As I slow down my hand, he bucks in the chair and groans. “No” he moans.

Harry, at just 28, is less than half my age. Yet this is what he wants. He previously told me that he has been obsessed with me since he was still at school, more than a decade ago. A member of my Yahoo group (long since dead) and furiously wanking away to my videos, even back then as a horny teen. Now he claims to masturbate to my videos three times a day on average. But ahead of his ‘therapy’ session – the first time we’ve met, after he had begged for this opportunity – he followed and exceeded my instructions. I asked him to abstain for a week and edge himself at least once each day. Instead, he boasts he managed ten days and not less than three edging sessions to my photos and videos each day, sometimes as many as ten.

When he removed his trousers, I could see he had not been exaggerating and I could see this might be a challenge. His cock was already pointed at the ceiling, his boxer shorts, soaked with pre cum at the front, almost dribbling from him. Not the biggest cock I’ve handled – maybe 6 inches – but very, very thick. That gets my attention, gets me wet.

His hands are handcuffed behind his back and through the arm of the chair. I’ve taken him up to the edge of climax six times already and then slowed it down or withdrawn my hand altogether. I sense his frustration. One more time I think and so I take him up, sense he is very, very close to climax and begin to take him down and just as I’m thinking I’ll release him next time, he makes a mistake. “I’m ready now” he says, or rather, he grunts it.

I laugh. “Ready? You think it’s your choice? No, I decide. When you cum. If you cum”. I’m stroking very, very slowly now, no pressure on his cock, though I can feel it throbbing in my right hand, though my glossy, black latex glove and the lube.

“No” he moans. “Now, please.”

“If you argue, I’ll stop and we can start again tomorrow. Is that what you want? Is it really?”

Feeling his pulse in my hand, watching him writhe in the chair, pulling against the handcuffs, I have an overwhelming sense of power and control. And that’s an incredible thrill, a genuine endorphin rush. I could stop now and deny his orgasm, tell him we’ll start again tomorrow. Of course, then he might finish himself off but we both know he won’t do that. He needs his Goddess’s hand to make him complete.

“No, no, please. I’m sorry … just …”

So I say, “Then beg”.

He makes a pathetic attempt at begging but I make him do it properly.  He begs, he pleads, he says he can’t bear it any longer, as I slowly increase the speed and pressure and then ease back down again.

“Are you looking at my tits?”, I ask, as I’m wearing a low-cut top, with acres of cleavage for him to gaze upon, to aim at.

“Yes, yes, fantastic tits” he groans and then adds, “and seams and heels and leather … fuck, fuck make me cum!”

I take him up one last time – pushing my luck as I know he is so, so close, it’s like a trigger on a landmine – and he is literally bucking in the chair, his body is almost in spasm and his back is arched upwards but he can’t lift up completely because his hands are cuffed to this solid wooden chair and then I say “Now I want you to cum on me, I want your sperm all over …” but before I can finish what I wanted to say it happens. I massive arc of semen hits my chin and neck, a second down my neck and cleavage and then there’s a slight pause and the rest of his sack contents spurt over my gloved hand and down my wrist. There is so much, my tits are totally glazed and I’m reminded why I like milking young men’s cocks so much. So hard, so firm, so erect and so full of lovely seminal fluid. Lovely, thick, healthy semen and sperm and all over my tits and my throat.

As I slowly stroke him down, he keeps saying “fuck, fuck fuck, fuck, fuck …” and as then as he begins to compose himself, he adds “I can’t believe it. Incredible, so, so …” I can sense he is struggling to find the right words as his head is still exploding with a mini firework display in his brain and I’m still stroking his cock but eventually he says “Powerful. Intense. Fucking awesome.”

As I uncuff him, I think, I’m wet, maybe I should listen to my body and just impale myself on this very thick cock. I know I want to, to have my own orgasm, to extract any last residual supply of sperm from this young lad. But I remain professional – I can finish myself off in the toilets shortly – and ask if he’d like to arrange a follow on therapy session. And when I ask if next time I could bring him off into a Champagne flute and then add some Champagne and enjoy a lovely, rich spermy cocktail, he looks as if he is about to faint.

Note: the photos here are illustrative and none were taken on the day

Well, I’ve done the deed: I’ve pretended to be a dead woman, the infamous mother-in-law. If that means nothing to you, you MUST go back and read this blog entry, otherwise what follows will make little sense to you:

https://wordpress.com/post/ladyinseams.home.blog/437

A lot of what I did, even the outfit I wore, went against everything I normally like to do but for once I wasn’t actually being me at all, I was a different person doing a different thing. For example, normally if I’m meeting a man for hand relief or similar types of fun, I’ll wear heavy make-up but for this encounter I wore just a gentle touch of pink lipstick and I had my hair pulled back and tied in a bun, and I thought I looked suitably severe, similar to the way Margaret, his mother-in-law, looked in some photos he’d shown me.

