Having said I’d probably not blog again or not for a while, here I am again! But I thought I should alert those who do look at this blog to something which might be of interest.

For those who don’t know, SSSH (short for Seamed Stockings & Stiletto Heels) was a very popular organisation or members club devoted to this subject, which published newsletters, magazines and videos and held occasional events where members could get together.

I was an active member for many years and regularly featured in their newsletters and magazines and in one of their videos. It was run by Paul – a very good photographer – and Vanessa, who has the loveliest, longest legs you could wish to see and who featured in all their videos and magazines.

From time to time I chatted with both and got to know them quite well and was due to do a photoshoot with Paul when I found I was pregnant and it never happened. Sadly, Paul died very suddenly, and Vanessa decided to close SSSH.

I (with a bit of help) have gathered together all the SSSH newsletters I could find and compiled them as a PDF eBook. There are 109 editions within the eBook (only one is missing), amounting to a whopping 368 pages all packed with photos submitted by members or taken by Paul. As a rough estimate I think there are over 2,000 photos and they’re a rich mix of professional style shots and amateur submissions and even some art work.

Rather than let it sit on the electronic shelf, I thought we could make this fantastic, historically significant, publication available to all and raise some money for charity so I will send a copy to anyone donating £10 (or more, if you wish) and 100% of any money raised will go to charity.

If you would like a copy, please email me at emmainheels@gmx.com or just use PayPal using the same address to make payment and please send the money as a gift, so 100% will go to charity, without PayPal taking a slice. Please also let me know your email address if you make payment direct, so I can send you your own copy to enjoy.

I wanted to let you know that my most recent blog post, uploaded earlier today, may well be my last for some time or even simply the last. There are several reasons for this.

First, writing and composing the blog and selecting appropriate photographs to accompany each one does take quite a considerable amount of time, and I feel my time could be better spent on other things. Second, although I know a lot of people enjoy reading the blog (and I’ll come on to some of the statistics which prove this, below) the level of feedback in terms of comments or direct emails has been disappointing. Third, as I am now a lot less sexually active than I have been over the past 40 years or so, there is a lot less to say about current adventures and I have found myself delving more and more into the past in the blogs I have published recently, as you may well have noticed.

I recognise and appreciate that the number of people visiting the blog each day continues to be very strong and increases year on year. Last year the bog had 218,703 visits. This year, to the end of November, there have been over 270,000, an increase of 23%. If I extrapolate to the end of the year the total should be around 295,000, an increase of 35%.

Given this level of interest I have considered turning all 136 the blog posts into a single ebook, available for purchase and with all of the proceeds going to charity and this is something I might do in the future (and my thanks to David at SHQ for encouraging me to do this) but it would require a lot of editing to get it into a shape to make a coherent read, not least because much of the text refers to photographs in the blog which would not be reproduced in an ebook. If anyone fancies having a crack at turning the entirety of the blog into a single document, I am willing to consider this so please get in touch if you would like to do this.

By complete coincidence, my very first blog post was uploaded on the 30th of November 2018, exactly seven years ago to the day. I have enjoyed writing it and I have enjoyed the obvious pleasure it has given to many people. Thank you for your support and feedback over the past seven years and particular thanks to all those who have been kind enough to send me a gift of fully fashioned stockings (or in some cases, many pairs). I will continue to keep in touch with all those kind individuals, they will continue to have access to all of my videos as a small “thank you” and I will continue to do online chats with some of that group of people, who I consider to be my “in a circle”.

If it’s not too early to do so, I would like to end both wishing everyone a happy Christmas and a prosperous new year – may it be filled with orgasms a lot of spunk.

When I wrote a recent blog about attending Christmas parties ‘fully tackled up’ in the past I was tempted to write about Giles, as we had dinner shortly before Christmas on two occasions, but that blog was already getting too long and, in any case, I had dinner with him at other times in the year between those two dates.

Anyone sitting in the hotel restaurant where we met might have thought nothing of it, other than to note the considerable age difference, as he was mid 50s but looked older to be blunt (that rather florid face and jowls that suggests too much claret and brandy) and I was in m y early 20s. A father and daughter, perhaps or uncle and niece enjoying a convivial meal? Although if they looked closer, probably not, as Giles liked me to dress somewhere between a naughty schoolgirl and a sexy secretary and so for our meetings I always wore seamed stockings and stiletto heels and a black quarter cup bra beneath a fine white blouse, nipples pumped and hard, with slightly flared skirts, a little like a longer netball skirt. Perhaps other diners would think the boss and his secretary, having an affair but to be honest no one paid us much attention.

However, if they had got close enough to overhear our conversation they would have realised that things were rather different because Giles had a particular format which always applied, a sort of Q&A in which he would ask me a question I would give a very short, often one word reply and he would comment about that and then ask his next question.

Obviously, this was a very long time ago and over the course of the five or six dinners we had together he must have asked me hundreds of questions but I can remember many of them and so I can give you a flavour of how our little Q&A sessions went.

Do you deliberately display your large breasts in public so as to excite men?

Yes.

So, you admit that you are what is known as a prick teaser?

Yes.

That’s very wicked of you. Have you ever had sex with a married man?

Yes.

That’s reprehensible. Do you enjoy oral sex?

Yes.

Dirty girl. And do you spit or swallow?

Swallow.

Filthy. Have you ever had sex with more than one man in the same day?

Yes.

You really are a very naughty girl, aren’t you?

I suppose.

There’s no suppose about it. You were extremely naughty. Have you ever had sex in public?

Yes.

That’s risky. Do you always practise safe sex?

No.

You don’t always use condoms?

No, I prefer without.

That’s absolutely filthy and very risky, it’s girls like you that spread infection. Have you ever allowed a man to ejaculate on your face?

Yes.

Often?

Yes, quite often.

And you enjoy it?

Yes.

You really are a wanton slut, aren’t you?

If you say so.

I do say so. You can’t deny it. You’re dirty, a slut, and you need to be taught a lesson.

Yes. You will do that.

I will. Don’t you doubt it. You need correcting. Have you ever traded sexual favours an exchange for something from a man?

Yes.

Money?

Yes.

You’re a harlot.

And so it went on. On occasions there was a quasi-religious tone to his commentary. For example, when I answered one question in the negative but honestly he refused to believe me and said that if I wished to be forgiven for my sins and to achieve redemption I needed to be honest and confess to all the sinful things I had done.

As you might imagine this back and forth left him increasingly aroused and by the time the waiter was asking if he wanted a coffee or a Brandy he could barely contain himself but I have to be honest and acknowledge that I was also extremely turned on too, wet, nipples rock hard and ready for my orgasm because I knew what was about to follow and as I have explained in a previous blog post I was at this time very much into being spanked.

