ukeweld, from Old French cucuault, from cucu cuckoo; perhaps an allusion to the parasitic cuckoos that lay their eggs in the nests of other birds

There was a lively discussion on a site about cuckolding and the more of that discussion I read, the more it became clear to me that a lot of people don’t really understand what it is about and have no real knowledge of the lifestyle or the dynamics within.

Cuckolding, unfortunately, is often thought of in very narrow terms, namely as a husband watching his wife having sex with another man, and in porn this appears to be about the only interpretation of the term. But this is so limited and to me misses the central essence of cuckolding, which is much more about power, control and humiliation than about sex and once that is grasped it becomes obvious that there are a thousand ways it can be played. And ‘play’ is an important word here.

I really think it’s unfortunate that cuckolding gets defined so simply as watching your partner have sex. It’s not just about watching, indeed some of the best cuckolding scenarios are all about the husband NOT watching or NOT being able to watch his wife. It’s much more of a mental game. Cuckolding is a spectrum covering such a wide variety of scenarios and ideas and behaviours that’s it is almost as varied as sex itself.

The spectrum covers everything from very mild teasing through to much more kinky things with quite deep degradation like cleaning up, feminization and even making the husband a bisexual sex object for another man. To be clear, although I (or we) have done a lot of cuck related things and the things we do and have done has evolved and shifted over the years, there are many, many cuck practices which we have not tried and not wanted to try, and I’ll mention a few of these later. But my view is that teasing and humiliation lie at the centre of most, if not all, these practices.

If I had one key piece of advice for those looking to embrace a cuckold lifestyle it would be this: make sure what you do is for both of you. I as the woman must want to do the things I do, I must enjoy them and get aroused by them, including humiliating my husband. But equally, of course, I’m looking to press his buttons, to turn him on, to turn some of his fantasies into reality. Naturally, part of this, for us at least, is pushing past his imagined boundaries, making him feel uncomfortable, getting to the point where he’s saying “I’m not sure. Do you really want to do that?” but it’s not about me taking my pleasures, my way and ignoring his wants and desires.

And having said I have one key piece of advice, here’s another: the imagination is more powerful than reality. It took us time to fully recognise and accept this, so when we started a lot of it was about him watching me playing with another man but over time we came to realise it was much more powerful if he could imagine all the things I might be doing with another man (but probably am not). So, for example, him dropping me off at a man’s house or a hotel and then going home and thinking about what I am up to was way more powerful than him simply watching me, so when I got back he’d be dribbling pre cum from his dick and hardly able to get in me before releasing all that pent up spunk. And sometimes I’d play on that and as we had sex – often multiple times – I’d exaggerate and embellish what I’d been up to or add little twists such as “He says he wants to bring a friend along next time. Are you okay with that?” This would almost immediately have him losing it and spunking in me again.

I’ll give you another great example. I’ve always had a very big thing about black men and years ago I discovered a club based in Wandsworth which is not far from where we then lived called “Black Lust” and which described itself as “a club for white women who wish to meet black men”. So of course, I had to go and I told my husband that he wouldn’t be allowed in as he is not black. Before my first visit I bought an extra-large box of twelve condoms and I “accidentally” let my husband see me placing the box in my handbag before we set off for the club. He drove me there, dropped me off and waited for my call to tell him to come and collect me afterwards. When we got back I was pulling things from my handbag looking for my keys and somehow, “accidentally” he saw that there were only 5 condoms left in the box. What he didn’t know was that I had removed 7 and hidden these but as far as he was concerned, I’d either had sex seven times with a total stranger at the club or I’d had sex with seven strangers or some combination thereof, whereas in fact I didn’t have sex with anyone that night (although I had done a bit of ‘deep throat’). But with his imagination running riot we had some of the best sex ever for the next week or so before I confessed and told him the truth. You see – the imagination is a very powerful erotic tool.

So let’s get into some of the cuckold practises, some we have done and some we haven’t, but I know others have, and I will mention each type as I go through this. This is by no means exhaustive, merely a few things we’ve deployed and some we’ve consciously avoided.

One of the easiest and most common is to have the husband help pick out the outfit his wife will wear for a date and this is one we did a lot and he helped me make sure the seams of my stockings was straight and even do up the straps of my stilettos or kneel before me and do the catch on my ankle chain.

Another obvious one is for the husband to drive his wife to meet her date and perhaps collect her afterwards (assuming she actually comes home that night) and again this is something we have done a lot and still do and as well as being part of the erotic humiliation it is also very practical because it means I can drink as much as I want but know I will get home safely afterwards.

My husband and I discovered that him knowing, perhaps being able to hear but not see was even more exciting for both of us than me just having sex in front of him. For example, I sat him outside our living room, with the windows open but curtains pulled while I had sex and of course in these situations, I always like to make it noisy, moaning loudly, shouting how I want to be pumped full of spunk, urging my partner on. Another obvious trick we have used many, many times is for John to be sat in an adjoining room while I’m being ‘serviced’ next door. Handcuffed to a chair and blindfolded so he can hear but not see or even touch himself is a variation we have tried, although not one we have used very often.

The phone is an important tool in our cuck lifestyle. For example, I used to work for a man who really enjoyed phoning my husband and taunting him, letting him listen as I was on my knees sucking him off. My husband even wrote a short piece about this for my blog, so you can read some of the filthy details here: https://ladyinseams.home.blog/2020/07/25/husband-gets-a-call/

When I found a lovely big black stud who has been my regular sex partner since, I thought it would be fun to phone my husband and let him listen while I was being fucked senseless by this brute of a man but our first few attempts at this were unsuccessful, because although I placed my phone on the floor before going on all fours, he found the sound was very unclear and often cut out. I was ready to give up on this but he wasn’t and he bought me a small Bluetooth headset and that did the trick. Now he can listen to me moaning and even yelping a little when the 10.5 inches of very thick black cock is first rammed into me by the stud or listen as I slobber and gag on it and he claims he can even hear me gulping down the spunk when that cock explodes the fountain of cum in my mouth. I don’t phone him very often, as I think rationing his experiences heightens them or, rather, too much repetition can dull the pleasure gained but I know he finds those calls amongst the best experiences he’s ever had.

