Do my boobs look big in this?

Part 1 – I Win!

A very long time ago, barely out of my teens, I did some erotic modelling and scraped together enough money for a very cheap holiday, a week in Grand Canaria, at a resort called Playa del Ingles. I’ll admit that once there, I was drunk half the time and horny all the time. I’d brought plenty of suspender belts, stockings and heels and a few other bits and bobs as well – handcuffs, a big vibrator and so forth – and my air-conditioned room was quite busy that week!

I was the notices for a weekly Miss Wet T-Shirt competition and one of the desk staff promised it was always a completely wild night. And said – looking at my chest – that I absolutely must take part.

I’ve always been pretty proud of my busty profile and I enjoy showing off my tits so I didn’t need much persuading but when he said there were free drinks all night for each of the girls taking part I thought “I’m in” and then I saw the prize and thought “I’m in and I’m going to win” because each winner of the weekly competition was invited back at the end of the season for a free week at the hotel to take part in what they called the ‘Grand Finale’.

I think the idea was that when the hotels were going quiet or even closing at the end of the busy season, this would help fill their hotel with the girls competing and their friends or family and also a lot of horny guys wanting to watch us strut our stuff.

And if I needed a further incentive, the winner of the ‘Grand Finale’ would win a car.

On the night, I had my plan worked out. I had seen the photos on the display boards from previous weeks and I noticed most of the girls wore bikini bottoms and either no footwear or flip flops. The only ones I would have described as busty were – how can I put this politely – keen on the buffet meals. And the burgers. And ice cream. They were generally larger than nature intended them to be. So perhaps I had a chance.

Now, I wasn’t anywhere near as big busted as I am now – gaining weight, having children and going through the menopause has increased the size of my boobs significantly – but I was still ‘top heavy’ as my mother put it, with quite big and very firm tits on quite a small, narrow frame and my nipples were very prominent, especially when I was aroused, so I thought my plan might work.

Each girl was invited onto the stage, asked to say her name and where she was from – big cheers from the audience for places like Liverpool, Essex and Leeds – and was then pushed chest first into a huge Perspex trough filled with ice and water. Then she would walk to the front, giggle her tits around and go to the side of the stage, ready for the next contestant to come on. The winner would be selected according to whoever received the loudest acclamation of the crowd as judged by the compere.

I’d stood waiting my turn, getting some puzzled looks as I was wearing one of the hotel dressing gowns. But when it was my turn, I slipped it off and strode onto the stage. That’s when the crowd saw I was wearing a black suspender belt, black seamed stockings, and heels so high I was in danger of falling off the stage, especially as I’d had half a dozen cocktails and a jug of sangria! I had a very tight white top but – killer detail – I was wearing a black PVC quarter cup bra beneath so my tits were up and proud and ready to be appreciated by a few hundred boozed up, horny men.

As I strutted towards the compare, waving to the audience, there was the most enormous roar from all the men and before I could even say my name, they were cheering wildly. After I’d introduced myself, I was plunged into the ice bath by the compere but when he took his hand away from my neck, I remained lowered into the trough and I swung my tits from side to side as if I was stirring the ice around before standing upright, walking to the front and shaking them up and down as hard as I could. The guys in the audience went wild and were shouting my name, and some of them even continued to do so when other girls were taking their turn.

After my win was confirmed, I joined the lads in the audience and let’s just say a lot of them wanted a feel and one lad asked if he could tip his beer over my top (‘yes’) and we had quite a party that night, which carried on in my room until the next morning. As I have said, I was pretty drunk before I even went on stage, so much so that I feared I might slip on the wet floor and go flying in my 5-inch heels and make a tit of myself, as opposed to showing off my tits but I stayed upright.

The next morning, I could hardly remember what had taken place, although I remember that back in my room I had kept spraying my top with the shower attachment, and the lads who had come back with me loved it. Eventually I was able to go down to reception and collect the details of my prize and I spent the rest of the day sleeping by the pool and sobering up. And yes, I got sun burnt!

Part 2 – I Win Again?

The sunburn had gone and the tan had faded when I returned to Gran Canaria for the final. And I was determined to win a car!

The format of the competition had changed, so the winner would not be chosen by the volume of applause but by a panel of three judges, the hotel manager, the area manager responsible for all of the group’s hotels in Grand Canaria (or maybe all of the Canaries, I don’t exactly remember) and a wealthy local businessman, who owned the car franchise on the island and had donated the winner’s prize of a car, and he who would chair the judging panel.

I received a note inviting me to meet him in his room, one evening. Short, well dressed, very brown, with black, slicked back hair, probably mid 40s not at all bad looking, smooth as silk, he greeted me with lots of kisses and hugs and a glass of cava. He told me how beautiful I was, how he had seen the photos from my winning show, how clever I had been to wear stockings and such lovely shoes …

We sat and chatted and each time he refilled my glass he sat a little closer and he placed his hand on my knee and it gradually went a little higher and a little higher until my skirt was closer to my waist than my knees. He asked if I intended another “so sexy” outfit and I said it would be more or less the same again – suspender belt, stockings, a pair of strappy high heels, and a quarter cup bra.

“So sexy”, he said again. Could he see it, because he was determined that I must win again but he’d like to see how I would look on the night. Now, I had a good idea where this might be heading but a new car is a new car, so I went back to my room, put on my ‘kit’ and a dressing gown and returned to his room.

I gave him a little parade and he began to feel my stocking tops and he said we should have some fun and celebrate that I was certainly going to win as he would make sure I did. “What about the other judges, I asked?” wondering if I was expected to ‘have some fun’ with them too but he waved his hand and said they would agree with his choice and I was his choice, “So beautiful, so sexy, so big”, he said as he squeezed my tits with his right hand and his erection with his left.

I suggested we wait until I had the keys to my new car and then we could really have some fun together but he wasn’t falling for that. No, he said he really needed some fun now and he began grinding his crotch against my leg and asked, “Don’t you want the car?”

To cut a longer story short, he said he wanted to fuck me and I said no but I licked my lips and said I’d give him some fun and he pulled his cock out and said “Okay”, like he was doing me a favour “I fuck your mouth”. And so I dropped to my knees and did the business.

He was impressed and seemed happy, although it had worried me a little while I was sucking him off that he said a number of times that “All you English girls are so sexy”. Job done, spunk swallowed, there was one more glass of cava and then back to my room, safe in the knowledge that I’d already won and the car was almost parked outside my flat.

Except, of course, I didn’t and it wasn’t. It turned out he’d invited many of the contestants to his room to assure them that he could arrange for them to be declared the winner, if only they would have a little fun with him and some of them did and it wasn’t just blow jobs either. One of the girls, a loud vivacious Brummie, told me later that she didn’t care, she’d have fucked him anyway because she thought he was gorgeous.

Of course, when I marched on stage, I didn’t know any of this. Again, I received the loudest cheer and I stood at the front of the stage and shook my ice-cold tits back and forth like a pro, my nipples as hard as bullets.

When the winner was declared, the penny dropped and from the look on the faces of some of the other contestants, it wasn’t just me who had been told they would win. The recriminations began immediately. One girl was close to tears and said to me “It’s meant to be a wet t-shirt show, you know, not street hookers. You look like a tart.” I laughed. “So, did you sit on his cock or just suck it?”, I asked and she looked down at the stage and walked off.

I didn’t mind the blow job – I was a pretty prolific cocksucker back then – but I didn’t like the deceit and I did feel aggrieved, as based on merit, I should have won, as the audience reaction had proved. I wondered what the winner had done for him that made her his choice but good luck to her I thought. Well, what I actually thought as I stood there, dripping cold water, being yelled at by some of the lads in the room, one of whom threw his beer at me and insulted by another contestant was, ‘I hope she gets gonorrhoea’.

Part 3 – All That Glitters

There’s a little postscript to this experience. The next day the winner – slag – was taken to the car showroom and they did publicity shots of chairman Carlos or whatever his name was handing over the keys to a very small red Seat and apparently the press release said she had won a “beauty pageant”, which is funny, as she was certainly no beauty and the “pageant” had involved her being fucked every day for most of the week, while her boyfriend lounged by the pool, or so one of the other girls told me.