You can read that one here:

Moonglow

So at this point, we moved upstairs to his hotel room. He insisted I walk in front of him both so that he could get a good view of my seams and heels but also so as to shield him somewhat as he attempted to disguise his erection.

When we got do his room it was straight down to action. He sat on a sofa and pulled me over his knee, took down my knickers and began to spank me.

I should explain that when it comes to spanking there is spanking and then there is spanking, by which I mean in many cases it is rather performative and the man is aroused simply by the fact that he is able to slap a woman’s bottom. However, this was not the case with Giles. He spanked me so hard that his hand was almost as swollen and bruised as my buttocks. In fact, so much so that after our first spanking session I even suggested that he might like to wear a leather glove so as to protect his hand and allow him to spank me even harder and for longer but while he thanked me for the suggestion (which only served to further confirm to him that I was an experienced whore) he said he liked to feel his hand singing after a hard spanking session.

On the one hand, and in contrast to many of the other men with whom I had “punishment” sessions, Giles never showed any interest in caning, belting or whipping me. His sole focus was on spanking and only spanking. But on the other hand, this was the hardest spanking I ever received. He spanked me without stopping for about two or three minutes at a time, then he would pause and while rubbing my buttocks and ask me another question.

Did your father spank you?

No.

Well, there we have the problem. He should have done.

Did he ever see you going out dressed like harlot?

Yes, often

And he did nothing to stop you? It seems to me he liked seeing his daughter dressed like a whore.

No, that not true …

And then he’d start to spank me again, harder still for answering back and the pattern would be repeated again and again for about half an hour. When he was finished my backside was a bright deep red and very swollen and it would take at least a week for it to return to something like normal. He spanked me so hard that there were times when I tried to get him to stop, at least for a few moments but of course he was having nothing of this. On one occasion, when it was too much for me, I began reaching back with my hands to try and stop the blows but this only seemed to excite him even further. He started to talk about limits and thresholds and how it was only by pushing on through one’s own limits that one truly understood things and correction could be achieved and the moral compass reset or at least that’s what I think he said but I was in so much discomfort I didn’t really focus too much on his Babble I was just happy to have bought some time. It didn’t really work because he removed his tie and used it to tie my hands together behind my back and then went back to work on my backside and he clearly enjoyed listening to me howling in pain and sobbing, begging for his mercy but knowing there would be none. Of course, I had volunteered for this treatment and knew full well what to expect so my protestations, while genuine, also hollow.

With the spanking complete he placed me face down on the sofa and stood behind me. He unzipped his trousers and shortly after I felt his spunk splashing and dripping down onto my glowing buttocks and then he massaged it into the bruised and broken skin. Then, and as directed by me, he inserted two fingers inside me, noting how sopping wet I was by this point, and with his other hand grasped one of my nipples and pulled it hard. I had taught him that this was how I would almost instantly achieve my orgasm and I always did when we met.

Why did I do it? Looking back now I can see that it was clearly a phase I was going through, although it was a phase which lasted many, many years. For most of the time it was a relatively mild kink for me but there was a deeper phase, which I’ve written about in this blog before, where things became much more intense for me, to the point where I found it quite difficult to become fully aroused and to orgasm readily unless I was restrained or spanked or more or some combination of these things. And sometimes this was difficult to fully experience with boyfriends of my own age some of whom simply refused to play the way I wanted and so I tended to gravitate towards a much older set of men, men who were devoted to spanking and caning women (and to be blunt, men who were willing to pay quite considerable sums of money for the opportunity to indulge their fetish).

So, why did I stop? To be clear, I didn’t actually stop being handcuffed, spanked and so forth at least not until many years later when my much more dominated side emerged but I did move away from spending almost every weekend being severely spanked by men such as Giles. In fact, he was one of the people that made me realise I needed to get my spanking fetish under control or rather some of the things he said did so, because I began to think about limits and borders and about being taught a lesson and learning not to be such a dirty slut, so perhaps he was right that my father should have taught me some of those lessons when I was much younger.

Giles was extremely disappointed when I told him after our final hotel spanking session that it would be our last because I was the best subject he had ever met and he pleaded with me to carry on and promised less severe treatment if that was what I wanted but I knew that for him it was the severity of the spanking he delivered and seeing my buttocks bright red and turning purple by the time he had finished and his own hand glowing and swollen, I knew that was what did it for him and anything less would always be a disappointing compromise. In the end, he was very gracious and even generous to me. A gentleman, you might say, although one who loved to make women suffer and hear them howling with pain and sobbing for it to stop.

These two sets of photos (actually still frames from two of my videos) are the only ones in this blog post of me. In the first set I’m being spanked by my husband after he ‘caught’ me having sex with another man – we’d set it up so I would be caught and punished – and in the second set he is spanking me as he fucks me, as this brought me quickly to orgasm.

… for services to prostate health (and sperm destruction) …

After my last blog about prostate ‘flushing’ through ejaculation, I was asked how many hand ‘relief’ sessions I have delivered. The honest answer if that I don’t know exactly, although for a time I did keep a record each year, so I have some reasonable estimates.

I’m taking as the starting point for these calculation June 2010 as that’s when I really got ‘into’ the whole Masturbatrix thing. Of course I had given hand jobs before then, hundreds of times I would think, but it was from the middle of that year that I actively sought out opportunities to masturbate men, so I am only counting the last fifteen years or so.

Over those years I probably gave my husband ‘relief’ about 3 times a week and my boss 2 to 3 times a week, so I’ll take a conservative estimate of five times a week or 260 times a year. Now obviously I was also providing ‘relief’ to other men and as I said in my last blog, in 2018 I did over 300 and in 2019 I completed close to 400 so if the bottom end of a reasonable range is about 5 times a week, I’ll say the top end is about 7 times a week.

Doing some simple maths this means I was doing between 260 and about 360 hand relief sessions every year, which over15 years equates very roughly to between 4,000 and 5,500 cock milking sessions.

Speaking of milking, the average human ejaculation is about 5 milliliters, which means I have extracted about 1.3 to 1.8 litres of semen a year (or 2.3 to 3.2 pints if you prefer imperial measures). I actually believe it was much, much more because: (a) I asked the cock owners to abstain from ejaculation for as long as possible prior to their ‘relief’ and to edge themselves daily beforehand and my most regular ‘subjects’ – my husband and my boss – didn’t ejaculate at all between their ‘relief’ sessions and (b) I very much favour really heavy cummers, so many of the men I masturbated produced seminal volumes considerably greater than the average but, nevertheless, I’m sticking with the average to keep the numbers conservative.

Multiplying this up over 15 plus years means that I extracted, as a minimum, between 20 and 28 litres of semen or between 34 and 49 pints of spunk, or if you wish more than 6 gallons at the top of that range. Wow! I’d love to have even one gallon of spunk to play with right now!

