Let’s talk about stockings. It’s over forty-six years since I first acquired a suspender belt, purchased for me by a friend of my father, and to this day I still get a little thrill when I put on a belt and pull on a pair of stockings and I now own around thirty suspender belts. Of course, I’m best known for my love of fully fashioned nylons (FFNs), sometimes described as “vintage” and I don’t mean any stocking with a back seam, I mean proper, fully fashioned stockings which are woven flat and then stitched up the back, giving the lovely seam and keyhole and which are made from non-stretch nylon, and so will often give those delicious wrinkles some of us love so much. I still think they are both the most elegant and the sexiest type of nylons and it’s little wonder that I am known as “Lady in Seams”.

But just as oranges are not the only fruit, seamed stockings are not the only type of stockings that I wear and it’s some of those alternatives I’m mainly writing about today for this blog. Why wear anything else? Well, sometimes stockings of any variety are not a very practical choice.  For example, when it’s very warm I’ll not wear stockings or tights at all (except when in the office, as I made an agreement with my boss to always wear FFNs while in the office, or for sex sessions with my boyfriend and for hand relief sessions). And if it’s very cold I will often choose tights or leggings rather than stockings.

There are another couple of reasons to leave my FFNs in my lingerie drawer. As most will know, they’ve become relatively rare, as they are difficult to make with a high reject rate and so the prices are now very high. When I began wearing them, they were pocket money prices but today a pair will normally cost around £30 to £40 and I’ve paid over £60 on occasion. And because they’re very fine, they snag and ladder easily, so while you might like to run your hands up my seams and feel my suspender straps and thighs, I’m left thinking “please don’t tear these stockings I’ve worn for the first time today!” Is it any wonder I ask admirers to gift me a pair if they wish to view all my videos?

The other issue follows on from their rarity. When I started work after graduating, seamed stockings were quite a common fashion look and I was one of many women in the office who wore seams regularly. Yes, I occasionally got a bit of hassle, especially late at night on the tube home but by and large it wasn’t an issue.

The opposite is true today and I have to be careful about when and where I go out in them. While I refuse to stop wearing them when I wish, it does take a certain level of courage to go shopping “fully tackled up” in a suspender belt, seamed stockings and very high heels. Of course, I enjoy the attention and most men are lovely about how I look but there is a fine line between welcome attention, a bit of hassle and feeling quite intimidated. It’s fine to say “I love your stockings” if you see me on your high street, it’s a lot less fine to follow me around, taking pictures without even asking me and it’s downright rude to ask me if I am a prostitute or if I’m “up for it”.

I almost certainly will not wear seams and heels if I’m out late at night on my own. Just to take an example, I recently met a male friend in London for drinks (and a bit of fun in the toilets). But when we said goodbye and he headed off home and I went to get my train, I removed my stockings, as experience has taught me this is the prudent thing to do. It’s sad but it’s the reality.

So what are the alternatives? The obvious choice is what are called reinforced heel and toe (or RHT) stockings, which are or can be essentially like FFNs but without the seam, as they are made from non-stretch nylon and many have the same or similar welt to FFNs. I’ve worn them quite often when seams are not appropriate but I’ll be honest, they always feel second best to the real thing and I don’t get the same thrill wearing RHTs as I do when I’m in a lovely pair of FFNs. I just don’t.

Another option are fishnet stockings and I like these and wear them quite often. Views differ on whether they are out and out “tarty” but I think they’re a sexy alternative to seams (I’ll come onto seamed fishnets in a moment). One variety that was a clear “fail” for me is whalenets, which you can see in the photo below. I tried them as someone gifted me pair but I just didn’t like them and thought they were quite ugly and they quickly found their way into the bin.

Another fail for me is the whole “hold ups” variety. I know some women prefer them as being less bother than a suspender belt but I’ve always found they’re either too tight on the leg, cutting off the blood flow or so loose they just fall down. I’ve even resorted to wearing them with a suspender belt, which seems to defeat the point. Added to which they often produce an unsightly “muffin top” above the elastic – yuk!

