Tag Archives: masturbation


Good news, everyone! Not only are you now reading this in Professor Farnsworth‘s voice, but also my computer is working again! You may not have realised that it wasn’t working, but of course it’s hard to tell you on here that I can’t really make any blog posts when I can’t really make any blog posts. Sure, technically I could blog from my phone, but ew, no.

Anyway, I’m back, though honestly still likely to be intermittent as this summer has really caught me in a hands-off sort of mood.

Although, that’s not always the case.

You see, at the weekend I went to the beach. There were a bunch of us, Crush included of course, and we had a great time being ridiculous and summery. We swam, we bought fish and chips, we doused ourselves in sun cream, we ribbed each other, we built sandcastles, we collected the world’s tiniest shells (that aren’t outright sand, clever clogs) and we dug a giant hole.

In the process of building said giant hole, I became absolutely head to toe covered in sand. There’s probably a fetish for that, because there’s a fetish for everything. In any case, there was no way I could get changed back into my clothes like that, so I headed for the waves for the third time that day.

This time, because it was getting late, none of my friends would come with me. Fine, I thought. I’ll enjoy myself anyway. The sunshine was starting to cool and the lifeguards (what luxury!) had just headed back indoors. The only people even in the sea besides me were paddling and that just doesn’t count.

At my depth, just deep enough that I could comfortably put my feet down if I wanted, I was alone. The people in the breaking waves were far away, the people on the beach even further. Suddenly, a naughty thought overcame me. No-one could see what I was up to. It’d be ages before I was back in the sea again and even then I wouldn’t be alone.

Fuck it, I thought, I’m trying a seawank.

Why not? A bit odd, maybe. The sea was cold and British and not the most romantic of notions. I’d come from a group of my friends and would be going back right after. People could see me, though not what I was up to with the water so dark and deep, and I could see people. But why not? It’d be interesting, exciting, adventurous, though probably not much of a success.

So I slipped my Special-K-red swimming costume aside and found my clitoris with my right hand, the other one keeping me vertically afloat and just bobbing off the bottom now and then. To onlookers, I was just having a very lazy swim.

As I say, it was cold, though it was the warmest water of the day. It was also unusual and even a little uncomfortable, so it took a little while to get my engines going, as it were. I could try and make it sound erotic (and in a way, it was). Heck, I’ve made zombie sex sound erotic, so I’m convinced I could do it. But, though there’s something erotic about daring and, even uncomfortable, adventure, it was more fun. Frivolous. A bit of (not so) innocent fun.

Why not wank in the sea? A guy might leave unwanted substances in the water for the other (zero) swimmers, but my juices would be there whether I was coming, ahem, or going. No harm done. I came to a satisfying, though not mindblowing, orgasm and I felt incredibly content with myself. Like a child with a secret. A secret they tell everyone on the Internet.

Once I’d adjusted my cozzie, I tipped myself back and floated for a while. With my friends around earlier there’d been too much horseplay just to float, eyes closed. I’d have ended up with a dunking or a face full of seaweed. But now I could float and slowly drift, with the sun beating through my closed eyelids, turning my world into one of peachy-yellow warmth and weightlessness.

I grew up by the sea and I’m too wise not to open my eyes every now and again and check I wasn’t drifting out, but in the minutes at a time that I floated there, I felt supremely peaceful. I felt my body stretch and relax and revelled in my senses much more than during the supposedly more sensual bit of self-pleasure. By the time I decided to come back to the shore, it was like a beautiful non-religious religious experience. I was appreciating life.

I came out of the water feeling powerful, free, peaceful. I wish I could say it was the seawank that did it, but I think it certainly helped set me up for it. The daring, the childish glee, that laid the basis. It’s something I’d never have done if I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t disturb anyone, but I’m glad I had the opportunity. I recommend it, if you’re careful and you go in with no expectations.

Plus, that’s another masturbation location to add to my (short) list. Dear diary, things I’ve done: had a wank in the sea. ♦

Prime Time

♦ Dear everyone, welcome to my favourite pants. Oh, and I guess there’s me there too, but, y’know, whatever. The point is, these are just the best pants ever. And they’re not even for my gender.