But here’s the twist. As we waited at the airport for our flight back to England, I saw her and went over to say hello. She was actually very pleasant and when I said something along the lines of “Well, congratulations again, you got the car” and avoided saying “even if you had to whore yourself”, she laughed and said, “Didn’t you hear? I’ve not got the car. I thought everyone knew.” After the photos and some more drinks with the greasy chairman, she went to do the paperwork. It was only then that she was informed that she had to arrange for it to be shipped to the UK. But when the dealership showed her the freight costs, the import taxes and the VAT, the cost was more than the value of the car. “Why didn’t you just tell them to sell it for you?” I asked. “Wouldn’t let me”, she said. It turned out that the small print, the T&Cs of the competition prize said the winner would only take ownership of the car once they paid the shipping and import costs and, as her boyfriend said, their credit cards were maxed out anyway, so it was out of the question, even if it made economic sense to pay and it didn’t.

“I was tricked”, she said sadly and shrugged her shoulders.

“I think we all were”, I said.

Clever, sneaky Carlos or Pedro or whatever his name was. He fucked that girl pretty much every day and it seems he fucked some of the others too and he got at least one blow job. On top of that he got some great publicity and his photo in the local paper with his arms around the leggy ‘winner’ and it didn’t cost him one peseta.

Doctor, doctor …

Readers of this blog will know that I have a regular sex partner, a dream ‘cum’ true for me as he is a tall, strong, athletic and extremely well-endowed black man, with impressive stamina.

As you might imagine we have a lot of fun together – there is no romance involved but the sex is simply out of this world (sorry hubby!). But even we believe that to keep things fresh a bit of variety is called for and so, from time to time, we do come up with scenarios which we than ‘act out’ following a rough script. I’ve written about some of these here before, such as a the parcel delivery man who forces his way into the house and uses the dressed up housewife as a sex toy.

Last week we did a new one: doctor and patient. I suppose the obvious joke is that one immediately knows this was a fantasy scenario because in it I got to see a GP for a face-to-face appointment!

I wore a leather miniskirt and fully fashioned (seamed) stockings. I’m not even sure I know why but I also chose these glossy thigh length boots. I can’t imagine I would ever wear these boots to see a doctor but for the purposes of our get together I did.

Now, bless him but when I went to his house, he was wearing a white ‘medical’ overall. I’ve no idea where he got it and I didn’t have the heart to tell him hospital doctors no longer wear white coats and GPs never did but I admired his willingness to get into the role.

I can’t swear what follows is word for word our exchange but it’s as close as I can remember what was said.

He invited me to take a seat and asked me how he could help.

I told him I was there because I was concerned that I might have a vaginal discharge, as I seemed to be ‘wet’ a lot of the time.

He asked if the fluid was clear, if there was any strong odour or any blood (it felt like he’d been doing some research, as these were all good questions!!!) but I told him that none of those applied.

“Let’s take a look then, shall we?”, he said and he suggested I slip my skirt off and kneel up on the examination bed (which, in this case, was his dining table with a blanket on it).

“You’ll need to remove those too”, he said pointing at my sheer black knickers as I climbed up onto the table and pushed my backside up in the air towards him.

He snapped on some white, latex disposable gloves and said, “I’m just going to take a look.”

I flinched a little as he squirted a little lubricating jelly down onto my anus and vagina, as it was cold but then I felt one finger and then a second pushing gently inside me.

I moaned. Dear reader, before I even got to his house, I was wet and eager. By the time his fingers started to probe me I was probably already over halfway to orgasm and I wanted it, I wanted it so much!

“How does that feel?”, he asked.

“Lovely”, I replied.

“Is it comfortable?”

I grunted assent.

“Is it comfortable if I push a little further?”

“God, yes, very.”

“What about this?” and at this point he pushed his thumb into my anus, not far but it set off some amazing ripples through my body. I hadn’t expected this as it had not been part of our pre-agreed ‘script’ but sometimes you know to go with the flow and this was one of them.

By now he was slowly pushing two – or was it now three? – fingers into me and about two thirds of his thumb was up my backside.

“Do you think you can achieve orgasm at this point, Mrs Heels?”

I could barely speak but I could most certainly do that. I managed to grunt “Yes. Tits.”

I knew he would know that I meant for him to squeeze my tits as this is often the final trigger I need to climax but this time he tried to stay “in role” and said “You can self-stimulate if you wish” and so, holding myself upright with my right arm, I grasped my tits with my left hand … and that was it! Lights flashed across my eyes, my head span and I fell forwards and downwards onto the table, very briefly blacking out, such was the power, the sheer force of my orgasm.

When I had just about recovered the doctor said “Everything seems normal. I don’t see anything to worry about, you’re just in a state of arousal a lot of the time.”

“Why do you think that is, doctor? And is there anything you can give me for it?”

“Well”, he chuckled, “I think it’s because you’re a slut. But I can certainly prescribe something which should help.”

“What’s that, doctor?”

“This”, he said, unzipping his trousers and pulling out 10 inches of incredibly thick cock and he was as hard as a rock. “Shall we see if you experience any pain when I use this probe?”

He pulled me back across the table, lifted me up a little so I was on hands and knees but bum up and chest resting on the table and I felt the head of his ‘probe’ pushing gently into my vagina. Then with a sudden thrust he was right into me, right up to the hilt.

I gave a little yelp.

“Did that hurt?”

“Just a little.”

“What about this?” and he slipped back almost out of me altogether and then with an almighty thrust smashed into me again.

“Christ.”

“And this?”, and he slammed me again and then again, faster, faster and before I could focus my mind for a second orgasm he was at warp speed and I then felt an enormous spurt deep inside me (believe it or not, it actually slightly hurt, such was the power of his ejaculation) and then another and he kept spurting his thick, sticky, wonderful semen into me. He’s always been a heavy cummer – one of the things I like best about him – but this one felt special, even more powerful and more copious than usual.

I knew I would be going home to my husband absolutely flooded with his sperm and given all the probing he’d done earlier, I’d probably be leaking his fluid into my knickers for good measure. Of course, I also knew my husband would be delighted.

But the doctor hadn’t finished with me yet.

“Now I need you to lie on the floor here”, and helpfully he’d placed a yoga mat on the carpet.

“Can you raise your legs up into the air for me?” and so I tipped back and grabbed hold of my boots at my calves, as I knew what he intended.

“I’m going to see if we can push the probe past the neck of your cervix.”

“Into my womb?”

“Yes. It may hurt a little and there could be some blood but this way we should be able to inject seminal fluid directly into your womb.”

I knew from past experience what to expect. He held my legs up, tipping me back pushing them towards my head. My Pilates teacher would applaud this position. Then he enters me and pushes down with quite a lot of force. And he was right – it does hurt, quite a bit as he penetrates my cervix but once I adjust to the pain that radiates with each of his thrusts and focus on the incredible sensations in my torso and, strangely, down my legs, I achieve the most incredible orgasm in a matter of just three minutes or so.

As he’d just unloaded in me a few minutes before, it took him a while but he seemed to be enjoying almost bouncing up and down on me and when I said “That’s so fucking deep”, he thrust even harder and as he gasped and grunted and shouted “fuck!” I felt him pumping his baby gravy right into my womb.

He stayed in me for an age but as he began to slide out, I had a fit of the giggles.

“What’s so funny”, he asked.

I didn’t really know why I was laughing so much but I said, “You kept that white coat on”, and it just seemed for a moment absurdly funny.

As he stood up, he said, “Well, we have certain professional standards to uphold, you know”, and then he began to laugh too.

Knickers and skirt back on, I asked for his diagnosis. “I have found nothing wrong with you, physically. In fact, you are in remarkably good shape for a lady of your age. I think your issue is that you have an extremely high sex drive and you are desperate for cock, especially black cock. So, what I am going to suggest is that you try to orgasm every day and that you come to see me at least once a week and I can check that everything is working as it should.”

“And will that involve tests with that large black probe you used today?”