Of course, being descriptive after a sex session is important. In the past, when I’d get back from a night out or a date, we’d have sex and as he rode me, I’ll tell him all the filthy things I’d been up to. Naturally, there was sometimes a bit of exaggeration involved – his cock was massive, there was so much spunk – but he loved hearing as much detail as possible, even asking me what I wore for my date, even though I’d be there on all fours in the same outfit! Of course, what added enormously to his arousal was the fact that I normally enjoyed sex bareback and so he’d be going into me and feeling all my lover’s cum oozing out of my sopping wet pussy.

Sometimes when I was feeling especially cruel, I’d belittle him when we had sex after I’d been fucked by someone else. I’d ask, “Are you in yet?” or “Have you slipped out again?” and I’d act bored and say, “Can you just get this over with? or “Can you hurry up?” or even “I can’t feel anything.”

However, the very reverse approach can work too. They say you have to be cruel to be kind but the opposite can be true as well. For example, I will sometimes say to him things like, “I know you’re doing your best” and “It’s not your fault” or “I know you can’t get fully hard these days, but you shouldn’t blame yourself.” Me being kind to him, or at least appearing to be so, can be very humiliating for him.

Over time our relationship changed and once I decided to deny him full sex completely (and not long after banned oral too) that really upped the humiliation aspect, so while I gave him ‘hand relief’ I’d tell him his cock is too small to ever satisfy me, that my lover is so much bigger, how he stretches me, the way he floods me with his sperm and so forth.

A very important aspect of a cuckold lifestyle can be public humiliation. There are almost limitless ways from very simple through to elaborate means of letting the world know that a husband is a pathetic cuck. Let’s begin with simple: wearing an ankle chain with a ‘Queen of Spades’ symbol on it is something I’ve only started doing in recent years, but when I’m out with my husband it’s a very obvious way for me to signal to the world that’s he’s not able to satisfy my sexual desires and needs and it sometimes generates enquiries from curious men and women too, when we visit pubs and those questions are a glorious opportunity to tell people that hubby’s not up to it and that I do indeed have a deep and long standing desire for black cock. One man we chatted to for quite some time in a pub asked the question: if you love black men so much, why is it that you married a white man? I told him my husband earns a high salary, so I married him to use him as my personal ATM but on the clear understanding I could have as much cock, including black, as I wanted. Watching my husband’s face as he listened to me describing him as a sexually inadequate human cash machine was wonderful!

One spin on this is I’ve also recently been wearing a key on the chain, which many interpret as meaning he is locked in chastity. In reality, he’s not and it’s not something which has ever appealed to either of us and the truth is the key belongs to a fan of mine who is locked up who pays a monthly fee for me to keep and wear it but if people look and assume his little cock is in a cage, well, I don’t mind their misapprehension.

More elaborate public humiliation includes telling my husband to sit in a bar or restaurant while I’m on a date. In one of my videos while I am masturbating him you can hear me asking if he has any objection to me going on a date with a young man and when he quizzes me about what I plan to do, I tell him that I will probably take the lad into the pub toilets and suck him off. But then I ask if he would like to come along and sit in the pub sipping his pint and watch the two of us together. We followed through on this idea and as I returned to my seat from the toilets, I looked across at my husband and ran my tongue over my lips, which is our signal that I’d just completed a full cum in mouth service and swallowed my date’s sperm and ejaculate.

We ramped this up, just once, many years ago, shortly after we married. I had a thing going with a gorgeous black guy at work who just happened to possess the biggest cock I have ever seen in my entire life and oh so, so thick too. We went to a restaurant and my outfit was very OTT: mini skirt, seamed stockings, five-inch heels, a black PVC quarter cup bra under a fairly sheer while blouse and I’d piled the make up on, so not to put too fine a point on it I looked like a tart. My colleague was, as I’d requested, wearing very tight leather trousers and no underpants and his hard cock was visible as it swollen length was halfway down to his knee.

My husband was sat at another table watching as I stroked that cock under the leather and my date felt my suspender straps and stockings tops and even pushed my skirt up my legs, so I was displaying some creamy white thigh.  When the waiter took our order, I told him what I wanted and said, “And my boyfriend will have the same”, establishing the relationship in the waiter’s mind and he seemed amused as he saw my hand run up and down the leather trouser leg. When we’d finished and he brought the bill I said, “Oh could you give that to my husband over there. He’s paying this.” That was a blast. I should do that one again.

Getting him to pay for items a boyfriend has asked me to wear or even booking a hotel room is a variation on this theme we’ve done many times. At one time I had a bit of a Dominatrix thing going with a submissive and he asked me to get a dressage whip for our sessions, so when I went to an equestrian centre near Epsom to purchase it, I brought my husband and insisted he paid for it. I’m sure the girl who served us – as we’d explained the whip wasn’t for any equestrian discipline but for domination whipping – must have assumed it would be his backside feeling the impact of that vicious bit of equipment.

Another great idea I’ve heard of but not actually done myself, is to get the cuck to wash the bull’s car while he’s in couple’s house ‘servicing’ the wife. Can you imagine when a neighbour goes past and asks, “Oh is this a new car?” and the cuck either must come up with some implausible bullshit or admit he’s washing his wife’s boyfriend’s car while she’s being fucked!

Why would I ever NOT want this?

I’m going to get onto things which can be part of a cuck life but which simply don’t appeal to us and which we’ve never done in a moment but before that I need to cover one which is a very common theme and which I have been asked about countless times. It’s something which we have done only once and that’s cleaning up or licking out. We tried this when I had a bull who was an exceptionally heavy spunker and I’d been taunting my husband about this for a while. I don’t recall whether it was me or him who suggested we try this but we did it and, furthermore, we set up my camcorder so we could record the moment, thinking we’d enjoy watching it back later.