Obviously, because they have robots on them. And girls only like ponies.

In any case, I remember that when I was a teenager I’d have been terrified to have been caught in pants like this. Full ass coverage? Ick, granny pants. Who cared about comfy? If people found out you weren’t cheese-wiring your own ass-crack, you were probably frigid. Best years of your life, eh? Ugh.

But I’ve tried thongs and briefs and French knickers and while they all have their place, my heart is well and truly set on that king of knickers: manpants. Sure, imitation boypants, the female underwear that just steals the style, are fine and comfy, but they so rarely have anything cool on them. But actual boxer-briefs, neither boxer nor brief, are covered in awesomeness (and cock jokes, but you can’t have it all).

And these are just the best I own. Motherfuckin’ Transformers.

Prime Time

You can only just see Optimus Prime there, because of the totally-subtle hand down my pants, but there’s also Hot Rod (there’s no way I’m calling him Rodimus Prime) and Ultra Magnus. Yup, they even themed which Autobots were going to be on there based on the Matrix of Leadership. I’m impressed.

But I’ve probably lost most of you now, so, er… Look! I’m totally touching myself! Rrowr! Who said geeks weren’t hot?

So, what are your favourite underpants like? What characters would you put on your ideal geeky (or otherwise) pair? ♦

Sinful Sunday

Cunt Colouring

Cunt Colouring

Click picture to embiggen.

♦ First things first. I didn’t draw this cunt, I just coloured it in. Yes, that’s right, today I spent a chunk of my afternoon colouring in in an actual colouring book as if I was eight all over again. And it was brilliant.

Because this colouring book isn’t fairies and dragons and swords (though I would totally still colour all those things). No, this the Cunt Colouring Book.

It’s a series of line drawings of real, actual vulvas of all sorts of shapes and sizes and idiosyncrasies that you can colour in at your leisure and it was originally designed for sex eduction back in the 1970s. The author and artist, Tee Corinne says:

“As adults many of us still need to learn about our external sexual anatomy. Colouring is a way for the child in each of us to revision and reclaim this portion of our bodies from which we have been estranged.”

I couldn’t agree more. I recently took Crush on a little tour of my vulva and vagina because, although he’s very used to touching me and making me feel good there, we realised he’d very little anatomical and technical knowledge of all the different names for all the different parts and so on.

So I sat down with a mirror to help me show him all the wonders of the pussyverse and noticed a startling thing. I didn’t really know that that’s what my own cunt looked like. I found myself drawn in by the wrinkles and folds and curves, the way it changed shape when I moved. Even I, someone very familiar tactilely with her cunt, was still in a way “estranged” from it.

I’d bought this book for a friend a few years back, but I decided I wanted one for myself and I’ve really enjoyed filling in the wriggly and flowing lines of the human vulva. So far, I’ve done a couple of “”outrageously” coloured cunts (a blue and yellow artsy one and a green-with-purple-pubes She Hulk one) as well as the more standard one shown above.

And I have to say I’m quite proud of my colouring here, with its delicate pinks and peaches that look almost like Raspberry Ripple. If I can find the appropriate pens and pencils, I want to do a nice, engorged, reddened one next and then experiment with skin tones different to my own. What’s strange is that I really do feel like I’m gaining a higher appreciation for the glorious cunt through this. I loved them before, of course, especially my own, but taking the care and attention to look at one with a careful eye is an enlightening experience which I wholly recommend.

If you’ve the inkling, try it and do show us all what you come up with. And if you’ve not, just settle for trying to absorb what this book teaches you: cunts are as varied as fingerprints and flowers, cunts are beautiful, powerful and far too glorious to be “perfect”, cunts are to be loved and looked after, cunts are not for shutting away and shaming, cunts are to be truly appreciated and to be proud of.