However, one alternative which was very popular in the mind 1980’s, perhaps through to the early 1990’s is lacy stockings and I wore them to work a lot, in various styles and colours. Some friends and colleagues preferred lacy tights but I’ve always been a suspender belt girl and so I wore the stockings. I don’t wear them any more as they’ve largely gone out of fashion but occasionally I’ll see a photo of a lady in lacy leg wear and I still like the look.

Another style I like and wear quite often is seamed fishnet stockings or – dare I say it – tights. If there is a question mark over whether fishnets per se are “tarty” or not I don’t think there is when a backseam is added – they’re out and out tarty and as a consequence they gain a lot of attention and as a consequence of that, you may often see me in a pub in my seamed fishnets. I think they go really well with a leather skirt and very high heels and they do give legs a very shapely look (unless the woman wearing them is noticeably overweight with fat legs, in which case all fishnets look terrible, in my view).

So there are plenty of options – fishnets, seamed fishnets, reinforced heel and toe, hold-ups, lacy, latex … and I haven’t even got onto plain stockings, opaque stockings and many other styles and types but for me nothing will ever displace a proper high quality pair of fully fashioned stockings, worn with high heel court shoes, sandals or boots. Now boots is a whole other topic which I shall try to write about one day – so much to say!

But meanwhile don’t forget to view my photos (there are currently 200 of them) on Flickr https://www.flickr.com/people/ladyinseams/

And remember if you want to win a place in my heart and gain access to over 100 very naughty videos of me enjoying myself in seams and heels all you need to do is gift me one pair of FFNs and thereby help keep gorgeous seamed stockings on our high streets and in our pubs.

Another scenario I’ve recently tried for the first time with my black stud is one in which I am the older rich bitch cougar type and bored and over sexed and while my husband is away I’ve hired a younger man – oh and by chance, he is black and hung like a horse – to do some jobs around the house (we actually did this at his house but role played as if it was mine).

So I’m there in a leather miniskirt, knee length boots with 6.75 inch heels, a tight sweater over a white bullet bra which can barely contain my full, heavy breasts and of course I’m wearing a suspender belt and seamed stockings. I thought I looked like a proper rich bitch.

I got him out in the garden, moving pots and bags of compost around, while I sat on a garden chair and watched, while drinking a glass of champagne. He certainly looked good in a tight top and some stretch trousers which looked a little like jodhpurs and hid nothing of his impressive tool which I could see was semi hard and showing clearly through the tight elasticated fabric.

As it was very warm, he soon worked up quite a sweat, so I suggested he take his top off. I watched some more and then called him over. Running my hand across his chest I said “You look so hot. And you’re sweating too. It makes your muscles really shine, doesn’t it?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Perhaps you’d better come inside, out of the sun: I’ve another job you can help with indoors.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Once indoors I asked if he’d like to earn a little extra money. He said he would, of course but asked what needed doing. “I do” I replied. “My husband won’t be back until late tonight and watching you carrying those sacks and lifting those heavy pots … well, you’ve got me all worked up now.  If you satisfy me, I’ll double your money.”

He smiled and said yes, he could help with that.

“Here’s what I want you to do if you want double money. I want you to take off those trousers and sit over there. And please don’t suggest a condom, as I want to be inseminated, not just fucked.”

“Yes ma’am” and as he stripped, I slipped two fingers inside my pants coated them with my juices as I worked myself up still further. Already I was probably more than halfway towards my climax.

Once naked he sat on the sofa, with his cock pointing up towards his chin. I straddled him and holding his cock in position I dropped down onto it and immediately, I had an orgasm.  Impaling myself on his massive cock had been all it took to tip me over the edge and into climax.

When my head stopped spinning, I managed to gasp “Don’t stop. I want you to spunk in me.” He didn’t need a second invitation and proceeded to repeatedly lift me up and then drop me back down on his cock. After doing this for a minute of two he began to thrust into me from below and before long he was spurting inside me.

I gave him a minute to recover and then said “I’m not finished with you yet and you’ll not earn your money that easily. I need more, much more.” I got into my favourite position – on all fours, resting my chest on the sofa and said, “Come on, what are you waiting for?”

As he put his hands on my hips and felt my suspender belt and began thrusting into me, I said “Oh, God, you’re an animal aren’t you? An absolute beast. I bet you service all your clients like this don’t you?”