I wore a little pink sweater over a 1950’s style bullet bra and combined this with some strings of pearls. I had a tight pencil skirt, past my knees and of course I wore my black girdle but for once not with fully fashioned (seamed) stockings but with plain reinforced heel and toe stockings, as I had been informed by Phillip that he had never seen Margaret in seams. And probably the hardest choice of all was my shoes, as normally I’m selecting between five-inch or six-inch stilettos but sensible, strict Margaret preferred a modest heel, so I had to dig out a pair with just two-inch heels that I last wore to a church carol service. And although I had gloves and lube in my clutch bag, I knew they’d be staying there. My husband looked me up and down before I left the house and said I looked as if I was off to a Women’s Institute talk, rather than going to a man’s house to masturbate him.

I had decided in advance to remain ‘in role’ throughout but had not told Phillip this, as I preferred to catch him somewhat unawares. When I rang the doorbell at his rather grand house, he opened to door and put his arms out to hug me, saying how wonderful it was to see me again and how kind it was of me to come. I shoved him out of the way and strode into his hallway. He looked shocked.

I said “Look, we both know I don’t want to be here, so can we get this over with as quickly as possible?”

I took my coat off and hung it by the door and then went straight into the first room I could see off the hallway, which appeared to be a rather large dining room. I saw a sofa and sat down. He stood at the door and seemed to hop from one foot to the other and said “Oh, I thought we might go through to the piano room, as it doesn’t face onto the road.”

I said, “I don’t care what you thought, sit down here and take down your trousers.” Meekly, he sat down by my right and dropped his trousers, revealing boxer shorts and socks with a golfer motif. I took his left hand with mine and placed it on my right thigh and moved it up and down a little so he got the idea – feel my girdle straps – and with my right hand I grabbed hold of his penis, which was soft but rising quite quickly.

“Pathetic” I said as I began to pump it. As he continued to feel the outline of the straps of my girdle and the tops of my stockings, I went at it with a cold fury, my hand moving very quickly. Without any lubricant or oil – my normal technique – it felt harsh, brutal almost but I carried on almost as if trying to pull it off. After a minute or two he gasped “So good” and swallowed hard but I retorted “Shut up, idiot”. After another minute or so I said “Come on, come on, I haven’t got all day you know” and almost immediately at this point I sensed he was about to climax, so I held my left hand in front of the tip of his cock and he spurted into my palm, followed by another smaller spurt and then another and then his cock began a gentle flow of semen onto my hand.

For me, this was probably the most difficult part of the whole encounter. I pride myself on continuing to stroke cocks after climax, sometimes spending five minutes or more gently ‘warming down’ until the cock is flaccid and I know from feedback that many men find this to be almost as pleasurable as the moment of climax itself, as the waves of their orgasm continue to ripple through their bodies. But not today. So even as his cock continued to ooze ejaculate, I got to my feet and looking at my hand and his semen dribbling down my wrist and arm, said “That is absolutely disgusting” and marched out of the room. I suddenly realised I might have made a tactical error, as never having been in this house before I had no idea where the bathroom or kitchen might be but at the end of his hallway I found myself in an enormous kitchen and quickly managed to rinse his fluid off my hand and arm and washed my right hand too.

He stood at the kitchen door and watched me drying my hands on a tea towel and, doing up his trousers, started to say how wonderful that had been but I just brushed past him and went to collect my coat.

“Won’t you stay and have a drink with me, we can chat about everything”, he said in a rather beseeching voice.

“Don’t be ridiculous” I replied.

I put my coat on and stepped out onto the driveway but then I turned around and looked up at him in his doorway. “Do you know something?”, I asked. He smiled and waited. “You are the only man I have ever met who makes me feel physically sick.”

And with that I was off, into my car and driving away. And do you know what? I felt terrible, guilty at how I had treated him, guilty that I had been in his house for all of ten minutes, guilty that he’d gifted me most generously in advance and yet that was all he got – ten minutes and insults and a rough hand job and a semi ruined orgasm  … and yet, and yet I also felt elated, delighted I had remained ‘in role’ and thrilled at what a callous bitch I had been throughout. And in a way I did despise him, for getting his sexual thrills in this way with his mother-in-law and that this was his most powerful sexual fantasy.

Before I had even got home, he had messaged me to say it had been beyond his greatest hopes, I had been ‘Margaret’ with such accuracy he felt I must have known her or been possessed by her spirit. And he begged to do it again, soon.

*****

But I am left puzzling over something – why did she do it? I can understand why he found it very erotic and her distain for him somehow must have added to his excitement. It’s a power thing and I know from my own experience my husband can find it very exciting when I tell him how pathetic his dick is and I taunt and humiliate him. So I get his part of this relationship.