And, you know, if I’m feeling artistically brave in future, I may even try to draw my own to colour in! ♦


Slick Ceramic

Sinful Sunday is all about the image, this we know. But as Molly‘s often said, to paraphrase, that doesn’t mean you always have to get your bits out. This week, I think I’ve got an image that does subtle but sexy but slutty but sophisticated at the same time, I hope. And I haven’t got my bits out. I’ve just got a little evidence left over that I’ve got them out previously…

Slick Ceramic

Those are my legs and a hint of foot. Not a great deal of skin, you’ll agree, and not so titillating, perhaps, as other parts.

That’s my Lovemoiselle Aveline ceramic dildo. A beautiful, and fantastic-feeling thing that, when not in monochrome, is pure white with a delicate blue flower. The ultimate debasement and transformation of the pretty blue-and-white china plates of my mother.

And on the crisp, clean white of the ceramic? That, my dear, is my come. The slickness of my just-finished fuckfest-for-one. Spattered like single cream on the best dairy jug.

You don’t see much of me, but this picture feels dirty to me all the same. Dirty in a beautiful way, but dirty. For quite a while I wasn’t sure about showing it at all. Were my bodily fluids a step too far? Maybe despite the elegant black and white, you find this lurid, obscene, filth. Maybe it’s as dainty as a china flower. Tame like crockery.

However you find it, I’ve enjoyed showing so much of myself and so little all at once. An anonymising shot, and yet so intimate. Civil, but primal. A little pictorial dichotomy. And I like that. ♦



♦ If I were a “spiritual” sort of person, I’m pretty sure orgasms would be my religion. I don’t mean to be flippant here. It’s easy to make “Oh, God, oh, God” jokes or to make an offhand comment about worshipping wanking, but that’s not what I mean.

As I say, I’m not a “spiritual” person, but an orgasm honestly can be the closest thing I can think of to a spiritual revelation. It’s not that I feel “at one” with any kind of greater power, it’s that I feel (pun mostly certainly not intended, but jolly nonetheless) myself.

I’m talking about a solo orgasms here, though there’s a similar effect in outstanding sex. I’m alone with my body, often naked or mostly so, and no matter what fantasies or fripperies fill my head at the beginning of my masturbation, these thoughts close down as I get closer and closer to orgasm. My mind draws in and soon, almost in a meditative state, I’m not really thinking at all. My mind is only the feelings in my body. Thought is action. There is nothing but my journey and my destination.Meditation - A naked young woman in ecstasyWhen the orgasms hit, I’m a shuddering, gasping mess and yet focused so wholly on the sensations and the power of my body. I push my body to the extreme in seizing my pleasure.

I’m not a sporty type and so, for me, my masturbation marathon is almost a real one. I’m left shaking, heart pounding, gasping, head almost bursting, cunt twitching. And I know that, unfit, overweight, sedentary slacker though I am, my body is a powerhouse. My body can do wonderful things. I feel alive, connected to each nerve-ending in me. I’m energetic, yet serene. I buzz. I am blissful. The feeling of intense, loving orgasm is, for me, a(n atheist) numinous experience. It makes me wonder and it makes me exult. It is only even more amazing for me that it is what it is without any religious element at all.

Screw finding Jesus. Screw finding myself. I have my own meditation. ♦


A Purring Machine – 100 Orgasms

♦ I’m doing a little project that was suggested by the wonderful Bondara sex shop thanks to a very serendipitous misread of a title online. What project is this? Well, only to have 100 orgasms in 10 days and write some sexy things about my experiences .

It sounded ridiculous at first and then I thought, hey, that’s only ten a day. It’s totally doable and weirdly intriguing. So I mentally signed myself up. I hadn’t planned to start until the weekend but then I noticed: it’s apparently National Orgasm Day today. How could I not start today?

So, I shall be writing a series of different things about what I get up to in my quest for roughly ten orgasms a day. This blog post is the first. I don’t have a particular long-term plan in my head for this little series, as I’m quite looking forward to seeing what my orgasms inspire in me, what comes out if I go in with an open mind and a blank sheet.