Even more amazing is to think of the number of sperm I have removed while pursuing my hobby as a Masturbatrix. There is a very wide range for the estimated number of sperm in an average ejaculation but to keep things simple I’ve taken the middle of the range provided by the Open University (biology degree course) of 1.1 billion, which means that over the last 15 years or so I am responsible for extracting and destroying about 4 to 5.5 trillion sperm.

One can say each of those sperm was capable of fertilizing an egg and creating life, but I would argue that they were all worthless, served no useful purpose and it was much better to drain them from the cock owners and give those men intense pleasure, often the most intense they have ever experienced. In fact you might say I have been a noble charity worker and deserve to be beatified as a saint, although the image of a saint spattered with loads of spunk and with a big smile of her face is not one normally found in religious iconography.

Recently, a good friend of mine was diagnosed with prostate cancer and I have to say his condition is very serious as the cancer had spread before his diagnosis.

This has led me to do some reading about this very common condition. You may wonder what this has to do with a blog intended to describe the experiences and adventures of a highly (some would say overly) sexed woman. But bear with me, as there is a relevance and my reading has led to a change in my relationship with my husband.

In a landmark study, researchers at Harvard University followed over 30,000 men for nearly 20 years. They found that men who ejaculated more frequently, about 21 times a month or more, had up to a 33% lower risk of developing prostate cancer. One commentator said, “I know 21 times a month might sound like a high number, but for many, it’s a healthy and regular frequency”.

So, why does this work? The explanation is simple. Regular ejaculation acts like a cleanse for the prostate. Think of it as an internal cleanup. Each time you’re helping flush out old secretions, dead cells, and potential toxins that could build up in the gland and cause inflammation or damage over time. The Harvard study concluded that the health benefit lies in the frequency of ejaculation itself, whether with a partner or through masturbation. Of course, you will know from my blog that I don’t see those two as mutually exclusive, as I enjoy masturbating my husband and other men.

The beauty of this method is that it works naturally without the need for medications. To be clear regular ejaculation is not intended to negate the value of a PSA test and digital rectal exams when appropriate and of course you should never ignore symptoms and should consult a GP if in any doubt at all.

How does this link to this blog and to how I now treat my husband?  As I have said many times before, I truly enjoy masturbating men. I have done it thousands of times with dozens and dozens of men, and I always get a thrill from giving a man “hand relief” and I believe that I am extremely good at it almost intuitively, but also as a result of so much practice. I have even described myself as a ‘Masturbatrix’ or a ‘relief worker’.

I also love seeing a lot of seminal fluid flying or flowing from a nice hard cock and I enjoy being splattered with lots of spunk (I don’t really know why this is but I just accept it is how I feel, just as I don’t know why I prefer one colour over another but I do) and with this in mind I would ask men to abstain if possible before a relief session and to edge themselves frequently before our appointment, so as to increase both the volume and the power of their ejaculation. However, I now realise that at least for older gentlemen this may have been a mistake if it was building up cells which ought to be removed, flushed out (albeit I certainly then removed every last drop during our sessions) so in future I will suggest less delay and accept lower volume and less powerful ejaculations.

How then does this relate to my husband? Again, if you’ve been reading this blog, you probably know we have an unusual sex life together but as there are now 133 posts here I know it can be hard for newer visitors to navigate to specific ones so I will briefly explain our situation.

Some years ago, I gave up my more promiscuous lifestyle and found a single black man to be my regular sexual partner. At the same time and wishing to ramp up the humiliation for my cuckold husband, I banned full sexual intercourse for him and told him he’d need to be content with just oral and hand relief. A little later I also stopped giving him oral sex as I realised it would deepen his humiliation still further knowing that while he would never again put his penis in my mouth I would quite happily get down on my knees before other men and give them glorious, sloppy, deep throat blow jobs and swallow all the ejaculate they had to offer.

Once his only form of sexual pleasure with me was though ‘hand relief’ I decided to impose one further restriction, which was to ban him from masturbating. In other words, the only way in which he could experience any form of climax was by my own hands alone (eventually, always gloved, so I could honestly say I’d not even touched his penis for years). Now, I know you are asking yourself, how on earth could I prevent my husband from masturbating and that is a good question but I was usually able to tell when he had ‘cheated’ on me this way and when I suspected this I imposed a hand relief ban of a week or more and he would be reduced to begging me for my service and so learnt to do as he was told. Now he was completely under my control and would do almost anything I asked in exchange for ‘relief’.

I went through a phase of doing a lot of relief sessions. In addition to my husband I was working for a man for whom I had promised relief each time I went into the office (about two or three times a week, on average) and I did (and still do) some ‘cheeky barter’ where tradesmen I had found willing to do jobs for me without any cash changing hands but with ‘hand relief’ as ‘payment’ and, later, I did some ad hoc work for a man who operates a used luxury and classic car business and some of his best clients discovered that in the right circumstances, a ‘test drive’ could include some road side ‘relief’ too. And of course, I occasionally met up with a select number of my admirers either for straight relief or for photos followed by sperm extraction.

In fact, I became such a prolific Masturbatrix I even set myself a numerical target. After exceeding three hundred in 2018 I set myself a target to deliver four hundred relief sessions in 2019 and although I didn’t quite get there, I get close enough, averaging more than one per day throughout the year and I was proud of that. 2020 looked even more promising but then Covid struck and along with many other plans, that one went out of the window.

My husband was pressing me to turn professional: offer it as a service, with price being the only determinant of who was selected for milking. He might later come to regret this suggestion, as you will see. However, I did consider it for a time because I was loving not only the act itself but the whole scenario including the dressing up part: what outfit did the cock owner want, what uniform to wear today and so forth and as there were hundreds, perhaps even thousands of men asking if a relief session might be possible, I knew there was considerable demand and excellent money to be made doing something I really enjoyed. We even went so far as to look at premises (a clinic which had previously been occupied by a podiatrist) with an outline plan that I would work there two days a week seeing five or six ‘clients’ each day. My husband loved the idea of me coming home from work absolutely splattered with loads of spunk, my ‘Miss Massage’ overall soaked and needing him to take it off me and washing and ironing it for my next shift! It didn’t happen, as the landlord decided he wanted rent for each week in full and anyway I got cold feet about what was really a hobby of mine becoming a job instead.

But as my husband pressed more and more for me to turn my fun hobby into lucrative work I turned the table on him and said if he considered me to be a sex worker, I would now treat him like any other ‘punter’. From that point on, I insisted if he wated ‘relief’ he had to book an appointment with me and he had to pay me in cash. Initially I charged £100 per session (that was with a substantial loyalty discount), which I subsequently increased to £150 (‘cost of living crisis, darling, haven’t you heard?’) but later agreed he could obtain ‘relief’ even without an appointment but only with a fee supplement of £50, meaning if he felt the horn and needed to cum he had to pay me £200.