He chuckled at this and said, “Got to keep the customers happy, ma’am.”

As I pushed towards my second orgasm I said “I know what you black lads are like. If I hadn’t asked you to do this, you probably would have forced me anyway, wouldn’t you, you beast. Just stripped me and used me as a sex toy. Pig.”

“Dressed like this, I think you were asking for it.”

Well, this was how my afternoon proceeded and he showed no signs of tiring, even as I demanded my fifth ride of the day. When we’d finished and dressed and as I got ready to leave – but we pretended this was my house and it was he who was leaving – I handed him a wodge of cash and said “There’s a bit extra there for such a good performance. Perhaps you’d like to come back next Friday and do some more work for me.”

“I’d be happy to ma’am.”

“The thing is, I’ve been thinking. I recognise this is a lot of work for one man. I have very strong appetites, shall we say. Maybe you have a friend or a colleague who might like to help you.” He looked taken aback. “You know, many hands make light work and all that.”

“Yes, I understand, ma’am. I do some work to begin and then he takes over for a while, then I’m fresh for more work … is this what you mean?”

“Yes, exactly. Must be young and fit, good stamina. I’ll pay double, of course. Well, my husband will. It’s his money.”

“I can bring someone with me next week, yes ma’am”.

“Oh, good. I don’t like to sound picky buy do you think your colleague … I mean would it be possible that he’d be, you know …”

“Black ma’am?”

“Exactly. You read my mind.”

“Yes, of course ma’am. I wouldn’t expect you to settle for anything else.”

“Splendid. I’ll see you both at the same time next week then. I look forward to it. I really do.”

The sex I enjoy with my black stud is phenomenal, the best I’ve ever had. But even we need to make a little effort to keep things fresh and so we discuss scenarios and fantasies and from time to time we act them out. I’ve previously written about how a lot of these involve him ‘forcing’ himself on me. For example, he’s a delivery driver who sees me in a sexy outfit and decides to have a bit of this for himself and pushes me into the house and repeatedly rapes me.

Recently we tried a new one: he calls an ‘escort agency’ and they send me. Leather mini, seamed stockings and 5-inch heels (plus ankle bracelet), tits almost falling out of my low cut top, heavy makeup – you get the picture. As an added twist, when he opens his door I’m chewing gum and manage a not very convincing cockney accent.

“Hello love, I’m Sharon, from the agency.”

As he shows me in and asks if I’d like a drink I say “Just checking what we are doing today, love”.  Looking at my phone I add, “Oh, full penetration and no condom, eh? You are a naughty boy aren’t you? Still, makes a nice change – last the two punters I’ve had today were both blow jobs and I’ve got another one the same after you. I won’t want my tea tonight after swallowing three loads, will I?” and I laugh.

“So you swallow then?” he asks.

“Oh, yeah love, it’s a full cum in mouth service with me if you ever fancy it, just ask for Sharon. It would be rude to spit it out, don’t you think? Anyways, I like it. Good job as everyone seems to want blow jobs these days.”

He leads me through into the lounge. “How do you want me?” He looks puzzled. “What position, I mean.”

“Oh, I see, hands and knees please, if that’s okay.”

“No problem love I’ll just slip these off” and my knickers are down and off.

As I’m readying myself to get on all fours, he strips.

“Jesus Christ Almighty” I shout, when I see his massive cock, pointing almost vertically towards the ceiling. “I’ll have to put a bit of lube on that monster,” I tell him, “Otherwise you might tear me!”

I lube his 10.5 inches of thick black meat and then assume the position. He pushes the head of his cock in quite gently and I give a little involuntary moan of pleasure. And then WHAM!, he slams the whole length deep into me and smashes against the neck of my womb. Then out almost the full length before thrusting back deep inside me.

As he thrusts into me I gasp and say, “Take it easy love, not so hard” but he’s having none of it. “Take it bitch! You dirty whore” and I do, I really do.

I begin to moan as I feel my climax building.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you. Whore.”

“It’s fantastic. After two blow jobs I was ready for this.”

“Even though you’re a whore?”

“Just because I’m a working girl doesn’t mean I don’t love sex. Can’t get enough. I want to cum.”