Anyway, below is a bit of poetry based on orgasms one and two of 100: a wake-up wank on a dozy morning. Please let me know what you think!  2/100 ♦

Sleep seeps into my bones
Like hot water into a sinking teabag
My face is fire, eyes heavy, mind a cartwheel
Of wheeling bodies and sandbags

I haul myself to solitude, away from the buzz
Trudge and slump
My idle hand seeks to make a plaything of me
Hisses between white hills and grey cloud cover
To a slumbering country of pinks and troughs
Where it plays
Staccato rhythms, the lark ascending
My middle finger circles, a motorist on a starting handle
A dynamo whirring
Cranking, shooting a Tesla coil hum through my wires
Static shivers along once-sleeping skin

Or perhaps I play
The fireman to my traction engine
The stoker of my coals
I feed the furnace, steam seeps between my thighs
The boiler of my cunt builds and sends
Hot, damp power through my body
White fills my vision
My body shudders and shakes, reawakened
Reborn, renewed, replenished
Bolts fly from their housings
An engine explosion
A singing, ringing crescendo of steam and smoke and white-hot metal
A hissing hot leak

Fingerprints dance over sodden skin
An aftershock blooms large and causes
Tender flesh to tremble again
A second spike

Lightning: a modern Prometheus cries “Live!”
The fog of sleep lifts
Dawn hits and my nerves turn to busy industry
I wake for the first time since
Opening my eyes
And trundle, alert, a purring machine


♦ The both of us naked, I found my face pressed into his stomach and my arse being caressed by his rough palms. I had already slowly stripped him of his clothes and stroked his soft thighs. He had already grinned and laid back as I ran my fingers over his oh-so-silky cock. Now I planted kisses on his belly and flank as he turned caressing and light strokes into firm pats that threatened solid swats.

The spanking began in earnest, though our positions stopped too much force, and he made sure to stroke my behind lovingly between each blow. I liked that. It ramped up the anticipation and kept it intimate and somehow more filthy. More calculated, perhaps.

He snuck his free hand around to my clitoris and teased at me lightly, again hampered by the angle. Seeing a better strategy, he told me I should rub myself instead and keep rubbing until he said otherwise. I love to be made to touch myself beyond what I’d normally inflict on myself. I love the threat of punishment if I let up even for one moment, no matter my wishes.

So I started to rub. I plucked my clitoris into pleasure as he started to put his usual force into his spanks, hitting me hard but still giving me a comforting stroke in between each. My masturbating became more frantic with my rising excitement and so did his stroking of my bare behind; he now squeezed and grabbed a little as he stroked, almost possessive in his actions.

I was close to coming and begged out loud for release.

“May I come please, sir?” I said, adding the “sir” out of my own desire to be subordinate.

He leant into my ear and whispered a hasty “yes” to me, allowing me to relax into my climax, making me shudder with pleasure and release of not only tension, but built-up emotion too.

Of course, when I was done, it’s not like I could just stop touching myself. I had orders, a fact he seemed to enjoy reminding me of.

“That’s right, keep touching yourself,” he hissed as the spanking continued. I allowed the tender, heightened feeling of my sex to carry me along and soon I hit another orgasm, making me gasp and moan. The shock dying down, I asked if I could stop and he relented at last.

My recovery didn’t and couldn’t last long: he pulled at my legs, flipping me over onto my back. I was balanced awkwardly on a lump of duvet, but I didn’t care. I just wanted him inside me.

He pushed his cockhead against me, but my wet cunt offered little resistance and he soon sank in deep. I had wanted this this evening, but thought my earlier outburst of emotions had ruined my chances, so I was so, so glad to be getting what I wanted anyway.

He was, as usual, a little too big for comfort, which I absolutely love. I asked him for it slow but hard and deep, so that I could feel every delicious flash of feeling, every gorgeous millimetre of his cock opening me up, driving to my depths.

He thrust slowly into me, but getting that little bit faster with each stroke. I writhed and wriggled on his cock, feeling his chest with my hands whenever I wasn’t steadying myself. I came again, pushed into climax by the pounding of his cock just as he came inside me. I love doing that.

I pulled him close to me, buoyed up by my orgasm and our physicality but also by the emotions of this intimate act with him. So easy to forget that not long ago he was new to sex entirely, new to kink entirely, new to me entirely. When I see how far he’s come for me, I can forgive that we have a way to go and I see how much he loves me. If there was no other reason to love him, that’d be a pretty good start.