I know by now you must be feeling sorry for him and thinking what kind of a bitch charges her husband a fee for sexual pleasure and treats him as if he is some anonymous client. And you’re right, it is odd, I’ll admit. But ask him and he will tell you that when I get back from my sex partner’s house and wrap my gloved hand around his cock and, as I slowly stroke him to climax, mock his little cock and complain about how his ejaculation is now no more that “a pathetic dribble” and describe the tremendous sex I’ve just enjoyed and how I have been stretched and pounded and pumped full of spunk by my black stud, he will tell you it’ s the best feeling in the world and worth all the money he possesses.

Why is any of this relevant to where we began, thinking about prostate health and its opposite? Because having done my research, I have completely changed the arrangement with my husband. Rather than ration him, rather than make him book an appointment with me and pay to play and rather than forbid him from masturbating, we have a new agreement. He still has to pay me as I don’t believe in granting him freebies and any way he enjoys the idea that I’m just like a regular whore but now he pays £2,000 a month and in return I give him gloved hand relief when ever he asks for it, with a minimum of 20 times a month capped at a maximum of 25 times and he is permitted to masturbate on any of the days when I’m not servicing him, so his prostate is flushed out almost every day.

Of course with this new level of frequency I could spend much of my days getting dressed up for him, doing my make up and then giving long, slow stroking to climax sessions and I’m not prepared to do that so instead he has accepted that there will be more fast and brutal hand action, in which my aim will be to pump him dry as quickly as possible and then get back to other tasks or watching TV etc. In fact, one method we have found works well is that we put some of my videos on the TV or my computer and as we watch some and discuss them, I work his cock hard with my hand and he seems to cum very quickly this way.

I know this blog has become far too long, so let me get back to the central message. It is healthy for you to ejaculate frequently. Daily or more if you can. And it may be unhealthy to abstain, even though I know this intensifies the sensation and gives bigger and more powerful ejaculations. I hope my photos may give you the material you need for daily ejaculation, but I cannot recommend my videos strongly enough for this purpose. There are 104 to view, so many hours or even weeks of stimulation and in exactly half of them (by chance I might add) I am filmed providing hand relief, almost always in seamed stockings, high heels, boots, uniforms, leather, PVC etc. Yes, you need to gift me some stockings to gain access if you have not already done so but I am so certain you will find great value in them that if you obtain access and decide they’re not enough for you and you let me know this within 24 hours, I will refund the cost of the stockings, so you simply cannot lose!

But most importantly, please ask a lady for some hand relief or get wanking and flush your prostate for a longer and healthier life!!!

Here is a little clip from one of my videos, showing me flushing a prostate gland …

In my last blog I described going to an office Christmas party with a very young man who had a passion for much older women wearing stockings and heels (hence why I was invited to be there) and he told me an interesting story about meeting a much older lady in a pub and over time becoming more than friends with her.

I was going to recount what he told me in the previous blog but it would have become too long and taken us away from the theme of that blog, which was about going to Christmas parties and getting down on my knees and fellating my host (and sometimes others!).

This was his experience with that woman. He was in a pub near Oxford Street in London with a friend for a lunchtime drink and as they were getting to leave, and he went to get his card from behind the bar a lady walked in by herself.  She was in her mid-to-late 50s, he thought, quite heavily made up and he later noted she was reasonably ‘chesty’ and she was in quite high heels.

As he stood at the bar, she turned to him and said she felt a bit self-conscious about being in a pub having a drink on her own. He said he would be happy to have a drink with her if she felt more comfortable and so they sat together and chatted. She was there for a beauty treatment nearby which someone had given her as a gift and she’d arrived very early, hence the pub visit. The gift had been intended to cheer her up as she was having a bad time due to a messy divorce.

They got on well, had another drink and when it was time for her to go, he said he’d like to see her again and asked for her phone number and he said she seemed intrigued by his interest and after some hesitation, she gave it to him.

Thereafter they spoke on the phone a few times. He said at first, she was a bit hesitant, cautious as he pressed her to meet him again and eventually, she asked why he was interested in her, so he explained his considerable attraction to good looking, mature women and he told her he thought she was very sexy. However, still she didn’t agree to meet again but on another call she asked what else he found attractive in women, other than their age (which I thought was a good question), so he confessed his almost obsessive interest in women wearing stockings and heels and asked if she ever wore them.  She said yes, of course on occasions, parties, date nights, special occasions like weddings and so forth. She asked him “If I meet you again, am I expected to wear them?” and he had the presence of mind to assure her this was not the case, that he’d just be happy to see her again and continue their chat.

They met again in the same pub and after a while she lifted one of his hands and placed it on her thigh and he felt the suspender belt straps – she was wearing fishnet stockings and high heel boots. He raised the idea of being useful or serving her and she liked the idea and a few weeks later he visited her house and did a few jobs for her, cleaning, fixed some lights and so forth. She was wearing stockings and boots again and he loved it when she stood over him and told him what she wanted doing next. When all the little jobs were done, she told him she had one more task for him to perform, took him upstairs to her bedroom, took off her knickers and went on all fours on the bed and told him she wanted ‘servicing’.

This became their thing for some months, always with a bit of mild domination to begin with and then up to the bedroom for sex and he said she was incredibly sexy, always ready for it and it was one of his best experiences. However, she called a stop when she patched things up with her husband and he moved back into their home, and my friend never saw her again.

I was fascinated by his experience and let him tell his story more or less as I have just summarized it. When he finished, I asked if he was looking for a similar arrangement with me and, not surprisingly, he said this would be a dream come true for him. I quickly put him right on one point: that there was no question of my having full penetration sex with him and I explained the arrangement I have with my boyfriend/sex partner (aka the Black Stud). But I also assured him that I would have no problem in providing a young man like him with “hand relief” and to reinforce the point, I managed to find a quiet room at the party venue and invited him to join me there. There was no lock on the door but we rested one of the tables being stored there against the door and it felt secure enough for him to drop his trousers and for me to get to work extracting his sperm and semen.

Subsequently we did discuss whether he might come to my house to do some jobs for me, accepting ‘relief’ as a form of payment and perhaps me giving him a taste of my riding crop, cane or bull whip but I think my interest in punishing him, with a bit of whipping and kicking may have put him off as, for whatever reason, this never happened and I’ve not seen him since that Christmas party.

Although I won’t be doing much if any of this sort of thing this year, in the past I was frequently invited to Christmas parties by some of my more ardent admirers and I enjoyed attending some of these. The type of party varied considerably, from your regular office Christmas bash which I attended as the ‘plus one’ companion to events at ‘swingers or ‘couples’ clubs and, a few times, at fetish clubs in London. The only constant was that I would always be asked to wear a suspender belt, my ‘signature’ fully fashioned stockings and some very high heels (or boots).