But what was in it for her? Was she secretly aroused by masturbating her son-in-law, a man she appeared to have despised? Or was it simply her way of controlling and making him feel even more worthless? Perhaps she didn’t dislike him at all and was putting on a front to hide her own powerful attraction to him, secretly hating her daughter instead, for marrying a man she loved for herself but could never have. I asked him if he knew her motivation but he was equally at a loss. I asked if he thought she might have dealt with her husband, his father-in-law, in the same way and he thought this was possible, as he was very much under her thumb and did as he was told. I even asked if he thought it was possible that, secretly, she had been a Masturbatrix, doing hand domination in the same brusque manner with clients. He admitted he’d never even considered this and acknowledged that she always seemed to have plenty of money, but on reflection he was almost certain this could not be the case as “she wasn’t like that” and I knew he meant she wasn’t a sex mad slut like me.

And now she is dead, we will never know why she chose to masturbate her son-in-law at almost every family gathering, dozens and dozens of hand jobs, pumping out his sperm and his seminal fluid and then declaring it to be a disgusting mess and rushing to wash it down the plug hole. Such are the mysteries of human sexuality.

This is a slightly odd post, I know, as it’s really someone else’s story and one in which – as yet – I haven’t done anything of note. But bear with me, as it’s interestingly weird, I think.

I was invited to accompany a gentleman friend to a slightly odd lunch event, held just after Christmas. Each man was expected to bring a ‘glamorous’ lady companion and it seems that this was widely interpreted as meaning an escort, although one man I met there was with his secretary. Just so you have the idea, I’d agreed to wear the exact outfit you see in these photos – including the long gloves and ankle bracelet (save for the fact that I wore a ¼ cup bra and in the photos I’m wearing a white bullet bra).

My gentleman proudly introduced me to a number of other men there and he was fairly open in praising my “hand relief” skills and described me as “a Masturbatrix”, a few times and encouraged those I met to consider making their own arrangements to subsequently meet me, if they desired. And some did very much desire!

One gent who was particularly keen said he had a particular and probably rather peculiar request, which he hoped I would not find off-putting, if we did meet again at a later date. However, he seemed very reluctant to tell me what his particular ‘kink’ was, as he thought I might think him weird.

I joked that if he wanted me to use him as a toilet, the answer was most definitely ‘no’ but he said it was nothing like that, it was simply he’d want me to pretend to be someone else. Intrigued, I tried guessing – schoolgirl, nurse, a celebrity – but he shook his head. “My mother-in-law” he eventually said. He explained that for many years he has had a powerful erotic attraction to this woman and fantasises about her constantly.  I asked if she was aware of this obsession and he laughed a little and said she had died five years ago, yet he still thought about her constantly.

He went on to say that what makes his obsession particularly odd is that she didn’t like him – in fact, it seems she despised him, wished her daughter had never married him and took every opportunity to make her feelings clear. She said he was a waster who would never amount to anything. When in time he built a successful time-share and holiday rental business, she said this just proved he was a crook.

I asked if she had been a sexy lady. He began by saying she wore girdles and corselets and seeing her suspender straps under tight pencil skirts and dresses always greatly aroused him and that she had had a nice figure – big butt and bust is how he put it – but he didn’t think she was overtly sexy and that girdles were just what women wore when she was growing up and she was simply set in her ways and rather old fashioned.

Of course, he was delighted when I told him I have both a white and a black girdle and wear each from time to time and would be happy to do so if we met again or if he took me to a similar social event. And, naturally, he adored the suspender belt straps he could see before him, under my tight, wet-look party dress, which was one reason I had reminded him of Margaret, his mother-in-law, along with the big bust.

And that’s more or less how things were left: we exchanged details and I promised to consider meeting him while role playing his late mother-in-law. And I did want to think about it, as it just felt odd to me that he should be so powerfully aroused by a woman who had obviously disliked him so much and that I was being asked to play the role of a dead woman.

We exchanged some messages and then he told me that everything he had said at the lunch event was true but also incomplete. He’d held back an important detail, as he thought I might either not believe him or it would seem too strange and I would be shocked. I assured him I am pretty much shock proof and of course I was eager to hear this secret but he asked if he could tell me over a drink and so we met in London and after sharing a bottle of Champagne, he opened up about the missing piece of his story. This is what he told me.

When he married, they would alternate between his parents and his wife’s each Christmas. The first year after the wedding, his mother-in-law made clear her distaste for him and even told him to his face that she didn’t like the cashmere sweater he gave her on Christmas morning and suggested he take it back to the shop. Wrong colour, wrong style, wrong buttons, wrong everything.

In the evening, when everyone else had gone to bed, he found himself sat on the sofa next to her, as they finished watching a film on the TV. He said they’d both had a lot to drink and when she made another catty remark, he just told her the truth. He said he knew she didn’t like him, although he had no idea why but nevertheless, he found her an attractive woman and he confessed to his erotic attraction and that he even fantasised about her. He half expected her to slap him but she looked at him and said, “Go on”. So he confessed that this feeling was so powerful that on occasions, when making love to her daughter, he imagined it was her that he was fucking.

He expected her to storm out or slap him but instead she asked, “Are you aroused now?”. When he said he was, somewhat, she said “Show me”. He wasn’t sure what she meant, at first, but when she said, “Show me” and nodded at his crotch he understood. He asked, “Do you mean, get it out?” and she said “Yes. Show me”.