“Yes, it will, certainly so we can stretch you and make sure you are properly lubricated.”

“Thank you, doctor. By the way, can we do the thumb up my bum bit again too? I liked that.”

“I can use my probe in your anus if you wish.”

“You must be joking. I’d need a real doctor if you did that!”

I’m giving you an F Grade

Married teacher and schoolgirl in sordid tryst

My school was a swirling sea of rampant female puberty hormones. Many of my classmates lost their virginity long before I did and seeing older men pulling up at the end of the school drive and girls jumping into their cars was a common occurrence, especially with the sixth form girls. And, no, I don’t think they were their fathers!

I had a classmate who was expelled, aged fifteen, when she was six months pregnant. And I am sorry to say her story did not end well, but that’s another tale.

When I was in the sixth form we had one teacher, Mr Grainger, who all the girls fancied. He was simply gorgeous, cool, dressed well, great hair, he was the complete package. There were rumours of girls having little trysts with him but whether they had or whether these were fantasies was hard to tell.

On the one hand, he made no secret of the fact he was married. On the other, he seemed to enjoy flirting with some of the girls and playing with our emotions. He told my entire class that he loved the fashion style of that moment – black pencil skirts, often slashed to the thigh or with buttons all the way up one side, often teamed with fishnet or even seamed stockings. Of course, after revealing how much he liked to see his sixth formers dressed like this, almost every girl in his class was there in a slashed skirt revealing stocking tops and suspender straps. He told us to remember we were no longer girls but young women and should enjoy the fact that our bodies had developed and have fun while we could. As if we needed telling!

He complimented me a few times on my outfits and – looking straight at my big boobs – told me I had a great figure. He also admired me one day when I wore a black bra under a fairly thin white blouse.

I would frequently make myself cum while imagining being disciplined and then ‘raped’ by Mr Grainger.

One sunny Friday afternoon I spotted him sat on the edge of the playing fields watching a game of volleyball and, trying to look casual about it, I sat down next to him, my heart pounding, palms sweaty. We got chatting and he asked if I had any plans for the weekend. Naturally, I asked about his own and he said he had a free weekend as his wife had gone away that morning for a girls’ weekend in Paris and so he was ‘foot loose and fancy free’.

I saw my chance and asked if he’d like me to pop over and keep him company, maybe cook him a meal – “got to put those domestic science classes to use, you know”, I joked, nervously. He laughed and said he wasn’t that hopeless and should make it through one weekend with the help of ready meals and beer. But then he added that I was always welcome at their house and there was no need to do any domestic tasks.

I took that as enough of a ‘come on’ and that was all I needed. The next morning, I put on a suspender belt, a new pair of Aristoc Harmony Point fully fashioned stockings and a black pencil skirt which had a zip on one side, allowing it to be opened to the waist. I also wore the big black bra and white blouse he had admired and after piling on way too much eye shadow and blusher (hey! It was the style back then!!), I headed off to his house.

When I approached his house, I unzipped the skirt to the top of my thigh and I lifted my breasts up out of the bra and rested them on top of the bra cups, a trick I had perfected some time previously.

As I walked up his drive, I got distinctly wobbly legs and almost turned back. What if he told me to scram? What if his wife hadn’t gone away? What if he was with another women or, worse still, one of the other girls from my school? Why had I assumed he had revealed his free weekend only to me?

But somehow, I had a surge of courage, of adrenalin perhaps and thought ‘in for a penny, in for a pound’ and I knocked on the door. There was no reply at first and I thought he might be out (why had I not considered that possibility?) but then the door opened and there he was tying the belt around a grey, satin dressing gown.

“Hiya” I managed

He looked me up and down and then he laughed. “Well look at you”.

“I thought I should check that you’re okay on your own”. I put my right leg up on the step, so the skirt divided and the stocking top and suspenders were revealed and then after running my tongue over my bright scarlet lower lip I added “See if there’s anything you need”.

He kept looking me up and down but his right hand went into the dressing gown, which he opened slightly, and he began stroking himself, right there in front of me.

I looked down and said “I can help with that, if you like” and I shoved my tongue inside my cheek in what I knew was a fairly universal sign for a blow job.

Suddenly, he grabbed me by the hair, said “Get in here”, and pulled me forward. I almost toppled though his doorway but as he pulled me in, he was also managing to push me down, so by the time he swung the door shut, I was already on both knees while he held my hair firmly in his fist.

As he’d pulled me in off his doorstep, he said something along the lines of “You dirty bitch” and I took him in my mouth. I worked up and down his shaft and he began groaning and said, “That’s so good”. The film Deep Throat as all the rage at this time and I’d been to see it as had many of my school mates and we’d sometimes practice and complete with one another using bottles, bananas and even a rubber hose, as we tried to train out our gag reflex. So, I was proud the way I slid my mouth up and down his entire shaft and he seemed to appreciate my skills too.

“You filthy little tart”, he gasped and I could feel his sap rising and was all ready to gulp down his seed but he had other ideas and as he was about to climax, he whipped out his cock and emptied himself onto my face and as he did so he called me a few more choice terms.

I first gave a man a blow job when I was fourteen, and so by now I’d probably done it a couple of hundred times but one thing I had learned was the enormous variety there is between men’s ejaculations. And Mr Grainger’s was amongst the thickest and creamiest I had experienced up to this point.

It took him half a minute or so to squeeze out his full load and when he’d finished it sort of sat there on my face, great big fat globules of thick, white semen. As I got up it didn’t run down my face, as I had expected, it just stayed where it had landed. I began to lick off that which I could reach with my tongue.

But he grabbed me by the hair again and pulled me up and forwards, into his lounge and pushed me towards a large table and as he forced me face down onto it, he reached under my skirt and pulled down my knickers.

“Oh no, sir, you can’t, you can’t. I’m still a virgin”. I somehow knew this would excite him.

“A virgin? Are you trying to be funny? Everyone in the staff room thinks you’re a tart”.

By now I was face down, legs wide apart, waiting for his cock.

“Men a lot older than me, I’ve heard. Some of the staff think you’re being paid for it”.

I managed to mumble “That’s so unfair, sir”, but he had stepped out of the room and I heard him running upstairs. He returned with a condom and said “Right, you little tart”.

“No sir don’t use a condom. I don’t like them.”

“Hang on, we don’t want another Helen Parker, do we?” She was the girl kicked out of school, when six months pregnant.

“And call me Stuart”

“I prefer to call you ‘Sir’, sir. And it’s okay, sir, I’m on the pill”.

He roared with laughter. “A virgin on the pill. Now I’ve heard it all.”

Then I felt his hands on my hips or should that be on my suspender belt and with a quick thrust he was deep inside me. “Lovely and wet”, he said and he thrust deep into me, “just listen to that” as his cock produced a slurping, slapping noise.

I had a magnificent orgasm and a few seconds later he arched his back and paused for a second and then I felt his cock spurting into me. He slowly pushed back and forth, enjoying his climax but he didn’t hang around as I was soon lifted off the table and put on my back on the floor. Then he lifted my legs, first vertically, as he pushed himself inside me and then he tipped me backwards, so now my legs were either side of my head and my toe caps were only an inch or two off the carpet.

“That’s what I love about you girls – so flexible”, he said as he began to sort of bounce up and down on me, while continuing to grasp my ankles. He continued like this for a while, then he withdrew and tipped me onto one side and went into me again, this time grasping me tits and squeezing them hard. “Fantastic tits”, he said as he slid in and out of me.

After a few minutes he leapt up and sat on a chair, held his cock up vertically and said, “Come on, ride me”. I realised that he either needed some time to cum again or he was determined to get full use out of me, in various positions, or a bit of both, but I was happy to oblige. I dropped myself down onto his cock and began doing the work up and down the shaft, gripping him with the muscles of my vagina and making sure my tits were bouncing up and down his face.

I came like a train and as I did so he gave out a bellow and said, “Fucking Christ” and I felt him spasm in me and I swear I could feel his cock spurting for the third time.

When it was clear we had finished, I found my knickers and was getting ready to leave when he asked me to sit back down of the sofa and said “Look, we need to talk. Agree things.”