Now he starts to ride me hard and fast and I just manage to reach my orgasm before he begins spurting deep inside me, filling me with his sperm and semen. He keeps spurting and I know I’ll be leaking his fluid on my way home.

He thanks me, says how great it was but then asks if he is permitted another ride, this time with me spread eagled over his dining table. In truth, I’d absolutely love him to but for now, I need to stay “in character”, so I say “Sorry love, that was great but if you want me again, you’ll need to make another booking. Just ask for Sharon. I can’t keep my next punter waiting for his blow job, now can I?” and I stand in front of the mirror in his hallway and apply a very thick layer of bright red lipstick.

Of course, in reality my next “punter” is my husband, waiting for me at home and almost bursting with excitement to hear how I got on with my “client” and I’ll tell him, in detail, as I taunt him and stroke him to his own climax. But only after he has handed over my fee, obviously.

You see, sometimes fantasy and reality can collide.

My blog readers will know that I have a very profound passion for black men, like a lot of white women I suppose, and will know I have one as a regular sex partner, my black stud, who I see once or twice a week for some of the most glorious sex any woman could have. It’s not a romantic relationship and we don’t really talk about the other things in our lives – work, family, TV, friends – we just focus on sex. He gives me what I need and I obviously do the same for him.

We met at a nightclub event called “Black Lust” which described itself as “a club for white women wishing to meet black men”. I remember seeing him by the bar, tall, athletic looking and wearing a white shirt and tight black leather trousers. I almost melted. He says I asked him for a dance; I remember it the other way around but as I had already drunk a bottle of sparkling wine it’s possible my memory is wrong.

Either way, we danced and as he rubbed himself against me he said he could feel my suspender belt straps rubbing against his cock. I reached down to feel him and got such a shock, that for a moment I honestly thought he had put a tube down his trousers to impress the ladies. It was at least halfway down to his knee and so thick it was like a mini drainpipe. As I stroked it, he chuckled and asked if I liked it. Like it? I wanted it!

We sat at the bar and had a drink and I asked what he was looking for. He was very clear: he liked mature white women, ideally with a busty figure. Stockings and high heels were pretty much essential and he wanted a woman who is generally prepared to dress for sex. Well, I ticked all those boxes!

Then it was my turn: I wanted a younger black man (obviously), well-endowed although thickness had always been more important for me then length – not an issue here, as he certainly offered both – and if the man was a genuinely heavy spunker, that would be a bonus, and I explained my ‘fetish’ for semen and being spunked on.

However, as important as the physical attributes, for me the arrangement needed to be right and I explained what I wanted. A regular sex partner, not a one off, and a loyal partner as I have never liked condoms and so unprotected sex is essential for me, not least as I love to be flooded with semen and sperm. But on the other hand, I was not looking for a romance or a boyfriend in the traditional sense of date nights and cinema visits and the like. This was an issue he probed, as I’d already said I was married and he wanted to be sure he was not going to have a jealous husband banging on his door. But once I explained the cuckold lifestyle and how my husband would be very enthusiastic for me to have a regular sex partner, he relaxed and said we appeared to have found a perfect match for one another.

Now, this may surprise my readers, but I didn’t have sex with men I’d only just met, partly because I’m not a promiscuous slut (well, only a bit) and partly for health reasons and as I’ve said I really don’t like condoms. But after another dance I unzipped him – he wasn’t wearing pants, I noticed – and with my mouth stretched wider than I think it had ever been for this act, I began to fellate him. I simply couldn’t believe the size of his monster cock. After a minute or so he pulled his cock out of my mouth, slapped it across my face a couple of times (which actually really hurt!) and then pushed it right down my throat, as he held the back of my head. I naturally began to gag, as my body tried to cough him back up but I heard his chuckle again and I knew he was enjoying choking me like this. As he reached his climax he withdrew his cock again and after a few swift strokes with his hand he exploded all over my face, a truly massive load of semen which just seemed to spurt and flow for an age. He wiped the tip of his cock across my cheek and chin and lifted me off my knees and kissed me.