So he unzipped himself and pulled out his cock, at which point she grasped it and began to masturbate him. As she did, she insulted him: not even properly hard, stupid little willy, disgusting, sick, should be ashamed of himself, what would her daughter say … and so on until he gushed over her hand.

She said “There. Look at the mess you have made” and she got up, went into the kitchen and washed her hands and returned to the lounge only to say “I’m off to bed. Goodnight.”

The next day, nothing further was said and that was that, or so he thought. However, it wasn’t. On another occasion when they were otherwise alone at his in-laws, she suddenly said “Right, let’s get this over with” and unzipped him, gave him a rough and furious wank and then held her hand up to his face, his spunk trickling down her arm and said “Look at this disgusting mess” and walked off to wash her hands.

This then became a ‘thing’. He said it wasn’t frequent, as he didn’t see her often – five or six times a year – but each time she masturbated him. On one occasion he decided to see if it could become a regular pleasure and contrived to visit her with some plants for her garden, when he knew she’d be alone. When she opened the door her first words were “You’ve got a bloody nerve, coming here, unannounced” but a few minutes later he was gasping and spurting over her hand again. But when he asked if he could visit her again for more like this she told him no and if he did so she would not open the door to him, so that was the end of that possible avenue.

Nevertheless when I asked him how often she had masturbated him like this he said it must have been well over a hundred times, perhaps as many as two hundred as he’d been married for over thirty years when she died and pretty much each time they met she’d wank him off. He mentioned doing it in her kitchen, in the garden, a church yard and even his car, as places where she’d extracted his seed.

A couple of little details he told me intrigued me. When he ejaculated, she stopped pumping his cock almost immediately and would rush off to wash her hands, almost as if his semen was toxic, as if it genuinely disgusted her. There was no follow though or warming down, it was a case of bang, you’ve cum, now put it away. Another was that on occasions, she grabbed a tea towel and masturbated him onto that and then immediately threw it in the wash. After she’d tossed him off nothing would be said and she continued to let him know that she simply didn’t like or trust him, often ignoring him when he spoke or expressed an opinion about something. All very odd.  

That was his story and I now understood why he wanted a mature woman to replicate this experience for him. And so I told him that I am willing to give this fantasy of his a go. When I told him I though she sounded like she had been an absolute bitch he laughed and said, “That’s why I think you’ll be perfect.”

I will let you know how I get on.

Perhaps I should tell you a little more about humiliating my husband, which is something I really enjoy. In 2010 I informed him that I planned to find a younger black man to service me on a regular basis and that once I did I would no longer be willing to have sex with him. I was attending a club called “Black Lust” which was described as being “for white women wishing to meet black men”, so it didn’t take long and the ban was imposed and has remained in place ever since. I see my black stud once or twice a week and we have the most tremendous sex I’ve ever had, leaving me pounded, stretched, and flooded with his semen.

While I continued to give my husband oral on occasions, the focus switched to me giving him hand relief. After a time, I told him I was no longer willing to have his pathetic dick in my mouth. This was especially humiliating for him, as he knew I continued to give other men – including my boss – oral relief. Being denied a pleasure I give fairly freely to others was painful for him, much to my joy.

However, he enjoyed my hand skills and as he knew that very many men wished to have hand relief sessions with me he suggested I turn professional as a Masturbatrix, devoting one or two days a weeks to pleasuring fee paying clients. I took this as an opportunity to humiliate him further, so I said if this is what he wanted, he could become a client himself. Thereafter, I have made him book an appointment with me if he wants relief and I charge him a fee, albeit I fairly modest £100 per session, as a sort of loyalty discount. I also banned him from masturbating, so his only form of release now is by my gloved hands. I wear disposable latex or other gloves as I can now boast that I have not even touched his penis for some years.

Of course, as I am giving I him ‘relief’ I often take the opportunity to tell him how pathetic his dick is, as is his tiny dribble of semen, how worthless his sperm is and even how I wish I had never met him and had married a well hung black instead. I also describe the fun I have had masturbating and fellating other men and most of all taking by black stud’s massive, thick cock deep inside me during our fucking sessions.

He loves all this of course, the pathetic loser.

As readers of my blog will know, I enjoy giving men “hand relief”, so much so that I sometimes refer to myself as a Masturbatrix. But this wasn’t always the case, because although I wasn’t adverse to giving a man a quick hand job when circumstances required, I was much more likely to drop to my knees and bring them off with my mouth. In fact, I’d go so far as to say I was a prolific cocksucker and giver of blow jobs.

My penchant for oral probably began with my first proper sexual experience, the same day I acquired my first suspender belt and a pair of Aristoc Harmony Point fully fashioned (i.e. seamed) stockings, bought for me by a friend of my father’s and who I sucked off in the back seat of his car that evening, at the tender age of fourteen. When his cock exploded in my mouth and spurted five big gulps of semen into my young mouth, I was hooked. After that evening, and during the summer holidays, he would pop round to our house while my parents were out and I’d be ready for him in gym skirt, stockings and heels. I wasn’t ready for full sex, so I confined myself to blow jobs and he had no complaints about the service he received!