You can guess the rest – this was a one off, I must never mention it to anyone and at school we must behave normally, as before. He told me I was terrifically sexy and that he’d always looked at me and fantasised about me and he’d love to see me again (I wonder how many of my classmates had heard the same from him) but it was too risky and we’d both be in serious trouble if anyone suspected that anything was going on.

My response was to tell him he was sex on legs and I wanted to do it again, whenever he wanted me and I would prove how trustworthy I was by giving absolutely no clue away when we were at school together and I did that, managing to act as if nothing had happened. However, sadly, there was no repeat and that morning was the only time Mr Grainger succumbed to my charms.

After I left school and started at university, I wrote to him to thank him for his help in getting me really good A Level grades and enclosed my new address and said I’d love to see him again and he’d be welcome to visit me anytime at university but he never replied.

Spare the rod, spoil the child

I enter the bedroom and there he is, my son (or should I say my “son”? If you’re not familiar with this young man, you probably need to start here: https://wordpress.com/post/ladyinseams.home.blog/80)

He’s kneeling on the floor in front of a chest of drawers, there are various items of my lingerie scattered across the floor and he is holding one of my black suspender belts in his left hand and his erect penis in his right.

“Right, I’ve had enough of this!” I yell at him. “I’ve told you before, you must strop this. And I warned you what would happen if you didn’t.”

“I’m so sorry mum. I just can’t help it. I see you in all this … this stuff and I can’t resist; I can’t stop myself.”

“Clearly not. But I am going to teach you a lesson you won’t forget in a hurry.”

I should add that I’m in a sort of ‘bitch office manager’ outfit today, the idea being that I’ve just returned from work and my pervert boss: tight leather skirt, 10 strap suspender belt and seamed stockings and five-inch steel heels. I’m also wearing a black PVC quarter cup bra under a satin blouse. And my nipples are rock hard! Well, I am excited!!!

I sit on the end of the bed, and pull my leather skirt down so it is taut, and the suspender belt straps show clearly beneath.

“Drop your trousers and get over my knee.”

“But mum, I’ve said I’m sorry …”

“No ifs, no buts, it’s too late to say your sorry. Almost every time I go get a suspender belt or girdle out, they’re stained with your muck. Even some of my gloves are covered with spunk stains. No, you’re going to get it now.”

He pulls his chinos down and places himself over my knees. “And the pants” I say as I tug down his boxers. As I start to spank him, I say something with each hard smack – “dirty boy”, “pervert”, “disgusting”, “filthy”, “depraved” … and he yelps and howls with each blow.

After a while his backside is bright red and beginning to turn a little blue but my right hand is also swelling and sore. I push him off my knee and go to the drawer and take out a pair of glossy black latex gloves which I pull on, to give myself some protection. But then I go to the wardrobe and take out my long, vicious dressage whip.

This was not part of our pre-agreed scenario and he looks genuinely frightened. “Oh God, no, not that” he says and he is not role playing now, as I have told him that when I use that whip, with any real force can split the skin open.

“No, not today, but take a look at it. If I find you wanking onto my clothes again, I’m going to use this and you won’t be able to walk for a few days after. Now where were we?”

And he stands and allows me to sit back down before resuming the position and I recommence his spanking but with even harder blows now. He’s yelping and begging but if anything, his erection is even more pronounced now.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, you filthy, dirty, disgusting little boy.”

“I’m sorry, I won’t, I promise, I’ll not …”

“How many times have I told you that if you want to release your sperm onto my lingerie all you have to do is ask me. Don’t sneak around the house, wanking away in secret. Just ask and I’ll drain your gland for you. You know this – mummy is happy to provide the relief you clearly need, so don’t go behind my back, let me get your sperm out. Now go and get that suspender belt you were holding when I came in.”

As he brings it over, I lean over to the bedside table and grasp a tube of lubricating jelly. I squirt a little into the palm of the glove on my right hand and a little more onto his cock, which is now pointing at the ceiling. And I get to work.

“Do you like my leather skirt?” He grunts and nods as I stroke his penis with some vigour. “And you love my stockings and heels, don’t you?”

“So much. So much.”

“I know your staring at my tits, aren’t you?”

“Uh, yeah”, he grunts.

“Then show me. Show me how much you like seeing your mummy like this. Show me here”, and I hold the suspender belt up towards his throbbing cock. “Come on, I want to see all your semen, all over this belt. I’m going to extract every last drop. Every drop for your lovely mother. And then do you know what I’m going to do?”

He shakes his head. He’s clearly reached the point where speech is difficult and he is grunting and gasping and I know he’s not far off the point of no return. And then he seems to stretch upwards and his head tilts back so he is looking up at the ceiling and he grunts “Oh mummy, mummy, oh Jesus …” and then his sperm is spurting out onto the belt and he seems to spurt and spurt and spurt and then it suddenly stops and I think, that’s it, he’s done but somehow his ejaculation resumes and I have to wrap the belt around his cock because there’s so much fluid it’s soaking through the fabric and he just keeps spasming in my hand until I genuinely think it is not possible for there to be any more ejaculate left in his body.

“Good boy, good boy,” I tell him and he is still gasping and groaning. Normally I like to keep stroking for quite a long time, sometimes up to 10 minutes after the cock has climaxed but today, I have another plan.

I let go of his cock and lay the sodden belt by my side. Then I swiftly hitch up my leather skirt and unclip my stockings. Then with a bit of wriggling and arm movements a yoga teacher might applaud, I remove my suspender belt and replace it with this spunk-soaked belt and I reattach my stockings. The whole change-over took me about two minutes, of which I felt quite proud.

But now what I feel is his warm, thick semen against my flesh and it just feels wonderful.

“Now, I have to go and take care of your father, who is waiting downstairs for us to finish. And he’s going to love it when I tell him about this belt. Would you like to come and watch your mother doing her wifely duty?” The look on his face tells me all I need to know.

Working from Home

A young man’s experience …

I was 17 years old and in the 6^th form but this day the school closed and we were all sent home at lunchtime due to a gas leak. After mucking around with my mates, I headed home. As I was to see what it was about. I could not believe my eyes.

One man had his back to the window but was stood over my mum, who was kneeling on the sofa facing towards the wall. She was wearing a black mesh suspender belt, black seamed stockings and black very high heels and later I noticed a bracelet on her right ankle. She was also wearing a black quarter cup bra and her big, round heavy breasts were hanging down. Or rather they were swinging back and forth because behind her was a second man, with his trousers pulled halfway down his legs and he was thrusting into my mum.

The one who was standing over them began to move around behind them and that was when I realised he was holding a camcorder in his right hand and he is changing the angle from which he is recording. Recording my mum being fucked! I almost fainted with shock but I can’t look away! My mum is having sex with a man who looks not much more than about 20 years old and she’s letting another man who doesn’t look much older than me film her, as if they’re shooting a home-made porn film!

The top windows are open and I can hear my mum moaning and she says something about being really wet and the man riding her asks something about this and she says something like “I was really wet this morning”.

She’s arching her back from time to time and he’s occasionally reaching around and squeezing her tits which makes her moan much more loudly and at one point he grasped both the heels of her shoes in each hand and slightly tips her forward. He doesn’t seem in any rush and slows down from time to time and the one with the camera is moving around and seems to zoom at times, pointing it towards the shoe on her right foot and then the stocking top and then he is filming her tits as they swing back and forward.

She seems to urge her partner on and begins to moan loudly with pleasure and the man is going faster and faster and then she is obviously having an orgasm and he arches his back and I know he is climaxing too and it is only then I notice a little details: he is not wearing a condom. This guy is now pumping his spunk into my mum.

After a minute, there’s movement in the room and I duck down, so as to avoid being seen. But after a pause I simply can’t do anything other than look again. I didn’t think I could be more shocked that what I had just witnessed – my mother in her lingerie and heels being bare backed by a stud half her age while another films them having sex – but I were wrong. Because now she is back in position and the one who previously held the camera is thrusting into her and making her tits swing back and forth like pendulums and the lad who has just finished fucking her now has the camera and he’s kneeling right beside her and holding the camera extremely close to her backside, obviously getting a close up of his friend’s cock as it slams into her. And as he does so my mum raises her head up towards the ceiling and she half yells “Oh Jesus, fuck me, spunk in me.”

