up toward him and he, in the breathy aftermath of his own orgasm, begins to talk. “So, I’m in a park.”

As he spins a sexy nighttime story, I begin to touch myself. The tales differ slightly in location, but the characters always remain the same. And I’m not one of them.

“I prefer a true story,” I told him when we started to do this on the regular.“Tell me about a sexual encounter from your past.”

“Really?”he asked. “You like that?”

“I do,” I responded.

“You want to hear about me and some other woman?”

“Yes,” I answer. “That’s what I want.”

I’ve been masturbating for as long as I can remember. During my childhood, it was completely nonsexual and simply something I did most nights before I fell asleep. I had a formula to my “feeling good,” which involved lying on my stomach, wrapping my blanket around my hand, and bringing the bundle between my legs. I’d rock back and forth with my blanket-wrapped hand between my legs until a warm, cozy feeling erupted from my gut and spread over my entire body. I’d continue to lie there on my stomach, enjoying the fuzzies; after a moment, I’d roll over, extract my hand, and fall into a deep sleep.

Today, my masturbating method is almost exactly the same as it was when I was five or six. I lie down on my stomach with my hand between my legs (the blanket has long since retired, but once in a while a crumpled bed sheet proves to be an excellent, familiar partner-in-crime) and move my pelvis back and forth across my palm. There is, however, one crucial addition to the formula: I envision a sexy couple as I work myself. The woman has a killer body with gorgeous breasts and the man usually has a salt-and-pepper hairstyle with a firm stomach. Sometimes, it’s their relationship to each other that turns me on. He’s the dean of affairs, she’s a top graduate student and they have sex in his office. She’s a senator, he’s a journalist interviewing her and they get it on in a beautiful hotel room. They’re two ex-lovers reunited in Milan on a business trip. Or, I recall in glorious detail the first love scene between Ralph Fiennes and Julianne Moore in The End of the Affair. My mother owned the movie on VHS and I’d watch the juicy parts in reserved, amazed silence some afternoons before she got home from work. This is all to say that during my masturbation sessions, I rarely imagine myself as a participant. Rather, I much prefer to watch two other humans do it on a desk, in a car, against the wall. Not in a porn, but in my mind with my eyes squeezed shut. Porn’s OK, don’t get me wrong; I do enjoy it once in a while. But truthfully, all I need is my own brain. I love masturbating. It’s quick, it feels amazing, I know just what I like, and I always, always come. And come hard.

When I’m in bed with a man, the process is similar: I masturbate and he provides the images for me. I’ve only been brave enough to try this with my past two partners, both of whom have been a little confused, but game. Prior to sleeping with these two men, my sexual encounters were chock full of “faking it” – and one can blame that on my incessant need to tie up every situation in a pretty little bow. Ending sex with a whispery, “Yeah, hold on, you can stop. I’m just not going to come,” seemed pathetic. “Wow, yes, yes, that’s it, oh my God, oh my God, yes!” conveyed something like This was great, I’m so glad we did this, and I’d be down to do it again! The guys were none the wiser and I felt content with the faking until I realized that, actually, maybe, it might not be so weird to ask a guy to simply tell me a story. It couldn’t be that much different than asking him to talk dirty to me (whatever that means – in my experience, asking a guy to talk dirty is just releasing his usage of the C-word thirty times in one twenty-minute sex session). After inquiring, “Really? You like that?” my current boyfriend has told me about the woman he fucked in a bar bathroom, another he met on an Amtrak, some threesome he had, plus a fictional fantasy about a particularly hot coworker. I’ve climaxed powerfully at every single drawn-out account. Sometimes, he plays with my breasts, which feels great and helps me get there. Other times, he tries to join me down below and I have to find a sneaky, sexy way to move his hand so I can continue the work on my own. I certainly love his fingers inside me when we start to fool around; but when it comes to having an orgasm, I need to do it myself.

To be clear: I’ve never had an orgasm during sex. Not even during oral sex, to which friends have exclaimed, “Seriously?” I’ve tried anal sex, which felt awesome, but still no dice. I’ve read plenty of women’s magazine articles that suggest touching myself to understand how I come, but I totally understand how I come and it has to be by my own hand. It’s a little disappointing; I wish my partner were more integral to the process. But he gets me off by telling me all about his naughty past with other women. And you know what, it’s just what I enjoy. He is integral, in his own way.

“What do you like about that?” he asked me once. “It’s the most…I don’t know…” he trails off. “It’s the most specific way to come. Why do you want to hear about other women? Why not yourself?”

I can’t answer. Is it because I don’t like to watch my own body? Is it because I don’t like to be in my own body? If I thought myself more attractive, would I orgasm without needing to imagine people with tighter abs, tinier waists, and higher tits? Is this another way that I don’t “live in the moment”? Do I have to literally extract myself from the current moment in order to come? Or, is this my body physicalizing my need to do everything myself? Why can’t I come when he’s the one touching me? If I love this man and love having sex with this man, shouldn’t I be able to let go in front of him? Shouldn’t I be able to release myself over to him?

“It’s just what I like,” I say, and drape my arm over his chest. “Now, tell me the one about the girl from that cafe.”

Source: How to Make Me Come

a skirt so short

November 23, 2015

bloke

My partner and I are on the tube going back home after a night out. I am tired and close my eyes for few minutes, my head on his shoulder. Suddenly I can hear his heart beat accelerating…he’s breathing heavily. I slightly open my eyes and I notice the girl on the opposite seat. A beautiful Asian girl wearing a skirt so short I can see the lace of her knickers. And so can he. I pretend to be sleeping while I stare at his penis growing harder I am terribly excited. We get home, I tell him I’m tired and I am going to bed. Instead I follow him to the bathroom, where I know he is masturbating. I open the door and I ask him if he’s thinking about what was hiding behind those lace knickers…that I saw him looking under her skirt…that I’m sure he would have fucked her right and then if he had the chance. He hesitates for a minute…then a naughty smile appears on his face. He pushes me against the door and we have one of the best fuck’s ever…

Source HERE