Luckily for me, I have plenty already. ♦

TMI Tuesday – M is for Masturbation

1. How often do you masturbate?

Oh, crikey, I don’t know! Less at the moment than I usually do. I’ve been suffering a bit of event comedown and that coupled with life being busy has left me in a less sexy mood recently than I’d like. Judging by the long weekend we just had, though, I’m well on the road to recovery! ;)

I guess I masturbate every few days roughly, sometimes more, sometimes less.

2. What are you doing to celebrate Masturbation month?

I was going to say absolutely nothing, but then I had a thought. What do you think I should do for Masturbation Month?

I masturbate fairly often, but I have a lot of toys so they don’t always all get the love they need. Maybe some kind of toy challenge? Perhaps I should take a photo? Show you some evidence? Make an audio? Write an ode to masturbation? Something else entirely?

What do you want to have me do for Masturbation Month? Hard limits aside, I’ll do the best one!

3. Do you like to watch your partner masturbate?
a. Yes, it turns me on.
b. Sometimes, because it gets my partner very aroused.
c. Not really, it’s boring.
d. No, it’s a turn off.
e. I’ve never experienced it but I’d like to.

Definitely. Crush is hot, wanking is hot, it’s a hot combination. I should do this more.

4. Do you let your partner watch you masturbate?
a. Yes, it turns me on to be watched.
b. Sometimes, because it gets my partner very aroused.
c. No, it’s embarrassing.
d. I’ve never experienced it but I’d like to.

Again, a hot combination. Though I’d say he listens more than he watches as it’s the noises that really get him going.

5. Mutual masturbation? Yay or Nay?

Not just “yay”, but yay! I mean, why on Earth would you say nay?

6. If you had an all-expense-paid trip to San Francisco to attend Masturbate-a-thon 2012 would you go and masturbate? Why or Why not?

Definitely. For a start, I’ve never been to America and San Francisco seems really awesome. I’d definitely take a detour via the Kink.com Armoury too. But not just because, hey, free trip abroad. Also because the Masturbate-a-thon is a great idea and I bet it’d be an amazing experience. It’d be better if Crush could come too,  of course.

Bonus: Are you addicted to masturbating?

No. And I’d say I never have been either. The problem I used to have, instead of addiction, was a fairly unhealthy binge/purge cycle as I was growing up. As I began to discover my sexuality I would have periods where I’d try to find what porn I could wherever I could and think filthy things and touch myself, but then I’d delete and destroy it all and feel horrendously ashamed and guilty. This lasted far longer than it should have, not helped by the fact that it soon turned into “Am I a lesbian?” fun.

Luckily, that’s all done with now. I have no shame or guilt any more. Nor should I. Nor should you. Masturbation, sex, sexual desires, different sexualities, different kinks, they’re all OK, provided you work within consent. As it should be.

Full Frontal Nerdity

♦ The 17th of September was a day I’ve been looking forward to for a little while now, because it’s Pretend to Be a Dinosaur Day. No, really. That’s actually a thing. And why shouldn’t it be? Dinosaurs are fucking-A.

We watched The Land Before Time and ate turkey dinosaur shapes and made stuffing into dinosaurs using cookie cutters. Then we ate those too. I didn’t buy Crush a cuddly dinosaur because I’d only recently got him our stegosaurus Steggy to go with Trymon, our triceratops. We stomped and growled and roared, but the best fun on this geektastic day came earlier on. I just have to tell you about it because it made my day (perhaps, my life) and you will honestly not believe how wonderful, romantic and completely bat-shit crazy my dear Crush is without it.

It was a weird, hilarious but sexy bit of oddity that made me realise yet again just how lucky I am to have him.

It was the middle of a lazy and rainy afternoon when Crush suggested we play a board game. Specifically, a sort of deck-building game using dice called Quarriors. Something odd in his voice caught me and I eyed him suspiciously. He’d been talking last weekend about playing strip boardgames and this one was mentioned then. He had a slight grin on his face that would have been easy to miss if I hadn’t remembered that.