I remained at the window for over an hour, legs aching but I just could not move, completely transfixed. I watched as each of the men took turns with her and at one point, they lifted her off the sofa so that while one of them continued to ride her the other was able to make use of her mouth. And then they swapped places again. Although they’re using her as if she is a sex doll and she is sweating and her face is red with exertion, it appears to be her who is urging them on and when one waves a fairly limp looking cock at her, she grabs it and takes it in her mouth and sucks him until he is hard again and ready to mount her. In total I watched each of them have sex with her three times and I lost count of how many times she appeared to orgasm but eventually, things wind down and there’s some laughter and my mum gets up and leaves the room, returning with bottles of beer for the two lads and I see the camera being put away and clothing put back on. It’s time to disappear before one of them spots me or a neighbour asks what I’m doing crouched at the window, so I head off to the high street to kill an hour or so.

Hoping the coast will be clear I head home and although I had a key, I decided the safest option was to ring the bell and pretend I’d forgotten it that day. Fortunately, my mum is now in jeans and t-shirt and there is no sign of her young studs or the camera. I explain why I am a little early because of the water leak. But I simply can’t wait to go up to my room, pull out my mum’s black suspender belt I took from her lingerie drawer a few days ago and have the wank to end all wanks.

But just as I was about to go upstairs, I spotted a brown envelope, unsealed and without any writing or label on it, on the hall table. Curious, I looked inside and saw it was full of £20 notes. At the exact same moment my mum came out of the kitchen and said, “Hey, leave that, that’s mine” and she looked very cross and her face was suddenly very, very red. I just look at her and say, slowly, “Where did this come from, mum?”. She paused, looked down at her hand and twisted her wedding ring, which she always does when she is stressed and then she said, “I’ve been doing a bit of extra work, just to earn a bit more, you know, just … well, an extra job, working from home.”

And that was the moment I realised my mother was the sexiest woman in the world and that I would never desire another woman as much as I desired her now.

Feet

I’ve always had rather mixed views about foot fetishes and foot worship. On the one hand – or should that be foot? – I do like having my feet massaged, especially after a long day at work and I struggle to say ‘no’ to men who wish to ‘tribute’ my feet and/or high heels with their sperm and semen, as we shall see.

My feet

But on the other hand (foot), I don’t find all the sniffing or licking of sweaty feet or men who beg for old slippers or training shoes to be a turn on for me, and after a while it can become rather boring and mono-thematic.

Let’s wind back almost 40 years when I was in my first job after university and living in a flat in Putney. I met a fresh-faced lad called Dom and he was a keen if not very good tennis player and I enjoyed a game too, so we began playing at his club in Roehampton and as happened at that age, one thing led to another and we started seeing one another in a fairly casual way.

At some point Dom revealed his sexual fetish (we all have them, so I always like to ask what they are, as it avoids frustration). He told me that he was 100%, without hesitation, a foot fetishist. And not just any feet, although he admired a bit of toe cleavage on the tube, liked women in high heels etc but his specific ‘thing’ was really hot and sweaty feet, to be smelt, licked, sucked, rubbed … worshipped, basically.

Of course, he confessed that he had been unable to think of almost anything else other than my sweaty feet after a couple of hours of tennis, so being the people pleaser I am, I told him that of course he could remove my trainers and socks after a game and get to work.

Initially I enjoyed this: as I’ve said, having my hot and sore feet massaged is always a pleasure. Then, after work, Dom would come round to the flat I was renting so I could slip off my heels and he’d worship my feet in my stockings and then the stockings had to be removed so he could begin smelling and licking them. This was okay but I really just wanted a shower, to get my evening meal on and watch some TV. If my flat mates were out, I’d sometimes sit on the sofa with my food on a plate on my knees while I watched TV and he’d lie on the floor slurping over my feet.

He also borrowed some of my most worn trainers and shoes and even my (only) pair of slippers and when I got them back – and he proved very reluctant to return them – they had all been repeatedly spunked in.

I didn’t mind working his fetish into our sex life but after a time I realised this was our sex life. When I’d suggest something else, maybe one of my own kinks like being tied to the bed or having a good spanking, he showed almost zero interest and eventually admitted that he would struggle to reach climax without using my feet as his prop. And I suddenly realised I found the whole thing just boring and unsexy and that Dom wasn’t really dating me, he was merely having sessions with my feet and sweaty shoes. In fact, I don’t think he was especially interested in me at all – I just owned a pair of feet. So, Dom was soon history.

I don’t know if it was him or another friend who had recommended a novel called “Footsucker” by Geoff Nicholson. I don’t remember that much about it, but I remember I enjoyed it and it allowed me to see things from the perspective of a foot fetishist and as a review on Amazon says “The atmosphere of foot-eroticism is pretty-much perfect here. Some of these scenes are unspeakably arousing”. I still have my copy.

However, as time went on, I largely steered away from the foot fetish scene. Occasionally a man would say he liked stroking my feet and I was happy with that but if they showed a bit too much of an obsession, they got the heave ho. But there was one aspect of it that I did like, namely having men ejaculate onto my feet and shoes, especially when I was in a pair of killer heels (or high heel boots too). I think this was partly me growing into a more ‘dom’ role with men, together with the fact that I have always enjoyed being spunked on, almost regardless of where on my body the semen lands (a full facial is still a really big turn on for me, for example).

One of my online admirers offered to buy me a pair of Carvela high heels (Carvela being a brand of Kurt Geiger, and I loved KG heels) and when they arrived, I was really impressed with them and subsequently wore them a lot. Back then I was much more ready to meet fans than I am today and I thought it was a lovely gift from him, so I asked if he would like to ‘christen’ them for me and be the first to spunk on me in them.

I went to his place – a lovely seaside apartment – accompanied by my husband for safety sakes and after a bit of parading around in my seamed stockings and the new shoes he knelt in front of me and began to masturbate. Now, I could tell you that he released a healthy stream of very thick, white cum and left my foot, leg and shoe nicely splattered but in fact I video recorded him doing so and you can therefore view it for yourself if you have access to my video collection (ask me how to gain access if you don’t already).

A fan “Christened” the news shoes he bought for me

And since then I have had dozens and dozens of men spunk on my feet and shoes like this. Sometimes might give them a few little kicks as a form of encouragement and sometimes I just sit and read a magazine before they unload their baby gravy on my stockings and heels.

So where does leave things for me today? It’s a mixed report, to be honest. I want men to admire me in high heels. I like men who appreciate high heels – if they say they love them or adore them or even that they are obsessed with stiletto heels, I like them even more, not least as such men are easy to please and easy to lead: all I need do is slip on a pair of five or six inch heels and they’re putty in my hands (although I like them nice and hard in my hands, so that’s probably the wrong expression) and if I show a man like this my collection of heels, he’ll pretty much do anything I tell him to do.

So, if a man wants to shuffle over towards me on his knees while I sit and watch and he gets his cock out and begins frantically wanking until he spills his worthless seed down my foot and over my high heels, I’ve no objection to that. And if he’d prefer to rub his cock up and down my stockinged foot and over the heel before ejaculating on me, that can be absolutely lovely too.

I just don’t want my feet to be the sole focus (pun intended) of their adoration of me and my wonderful body and outfits. Afterall, I have long legs, lovely big tits, strong hands, a willing mouth and outfits to die for. So admire me feet, by all means but if you can’t get an erection other than with some form of foot job, I’m probably wasted on you.

Mummy dearest

If you read my blog, you will know that I occasionally meet up with a very young man who has something of an obsession with the idea that I am his sexy mum and we role play some scenarios. It’s odd, I’ll be the first to admit, but it’s been a lot of fun too.

I have another online admirer who has been very generous to me (I referred to him in my blog about FinDom: https://ladyinseams.home.blog/2024/06/05/fuck-you-pay-me/) and he recently mentioned that I am old enough to be his mother. I asked him if that idea was a turn on for him and he admitted it was and was a recurring fantasy of his, so I asked if he would write something about this for this blog and what follows is his fantasy (and I can only apologise for his rather unique approach to punctuation!)