I went to one office party with a very young admirer and as all the staff from his office were there, my outfit needed to be at the more subdued end of the scale of possibilities but as you can see from these photos I did wear seams and heels and I managed to allow a few wrinkles to develop in my nylons as I knew he really liked this little detail.

I have to say it was a great party, no expense spared, including limitless Champagne and he was a lovely, polite host. Given our age gap – I was more than twice his age and old enough to be his mother – I did wonder if he might feel a little self-conscious about bringing me as his ‘plus one’ and whether his colleagues might think it rather odd. However, when I asked him about this he laughed and said he wasn’t worried, firstly because he thought I looked more than a decade younger than my actual age (such flattery will get a young man just about anywhere!) and, secondly, because his immediate colleagues and friends at work all knew that he has a strong preference for mature women.

He told me an interesting story about meeting a much older lady in a pub and over time becoming more than friends with her but as I’m trying to remain ‘on theme’ for once, I’ll recount his experience in a separate blog for you.

Of course, whether I was dressed appropriately for an office party or for one at a sex club, I would always be wearing a suspender belt and stockings and no stockings crazy man (i.e. about 99% of all men) can resist the arm around the waist to feel the outline of the belt and once on the dance floor I expected their hands all over my legs and thighs and to feel the lovely bulge in their trousers to be pressed against me. Given my figure and especially if I was wearing a ¼ cup bra or even no bra at all, there would be plenty of ‘above the waist’ action going on too but as my breasts and nipples are extremely sensitive, I’d usually make no effort to stop them giving them some attention too.

Another of my party outfits, which clearly showed the outline of my suspender belt

I used to go to a party each year with a man who liked to see me dancing with other men and he’d sit back and watch as I was being felt up on the dance floor and he even encouraged some of his friends to dance with me and explore my figure. More about him in a moment.

I have always been of the view that if I go on a date with a man and I dress provocatively – seamed stockings, high heels, maybe something which chimes with the description ‘busty’ – then it would be unfair and unreasonable to send them home hard, frustrated and dribbling pre-cum. These days I’m a bit less of a slut than I was in the past, so I tend towards offering ‘hand relief’ to deal with this issue in such situations, should it arise but in the past I was a prolific cock gobbler and to be honest, at times I used to think that any party which did not involve getting on my knees and taking it in the mouth didn’t feel like a real party at all. In fact, I used to sometimes say – half jokingly – that it’s not a real party unless I left with the taste of Champagne and sperm mingled in my mouth.

One of my more daring party outfits – it didn’t take long at this one before I was on my knees!

Naturally at some Christmas parties it wasn’t always easy to find a suitable private space for this (unless my host was staying at a hotel) and as well as spending quite a bit of time in the toilets (and here’s a quick tip: the disabled toilet is more often than not the one to go for) I found myself sucking off men in car parks, alley ways, bus shelters and even once under the flyover in Hammersmith.

No such problem exists at the sex clubs however and getting down on my knees and slurping away on a big hard cock as people, gather around to watch has been a considerable pleasure for me in the past. At one club, they have a stage by the dance floor with a large throne style chair and on one occasion I popped my host down in that chair and ‘performed’ on stage, demonstrating my deep throat skills and as he was about to climax he pulled it out and unloaded on my face. It was an impressively large and thick load (presumably why he whipped it out, the show off!) and we gained a small round of applause. He was so pleased with himself for his Peter North style performance that he stopped me from licking off his spunk and instead walked around the club with me and even took me over to the bar, with my face splattered with his thick cum. What the barman made of this I don’t know but he served us two drinks without comment.

I mentioned earlier the man who liked to see me dancing and being felt up by other men. I went to a Christmas party at a sex club with him every year for five years and he always liked me to wear the tartiest of outfits possible – “the tartier the better” he said. One year he introduced me to a friend of his and encouraged us to have fun on the dance floor. Cutting the story short a little, this friend of his was overwhelmed with excitement and couldn’t keep his hands off me. It got a bit OTT and at one point he got his cock out and pulled my hand down to hold his erection. Then my host came over and whispered in my ear that he’d like to watch me suck his guy off before servicing him in the same way. I wasn’t too sure about this but after a bit of persuasion and negotiation I did it, first his friend while he sat watching and then him.

When I went to these parties, my husband knew what I was getting up to and not only fully approved but gave me carte blanch to do as I wished. As I’d often not return home until the early hours, he’d have gone to bed but our agreement was that I’d wake him and usually I’d be pretty drunk and I enjoyed describing in detail what I’d got up to that evening, and we’d often have terrific sex as I did so and, to be honest, by this point I would be gagging for it. But he often liked to start with oral, knowing that’s what I’d been doing a few hours earlier. He was incredibly excited when I told him about the double blow job at the club and naturally insisted I gave him the same service before he put me up on my hands and knees and gave me a seeing to while telling me what a dirty slut and a whore I was.

As we were about to fall asleep he asked me how it felt to have sperm from three different men in my stomach. I think he may have expected me to say I felt ashamed at my whorish behaviour and that I regretted gulping down three loads of spunk but I didn’t, so I told him how I honestly felt – fantastic. And I slept like a baby that night.

I was asked recently what my favourite blog post is and I said, this one. I’ve added a little to the introduction, for context as some people were shocked by my experience, perhaps forgetting that this happened a very long time ago.

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This is a ‘true’ story insofar as it is loosely based on a genuine experience I had at school when I was 16 or 17. It didn’t happen exactly like this but not too far off but I have injected a little humour, which was not present in reality while I was being spanked, caned and ‘made’ to perform oral sex. Of course, today my headmaster would be put in prison but back then there were a number of sexual relations between members of staff and some of the more ‘mature’ girls. Mores were different then and we shouldn’t always apply a 2025 judgmental lens to events which took place almost half a century ago.