And so our relationship began. We both took a blood test that week and promised one another there would be no others for full sex (he was very happy for me to continue as a Masturbatrix) and I told my husband I would no longer have sex with him and only satisfy him by my hands and mouth. He was devasted of course, but recognised that as a cuck, this was the price he had to pay in order to allow his wife to be used as a sex object by another man, my lovely black stud.

In the next part I’ll describe some games we like to play together.

I recently received an interesting proposal. A man contacted me and said he had an idea which he thought might appeal to me. He began by saying he had viewed all my video (which must have taken him some time, as there are over one hundred) and he was very impressed with their ‘professional’ style and how they are shot. He also complimented my figure and the outfits I wear in each – always a good way of flattering this girl – but he said the thing that impressed him most was both my technique in providing hand relief and my obvious enthusiasm for the ‘task in hand’ and so he wished to see if I might be interested in turning what I jokingly told him is my dirty hobby into hard cash.

He said he owned a ‘massage parlour’ which is located in a London suburb and which provides its customers with a very specific service, namely hand relief.  Gents come to the parlour and there is a small team of girls who then massage them, with the focus on a ‘happy ending’. Would I be interested in joining the team? Initially, I was a little sceptical and wondered if he was genuine but he sent me some photos of some of the girls masturbating clients and he sent a short video clip in which two quite young-looking girls, one in a bikini the other in a sports top and leggings are ‘finishing off’ a gent lying on a massage table.

I’ll admit here that I was certain this was not something I’d choose to do but at the same time the idea excited me and I wanted to know more, so I slightly played along and expressed some interest in the idea and we arranged a phone call.

I asked about the girls – aren’t they all in their twenties, at least so it seemed from the photos and video clip and surely I’d be too old for his clients. He said most are younger than me but he had recently taken on one lady who, like me, is mature– he thought almost fifty years old – and busty and she has proved extremely popular with some clients, so he wants to add another to the roster. He was shocked when I told him how old I actually am!

I asked if they’re all Easter Europeans. He said they come from all walks of life – quite a few Eastern Europeans, one Vietnamese, one he said is a PR executive and one is a nurse at one of the large London hospitals. When I said the nurse probably needs the money, he agreed that she is boosting her pay but said she absolutely loves the role and is his most enthusiastic masseuse, always the first to put her hand up when a new client arrives at the parlour.

He asked me a few questions too – what did I like to do most, any no no’s, how many sessions do I do a week, would I always insist on gloves because some gents prefer bare hands (which I knew and don’t have a problem with), how many would I feel comfortable ‘servicing’ in a single shift and how many shifts might I be willing to work and so forth.

At one point I said I didn’t think I’d look good in a bikini and he laughed and said that’s absolutely not the look he was after in my case – he was thinking low cut tops, or tight tops and my quarter cup bras and most definitely my signature suspender belts, seamed stockings and extremely high heels. Business suits would be popular, he suggested, also some gents request uniforms – nurse, schoolgirl etc. I said I was completely comfortable with all of that.

He also asked how I would feel about giving topless relief, immediately adding that it was not a requirement but the fee is a little higher for topless, especially if the gent is able to ejaculate over the tits. I said I have no issue with providing topless relief, as he must have seen in some of my videos. I added that I also have no objection to the client ejaculating on me – not just my tits but if they wish elsewhere – on my stocking tops or suspender belt, my heels, even my face. In fact, I love getting a really full load of thick semen, I told him. “That’s why I knew you’d be perfect for this”, he replied.

I asked if other ‘services’ might be expected or required, like oral. He was very clear on this point – absolutely not and in fact he had found one of his girls was offering clients full sex for extra cash and he fired her on the spot. “We are a massage parlour and we only provide erotic massage” was his line.

Eventually we talked about money, which I won’t go into here as it’s not very relevant. Suffice to say it’s not bad but no one would get rich doing this, even if they did it every day.

I promised to think about it but I already knew this was not the right thing for me. But I’ll tell you this – after our little chat I was hot and bothered and ready to cum. I changed into stockings and heels and a leather mini and tight top, got my husband to sit down, told him the jist of what I had just discussed, said he was now my massage parlour punter, and I gave him a superb hand relief session. After he (eventually) ejaculated it was my turn and he fingered me to a glorious orgasm.