Mummy,

Please don’t take this the wrong way but you know i have always looked at you in a sexual way, ever since I was young ,,, the outfits you used to wear, and seeing your underwear in the washing basket, maybe this is the time to confess, and tell you everything.

So here goes.

Obviously going through puberty years, still discovering myself and exploring , I did often get a bit of a twinge, when I used to see you “dressed up” for a night out, you did look extremely HOT, and sexy,,,

I know this may be difficult to digest, now that I’m a bit older, but I thought I would be honest,, and tell you the truth

I know it’s wrong , and a bit Taboo,, something which shouldn’t be spoken about, but I feel it’s the right time to tell you, ( maybe kind of a bit of compliment – in a weird way ?)

You always made an effort with you hair, make-up and sexy outfits, even just popping to the shop,, even more so when you went to work,,, trying to impress the boss ,, maybe? I was only a teenager, and could only admire from a distance ,, this may be a shock to you , and I actually feel a weird to say these things , but it turned me on,,, male hormones kicking in,, especially that age, only natural, I suppose….

When you went for your nights out , I got curious , and wanted to find out more… please don’t think bad of what I’m about to say ….

But the overwhelming sensations and excitement took over ,

I apologise all these years later ,, but its only fair of me to be honest

Yes , I was inquisitive , and I wanted more ,,,

Your sexy outfits, were just too much for me to take ,, given the high rush or Testosterone rushing through my body at the time ,,, i wanted more than just a quick look and visual tease ….

I will be honest now , and say the truth ,,,

I used to look through the washing basket and see your underwear, black bras and knickers especially, as seemed to be your preferred choice back then,, obviously worn,,, and sometimes visually noticeable that you had a good evening ,, I couldn’t get enough,, used to smell your knickers and check your bra for cum stains,,

But this still wasn’t enough, I wanted more ,,,

So, when you were out I went sneaking into your bedroom,, ( I know it was wrong – but such a sexual thrill at the same time )…

And was instantly surprised with the assortment of underwear, .

one drawer for day-to-day underwear…

further I ventured down,,, I eventually found your black lingerie, which I knew you kept for “dates ” and special occasions ,,

I found a few bras and knickers, but even more so was the discovery of suspender belts, basques, girdles and corsets and stockings too.. ! I couldn’t contain myself at this point, I was literally bursting to unload ,,, could hardly contain myself ,,, Knowing my own Mother was wearing underwear like this ,, for nights out with your ‘men friends’ while dad was sat at home ,,, proper turned me on ,,, I did actually get Hard at this point , really Hard!

Started wanking with all the underwear spread all over the bed ,,, , thinking of my own Mum wearing it ,, getting up to mischief,

I was only a teenager at the time but I blew a massive load all over it ! the release felt insanely intense ,, and I practically collapsed afterwards . because it was so intense!! such an intense rush !!

I had to gather myself together,, and sort it out afterward, and clean up the evidence.

A few days later, things were a bit awkward, with eye -contact , , kind of felt a bit guilty,, but I was still a feral teenager , full of testosterone , I couldn’t stop thinking about it ,, it was all consuming ,, it was addictive ,,, it was a drug ,,, I couldn’t get enough…!

I knew you had kind of figured out by this point, as I sometimes used to take one of your black bras or suspender belts to bed with me , just to cuddle or use to assist with wanking ? I don’t think you minded , as long as things got returned afterwards …. even with lots of cum stains

This is where things took another turn,,,

so,,

sexy underwear is one thing…

But , one day ,, you were out, your bedroom door was open once again ,,,. (I think on purpose ) ? and there was a drawer open,,, one that I’ve never seen open before ,,,,,

Obviously, being a teenager, full of enthusiasm , I had to explore ,, and this was where the eyes lit up ,, !! Absolutely rammed packed with toys , and kinky stuff , and I mean everything you could imagine ,, Vibrators , Dildo’s , everything of that kind of nature, in particular one Big Black Dildo, and there was a riding crop, a cane, a bull whip and two pairs of handcuffs and a ball gag, nipple clamps and chains ..

but what really did catch my eye was the Long pair of PVC Gloves ,,, , this is where i got my obsession with them,,, obviously you had them for a reason , and probably had been used ,,, but I was instantly hooked ,,

I instantly got them out, obviously been worn before as they had a lot of spunk stains on them, but i instantly fell in love with them,,, , even more than the black underwear ,,,, the gloves were something special and kinky ,,, i will never forget … !!

To this day, I’ve still got an obsession with those long gloves. because of my Mum,, I guess it’s her fault !! (in a weird way )

I did never get to see you wearing them in real life or in person, maybe saved it for when some of those men you said were friends came to visit and I was told to stay in my room until they had left …? I don’t know,,, ?

maybe I will never know?

My first stockings

My first stockings were bought for me by a man who was a friend of my father. I was fourteen but I looked a good deal more mature, not least because I had developed a bust which led to my mother describing me as “top heavy”. I wore quite a bit of make-up when I went out and often passed for seventeen or eighteen.

This man, who was in his thirties, took something of an interest in me and he often paid me compliments and he was always looking at my bust and legs. He took me to the pub a couple of times and I suppose one thing led to another and, one day when we were talking about fashion and shoes and the like I told him that I really wanted to get a suspender belt and stockings and he immediately said he’d be happy to come shopping with me and buy them for me, on the understanding I’d wear them so he could admire what he called my “pins” in stockings.

We went into town that day and from memory (which might be wrong) we went into Miss Selfridge and there I selected a nice black satin suspender belt which had metal clasps. While I was choosing the belt I noticed that one of the assistants had seamed nylons and lovely high heels an di thought she looked great and I asked him what he thought and he said he absolutely loved the look, so I went over to her, said how much I loved her nylons and wondered if they were stockings and if so, if they sold them or something similar.

The answer was yes to both questions and she took me over pointed to the display of Aristoc Harmony Point stockings and that was my first pair, although I must have bought hundreds of pairs since then.

When I got home, I couldn’t wait to try on my new belt and stockings and when I opened the packet I was immediately delighted with their look and feel, the sheer nylon, the fact they were non stretch and so had little wrinkles if not pulled up tight, the sheer glossy feel, the welt, the finishing loop at the top … just everything about them said class and quality.

I wore them that night and as I walked out of the house in my new stockings and my strappy high heel sandals, I felt a million dollars. I met him for a drink in town and I can honestly say that I have rarely seen a man quite so electrified by my appearance. We went to the cinema and he couldn’t keep his hands off me! One hand was constantly on my thigh and stocking tops and the other was trying to get under my bra until I eventually took it off and let his hand squeeze my tits without a barrier.

As he drove me home that night, I enjoyed what I consider to be my first ‘proper’ sexual experience, as we stopped for a ‘kiss and a cuddle’ and got in the back and there I sucked
him off. In biology we had been taught that a male ejaculation is about a teaspoon of fluid and that was what I was expecting as he panted that he was about to cum but I learnt that night that theory and reality often don’t match one another, as he spurted five great plumes of ejaculate into my mouth and I struggled to gulp them all down without coughing it out. I was so impressed! And as he fingered me to orgasm, I knew that I loved performing oral and I wanted to do it again.

I never had full sex with him but during the summer holidays when my parents were out he would often nip over to our house. I’d wear the stockings and heels and my netball skirt, blouse and school tie (a sort of ‘St Trinian’s look) and I’d give him oral sometimes while he licked me to orgasm in a 69 position. Of course, today most people would say it was rather sordid and maybe even unacceptable for a much older (and married) man to be engaging in sex sessions with a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl but I can tell you, I fucking loved it, have no regrets and was soon moving on to do more – a lot more – with lots of other men.

And since that night I have truly appreciated and been grateful for the effect which seamed stockings and stilettos can have on men.

FinDom

Let’s talk about FinDom.