The bull placed me face down over our kitchen table while my husband sat in the lounge. As soon as he’d flooded me with a big load of thick, creamy spunk I shouted for John to come through and he immediately dropped between my legs and licked out the spunk. I’d love to say this was a spectacularly erotic experience, but when we discussed it later we both admitted it hadn’t really worked for us (although I will concede that seeing my bull’s semen smeared all over my husband’s face was rather nice) and so it’s one where we can say “tried it once.” He just didn’t especially enjoy it and I think the fact I’d just had an orgasm with my bull meant the physical sensation as he licked me out just felt a bit numb.

Our one and only ‘cleaning up’ experiment, captured on my video

However, we did a variation on that theme which worked really well (and again we video recorded this and it is available view in my collection, for those who access to my videos). I got a guy – a different one but also an impressive cummer – to take me from behind but with strict instructions to withdraw at the last moment and shoot his spunk up my back, which he did, very effectively, managing to shoot some up and over my PVC suspender belt. Then John was told to step in and his job was to rub his erection back and forth on my backside and my back until he also spunked up my back and on my belt. Believe me, it didn’t take him long to cum and he said after it had been extremely humiliating for him to have to use my lover’s semen as lubricating fluid on his cock and I loved his sense of humiliation and degradation that evening.

Then onto a few other common facets of some cuckold relationships which we’ve never done and which just do not appeal to either of us. There’s feminisation or sissyfication of the cuck. No thanks. There’s also forcing the cuckold into some form of bisexuality, like fluffing the stud so he can service the wife (again) or making him suck the bull’s cock clean after he’s been fucking the wife or even having the bull sodomise the cuck. I’m not saying these things are morally wrong – who am I to judge others? – I’m just saying I know John would point blank refuse anything of this nature and as they do nothing for me, why bother?

Each person and each situation is different and what works for me and for us may not work for you or for anyone else. But I would say the best thing I have done within our cuckold journey is to ban most forms of sexual pleasure with my husband but continue to enjoy them with other men. Over fifteen years ago I began to feel that having many different men in my life with whom I might ‘go all the way’ was getting too complicated and just didn’t suit my lifestyle anymore, so I set out to find the perfect bull with whom I could have a long term, although purely physical relationship. I’ve written about this elsewhere in this blog so won’t repeat that part of my story other than to say I knew what I wanted: black, athletic, well hung (thickness more than length although I got both, boy did I get both!) a very heavy cummer and he had to be really ‘into’ me enjoying the whole dressing up part of sex, especially stockings and high heels but also uniforms, PVC, leather and so forth.

“Paying” my builder for a job well done, and free of charge

Once I found my bull, I told my husband I would never have full sex with him again. Shortly after I told him that oral relief was also now off the table. This was especially humiliating for him because he knew I continued to occasionally give other men oral, including my boss at work. You might wonder why I did not ban all forms of sex but continued to provide him with hand relief. The simple answer if I didn’t think a complete ban was realistic and he had said if I went down that road he’d look elsewhere for his release so it was better to keep him within the fold, although I did prohibit him from masturbating himself, insisting that he preserve whatever little semen his pathetic body produces exclusively for me to release.

After all this description and analysis, I can imagine the majority of people, though not necessarily the majority of people reading this blog, might well be asking “Why do you do it?” of “Why do some people appear so attracted to the idea of cuckolding?”

I recently read an interesting review of a book called “The Intimate Animal” by Justin Garcia. In that book Garcia argues that because the period between conceiving a human child and it being able to fend for itself is very long, compared with other animals, mothers need support and form close bonds with others — especially the male parent — to lighten the load. However, he goes on to argue that the pattern of long-lasting relationships between two individuals has since outgrown that original function.

The primary argument of The Intimate Animal is that human relationships are defined by the conflict between these two initially complementary seeming instincts: intimacy and sex. “Humans are wired to be socially monogamous,” Garcia writes, “but we are not necessarily wired to be sexually monogamous. What this means is that our sexual impulses are often in direct opposition to our existential need for love and intimacy.”

And that rang a bell with me. I actually love my husband and we have been happy together for a very long time but I would argue that is not despite the fact that I been an unfaithful wife from the outset, a very highly sexed woman (as slut, some would say) who loves the variety and thrill of sex and sexual acts with other men but because of it.

I am not advocating for the cuckold lifestyle, and it is certainly not for everyone, I just know it has worked for John and me. And as we only have so may trips around the sun I do think life is too short not to orgasm every day that one can.

A friend sent me this AI generated image and asked ‘Could you write a story explaining what is going on here? Oh, and could you make it filthy?’ The answer to both questions is ‘yes’ but what follows is certainly a taboo subject so if you’re of a sensitive disposition, back up now and read something else.

Like any proud father, he thought his daughter looked more beautiful than ever on her wedding day. Certainly, the money he’d given Lucy to have her already naturally full breasts significantly enlarged to help with her modelling career had been money well spent. Unlike most fathers, however, he expressed his love for his daughter and his admiration for her beauty and her body in the manner which they had both enjoyed many, many times over the years.

Before she set off for the church, he bent her over, tugged down her knickers and began by roughly sodomising her, which made her yelp with pain, initially, but when he switched to her wet vagina she had an orgasm almost immediately yelling, “I love you daddy” and he responded with, “I love you Lucy” as he spurted inside her.

As he mopped his brow he said with a chuckle, “I hope I haven’t ruined your appetite for tonight or Greg will be disappointed.”  She laughed and said, “Don’t worry, daddy, I’ll be gagging for it again by then. This was just a snack before the main meal.”  

“Well, he’s in for a great night then, lucky sod.”

They both knew that what they did was wrong or, rather, that most people would think it wrong. But they loved one another, had always been close and had enjoyed the physical expression of their mutual love after the death of her mother brought them even closer together and since Lucy first developed into a beautiful young woman. They even made a joke of it when she wore a t-shirt with “Daddy’s Girl” emblazoned across the front of her enormous bust.