“Come in”
“Ah … hello, headmaster, Miss Price told me to come and see you.”
“Yes, I know. Come in Emma and sit down. You’re in trouble again aren’t you? What was it this time?”
“Ah … well, I don’t really .. I mean ….”
“Perhaps if you have forgotten I can remind you, as Miss Price has already informed me. She caught you performing fellatio on Rob, the grounds man, didn’t she, Emma?”
“I’m not sure sir”
“Not sure? Perhaps you’re not familiar with that term but I’m told you’re more than familiar with the act itself. Do you know where the word comes from? It comes from fellātus, which in Latin is the past participle of the verb fellāre, meaning to suck.”
“I don’t think Mr Griffin has taught us that one in our Latin classes, headmaster”
“Don’t be smart, Emma. You know what this means, don’t you?”
“No, headmaster”
“It means you have a choice: either we tell your parents and let them deal with the matter or you choose corporal punishment here and now. Once again, I might add”
“Oh God, sir, not the cane again”
“Yes, the cane – six strokes. And I’d thank you not to take Our Lord’s name in vain again”
“Yes, sir. Sorry sir”
“Tell me, in detail, what happened”
I give him the briefest summary possible and express my regrets and promise there’ll be no repetition. I have my fingers crossed as I recant. But he wants detail, lots of detail. Did he force me? Did he pay me? Did he climax? When he came, did I swallow? How much semen did I have to swallow? How old was I when I first performed this act? How many men have come in my mouth in this way? Was I wearing the same stockings and suspender belt I have on now? Why am I not wearing a bra?
I notice he has his right hand in his pocket and appears to be stroking a very solid erection. Seeing my opportunity I say “Perhaps it would be easier if I was to show you exactly what I did sir.”
“Yes, yes, perhaps it would.”
I unzip him and get to work.
“My goodness, you really are good at this Emma, aren’t you? Pity there’s no ‘O’ Level in giving O, eh?” and he allows himself a chuckle. I take his entire length in my mouth, gagging at first as the head slides down my throat and then I up the pace and his whole body is rigid with tension, his breathing becoming faster and faster and then he shoots his seed into my mouth and down my throat.
As he gasps and wipes the sweat from his forehead, I take out the mirror from my make-up pouch and check how I look: I smile back at myself as I take in the scarlet lipstick smeared all over my cheeks, and a stray string of semen, which somehow escaped my greedy mouth.
“I assume we can forget the cane on this occasion, headmaster” and as I say it, I can’t hide my smile.
“Emma, has no one taught you the expression ‘assume makes an ass out of you and me’? You assume wrong young lady. Quite the contrary in fact – six strokes for your disgusting behaviour this morning and a further six for your wanton conduct in my office this afternoon.”
“God, sir, that’s so unfair. I wouldn’t have gobbled you off if I’d known you’d be so mean. That’s so not fair.”
“Gobbled off? Gobbled off? Emma, you’re sixteen years old and already you sound like some common prostitute. At least use the proper Latin term.”
“You said I was good though, didn’t you?”
“Yes, yes .. well heat of the moment and all that. I was led astray perhaps by your ready slutishness. But yes, you seem quite ..err, well-practiced one might say.”
“Practice makes perfect, sir. Perhaps I could practice some more with you.”
“Yes, maybe that’s possible. Keep you away from those rough types. Makes sure you come to no harm. Maybe once a week should we say?
“Of course. As often as you like. Can we agree something on my allowance, headmaster? Say £20 a week.”
“£20?! Whatever for?”
“Sir, these Aristoc Harmony Point stockings are not cheap and I’m always in need of some new stiletto shoes, sir and then there’s the make-up, suspender belts, I’d like a corset, but they cost so much, and my parents only give me a pittance …. “
“Yes, yes alright. I had heard a rumour in the staff room that you were selling it.”
“Selling it, sir?”
“You know exactly what I mean – offering oral sex in return for cash. You know what that makes you, don’t you? Quite literally, you’re a cock sucking little whore, Emma”
“I didn’t hear you complaining a moment ago.”
“No, well. I’ll have a word with the bursar. There’s quite a bit in the account for helping our poorer boarders and although I know your parents are not too hard up, I’m sure we can find a little something to, err, make sure you have the right uniform and so on. We don’t want our girls looking a poor show, now do we?
“Exactly my point, headmaster. I’d better go – I have French in 10 minutes. Will you let me know when I need to practice my …err, fellatio some more”
I got up and walked to the door.
“Emma. Haven’t you forgotten something?”
I looked back. No, my handbag was over my shoulder; my knickers were still on; no condoms to clear away.
“Forgotten, sir?”
“Yes”
“Oh, sorry sir. I see what you mean. Thank you for coming in my mouth, sir”
“No, no, no, no!” He sounded utterly exasperated. He reached down beneath his desk and reappeared holding a vicious looking cane, at least ¼ inch thick. My stomach turned over. My heart beat faster than I thought possible.
“Now, I think we said 12 strokes, did we not, Emma? Please remove your knickers, bend over my desk, place your feet approximately four feet apart and don’t you dare move. I’m going to teach you a lesson you won’t forget, young lady”

If you have read through this blog in the past, you will know that I have had what can only be described as a rather strange relationship with a young man who has a very strong fantasy in which I am his mother, a mother who not only wears all the things he loves to see (especially suspender belts, fully fashioned stockings and towering heels) but is also willing to provide her imaginary son with “hand relief”.

If you’ve not read my previous blogs about him, I would suggest you go back and do so, in order to understand the context and I will try to provide links to the previous posts at the end of this blog.

I know that many will find his fantasy or even obsession very weird and my willingness to go along with it odd too and I’ll confess I have found it strange and sometimes a bit disturbing. But on the other hand, I like him: he is flamboyant and funny, he has a rich imagination (so much so that I have said ‘no’ to many of the scenarios he has proposed for us to act out) and he has been very generous to me. Oh, and he is an impressive spunker, one of the most formidable I’ve experienced and that means a lot to me.

However, a little while back we had quite a major falling out. I won’t bore you with the details other than to say in a pub he deeply embarrassed me with a man who had come over to chat and joined us for a drink, so much so that I broke out of my assigned role and told this man that I am not, in fact, his mother and that this is merely his sexual fantasy. In turn, he was extremely annoyed with me for doing so and for embarrassing him and so we parted, each equally angry with the other and that’s how things were left between us.

That is until he got back in touch again recently. He said he had missed me and our ‘family get-togethers’, said he wanted to apologise and needed to see me again. He still wanted me to be his mum and to give him ‘relief’ but he agreed to no more humiliating public episodes. As I say, I like him and so, somewhat against my better judgement, I invited him over to our house.

And truthfully, I was excited before he arrived. I put my belt, stockings and heels on with a nice dress, did my hair and make-up and had latex gloves and lube ready as I knew I’d be milking him that evening. Every scenario we have ever had has ended with me emptying him.

When he arrived, he said he had a confession to make because on his last visit he had “borrowed” one of my suspender belts without asking me, in fact one of my favourite belts, a pink satin one with a deep profile which makes it very comfortable to wear all day and which shows well beneath my blue satin skirt. I had noticed it wasn’t where I believed it should be but thought I might have simply misplaced it and as I have many suspender belts I hadn’t really missed it.

I asked him what he had done with it, although as soon as I asked, I realised I already knew the answer. He said he had “used” it while viewing my videos and produced it from his bag. The photos below were taken that evening.