And let’s begin with a description of what the term means. This is what Wikipedia has to say:

In this fetish lifestyle, in particular a practice of dominance and submission, a submissive (cash piggy, finsub, human ATM, money slave or paypig) gives gifts and money to a financial dominant (findomme/findom, Goddess, money dom/money domme, money master/ money mistress or cashmaster). The relationship between the two parties (including paying) often takes place solely via online communication.

In the majority of cases the two never meet, since findom is primarily a form of “distance domination”. In rare exceptions, the submissive may accompany the dominant while the dominant shops with the submissive’s money.

Now, I don’t consider myself to be a findom, insofar as I don’t exclusively engage in findom and I don’t hold myself out as a findom. Nevertheless, I have flirted at the edges of findom play, after being urged to do so by a number of men, and I have to admit I have found it a very powerfully erotic experience.

Perhaps I can describe some of the findom relationships I have experienced, although I am excluding shopping trips, which I don’t really count as findom, as I think of the latter as more of a remote relationship without meetings.

So, for example, there is Paul. Paul lives in some dump in the middle of nowhere, doesn’t drive and has never aspired to meet me. But on the first of each month, he sends me a small tribute, using a gift token. And when I say small, I really mean barely worth spending, as Paul is a pathetic pauper and we regularly exchange messages in which he accepts that the very small sums match his very small and worthless penis. Part of the fun for both of us is that I urge – or should that be order – him to go without booze or a night out or even a meal, so as to increase the monthly sum and I think for him, making a sacrifice for his Goddess increases his pleasure.

Despite his lowly status and trivial financial value to me, I enjoy our exchanges and we chat online quite frequently.

When I told him I intended to write something suitably insulting about him in this blog he wrote:

That’s OK my Goddess, it’s right if it’s naturally insulting, I mean, compared to you I’m nothing but a worm and I do know how my tributes are pathetic. It just matches me as a lower beta worm man, in worship to you as my Goddess of dominance.

Then there is Alan. He is even more of a worthless wretch. Alan approached me online and asked if I would consider taking him on as a slave. Things developed rapidly and he proposed that we enter into a slave contract which gives me legal ownership of his mind and his body (including, for the avoidance of doubt, all of his sperm) and setting out his obligations. For example, he is not permitted to ejaculate unless ordered to do so by me and even if he does so involuntarily, he must then pay me a fine. He is locked in chastity and I keep one of the keys for which he pays a monthly fee and I wear it on one of my ankle chains. If I see something I like – such as some high heels or a suspender belt, I tell him and he buys them for me.

My slave has even built a shrine to me in his home, with photos of me and a canvas on the wall, and a number of items, such as shoes, slippers, stockings and my knickers which he has purchased from me.

He is pathetically needy and desperate to serve and I am rude to him – his highlight so far was when I told him that I despise him and would like to spit in his face. Of course, he begs to meet me so that he can kneel before me and worship me but it’s never going to happen because, as I have explained to him, Christians don’t expect to meet Jesus or demand a meeting in order to have faith and nor would a Muslim expect to meet Allah or a Jew whichever imaginary friend it is they worship. If I was ever to meet him, it is likely to be a disappointment for him anyway, so it’s better that he worships from afar.

Naturally, this breaks his heart, which is simply wonderful!

And then there is John D. He contacted me and from the off said he was deeply into findom. He explained that this represents an enormous sexual thrill for him and he urged me to indulge his fetish, his passion. As a self-employed contractor, he said he had plenty of money, almost more than he knew what to do with and he wanted me to take some. And when I say ‘take some’ I mean that literally, as his proposal was to give me his bank details and log on password and that I should then go into his account and help myself.

Now, I’ll admit that I can be a cruel and mercenary bitch – is there something wrong in that? – but I was rather hesitant about this idea. Morally, legally … it felt a little uncomfortable. But he was very insistent, that this was what he wanted, so I decided to play along. I took his details and began to log onto his account with Lloyds Bank. Of course, he had to be involved too, as they sent a verification code to his phone, which I obviously didn’t have. Once into his account, I noted some transactions, to prove to him I had gained access but I didn’t take any money. There were a few thousand pounds in his account and I could probably have taken all of it but I didn’t take a penny. I thought this established trust between us but this seemed to irritate him and he urged me to take some money.

I knew he was very aroused by this interaction and he told me he was masturbating, which I liked. I too found myself strangely turned on, so as he insisted, begged and cajoled me to dip into his bank account I decided to take a token sum and transferred it out. This was enough to make him ejaculate and I’ll confess that after we were done, I slipped my fingers inside my knickers and brought myself to a climax. Why would a banking transaction make me want to orgasm? It was all very strange but the power, the control, the domination felt so, so good.

He was back the next day – we must do it again, he insisted. He’d loved it but he wanted me to take a ‘proper’ amount. We had a bit of back and forth as to what that might be and so I decided to push his buttons and said I wanted more than he first suggested, double in fact. Of course, he agreed and so I was once more in his account and as he stroked himself off, I took the cash.

It was a slightly surreal experience but one which showed me what some men desire and also demonstrated how it can have a powerful erotic appeal for both parties to such a relationship.

As something of an aside (but I know he wants me to mention this) he is also very aroused by gloves and he has purchased some of mine and then spilt his sperm and semen on them, taking some photos to send to me, one of which you can see here.

I used to go to some of the fetish clubs in London – Whiplash, Submission, Skin Two etc – and on one occasion I got talking to a young woman who told me she was a full time findom, one might almost say a professional, as she said she made a full time living from her pay piggies, of which she had over twenty. She explained that it took a lot of time and effort to find and cultivate them, not least as there were a lot of ‘wannabies’ out there who would talk the talk but either fail to deliver or quickly fell away. She was looking for men completely committed to this lifestyle and who were either sufficiently affluent or willing to make significant financial sacrifices to be able to provide her with meaningful tributes. Her rent was paid, her utility bills covered and even her personal social life, as she had one pay piggie to whom she sent her dining or drinks receipts and he transferred the money to her account to cover the cost each time.

I was fascinated and asked her to tell me more. She was happy to explain that there isn’t one single findom style of relationship and that each one tends to be slightly different to the next. For example, she told me about one man she described as an ‘ATM piggie’, a term I had not heard before. She meets this man at a cashpoint, in a busy shopping centre (by chance, near where I live) and he takes out the maximum his bank permits, namely £250 and hands it to her. And that is it.

Surely, he must want to talk to you or follow you, I asked. She admitted that the first time she met him, she was concerned that he might try and follow her home and she had taken some precautions against this risk and after he handed her the cash, she ordered him to stand by the cashpoint until she had disappeared from view, which he obediently did. But no, she said, he was completely devoted to simply handing over the cash and then walking away.

I had so many questions! Has this never developed into a more ‘traditional’ dom-sub relationship, with whips and handcuffs and the like? She admitted that on just one occasion, it headed in this direction but entirely at her instigation. This man – like many submissives – was obsessed with feet, high heels shoes and boots and had mentioned how he fantasised about licking her feet, kissing her boots and being kicked and trampled but he never asked to do so when they met, he simply gave her the money and walked away.

However, after he had performed his ATM piggie role a few times, she decided to ‘reward’ him, so after he next handed her the £250, she told him to follow her, remaining at least two steps behind her at all times. She walked to the multi-story car park, found a quiet spot and told him to kneel on the floor between two cars. And then she kicked him in the testicles, as hard as she could, so hard she lifted him up off the floor as he collapsed in complete agony. She said she had intended to then stand on him in her high heel boots and make him lick her heels but suddenly a security guard appeared (she thought he might have spotted them on the CCTV), so she walked off leaving her piggie writhing on the ground and groaning in pain. He subsequently messaged her to say it had been one of the best experiences of his life! What a blast!

She also boasted that she once had a pay pig who she had ‘rinsed’ – and that was here word for it – so thoroughly and so ruthlessly, that he almost went bust, so badly did he fall into arrears on his mortgage and other bills, all the time hiding this from his wife. Didn’t she feel terribly guilty about this, I asked. Not at all, she said – he was an adult, it was what he wanted and she gave him that and more. She added that part of the pleasure for some of these men is knowing that their Goddess is enjoying the high life, quaffing Champagne and taking taxis everywhere, while they struggle by on pasta and water and have to walk everywhere.