However, what her father did not know that day was that Lucy and Greg had already agreed that they should aim to start a family once married and so a month earlier she had stopped taking the pill. So, you can imagine the sudden shock Lucy felt a few weeks later when she felt sick and threw up while putting her make up on for a photo shoot. After a dash to the chemists the little blue line told her what she suspected and what should have been a moment of joy was dashed when she counted back the days and realized her pregnancy began around the time of the wedding. After all, she’d been wet and gagging for cock all that day and while at the time she put this down to the excitement of it being her big day, she knew she always felt incredibly, almost insatiably aroused when she was ovulating. That’s natures way of ensuring peak fertility is not wasted, she knew.

Naturally Greg was thrilled at the news and she didn’t share her worry. But when beautiful Connor was born, she immediately thought she saw the likeness and as time went by and the baby grew and his features developed it became more and more obvious to her and a paternity test only confirmed what she already knew: Connor was her son and her half-brother; and his grandad was also his father.

As time went by, Lucy became convinced that she could no longer keep the truth from Greg, particularly as members of the family had begun innocently to remark on the striking resemblance between her father and her son.

Eventually the burden of this secret became too much for her and so one evening she sat Greg down and told him the truth. As you would expect, he was appalled, shocked and disgusted by the revelation. He asked her to tell him that it had only been a one off, perhaps some drunken evening but she couldn’t lie to him any longer and told him the blunt truth, which was that she and her father had been intimate, regularly and for many years and the copulation in question had been on the morning of their wedding.

Greg switched tack: it wasn’t really her fault, her father must have abused her as a child, that was why she now thought of this sick relationship as if it were normal, they should go to the police, have him locked up. But again, she refused to lie and she told him that she after her mother died, she had comforted her father and it moved from cuddles and kisses to fondling and eventually when she recognised that he had a firm erection she had unzipped him and proved how adept she was at fellatio. Although she didn’t intend to rub salt in the wound, she said she physically enjoyed it more with her father than with any other man, ever, and that included Greg.

Not surprisingly, this was too much for Greg to accept and he moved into a nearby hotel for a few days. But he loved Lucy and he loved his son and didn’t want to lose either of them and so he came back to their home and told Lucy that he had to acknowledge that what was done, was done and there was no point now wrecking their marriage when this would change nothing and he said he would accept the situation and help bring Connor up as his own son but on one condition: that Lucy and her father must never engage again in the terrible things in which they had previously indulged.

He felt that this was extremely magnanimous on his part and so was shocked when Lucy refused point blank to make such a commitment and she told him that he must not try to force her to choose between him and her father because if he did he would find the true meaning of the expression ‘blood is thicker than water’ and that she could easily find another husband should she be pushed to do so. “I mean, look at these” she said looking down at her enormous bust, held upright under her tight sweater by a bra which was almost a piece of industrial engineering, such was the size and weight it supported.

Greg was once more appalled and disgusted because he now realised that his beautiful wife fully intended to continue to have regular sex not just with another man but with her own father. But the more he thought about it the more something began to trouble him even more and eventually he found the courage to tell Lucy that he had a secret of his own.

He began by admitting that he could not get the thought, the image of Lucy and her father having sex out of his mind, made worse by the fact that she had told him she regularly enjoyed anal sex with her father, something she’d never even suggested doing with Greg. But worst of all was each time he thought of it, he found himself becoming extremely aroused. In fact, so bad had that issue become that now he thought of nothing else while he and Lucy were making love. He said he thought it was imagining them together that accounted for this “problem” and he wondered if he could watch them together whether he might then be free from this torment.

Lucy tried not to laugh but she couldn’t help pointing out that he had always said his greatest fantasy was a threesome and how much he would love to watch Lucy enjoying sex with another man, so this was simply an even greater than normal taboo version of his fantasy.

But she admitted that her father was a kinky old devil, up for just about anything and she thought he’d leap at the chance to nail her while Greg watched them at it and she promised to organise this if he thought it would help.

What was meant to be a one-off piece of theatrical therapy for Greg proved so successful for all three of them that it became a regular, if unusual, family get together, as every couple of weeks they would book a babysitter and head over to her father’s house where he would give Lucy a good work out before taking a rest and handing over to Greg and then back to her father and so forth with only an occasional spit roast, as Lucy found it hard not to vocalise while she was on her hands and knees being fucked or sodomised by her dad.

As the saying goes, the family that plays together stays together. And they all lived happily ever after.

Well, they did until Connor was old enough to ask questions and do some tests of his own.

A quick wrap up on the blog and other data: in 2025 I added 39 new posts during the year and there were 292,946 visitors, an increase of 34% (or a little over 74,000) from 2024.  The photos on my Flickr account have been viewed more than 20 million times, an astonishing number, to me at least. There are 104 videos of me ‘in action’ which I now only make available to those who have been kind enough to gift me a pair of stockings (FFNs, of course) and although I don’t have complete data for how many times they have been viewed  – and, I hope, wanked over – one popular one has gained over a quarter of a million views so if I was to guess I’d say something comfortably over one million views.

Thanks for all your support and comments during 2025 and a Happy New Year.

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:

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.

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!!!

Chatting with someone on SHQ this week, the subject of spermy facials came up and this set me thinking back to the first time I received one.

This was way back when – I was only sixteen or seventeen, certainly still at school. I had a sort of boyfriend who was eighteen and when my parents were out he’d come round and I’d get into my seamed stockings and strappy high heel sandals and netball skirt (very St Trinian’s vibe) and I’d usually suck him off.

We’d found some adult magazines somewhere, I think he’d got them from a store where he had a Saturday job and one afternoon we were flicking through these, reading some of the stories and readers’ letters. They were mostly of the ‘Mayfair’, ‘Men Only’ and ‘Razzle’ variety but there was one very glossy smaller size magazine – I think it was German but I might be wrong. To be honest and revealing my relative innocence, I was a bit shocked that they showed full penetration and women with cocks in their mouths, as I’d thought such images were illegal but I found them quite a turn on and I remember admiring some of the outfits the women wore, with lots of high heels and stockings. And then as I followed a sequence in which one woman and a man appeared to be having sex and when I turned the page, I saw what was obviously spunk on her face, lots of it and I was like “Wow – look at this” and over the page she appeared to be licking the spunk off her lips. I was fascinated and flicked back and forth between these pages and I asked my sort of boyfriend, “What do you think?” and he said something along the lines of “Yeah, that’s nice. Want to try it?”