It was clearly quite a mess, very heavily stained and when I looked more closely, I couldn’t see any part of the satin fabric which had not been soaked with his sperm and fluid, so much so that the belt was stiff. I asked him how many times he thought he had ejaculated on it and he looked up and seemed to do some mental arithmetic before saying, “About two, maybe three hundred times. At least two or three times a day.”

Seeing the shocked look on my face he grabbed the belt and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll wash it, I’ll wash it right now.”

“Hold on a second”, I said, and I took it from him. “You wait here.”

I went upstairs and removed the black suspender belt I was wearing and, without removing my stockings I put the pink sperm sodden belt on instead. Then, taking the belt I had been wearing, I went back down and told him about the swap. He was almost overwhelmed with excitement at the thought that I had all his old sperm next to my skin.

I pulled on my latex gloves and knowing immediately what that signalled, he was instantly hard, as I could see from the bulge in his trousers. I sat him down and tugged his trousers and pants down and with a squirt of lube in the palm of my right hand I got to work.

As I did so I held the black suspender belt in my other hand and said “Now, mummy wants you to cum on this belt. Can you do that for her?”

“Oh god yes, thank you mummy”, he replied.

As I worked his cock I told him I wanted every last drop out, I wanted his sperm all over my belt, I wanted to see fresh, virile sperm, not just old stains and dried semen, “I want you to cum for me, cum on my suspender belt, spunk for me …”

That was enough to trigger him and the gush of lovely thick, creamy white semen began.

When I finished draining his balls and he had recovered sufficiently to speak I gave him the belt, still soaked though with his jizz and I told him to take it with him, to use it each day while viewing my videos and to return it to me when it was thoroughly stained and then I’d wear it, like that, just an ordinary mum remaining close to her loving son by having his spunk all over her suspender belt and close to her body.

A mother gives her son a hand

My boy, my client

Loving Mother

My Boy Saves the Day

Mummy dearest

Spare the rod, spoil the child

Spare the rod, spoil the child

It would be unfair to say that when I met the man who later became my husband, he was naïve or innocent but it is true that, sexually, he was not only a lot less experienced than me (I’ve never denied being a slut from an early age) but also less adventurous and bold.

I still remember our first ‘proper’ date when I wore a short, tight white cotton skirt over a black suspender belt, black fully fashioned stockings and high heels. I’m not sure I’d describe the skirt as a mini but it was short enough that I was displaying stocking welts when I was seated, maybe a little flash of thigh when I crossed my legs.

We met for a drink but it was only after a little time had passed and a few drinks had been consumed before he gathered the courage to say something which had been bothering him: did I realise that people could see the suspender belt and stockings beneath my skirt? I remember the surprise on his face when I laughed and told him that of course I did and that this was the point, I wanted them to.

On another occasion he asked if this didn’t worry me, people looking, some probably disapproving or thinking I looked like a tart. But my view was what do I care what some stranger in a bar or on a train thinks, as I’ll never see them again? He later told me that this ‘devil may care’ attitude was one of the things he found most attractive and exciting about me.

We’d been seeing each other most weekends for some months when I first told him that I would like him to ejaculate on my face. He was shocked and said he was uncomfortable doing this as he felt it was degrading for me and I had to tell him that that was a matter for me and ordered him to get his cock out and empty over my glossy, thickly lipsticked red lips. He did as he was told and gave me a very healthy pasting, as back then he was an impressive producer of spunk (sadly, no longer the case).

One Saturday we’d been out drinking and I was feeling as horny as hell when we went back to the flat I was sharing in Putney and as both my flat mates were away that weekend I decided to spice things up a bit. I got some items together – a pair of handcuffs, a scarf to be used as a gag and a riding crop – and I told him I wanted to be cuffed to the bed, gagged and spanked and then hit  – but not too hard – with the crop but he just stood there, stunned and after asking some pretty stupid questions (like, have you done this before?) he refused to play along. He told me he just couldn’t bring himself to spank or whip a woman, that he had too much respect for me, he liked me too much. It was very sweet but bloody annoying and I told him if he couldn’t do the things which turned me on most, he could f-off for good and more than that, I’d go back to the pub we’d just come from and find a man who would. That did it and he complied, although I see the irony that in order to get the crop cracking across my backside I had to bully a man as if I was a proper Dominatrix!

It’s strange how variable our memories can be with some things lost in the mist of time while other, often trivial details, even decades later remain pin sharp. I not only remember suggesting we play a game together but I even remember where we were: walking along the Old Brompton Road in South Kensington on a Friday evening, near where he worked at that time. I don’t know why I remember this so clearly, but I do.

The game I suggested I called ‘sleazing’. I was enjoying wearing sexy outfits to work and more daring ones when he and I went out at weekends but I wanted to do more and now I wanted to take things up a gear or two.

The basic idea was that I would wear very tarty outfits – short skirts, seemed stockings, stiletto heels and tops or blouses that showed off my big tits. I suggested that we find the sleaziest pubs in London in which I would display myself, ideally pubs full of men (and indeed we later found some where I was the only woman). Then I would let all of the punters have a good look at me, going up to the bar and bending over, showing my stocking tops, sitting on bar stools with my legs crossed, going to the toilets and removing my bra or wearing a black quarter cup bra under a thin white blouse or tight top.

He liked the idea, in fact he loved it but he did have some perfectly reasonable questions for me about this. For example, he asked how I would react if some of the men in a pub wanted to do more than simply look and came over for a chat or to comment on my outfit or my legs or bust. I told him that I wanted to excite these men so if they wanted to come over and take a closer look or have a little interaction, I was happy for them to do so provided I felt safe and they were polite and I made the point that I had a well-developed ‘nutter alert’ detector and if at any point I felt we’d encountered one, we’d get up and leave, pronto.

He went on to ask what if they wanted more than to look or even chat but might want a feel of my stocking tops or if they tried to follow me into the toilets, something we had already experienced.  I had to be honest with him and said I didn’t know how I would react in each case, as it depended on how naughty I was feeling, whether I fancied them, perhaps how much I’d had to drink but, yes, I could envisage occasions when I’d let a guy have a bit of a feel, maybe pop outside for a bit of extra fun.

And so the game began! We hunted for suitable pubs and bars and realized that the ideal were at either end of a spectrum – either really tatty, sleazy, rough places or at the other extreme places like the bars at the Ritz, Café Royale and Clarridges also worked well for a brazen display of sexy outfits. John found a pub in London which was near a major building site and on a Friday night it was packed with builders, scaffolders and he like and that worked well and I often had little groups of men gathered around me, taking a look and seeing how saucy they good be with the chat.