I’ve written elsewhere in this blog about how a couple of years later I found myself sucking off my headmaster. The version of that episode I posted here is somewhat fictionalised and meant to be humorous, but the event was real and although today people would say he abused his position and me for that matter, I’ve no complaints and I enjoyed it, although being caned was sometimes a bit too severe!!

One inevitable question I get asked is do you swallow and my answer is “hell yes”! I love the taste and texture of semen and I gulp it down with glee. Over the 46 years I have been regularly sucking guys off, I must have swallowed hundred perhaps many thousands of pints of semen. Indeed, I like it so much I encourage my men to abstain for as long as they can and to edge themselves before a fellatio session, as this tends to result in much more and much thicker semen.

However, I don’t always swallow. Here’s why. When I was eighteen I was looking through some porn magazines with a boyfriend, and saw some photos of a lady who had ejaculate all over her face and dripping down onto her breasts. I was fascinated! Up until then I’d never thought of taking a facial and no one had suggested I should but now I knew I wanted to. Fortunately, that boyfriend, who was only seventeen, had particularly good volume and a powerful ejaculation, so I suggested he masturbate onto my face, so I could be like the lady in the magazine. He was actually a little reluctant at first, as he said it might make me feel ‘degraded’ which was sweet of him but I told him not to be a pussy and to spunk on me, which he duly did. Suffice to say I got one of the biggest loads I’ve ever had and when I looked in the mirror (with one eye, as the other had a huge glob of spunk on my eye lid) I was stunned and excited, as it looked awesome!

From that day on, the first time I gave a man a blow job I would begin by giving them a choice: cum in my mouth and I’ll swallow all you can offer me; or withdraw and cum on my face and I’ll lick up as much as I can reach with fingers and tongue.

My husband always says that when we met I was ‘casual’ about blow jobs. What he means is that I had a view that if I went for a drink (or to a party or other social occasion) with a man and I went in full ‘gear’ – suspender belt, stockings (often seams but sometimes fishnet or lacy stockings), high heels, top or blouse showing of my tits etc, then I would expect them to be aroused and get hard and that, therefore, it would be unfair to expect them to go home in this state, so I would always offer some form of ‘relief’ even if it was only them wanking onto me in a bus shelter. But, more usually, I’d take them into the pub or restaurant toilets and suck them off. I felt it was almost an obligation on my part.

As you might imagine, I became very popular with the lads in the office where I worked in London and there was always someone who wanted to take me out for a drink. Fridays were always very boozy nights and I’d normally end up on my knees at some point in the evening, gulping down some guy’s seed. And at the staff Christmas party I pretty much had a queue of them waiting to have a dance and feel me up on the dance floor. When I left that company to join another, the lads in the office bought me a pair of knee pads as a ‘joke’ leaving gift, such was my reputation.

My husband has never forgotten (or stopped talking about) the first Christmas party I went to after we got married, when I returned home in the early hours, so drunk I could barely stand up in my heels and woke him up to declare “I’ve got spunk from two different men in my tummy and now I want yours”. He tells me – I don’t remember that much about this night – that although I could hardly walk and my speech was badly slurred, I gave him a very proficient blow job while he told me what a filthy slag I was. He says this was “muscle memory” because I’d already done thousands of blow jobs by this time, it was now almost automatic.

Before we married and occasionally thereafter, I did a bit of erotic modelling for amateur photographers who were usually stockings and heels fanatics, although big boobs and fetish gear were also sometimes themes. Again, I never thought it would be fair to send them packing when the photos were done without some form of ‘relief’. I’d got into what is sometimes called “wet modelling” which means the photographer or photographers are permitted to ejaculate on the model and will often take additional photos of the splattered woman. I really enjoyed having guys gush on me like this but from time to time more was requested and in the right circumstances I was happy to get on my knees and bring them off into my mouth – or over my face or tits if they preferred to end their blow job in this way.

I think many of my readers and admirers will know I’ve been into aspects of ‘cheeky barter’ for many, many years. Indeed, I have built up a reasonable list of men – mainly tradesmen like plumbers, electricians, builders etc but also some professionals such as accountants and the like – who are willing to trade work for sexual pleasure. These days it is pretty much entirely payment with hand relief but in the past I would often (perhaps I should say usually or almost always) offer oral relief in return for work done. Shortly before I married, we bought a modest house in Wimbledon and had a new kitchen installed. Naturally, we paid for the kitchen itself and all of the appliances but the fitter – an absolutely gorgeous black man, by the way – didn’t charge a penny for his labour. Instead, each evening when I returned from work, he’d be waiting for me and I’d give him a nice, sloppy, deep throat blow job. 