I asked if he’d ever done it before and he said he hadn’t but was willing to give it a go provided I was okay with it. “Why not”, I thought.

One detail I’d noticed in the magazine was the woman’s make up: she had bright red lips, very thickly applied light blue eye shadow and lots of pink blusher. She looked very slutty but I decided if I was also going to get a cum splattering I wanted my face as brightly painted, so I told my sort of boyfriend I needed ten minutes and I went upstairs and after tying my hair back I piled on my makeup, so when I remerged my  face looked like a that of a china doll.

This might sound daft but looking back I don’t know why I didn’t suck him off and just get him to spurt on my face at the end but I didn’t. Instead, I knelt down in front of him and he wanked himself while stood over me. It didn’t take long – we’re talking about a randy eighteen-year-old who hadn’t cum for days in anticipation of a bit of oral relief from me and of course when he came it was a very full load. I remember the first rope hitting my face and going directly up my cheek and over my right eye (fortunately I shut it just in time!) and then he aimed three more in slightly different directions. Feeling each falling across my face just felt wonderful. I hardly let him complete his unloading before I leapt up and went over to the mirror. I could only look with my left eye, my right being closed to avoid getting a spermy eyeball but that didn’t reduce my joy.

“Fucking hell. That’s incredible!” I shouted. “Look at that!” and I turned my head from side to side, admiring my new look. I just thought it looked fantastic, so, horny I was almost cumming in my knickers.

After admiring myself for a minute or two his semen began dribbling down my face and dripping onto the mantlepiece so I used my fingers and tongue to scoop up and swallow as much as I could and then used a tissue for the rest. “You’ve ruined my makeup” I told him and we both laughed.

As I’m reminiscing, recalling many silly details I’ll risk going somewhat off topic (this was meant to be about the first time I got a facial) and add a bit more from my memory bank.

It feels like to must have been around this time but maybe it was later because at some point VHS recorders were available and I watched quite a few porn films. You’ll probably not be surprised to learn that inter racial and cum shot videos were my favourites and to this day I still remember a sequence in one which was introduced with a caption “A Faceful of Sperm”  – I loved that title – in which a skinny black man pulled a white women around on a table and as she appeared to struggle to get free he unleashed a fountain of semen and sperm all over her face. I rewound and replayed that sequence dozens of times and on one occasion, while on all fours facing  the TV I was fucked while I watched it and managed to get my orgasm to exactly coincide with the moment the guy pasted the woman’s face and I can tell you, that was one of the best orgasms I’ve ever had.

Then a man I was seeing brought me a tape which I think was called ‘Sperma Festival’ or something like that in which a series of women were shown kneeling or lying back while dozens and dozens of men ejaculated on their faces. I was astonished, shocked even. Why did they do it? Money, obviously but some appeared to really relish getting absolutely plastered with cum.

I couldn’t get those images out of my head and of course, it set me thinking: would I do that? If so, how would I go about it?  Would I need to do it on camera? I had a lot of fantasies about various scenarios, including a lot in which I was tied or handcuffed to a post and a long queue of men formed and one by one they ejaculated on my face. I even had one crazy one in which all the men in a village where I was held captive were invited to use me as a cum dump and this sequence ended with an appearance from the vicar who, while telling me that I was a harlot who would burn in hell for me sins, shot the biggest load of all, right into my mouth.

Now, you are wondering did I ever do it? The short answer is I didn’t. It was certainly an erotic fantasy for me and I have experienced two men ejaculating on my face – for a time I had a thing going with two men at work and on a Friday night we’d go to a pub and after plenty of drink and dirty talk I’d take each into he toilets and give them blow jobs but on a couple of occasions they both joined me and both came on my face, one from each side. But there was something about the idea of twelve or twenty or forty men all spunking on me one after the other that I just couldn’t bring myself to do. Maybe I just felt it was too extreme or two degrading (although the degrading aspect of taking a facial is part of the thrill, for me at least).

I’ve been invited to take part in ‘greedy girl’ parties many times and of course the women who participate are paid to do so. In fact, there is a swingers club not far from where I live and which I attend, occasionally, which hosts mid-week Bukkake parties where they get a few women and all the male club members are invited to spunk on them and after seeing me giving a gentleman ‘hand relief’  on their stage, the management urged me to volunteer for a spunk party but I told them I’m not that sort of girl, although I didn’t tell them I fantasised that I am exactly that sort of slut for weeks afterwards. If only they had offered to have one of the men dressed as a vicar, I might have changed my mind!

p.s. I have many dozens of photos of my face after being splattered with cum and quite a few videos as I used to like to film myself receiving lots of warm jizz but for (what I hope are) obvious reasons I cannot share these so instead I’ve used other photos to illustrate this blog.

As you might expect, I get a lot of requests from admirers wishing to meet and, more specifically, from those who would like to experience my “hand relief” service. As I explained in this blog last year, I decided to not make any such appointments (other than with a small and select group of loyal fans who I see from time to time for some ‘relief’). Once I explain this I am then asked if I know of any other women who one might describe as a Masturbatrix.

I did an online chat with one of my admirers earlier this month and he asked me a question which set me thinking. He asked, if he was to look for the perfect Masturbatrix what characteristics should she have? And as I thought about this, I identified four critical criteria, together with some other nice to have but not necessarily essential qualities. So here it is, my guide to what makes the perfect Masturbatrix.