“This wouldn’t be strip Quarriors, by any chance, would it?” I said.
“Yep,” he grinned.
“Oh, go on then,” I relied, not particularly fussed about getting slowly naked when my room was so chilly for the season.

I left to nip to the toilet and told him to find some music to put on. He chose the Baldur’s Gate 2 soundtrack he’d painstakingly made for me last Valentine’s. Geeky and romantic.

He unpacked the game, setting out thirteen cards with five dice in a baggy on each. I won’t go into the intricacies of the game here, but the strip-scoring would work as so: every time we got to a multiple of five points, our opponent would take off an item of clothing. We had four ‘items’ on each and the game ended at 20 points. I moved into an early lead, causing Crush to remove only his watch and socks. Disappointing. He pulled ahead in the mid-game leaving me in a bra and knickers, and then just knickers, while he was practically fully dressed. Strip gaming is so much easier for him. I have to score three times just to see any skin I wouldn’t see in public.

I’m not sure if it was the distracting nature of my unbound breasts that got to him or whether it was mad skillz or pure jamminess, but I suddenly picked up six points in one turn, leaving him having to take off two items at once and ending the game.

I perched on the edge of the bed as he got off the bed and nipped over to the computer. I suppose this should have struck me as odd but I’m so used to nipping off to fiddle about with something computery myself at odd moments that it didn’t register. The next few minutes were a daze of disbelief, laughter and sexiness. You’ll have to give my poor explanation because it really was a blur.

Suddenly, my speakers started to play stripper music… I recognised Tom Jones’ “You Can Leave Your Hat On” from The Full Monty blaring out as Crush turned on his toes and began to sway. I was gobsmacked as he began to slowly and teasingly lift up his t-shirt. I found the sudden burst of Obvious Cheesy Stripper Music hilarious and couldn’t help but laugh, as much as it was sexy. He wriggled the t-shirt to just under his nipples, paused and then pulled it off from behind his head, holding it over his chest.

He discarded it with a flourish and revealed – and I honestly kid you not – fucking circular dinosaur stickers covering his nipples like little pasties! At this point my jaw would have hit the floor if it weren’t shaking so much from laughter. Sexy, sure, but most of all unexpectedly brilliant and ridiculous! I bloody love this boy! Dinosaur pasties! From the dinosaur good behaviour wall chart I had bought him for a bit of fun.

Surely, he must actually be mad?

Mad and wonderful.

I was simultaneously rolling around almost in tears of laughter and watching avidly for his surprisingly good stripper moves at this point. Through bursts of laughter I apologised for finding it funny and told him it was also sexy, but hey, come on, this was supposed to be non-serious. He clearly had humour and allure in mind at the time.

He dropped to a crouch and pulled off his trousers one leg at a time, stocking style, displaying his characteristic lack of underwear, but leaving his package hidden artfully. He stood, swayed and with a final flourish tossed away the trousers, fully displaying himself and swaying his cock from his hips.

Then we had awesome mutual masturbation to celebrate how fucking awesome we are until I came all over his fingers and he covered my chest, neck and the inside of my mouth with his come. All the while, he was still wearing his little dinosaur stickers over his nipples. I loved that.

More than that, I love him. Hey, we’re not perfect and we rub each other up the wrong way sometimes. Sometimes I’m not sure our kink levels are greatly in sync. But, most of all, he is frickin’ amazing. How many guys would even think of doing that for their girlfriend, even if they knew she’d find it brilliant? And, to top it all off, he apparently thought of all that while I had nipped off to the loo, so spontaneous as well.

After the mutual masturbation was done all I could do was giggle and gaze into his eyes and tell him how daft he is and how romantic that was and how much I damn well love him. I still can’t quite believe he did it, but he did. And it was amazingly, unashamedly nerdy and romantic.

Crush, never stop being this wonderful and I will try my hardest to be all that you need and deserve. Also, rawr. That’s dinosaur for “I love you”. ♦

Showers and Strawberries

♦ Such a long week and so devoid of release. One little cog jams and suddenly, no sweet and soaring sex for me. Nothing but tantalising teases and the little preludes that normally swell into full-blown symphonies. A long, long week with no sex but plenty of sexuality, plenty of seduction, plenty of sinful talk and sensual snaps. It’s enough to drive a girl wild.