My willingness to dress up in the outfit of their choice and drop to my knees and swallow all they could offer became so well known amongst the tradesmen in our area that I began to receive direct approaches from men offering to do jobs for me free of charge and I even had one cheeky chap who knocked on our door and offered his services in return for mine. Another one who had done some work for me previously, even more cheekily, turned up to do a job accompanied by his young apprentice and suggested I should blow them both, one after the other. I thought that was a bit rude – what sort of girl did he think I was? – so he was dropped from the roster.

As you all know my useless husband has had the pleasure of watching me with other men. But if asked he would tell you that, for him, the ultimate sexual pleasure is watching me sucking another man off, or rather the crucial moment when a man starts to groan with pleasure, as his cock spurts into my mouth and he can see me gulping down their seed. Seeing me wearing a big smile with my thick, bright scarlet lipstick smeared all over my mouth and perhaps a string or two of semen dangling from my lips – he says it doesn’t get any better than that.

On a few occasions I’ve also had my boss and, previously, a local businessowner I used to see, phone him while I’ve been giving oral. My husband liked hearing me slobbering away and gagging on cock but he absolutely loved the moment when Chris, my boss, said he was about to ejaculate in my mouth and asked if that was OK.

This blog has already become far too long and I haven’t yet covered many topics and experiences I had which I could write about: for example a party where I did a lot of oral, the time my husband ‘caught’ me in the toilets at a swingers’ club, sucking off a black and also the subject of ‘forced oral’ (or oral rape) and also being throat fucked and the like. But time to draw this one to a close for now.

p.s. a quick plug for my videos: amongst the 104 available to view, there are many of me providing oral relief and in some I am wearing a clip on microphone, so you can hear me slobbering away on cock and in one I’m giving deep throat, so gagging and choking on a nice rock hard, thick cock being pushed down my throat. If you’d like access all I ask in return is a pair of fully fashioned stockings (using a simple online voucher, details of which I can explain if you’re interested).

We can probably all agree that charity is a good thing and so raising money for charities is also a good thing. But there are as many ways to raise money as there are charities, or so it seems. Some people do a sponsored walk, some bake cakes and others, mad souls that they are, choose to run a marathon or cycle from London to Brighton or from Lands End to John o’ Groats.

I’ve been asked to say a few words about a charity related lunch I attended. I’ll try to keep this brief (and by the way, this was many years ago).

I was one of several ladies asked to help at a charity lunch in London. I don’t remember the exact words but we were asked to dress ‘glamorously” or ‘sexily’ or something similar, as the idea was we would go to each table asking for cash donations (yes people carried cash back then!), soliciting bids for auction items and selling raffle tickets and it was mainly a business i.e. male audience.

I wore the tight dress you see in these photos with a very deep suspender belt, seamed stockings, high heels (and no bra!).

There was a lot of flirting and sexy banter as we extracted the donations and I probably got most attention because of my outfit. At one table a gent was about to put £5 in my cash bucket but said he’d increase that to £50 if I sat on his knee. Well, it was for charity (any excuse) so I was happy to oblige. He had a good feel of my suspender belt and straps under my dress and he was sort of moving me back and forth on his lap and I could feel his erection against my backside. I didn’t let that go on for too long and said something along the lines if he wanted more of the same he’d need to be equally generous in buying the raffle tickets.

At the end of the event he came over to me and said he thought I looked stunning and he adored my dress and especially my stockings and asked if I’d be willing to have lunch or dinner with him.  When I hesitated, he said he’d give £500 if I wore the same outfit, for me to keep for myself if I wished. I took his details and said I’d think about it.

Long story short, turns out he owns a huge estate in Surrey and when I said my husband might have to accompany me, he assured me I’d be quite safe as he had staff there who would serve our meal, so in the end I agreed to lunch. My husband drove me there as I’d already confessed my weakness for Champagne and he took these photos before I went into the house (or should I say mansion). I’ll admit now I was feeling very sexy and I knew what I was going to do and perhaps what was expected of me.

We had Champagne and as he showed me round his hands were frequently on my back and I knew he was feeling my suspender belt, so to make things easier I told him to go ahead and have a feel and his hands were then everywhere, feeling my suspender belt, my stocking tops and squeezing my tits. I felt his erection and asked if he’s like me to take care of it for him. I dropped to my knees, unzipped him and he quickly came in my mouth.

We joked about my pre-lunch appetiser as we enjoyed a lovely meal – and it was served by his staff who must have wondered who the tart was but said nothing. When we’d finished, I phoned my husband to come and collect me but as we were almost saying our goodbyes, his hands were all over me again and perhaps because I’d had a lot to drink, one thing led to another and … well, another blow job, so my husband was sat outside in the car on the drive waiting for me, while his wife performed fellatio for the second time.

My lunch companion later invited me to stay the night at his house and also offered to take me on holiday with him to his house in Florida and substantial incentives were offered but I decided against and we didn’t meet again.