1. The first and most important criterion is that this is a lady who is doing it because she really enjoys masturbating men and finds it a real turn on. Of course, the money can be good but if a woman is doing this simply because she wants easy money or may even desperately need the money then what you can expect is a quick hand job after which you will be out of the door ASAP as she gets ready for her next client. For me providing hand relief is a joy, it is my dirty hobby. I love getting ready for a session (about which more in 3. below), I love wrapping my hand around a rock hard cock, I love hearing the owner groan with pleasure and then pleading with me to finish him off, I love seeing his face as he climaxes, I love watching the spunk, whether it shoots out with force or simply pours out over my hands and I simply love being splattered with lots of thick creamy semen. This is what you should seek in the perfect Masturbatrix and if she is not almost as excited about a session as you are, I wouldn’t bother.
2. The second critical criterion is that a Masturbatrix needs to properly understand the physical aspects of an expertly delivered executive hand relief service. By that I mean that she must be able to do three things: build the man up gradually towards his climax; second, be able to keep him there for as long as possible before finally granting release; and thirdly, after he has ejaculated, continue to stroke his penis for some time as a sort of ‘warm down’ as I know that a lot of the sensation continues for many minutes after the point of climax. Of course, there are times when a fast and furious hand job is what is required. For example, when I did some photos with an admirer at Hampton Court Palace we concluded with a hand job in the car park but this was not an occasion to hang around too long as there were people moving back and forth and CCTV cameras and given my outfit we had already attracted a great deal of attention so I needed to get his spunk out and onto the gravel pretty quickly, otherwise we might have found ourselves talking to the police! But here in this blog I am talking about a professional Masturbatrix providing a proper hand relief service and this is not something to be rushed. As to the second part of my description, this is where a really skilled and experienced Masturbatrix comes into her own because getting a man to the edge of climax but then being able to keep him there is a genuine skill, or even an art. I almost have a sixth sense for when a man is about to cum and can respond accordingly. Some men even go so far as to attempt to disguise where they are on their masturbation journey but I am somehow able to detect this and will deliberately delay matters even to the point where I have had some men sobbing in frustration because I won’t grant them their wish and allow them to come there and then. Of course, the obvious thing that I do in these circumstances is to simply slow matters down and tell them that they must wait or if there is a real risk that they will simply spurt anyway I can take my hand away and stop altogether but there are more subtle ways in which climax can be deferred. For example, I might ask them if their wife knows where they are. That usually does the trick! Or I’ll ask how things are at work or how many children they have. Again, that usually puts a stopper in their cock and some will even become a little flaccid as a result. Of course, the main objective in doing this is to make the sensation as intense as possible when they do climax with the added bonus of more powerful ejaculation and often impressive volumes of sperm and semen but I won’t disguise the fact that I get pleasure from seeing them writhing and bucking as they hover just short of the ultimate satisfaction and making men plead and beg for release is something I find incredibly erotic.
3. The third vital element is very simple: a Masturbatrix need to make an effort with her appearance. It never fails to astonish me how in many porn films where a woman is giving a man a hand job, she looks like she’s about to set off the supermarket, dressed in T-shirt and jeans or joggers and when they are naked that is no better to my mind. So, the perfect Masturbatrix will make an effort – in my case, that almost always means wearing a suspender belt and fully fashioned stockings with high heel shoes or boots and often a uniform, or leather, PVC or other fetish outfits. Gloves are also very important to my style and I have written about this before in the blog. And a little makeup or even a lot of makeup doesn’t go to miss either.
4. Finally, it’s no good a woman calling herself a Masturbatrix if she has an aversion the sperm and semen. Even from a very young age I always loved it when a man ejaculated on me. I can’t fully explain why this is, I just know it’s true and embrace it. When I do a relief session I look forward to having them spurt on me and in some of my videos you will hear me urging the cock owner to come all over my tits. From time to time, I have had men ask if they can ejaculate on my face, as it’s often been a strong fantasy of theirs but one which they have never been able to experience and I have no problem in making their fantasy come true as I find a face full of sperm very erotic.

Those are my four essential criteria for the perfect Masturbatrix. Then there are a few not necessarily essential qualities, but which go towards making the perfect executive relief experience.

For example, I know I am lucky because I have a large bust and this will not always be the case with every Masturbatrix but I certainly like to show plenty of cleavage for my men to gaze at while I masturbate them. In fact, as they approach climax I will often urge them to cum all over my cleavage and glaze my tits. I also do topless relief sessions with a similar end result of splattered mammaries.

Dressed for a hand relief session

Another nice to have is the verbal component and this can work either way or even both ways. I’m happy to ‘talk dirty’ while masturbating. For example, with my husband I will often tell him about experiences I’ve had with other men while I am stroking him off or I tell him about my most recent sex session with my boyfriend. With others I may chat about how I love big, thick, rock-hard cocks or how I love being spunked on or just what a slut I have been over so many years, with so many men and so many different cocks. Some men have specific things they want me to talk about and in most cases, this presents no challenge for me.

In the other direction, some men like to engage in what might be described as ‘verbal abuse’. I completely recognise that not all women are happy with this and I would suggest you always check with a woman first before name calling her or you might find your session reaches a premature end or you are not invited back. But not only do I have no problem with this, I find it quite a turn on and, again, you may hear me be being subject to some verbal abuse in some of my videos. Not only do I like this, but I also sometimes even suggest things that they can call me if they want to, things like ‘busty slut’, ‘big titted tart’, ‘dirty bitch’, ‘filthy whore’, things like this.

And here is the final nice to have quality for a top Masturbatrix: is she turned on by what she is doing? Is she wet, after you spunk? In my case, I find this such a turn on that after the cock owner has been drained of his fluid I want to cum too. Sometimes I can go to my boyfriend’s house for a good seeing to and if I can do this immediately after a hand relief session, this is about the best sex I can ever have. But this is not always possible, so then I will usually either ask the man to finger fuck me to orgasm (I cum very quickly, often within seconds) or I will simply do it myself while they watch. And for the guy, I know that seeing me so aroused and panting as I orgasm, really is the cherry on the cake of an unforgettable experience with the perfect Masturbatrix i.e. me!

Lady Sonia, a porn actress who regularly played the Masturbtrix role on film

There’s been a bit of discussion on SHQ about ‘dogging’ (https://forum.stockingshq.com/index.php?/topic/71133-dogging/)

and as I’m not sure that is an appropriate forum for this topic but wanted to add my own, pretty limited, experience and my perspective I thought I’d do it via this blog.