Of course, afterwards I made him pay me, as there are no freebies in our house.

If you have previously read my blog you know that from time-to-time I see a young lad who gets me to role play being his “mum”. It’s weird but it’s also great fun. He is a flamboyant character who dreams up various scenarios for us to act out, scenarios which always end with his mum giving him hand relief (he’s asked to progress to oral but, at least to date, I’ve declined, as while I can imagine a mum might give her horny son a hand job I am sceptical that she’d blow him too).

His latest little scene was probably the simplest and most low key to date and didn’t involve us in public with him making loud references to me being his mother and even introducing me to people as such, which can be a bit embarrassing, although it’s also often very fun, seeing the look of shock on people’s faces!

This time, he was your typical lazy millennial, lying in bed as I was setting off for work. You will recall that I have an arrangement with my boss that I always wear a suspender belt, seams and high heels when in the office and my choice of bra is largely confined to quarter cup or none at all (although a bullet bra once in a while is a concession he has made). On this occasion I’m wearing a leather miniskirt and a tight white top over a black quarter cup bra and I’m already turned on, so my nipples are nice and hard. I also have on a black vinyl mackintosh, as it just doesn’t seem to stop raining.

Before I leave the house, I pop into my boy’s bedroom, to make sure he is awake and to bring him a cup of tea. He admires my outfit and stockings and heels and asks if I’ll be giving Chris (my boss) hand relief when I get to work. He already knows that I will, as I always do, so when I confirm this he begins asking questions: will I be wearing gloves? and will I take my top off? and what will Chris say as he spunks on me? You know, normal mother-son chit chat! 

Then he told me that while I am work he plans to imagine this while wanking, maybe watching one of my videos where I’m providing gloved hand relief. And of course, under the duvet he is already stroking his young, hard cock.

I asked him how long it is since he last came and he replied, “Eight days now.”

“Oh my god,” I said, “that’s not healthy for a lad like you.  You should try and cum much more regularly.”

“I know, but I like to save it. I save it for you mum.”

“I know you do, love, and it’s sweet of you but … let’s sort you out.”

And with that I take off my mac and pull back the duvet and there is his erection, so hard I have to pull it back from his six pack as it’s pointing more at his chin than the ceiling. They get so hard, don’t they, these youngsters? That’s why I love them so much!

I take the leather gloves and tube of lubricating jelly from inside the bedside table (handily placed there before we began) and slowly work his rock-hard cock.  I try to make it last but he really hadn’t cum for over a week and is seems had been endlessly edging himself in anticipation of this moment so with lots of groans and “You’re so good, mum” and “oh Jesus, oh fuck” he erupted all over my hand and his own stomach. As the semen shot out of him and over his stomach and my gloved hand, even I was thinking, perhaps oral with him is not such a bad idea after all. I do like to swallow a really full load of fresh, virile sperm and seminal fluid.

But for now, I have emptied his load and it’s simply a case of slowly stroking him for a few more minutes. Then I straighten myself out and say “I’d better go love, as I’ve another one like that which will need dealing with. And then it will be your dad this evening, of course.  Don’t let your tea go cold”. I really am a loving mother.

You will know I have a slightly unusual employment arrangement, which goes back some years. In short, I work part-time for Chris who is a lawyer with a profitable niche practice. He is also a dedicated fully fashioned stockings and high heels fanatic and the deal we have is that I always wear these when in the office, which is roughly about twice a week). Initially he asked me not to wear a bra but he now likes me in quarter cup bras and occasionally I wear a bullet bra, although he has asked me to remove them a few times.

Fortunately, there is no one else in the office – we have client and other business meetings offsite at a nearby venue, mainly as our office is so embarrassingly shabby – and so my first duty, on arrival is to attend to the coffee machine and then give him gloved hand relief.

In return for me agreeing to always dress as requested and giving him regular relief, he pays me a full-time equivalent wage, plus a percentage share of profits and I can often work from home. Indeed, these days I often only pop into the office because he needs me to “handle something which has come up”, which is his little joke when he needs me to masturbate him.