I mentioned in my last blog (https://wordpress.com/post/ladyinseams.home.blog/353) that when I had a meeting with my young friend who likes me to role play being his “mum”, I took a taxi from Waterloo station to the hotel in Bloomsbury where we were due to meet and had an interesting conversation with the cab driver.

He was one of those ‘old boy’ East-end characters we get driving taxis in London and must have been well into his 70’s, maybe late 70s even. Nevertheless, he had a sharp eye, because after I got into the taxi and sat down – long coat opening in the process – he asked if I was going to a wedding at the hotel.

I told him I wasn’t but asked why he thought I might be and he explained that he’d spotted by “wonderful stockings” when I was stood in the queue and thought perhaps they were for a special occasion, given how infrequently he gets to see seams like mine in his cab these days. So, naturally, we had a brief chat about fully fashioned stockings and suspender belts and I opened up my coat so he got a better view.

“So what is the special occasion today, then?” he asked. I told him it wasn’t really a special occasion but that I was meeting a friend, staying at the hotel, who likes me in seamed stockings and high heels.

He immediately picked up on the fact that I had referred to him as a ‘lad’ and asked what this lad had done to earn a vision like me and how old he was. Now here was my dilemma: how much to say? Do I tell him this man is just 24 and that I’m 58 (as I was then)? Do I say I’m old enough to be his mother? Or do I go all in and tell him I’m not only old enough to be his mother but I’m expected to pretend I am his mother, and that shortly I would be masturbating him? On the other hand (excuse the pun), I didn’t feel able to say nothing, as by this point he probably thought I was a prostitute – after all I was dressed like one!

I wasn’t sure how far to take this so I just laughed and said “He’s a lot younger than me”.

“Lucky lad” he replied. But then he said he’d noticed I had a wedding ring. “Hope you don’t mind me asking, but you separated? Divorced?” he asked.

“No, happily married” I replied. Oh Lord, how to explain? There was an awkward silence and I felt his disapproval. So I added, “It’s okay, my husband knows I’m seeing him.”

There was another silence and he said “Oh, one of those marriages, is it?”

“Sort of” was my rather lame reply. As we edged through the traffic past Holborn tube station, I suddenly fell compelled towards full confessional mode. Well, almost. I told him I was not meeting this ‘lad’ for sex, not full sex anyway but that I was planning to give him “hand relief” and that I liked doing it and did it quite frequently and with other men too and I even found myself explaining what a Masturbatrix is.

“Masturbatrix” he said, almost savouring the word. “I’ve never heard that one before and I’ve heard most things in my time, believe me”, he said with a big chuckle.

I wondered what he would have said if I’d told him that I would shortly be pretending to be this young man’s mother and that we were due to act out his incest fantasy, with me masturbating him and encouraging my ‘son’ to ejaculate all over my breasts. I decided against that level of disclosure.

As we pulled up outside the hotel he gave me his card and said “Call me when you’re ready to head home. I’d like to hear how you get on”. And with that he wished me a wonderful day and drove off. I’m sure he was shaking his head in amazement.

I’ve written here before (see https://wordpress.com/post/ladyinseams.home.blog/80) about a young man I met in 2019 who has a very particular fantasy, namely sexual attraction to and interaction with an imaginary mother. When he first proposed this scene to me I tried to talk him out of it, as it held no appeal for me and it felt rather deeply weird. However, one thing led to another and I tried it and – to my complete surprise, I really enjoyed it.

Since then we have got together from time to time and acted out various scenarios which he proposes. He is a very flamboyant individual, very theatrical and he enjoys setting a scene and even sketching out lines of dialogue for us both to follow. In addition to particular scenarios, which always end with me giving my ‘son’ firm ‘hand relief’ we have been shopping together and been out socially too.

When we have been shopping or in a bar I’ll admit there have been times when I wasn’t sure if my sense of embarrassment was greater than my desire to just laugh out loud at some of the things he says and does.

For example, while shopping for shoes and lingerie in Soho – me in leather skirt, seamed stockings, 5 inch heels, and very heavy make up (he likes his ‘mum’ to look like a cheap tart!) – in a very loud voice he said things like “Oh mum, you’d look great in this” very loudly, while holding up a corset and “Mum, do you think your boyfriend would like you in these?” pointing to a pair of thigh length patent boots with stripper heels. He even held up a huge black dildo and said, “I know you’d really like one of these, wouldn’t you mum?” and then asked if my boyfriend’s cock is bigger than that.

In a bar in Covent Garden, he began stroking my satin skirt, feeling the suspender belt straps which were clearly on display and saying how sexy this felt but all the time referring to me as his mother at every opportunity and saying how lucky his father is to have such a sexy wife. On one occasion he made a loud comment about how magnificent by bust looked in a low cut top and said it was no wonder so many men were after his mum.  To say we got some odd looks would be a considerable understatement!

However, the scenario I wanted to write about here was one which involved me visiting him one Saturday morning at a hotel in Bloomsbury, in London. I suggested I get changed at the hotel but he insisted, no, I had to travel by train into Waterloo and then take a taxi in my full ‘work’ uniform, namely leather mini skirt, seamed stockings and heels, a diamante ankle bracelet and a tight white top over a black quarter cup bra, “ready for action”. Needless to say I wore a long coat over that lot or I might never have made it to his hotel!