The frustration is immense. I can’t have what I want. I can’t dive into delirious and furious fucking. No throbbing cock ready to fill me up, no scratching and clawing and just taking what I need. And I need it. It’s all building up, up, up and something’s got to give. Pictures and words and sensations fill my head and the dull ache between my legs nags, refusing to go away.

A little ball of want.

The week ends and I return home weary but with naughty thoughts whispering in my head. Earlier I had wished I could just reach down my knickers and stroke the flesh that lies there, but circumstances had got in the way. Soon, I had thought, soon I’ll be free to do whatever I like to myself. Now here I am.

The perfect remedy for the hours upon hours of workaday life: a hot and steamy shower. I step in, my body tired and dragging with it a banality I’d hoped to leave at the door. With relief, I feel cascades of water hitting me, sloughing off the dust and dreariness, but leaving the tight feeling in my clitoris, now sharp as a whip. As I become clean and fresh, my energy rises and I reach for something soothing to slather myself in.

Strawberries. An ideal scent for filling my nostrils as I luxuriate in steam, self-indulgence and thoughts of you.

I cover myself in a strawberry slickness, stepping out of the stream so that it lingers on my naked body, a sweet pink liquid decorating my breasts, belly and thighs. Imagining the touch of your skin, I begin to stroke my own.

I run a hand down my thigh as the other lays momentarily upon my breast before beginning to explore it fully. I rub the strawberry gel into my skin as I imagine your hands, your gaze upon my increasingly excited and aroused body. When I have smoothed every bit but the last of the strawberry into my skin, I stop for a moment, listen to the heavy gush of the hot water and imagine in it your hot little breaths, your sighing gasps, your whispered curses and exultations.

The last of the strawberry has a special destination. I gather it up before snaking my hands one by one between my flushed-pink legs. Often I’ve enjoyed the feel of the slipperiness there as I wash myself, but now I know I’m going to make full use of it. With the heat of the water at my back, I stroke strawberry into every fold and crevice, sliding my fingers again and again over my pussy. You’re in my head as I run my fingers hand-over-hand between my thighs, my warm, wet sex pulsing with the clean-yet-dirty feel of the silky-smooth liquid.

I work myself into a frenzy, gasping as your most wicked words echo in my ears. My clitoris is full to bursting of frustrations waiting to be let loose.

I turn, plunging myself back into the water, planting my feet firmly at the sides of the shower, spreading my legs and holding on tight to the shower with one hand. Images of you deluge as surely and relentlessly as the water itself as I move the fingers of my right hand up from my folds and to my clitoris. You’re a slideshow. A zoetrope of lust. For now, at least, you’re an avatar of sex itself and I will prostrate myself at your altar.

My fingers work furiously at my clit, stroking the warm, sodding skin into ecstasy as all the tightness of a week’s torturous deprivation coils up ready to explode and dissipate. I hold on tight, the scent of strawberries mingling with my own, and I tumble shakingly into the first orgasm. Your skin, your fingers, your breath, your lust, my imagination bringing them to life and wrapping them around me, on me, in me.

I shudder, my orgasm racing through my body from clit to cunt and finger to toe. As it fades, I gasp. Before long I am cascading into another climax, stronger than the last, making my knees wobble. I hold on for dear life, nearly wrenching the shower contraption from the wall. As this second orgasm floods my body, I feel the last of the tightness and tiredness and tortuousness of my frustrations escape me. I needed this.

I needed to lose myself in a world of wetness, heat, sinfulness and strawberries and come out the other side fresh and shaking. Two warmths pulse through me now: that of the heat and that of post-orgasmic bliss. As thoughts of you lift from me like a broken spell, I blink and wake as if from slumber.

I turn off the shower and re-enter the world.

The scent of strawberries follows me for the rest of the evening… ♦

(This story now has its very own related naughty pictures of me here. Two pictures of my breasts both pre-shower and all lathered-up. )