Before doing so, I’d say a mistake some of those on SHQ have made is to assume that dogging means a single type of activity, namely a woman going to a public space and having some sort of sexual action with several complete strangers and I don’t think that’s correct, as I’ll explain.

I’ll admit, sexually adventurous as I am, I’d not even heard of dogging until I read an article in a magazine (I think it was Mayfair but I may be wrong). It described various forms of dogging but the one which stayed in my mind was a couple driving to a known dogging spot and having sex in the car while men gathered around to watch and masturbate and the mental image of men ejaculating on the windows but not being able to touch, well that grabbed my imagination.

I’ve always been an exhibitionist and around this time my husband and I occasionally visited couples’ or swingers’ clubs and some fetish ones too – some of you may even recognize the names: Nightshift, Toucan Club, Whiplash, Club Rub etc. I enjoyed these, as I felt able to wear very ‘out there’ outfits and uniforms and then we could do things while others watched – oral and full sex for example, spanking etc.

I’d never really considered sex in a car with men gathered round but after reading the article I mentioned it to my husband and asked if he fancied giving it a try. He has a ‘try anything once’ attitude, as do I, so agreed we should, but I’ll admit I was nervous about turning up at a site in some tarty outfit with maybe dozens of men I’d never met and didn’t know. What if they somehow overpowered my husband and assaulted me? Gang bang may be a common fantasy but gang rape? No thanks!

At this time I had my own very active Yahoo photo and video groups – from memory the photo group had around 25,000 members – so I decided to invite some of my fans to come and view me and watch me being fucked by my husband. By this point I’d changed my mind about sex in the car (cramped, uncomfortable) and instead had decided to pose for a few photos and then bend over the car and be fucked but only by my husband.

However, I attached some strict conditions and only those agreeing to them were then sent the details of where and when I would be. The first condition was they had to be available at around 7pm at a location in Surrey; second, they had to provide me with their registration number, so I would know that those there had been invited. I did this as there were stories of the police arriving in unmarked cars and arresting people for ‘gross indecency’. Third they had to agree that there would be no photos or video, other than those taken by my husband. They agreed to keep their distance, only approach if invited to do so and not to touch me at any time. And, finally they undertook to allow us to leave first and not attempt to follow.

So this was never meant to be sex with loads of blokes I’d never met but rather a carefully controlled opportunity for admirers to see me for real, view me in seamed stockings and stiletto heels and watch me having sex. Of course, they were free to masturbate as they did so and this I positively encouraged.

The result was a list of sixteen of my most devoted fans, who committed to these conditions and to whom I sent the details: I’d be at Wisley at 7pm on a Saturday evening in July.

On the day, I was incredibly nervous about this whole idea and I drank a whole bottle of Champagne to calm myself before setting off with my husband on what was a very bright, sunny evening. The photos here were taken that evening by my husband.

When we arrived, I was surprised that only about six or eight cars were there. As instructed the men remained in their cars initially but when I got out and paraded myself around, and posed for the camera, the cars gradually crept forwards.

As we’d previously agreed he placed me face down over the bonnet of the car and lifted my skirt up. At this point he beckoned to the men in the cars that they could get out and come forward to watch. As he penetrated me, I could see all the cocks out being stroked and some being wanked hard. It wasn’t long before I saw a really big plume of semen flying up and towards us.

We had planned a spectacular ending which was for my husband, when ready to cum, to withdraw and I’d turn around and he’d spunk all over my face. In anticipation of this he’d abstained from coming for about two weeks and in the days leading up to our ‘show’ he’d frequently edged himself and, as a result, I knew he was carrying a very full load. I’d been looking forward to getting a really big faceful of sperm and allowing some of my admirers to see me receiving it and then I was going to walk around in front and between them as I licked it up, as I was sure they’d love this. But that evening I lost my nerve and as he thrust into me, I told him not to withdraw but to cum inside me. I knew he’d be disappointed by this, but he does as he’s told and so he was soon spasming inside me and I could feel all that built up semen and sperm spurting into me.

Meanwhile my audience had all been wanking. One guy moved very close, and his ejaculation either splashed me or got extremely close. I didn’t especially mind but it was an indication he might not be great at following rules and showing respect and so it later proved.

We got back in our car and set off. However, Mr. Spunky had obviously decided our agreement didn’t apply to him and he immediately followed our car. Once on the A3, my husband slowed down to a crawl, wound down the window and signalled for our follower to overtake us but, no, he slowed too and continued his pursuit. We were both outraged by this and there was no way we were going to drive to our family home with this clown trailing us, so we pulled over onto a hard shoulder and our ‘friend’ pulled up behind us at which point my husband went and had a word with him – I believe he asked if he’d like him to take his shotgun from the boot and shoot out one of his tyres. At this point the moron sped off.

As a bit of a postscript, we were so concerned by that guy’s behaviour that we decided to stop off at a pub on the way back, just to make sure we had properly shaken him off. Once I’d had a drink we discussed the evenings experience, and I had to admit to my frustration because I’d been so tense and nervous and so busy watching the men wanking that I had not managed to orgasm (which is unusual as I cum very readily). I also told him he’d flooded me and I was sat in the pub with two little streams of spunk dribbling down my inner things. That was enough to get him ready for action again, so we went into the toilets and he fucked me for a second time and this time I came too!

The next day I asked those who had say they would attend but had not done so as to why they failed to appear, and the list of ‘the dog ate my homework’ excuses was rather funny and included ‘my brother came round’, ‘I had a puncture’ and even ‘I fell asleep’.

We decided that doing this with an invited list in bright sunlight was one variety of dogging but that we should also try going at night, unannounced and a few weeks later returned to Wisley. This was a disappointing experience. I’d gone to the trouble of getting into a miniskirt, seams and heels again but when we arrived we discovered it was either mainly or entirely men and they were not only much more interested in their homosexual action but positively hostile when I emerged. There was a bit of shouting at us because we had arrived with headlights on (who knew gay doggers can drive at night without lights?) and we left quickly and vowed never to go back.