The scenario he had painted was that he was a young man in London on business and, bored and lonely in his hotel room, he’d phoned an escort agency. He’d specifically asked for a mature, busty lady who must be wearing seamed stockings and high heels  and as a special request he’d like her to have glossy red lips, as this lady was there to perform oral.

There’s no denying, I was excited when I got to the hotel (I’d had an interesting conversation with the cab driver but that’s another story for another day). I went up to his room and after removing my coat and tweaking my nipples to make sure they were rock hard and showing like bullets beneath my top, I knocked on his door. Of course, the script then required that when he opened the door and I saw my client was my own son I had to say “Simon!” in a shocked tone and he had to say “Mum! What are you doing here?!!”

Then we each had to explain our respective roles – he’d called for an escort and asked for a mummy lookalike character and I had to reveal I’d been doing some escort work to earn some extra cash.

I asked him why he wanted a call girl and he told me he couldn’t stop fantasising about me and wanting to fuck his mum. In turn, I explained, I liked meeting different men and giving them hand relief, while not denying the money is good and it allowed for one or two luxuries and helped cover the cost of all my fully fashioned stockings, heels and lingerie.

My ‘son’ was completely shocked (according to his script) by this revelation and wanted to know – in some detail – what I did with these men and I told him I was primarily a Masturbatrix, offering busty hand relief sessions and some domination services. Did I enjoy it, he asked. I love it I told him: I often have an orgasm while masturbating a client, especially if they pull or suck my boobs, I added.

“Does dad know?” he asked.

“Of course he does. We have no secrets. He loves me doing escort work – in fact sometimes he drives me to meet punters and he wants me to do more”.

But then I told him I didn’t want him associating with escorts and call girls and the likes. They have pimps, I told him, you could be robbed. And some of the girls, they’re crack addicts, they’ll do anything and you could get a venereal disease or worse.

This was the key moment in the script, because he asked what he is expected to do, when he can’t shake off his overwhelming sexual desire, for me, his mother. My response – as you can probably predict – was to say that if it kept him away from prostitutes, I was willing to give him hand relief and satisfy his urges this way, so he no longer had to waste his money on whores. “I’ll be your whore” I said “No need for a substitute when you can have the real thing”.

He asked if oral was an option but I explained that while mummy was happy to masturbate him – onto her chest if he liked – she would not be putting her son’s cock in her mouth. “Even your dad doesn’t get to do that” I told him.

I so we moved on from the dialogue to the action.  I donned my signature glossy latex gloves and after he removed his trousers and pants I squirted his erection with Liquid Silk and got to work, but nice and slowly. As he began to approach climax, I explained I’d have to stop and remove my top as I had not brought any spare clothing (after all, I’d been expecting to give my punter a blow job) and I knew he was likely to shoot a huge load on me and I made the interval last a few minutes so he softened a little and then I got back to work and told him I wanted him to glaze my tits.

He asked if he could suckle on my tits as I stroked him and with a bit of adjustment in positions, I was able to lean over him, get by breasts in his face and still stroke him. I couldn’t resist a bit of an ad lib, saying it was just like when he was a baby and I used to breast feed him and as he sucked and slurped on them, I was close to orgasm but before I could cum I sensed him close to his climax so I knelt back down and told him I wanted all his semen all over my big tits  and at that his cock exploded and shot his fluid all over my neck and breasts. I managed to keep stroking him, extracting every last drop of sperm and semen but as his climax slowly ebbed away, I shoved my tits back in his face and just said “Suck” and as he did so I managed to trigger my own wonderful, body shaking orgasm, which nearly caused me to topple over, as my body focussed on the muscle spasms in my vagina.

He wanted me to stay and have some drinks with him in the hotel bar, no doubt embarrassing me by shouting about me being his mum, with me dressed like a street prostitute. But I decided on another bit of ad libing: “Sorry love but I’ve got another punter waiting for me in Claridge’s.”

He asked what was on the menu with this man. I looked at the schedule on my phone (so many men, it’s hard to remember). “He’s getting oral – full cum in mouth service. And before you ask, yes, I will be swallowing”.

“Oh mum, you’re such a whore, aren’t you?”

And with that I was off, in reality off home to my husband who I knew was waiting to hear all about how our boy was and what I’d been up to that morning, while I stroked him off yet again.

Delighted to say this blog had 547 views last week alone. In October last year it had almost 1,800 views – lets see if we can beat that this month! Spread the word!!!! Remember, it’s 100% free.

We did it! In October 2022 this blog received 1,922 visits, comfortably higher (over 9%) than the previous highest month, October 2021 when we had 1,759 visits.

The first year that I started writing this blog, I had 340 views. This year, 2022, it’s approaching 14,000! Thank you all for viewing and especially those who add comments.