Now, we may ask why some men are entranced by this idea of an almost entirely remote relationship in which they are subjected to such cruelty and of course we can talk about submission and status and control and fantasy and all of the other elements. But I decided long ago that it is pointless to spend too much time trying to understand one another’s kinks and fetishes – why do most men like stockings or high heels or leather or being tied up or big boobs, and why do I so enjoy giving hand relief so much and getting splashed with semen? Who knows and, ultimately, does it matter? We only get so many trips around the sun, so let’s enjoy them and not worry too much about what gives another pleasure if they’re not hurting anyone else. Or if they are hurting someone, it’s only because that person begged for their pain.

Needless to say, if anyone reading this is attracted to the idea of findom and wishes to explore further, you know where this Goddess can be contacted.

Inseminated by the Bull

I open the door and there he is – towering over me, strong, black and looking magnificent in tight leather trousers.

“I’m from the agency, madam. You are expecting me, I hope.”

“Yes, of course, you’re just what I requested. Do come in.”

He strides into the hallway.

“What’s your name?”

“You can call me Taurus, madam.”

“Oh, like the bull? How very appropriate. Would you like a drink?”

“No thanks. I’m ready for action, madam, whenever you are”, and at that he laughs and quickly strokes his hand down from his crotch towards his knee and under the tight leather I can see what appears to be a very long truncheon. I can’t resist reaching out and feeling it and he’s hard and thick and it seems to go more than halfway towards his knee.

“My God, that’s a whopper, isn’t it? I bet you’re popular with your clients.”

“Ten inches, madam. No complaints from the ladies. Good repeater too.”

“Perfect. Would you like me to run through what I’m looking for.”

“Sure. I was told two hours, full penetration, no condoms. Is that right, madam?”

“Yes, exactly. I like it a little … forceful, if you know what I mean. With the black lads, I mean. I’m a happily married woman but if you force yourself upon me, use me, make me do all sorts of things, well what can I do?”

“Of course. I understand Is anything off limits, madam?”

“Other than anal, no. I’m not taking that thing up my arse, but apart from that you can do whatever you want with me. And I don’t want you to be offended by anything I say. It’s not personal. But, you know, black bastard, nigger, brute, pig. And you can call me whatever you like – bitch, slut, whore, whatever. I really won’t mind. In fact, I’d prefer it if you did. And if I tell you to stop, to get off me, you mustn’t, do you understand?”

“Yes, I see, madam. I like your style.”

“Well, just because I’m dressed like this” – and I look down at my leather mini skirt which doesn’t even cover the welts of my seamed stockings and at my 6 inch steel stiletto heels, ankle chain and a slashed pink top which is struggling to contain my large, heavy breasts – “like a tart you might think, doesn’t mean I want to be raped or gang banged by a group of incredibly well hung young black men but I know resistance is futile, so you might as well get on with it and make me feel like a sex object.”

“Then, shall we go to the bedroom, madam”, he asks.

“Oh no, let’s not be so boring. You’ve invited yourself into my house and now you’re going to take your pleasure whichever way – or should I say ways – that you wish. There’s nothing I can do to stop you.”

And at that he grabs me by the hair and pushes me down onto my knees in the hallway. With his spare hand he unzips his leather pants and pulls out his enormous weapon. Thank goodness I’m already nice and wet (a bit of vibrator action before he arrived made sure of this) because otherwise that thing might hurt.

But he’s not going there. As I shout, “Get off me you bastard”, he whacks me across the face with his hard cock. And it bloody hurts! Then he swings it back the other way. Whack! And again, in the other direction.

Suddlenly the polite gentleman from the agency and all of the ‘madams’ have disappeared and I’m in the hands of an animal who wants to use me and humiliate me.

“Suck it, bitch!”

I pull my head away. “No. I’m not having that thing in my mouth. Get off me you animal.”

But he shoves it into my mouth anyway and grabbing my head with both hands he works me back and forth long his shaft. I’m just getting into the rhythm of it when he grasps me by the back of my neck and begins to force himself down my throat.

As I struggle to control my gag reflex, fearing I might bring up my last meal, he starts to laugh and says “That’s it, take it all, you whore. I know you love it.”

He eases up after a minute or two of choking me with his monster cock and I get the blow job rhythm again. He murmurs with pleasure and then says “I’m going to cum on your face, bitch” and, with that, pulls out of my mouth and stands over me, quickly stroking his cock. He pulls my face closer to the tip of it and then with a groan I close my eyes and he begins to shoot thick ropes of semen over my lips, onto my forehead and over both sides of my face.

As he wipes his cock across my face I say “You can’t treat me like this, you brute. Get out of my house, you disgusting pig.”

“No, I’ve not finished with you yet. Not by a long way.”

Grabbing my hair again he pulls me to my feet and I almost topple over on my spike heels. Holding me by my hair, he half leads half shoves me into the lounge and then pushes me face down over the large oak dining table. He pulls my knickers down and off and then he kicks at my feet to force my legs wide apart and then with one brutal thrust he’s deep inside me and as he pulls back he almost pops out altogether before he slams back into me. His semen is dripping onto the table and pooling below my face and for a mad second I consider asking him to stop so I can wipe it up (will it stain the wood, I wonder) but then I realise he won’t stop anyway and as he thrusts into me again and again, I have the most rip roaring orgasm I’ve had in years. My whole body shudders and I think I briefly blacked out because the next thing I notice is him grunting and arching his back as he pumps me full with the second load of his semen.

We both take a few minutes to enjoy the sensations as he slowly slides back and forth inside me.

“You said you were a good repeater, so I suppose you intend to carry on using me, don’t you? You blacks are all the same. Beasts.”

He chuckles at this but picks up the beat. “I know you want it, you dirty white slag. You’re just a piece of cheap fuck meat, aren’t you”.

“Hey, a bit less of the ‘cheap’, Taurus. I’ve paid your agency a lot of money for this session.”

“Well, let’s give you your money’s worth. Would you like it on all fours or would you prefer to be on your back and I can push myself into your womb.”

“You choose, you’re the rapist after all. And anyway, why does it have to be either or? Why can’t we do both? You are meant to be a stud, aren’t you?”

And so for the next ninety minutes he doesn’t let up, ‘servicing’ me on my back, on all fours and then sitting on a chair and getting me to ride him, which results in a very powerful orgasm for me as I grip his vertical cock with the muscles of my vaginal walls. It feels like I am impaled on a fence post!

At one point he had me put one foot up on a stool and then leaning forwards and he then entered me from behind and as he thrust into me he lifted the leg off the stool and raised it so it was almost horizontal. It was all a bit too athletic for me – I’m a simple slut and just love being thrust into while on my hands and knees – and I said afterwards I felt I was in my Pilates class!

Even after coming five times he was still rock hard – although the way in which he used my mouth may have helped in this regard – and said he was ready for more but very business-like he glanced at his watch and told me that my two hours were up. I was exhausted, having been placed in some tricky positions and then absolutely battered by his incredible cock and had to settle for the four orgasms he had ‘imposed’ on me. When I looked in the mirror I saw a complete mess: hair all over the place, mascara trickling down my face, bright scarlet lipstick smeared all around my mouth, face a bit swollen and sweaty, I looked as if I had just completed a 5k run.

As he left I gave him a kiss and said “Goodbye, you black bastard.”

He squeezed one of my tits and said “See you again soon, you white trash MILF. I mean madam.” And we both laughed.

As I shut the door, I was already looking forward to taunting my husband about what I had just experienced, while giving him gloved hand relief and I knew he’d be delighted to hear how Taurus had flooded me with his virile sperm, which would by then be leaking out of me and dribbling down my legs.

Note: to avoid misunderstanding ‘Taurus’ is my regular sex partner and my hiring a black stud from an escort agency is just a little fantasy game we played, one of many we concoct in order to keep our sex sessions fresh and to introduce a bit of variety. But my husband really was delighted when I returned home that evening full of sperm..