But more often we played the game on Saturday nights. I’d go to the bar and put my handbag down, which necessitated me bending right down so my stockings tops and suspenders were clearly visible. Then I’d have to bend over again to get my purse out and, having paid for our drinks while John enjoyed the view and watched for the reaction of others, for a third time as I replaced my purse and retrieved by bag.

The game developed over time. We found a group of bars in close proximity to one another in Clapham and so we would sometimes go from one to another and of course, after five or six drinks I would get a lot more brazen and had some interesting encounters with various men on these occasions.  For a time I had a short black skirt which already showed stocking welts nicely but which also had small short zips at either side and after my first drink or two, I’d unzip these and let the stocking tops and an inch or two of creamy thing show too.

That little black skirt, zips undone

We both found this ‘sleazing’ to be a massive turn on and we would quite often either go to the toilets for a good fucking session or find somewhere outdoors. On one occasion we were in a car park outside a pub and John had me face down over the bonnet of a BMW and was giving me a hard spanking and telling me what a filthy slut I was for parading myself around in the pub like a cheap tart when we heard a cough and a man, stood by the driver’s door holing up his car key said “Can I have my car back, please?”

Even though we both had our own rental places, there was something extra sexy and, yes, extra sleazy about having sex and giving him blow jobs in the pub toilets or in places where we might be “caught” – alley ways, car parks, once on a building site and on one occasion inn the City we noticed that the CCTV camera had swiveled in our direction and we both imagined a previously bored security guard enjoying the view as I demonstrated by fellatio skills.

And – going off topic, slightly – even after we married and had our own house, we carried on with a lot of this. In fact, sometimes on a Saturday night we’d stay in and I’d get into one of my ‘outfits – thigh boots and PVC was a big thing for me at the time, I recall – and have a meal and drinks and then we’d go out for a daring fuck or blow job (or both). There’s a footbridge over the railway line near where we lived at this time and we’d go there and he’d bend me over and take me from behind. On one occasion my climax to exactly coincide with a train passing beneath us and sounding its hooter. John said it was ‘a hooter for a hoor’. That was some climax!

So the sleazing game became a big part of our lives and something we did about once or twice a month either on a Friday night after work, or more often on Saturdays and we enjoyed planning which bars we’d go to and what I might wear. What I was prepared to do was less pre-planned, as it depended on the reaction, how horny and naughty I felt and how much I’d had to drink.

The reaction we – or should I say I – received varied a great deal. This being London a lot of the time, it was sideways glances but heads down and no direct interaction. This reminded me of the comedy sketch in which a couple have sex in a train carriage full of other passengers and no one says a word but when they light a post coital cigarette a suited gent says “Do you mind? This is a non-smoking carriage”. But on other nights I’d be followed to the toilets, chatted to at the bar or sometimes surrounded by groups of men eager to take a closer look and have a bit of dirty chat and maybe even see if there was a chance of a feel or more.

I am the first to acknowledge that some of the outfits I wore were brave to say the least, and looking back I might even say I was almost looking for trouble. I certainly wouldn’t dream of being quite so brazen in public today. Even at work I wore short skirts, seamed or fishnet stockings and high heels (although to be fair to me this was no so exceptional then and many of the girls in our office wore seams and stilettos) and I like to go braless with satin blouses or wear a black, quarter cup bra under tight sweaters or quite thin white blouses. I even wore thigh-length boots for a time, as I loved them as so did many of the boys at work but I was told they were not appropriate for the office so had to stop.

So you can imagine for our sleazing date nights the outfits often went a bit further, as I’d never see the other customers in the places we visited again.  Just to take two examples, I wore this skirt and stockings combination when we went for some drinks at the Ritz in London. As you can see the skirt is very short and it also has a small split to reveal my stocking tops even when standing. At the Ritz the polite, generally elderly clientele smiled at me and one or two of the gents clearly enjoyed the view as I sat with my legs crossed but it was all very comfortable, and I enjoyed showing myself off there.

The skirt and contrast seam stockings I wore to the Ritz – not leaving much to the imagination!

It was a slightly different experience when I wore the outfit you see in the photos, below. As you can see I am wearing fully fashioned stockings, a leather miniskirt and thigh length patent high-heeled boots and I’m either braless or wearing a quarter cup bra, I don’t recall which. We went to a riverside pub. I can’t recall how we chose it, other than it was a bit rough, with men fishing on the riverbank and occasionally drinking there too. I wore a long coat, but it was soon off and I was really putting on a display. I knew I probably looked like a prostitute, and I think I’d gone for a sort of ‘hooker’ look that night especially with the miniskirt and boots. The reaction was palpable. As I ordered some drinks at the bar one man turned to me, looked me up and down and asked, “Are you Miss Whiplash?” I said something along the lines of “You’d better believe it” and he said “So it’s not fancy dress then?”

Outside the riverside pub, post coitus

A little group of men, about six or so, gathered around where we were sat on high stools and there was a bit of banter back and forth, much of it directed at John. The guy who had made the Whiplash comment told John he’d better behave or it looked like he’d get a proper thrashing later.

John asked how I felt and whether I fancied taking any of them into the toilets for “a bit of fun” which at that time usually meant me getting down on my knees and giving deep throat. Although I had been feeling turned on before we even stepped in to that pub (just putting on my stockings and boots was enough to get me properly wet and ready for action) and all the attention had heightened by arousal I demurred but I asked how he felt about going outside by the river, bending me over and giving me a good seeing to.  I think you’ll not be surprised that he was more than willing as he’d been sat there, hard as rock and his cock dribbling precum for the last hour or so.

When we went outside, I wasn’t surprised, nor particularly worried when about six or eight men followed, as John had told them he was going to fuck me outside if they wanted to watch. As we crossed the road, followed by this group of punters, he turned back to them and told them they could watch but not touch me and asked that they keep their distance a bit and they all did as asked.

John got me bent over and holding my hips and occasionally reaching down to feel my stocking tops and boots he really went for it. As I was so worked up already I came within about two minutes but once I’d recovered some composure I was able to glance to either side and saw a number of them had there cocks out and were wanking. I briefly considered shouting out that they could spunk on my boots but I restrained myself. Given the ‘audience’ participation I found myself building towards a second climax as it is such a turn on to be watched like this but then John bucked behind me and I felt him shooting his load deep within me and I knew that that was it, for now. But it was a long night of fucking and being called a whore when we got back home!

I’ve fixed feelings about that night and some other similar experiences. I don’t feel ashamed – it was fun and exciting at the time and they lit a spark each time in our sex lives which lasted days and weeks as we replayed the scenarios and talked about the ways things might have developed (for example, me offering to suck off every man at the riverside) but I do look back now and ask myself, what was I thinking, walking into a pub dressed like that and provoking men to masturbate. It was probably foolish and risky and I certainly wouldn’t do anything like that today but at the same time, boy, it was FUN!!!