I’ve tried a couple of related things. We drove to another location where doggers were said to hang out and I took my blouse off and after posing for a few photos (some here) we had sex up against our car while men in the bushes wanked and we went a couple of times to another well-known location in Surrey during the day; on one occasion there was no one there and on another two men watched as I gave my husband oral and we got a little round of applause after I’d swallowed his semen (and we noticed quite a few condoms lying around).

But after talking through these experiences, we decided this was not really a scene for us. Our experience of just turning up at a so-called dogging site is that there will often be no one there or its more for gays wanting to bum strangers and when instead I tried to arrange something with my admirers, many don’t even bother to turn up and among those who do there’s always someone who will behave like a dickhead.   

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not in any of these five photos.

There is an event at Hampton Court Palace each September which gathers some of the world’s rarest (and most valuable) cars. If you’re interested, you can see more details here:

Last year I was invited by a gentleman I met while doing some work within the luxury and classic car field and it was a grand event. Even a simple entry ticket costs over £100 but I was invited as a VIP guest, with a Charles Heidsieck Champagne reception, a 3-course lunch with fine wines etc.

There was one condition to my invitation, that I wear the complete outfit he had seen among my photos, and I reproduce that photo here. And yes, I wore the ankle bracelet and kept the gloves on throughout the day!

I’m sure some in this group were looking at me and asking ‘Is she a Dominatrix?’ or even ‘Who brought the tart?’

He really enjoyed showing me off and introducing me to all his friends and contacts and although I was a bit self-conscious at first, the Champagne helped me relax and I know a lot of the men there really enjoyed seeing my seams and the ten straps of my suspender belt clearly visible beneath the tight wet-look dress. My host was not the only one who became rather excited!

In fact he became so aroused it was rather embarrassing. Fortunately it was a very warm day, so he was able to carry his jacket in front of him for a time, in order to disguise his erection but I felt this was becoming a little too obvious, so I suggested we pop out of the Palace across to the lovely Mitre Hotel, where he was staying and once there I was able to deal with the “problem” of his hard-on by delivering my superb “hand relief” service.

I was a little shocked on returning to the event when he told one of his friends what he had just obtained “relief” from me and that having me in front of him on my knees was a most beautiful vision. I only hope no one noticed the mark on my dress where we had had to wipe up a big rope of semen which had hit me when he ejaculated or, if they did, they simply thought I’d been careless with my ice cream!

The question is not has he invited me again for this weekend’s event – of course he has – the question is what outfit will he stipulate this year and I am waiting to hear that and is he serious in suggesting that some of his friends may wish to join us for some fun at the Mitre. It could be a busy weekend!

Doing what I do best.

This is a tiny clip from one of my videos. If you’d like to view all of it and the 103 other videos in my collection, all I ask for in return is a single pair of fully fashioned stockings, to help keep me in these lovely nylons.

If you’d like to know how to gift some stockings, email me at ladyinseams@gmx.com (but please only email me if you are sincere about this).

You know already that I have a great love of, perhaps even an obsession about, fully fashioned stockings, sometimes referred to as vintage style seamed stockings or nylons or just ‘FFNs’. This has been a constant for me for over forty-five years, since I acquired my first suspender belt and a pair of Harmony Point stockings when I was just fourteen. If you read this blog, I assume you share something of my passion.

But there’s something else about FFNs which I love but I know not everyone agrees with or even likes, namely wrinkles in stockings. One of the things I liked best when I first put on that pair of Harmony Points was how sheer and ‘hard’ the nylons felt, after all my previous stretch tights. FFNs are non-stretch and as a result they can wrinkle at the knees and ankles and sometimes even be a little ‘baggy’ on the leg and I love that.

As I said, I know some people disagree, even some men who love FFNs. They believe the suspender belt straps should be tightened so the stockings are taut and the seams kept straight and I understand that and I will often go for that look myself, especially for more formal occasions (weddings, parties, etc), sometimes stretching suspender straps across my buttocks keeping things tight and revealing lovely suspender belt “bumps” and the outline of the straps themselves, as you see in this photo.

But for me there is something about wrinkles in FFNs and the extra information they convey (yes, they’re most certainly stockings and I am wearing a suspender belt or girdle!) that I know a lot of men absolutely love. If I am out, say shopping, wearing seams and high heels, I am often followed but I have noticed that I am followed more often when my stockings are wrinkled, maybe even a little baggy on my legs.

So, years ago I learnt at least three things which help develop proper, distinct wrinkles. First, I buy my stockings on the long side. I do so partly because I like to be able to wear them with short skirts but also because a longer stocking will develop wrinkles more readily. Second, I don’t try to get the stockings too taut, nor to tighten the straps of the belt too much – not too loose either or the stockings rotate too easily and the seam can end up on the side of my leg but not too tight, a judgement call I don’t always get right. And third, just wearing them all day and walking from place to place and wrinkles, often very deep and clear wrinkles will almost always develop. After a day at work, I’d often be sat on the tube or train home with very, very wrinkled stockings and I found that many men really liked this look.

Of course, the other way on which these wrinkles and a certain looseness develops is during a physical session and I know my husband likes to admire my wrinkled seams.

So let’s celebrate this look (and no stupid jokes about Nora Batty from those who don’t like them, as I’ve heard them all before and they are VERY boring!) and the joy of non-stretch nylon!

I was delighted when the number of people reading my blog soared last year, with over 62,000 visits in 2023. This year has been even more astonishing: in November alone visits exceed half of the total for the whole of last year with almost 32,000 visits and, yesterday, the total for the year, so far, exceeded 200,000 (200,002 to be exact). Thank you for all of your interest and support, your comments on the blog and your private messages to me. They are all appreciated.

Equally gratifying, my Flickr profile (https://www.flickr.com/people/ladyinseams/) continues to receive a lot of traffic, and my photos there have been viewed over 16 million times, which to me is a staggering number.

I hope that through my blog posts, my photos and (for those with access) my 100+ videos I can claim responsibility for stimulating the release of many billions of sperm and lots of pints of semen or ejaculate.

Finally, as I know these data are probably of much more interest to me than they are to you, here’s a photo of my lovely tits for you to enjoy. Suck on these, boys!