In all the time I’ve worked for him, I’ve never had a pay rise. When inflation was around 2%, I wasn’t too worried, as I know I am well rewarded but I have certainly done a good job for him, secured some key relationships and boosted his firm’s profits. I’ve taken and passed law exams and I do para legal work (i.e. I’m not just there as a Masturbatrix).

I recently suggested we should review and increase my salary. He agreed we should discuss this and put a date in the diary. On the day, I wore a smart dress and did my hair, as I think this is the right professional approach to such meetings (incidentally, I posted some photos of my outfit that day in a previous blog, as this was the same day that I was stopped by a man outside the supermarket). I had all my arguments for a decent rise ready too.

When I got into the office, Chris suggested we do his hand relief first and then discuss the issue of pay. I could see a trap, so said I’d prefer to get the pay resolved first and then ‘celebrate’ with a nice, long, slow build up to his climax. But no, he wouldn’t budge and he began to take down his trousers.

I proposed a compromise: I’d stroke him, while we discussed pay. Remarkably, he agreed. So there I was, my dress now over the back of my chair (didn’t want to get it stained!), on my knees, wearing glossy latex gloves and stroking his cock, while debating the merits of my pay proposal!

My argument was simple – never having had a rise, a 10% increase seems fair. He countered with 5%. But, I argued, with inflation now above 10%, that’s actually a pay cut. Ah, he said, as I slowed my hand even further, the rate of inflation will soon drop, so agreeing to 10% would bake in an inflationary rise.

And so we went back and forth like this until he suggested a deal: 5% pay increase and a one-off payment of 5%. Now, to be perfectly honest, this didn’t sound unreasonable and it was logical. But on the other hand, I literally had his balls in my (left) hand while the other stroked his erection, so I squeezed him, both physically and metaphorically.

I said if he didn’t think I was worth 10% then perhaps he wasn’t worth my skills as a Masturbatrix and maybe it was time for me to stop coming to the office in seamed stockings and killer heels, often looking like a call girl or porn star.

He thought about this for a moment and said, in which case maybe he would have to dismiss me for breaking our agreement. I couldn’t help laughing. In fact, I laughed so much I had to stop stroking his cock. As I wiped the tears from my eyes, I asked him how he thought he would get on at an industrial tribunal when he explained he had dismissed an employee because she refused to dress like a tart and provide him with sexual services. Before he could speak, I told him the answer: “Not only would you lose – obviously – but you would be struck off as a solicitor. Bang goes your entire business.”

Now he realised that even though I’d taken my hands away, I still had him by the balls. I was tempted to up the ante and say, now it’s 20% but I decided to play fair. He agreed that my proposal had been very reasonable after all, and with this settled there was only one thing left to do. A few minutes later, I was wiping his semen and sperm off my neck and my tits, ready to get on with some real work.

That’s how to negotiate a pay rise.

Thursday 23 February 2023

I’m at work and typing this quickly while I remember a conversation I’ve just had in the street. I went to make the coffee and discovered we have no milk, as my boss, Chris can never remember to buy any or is incapable of doing so. But we’re a few yards from a Sainsburys supermarket so I popped out and grabbed two pints.

I was vaguely aware of being followed into and around the store but this is not at all unusual: I am wearing seamed stockings, five-inch heels and an ankle bracelet, after all, so I’m quite used to this kind of attention.

As I was leaving a man stepped in front of me and said “I hope you don’t mind but I just wanted to say how much I love your nylons”

“Oh, thank you.”

“They’re beautiful. You don’t mind me saying?”

“No, not at all. It’s nice.”

“They’re proper stockings, aren’t they?

“Yes. Made the old fashioned way.”

“With a suspender belt.”

“Yes … a suspender belt.”

“You don’t often see them.”

“No, they’ve become quite rare.”

“Special occasion?”

“No, I’m just at work.”

“Oh, right. Where do you work?”

I pointed vaguely in the direction of our rather shabby office but  I didn’t want to be too precise.

“They look fantastic. Do you wear them often?”

“Yes, quite often, though they’re expensive. I love them and my boss likes me to wear them when I’m in the office.”

“Oh, God, what a lucky man. I wouldn’t get any work done if you were in my office” and he laughed. “How does he concentrate with you there looking so amazing? They’re so sexy and the shoes, as well, they’re stunning.”

And for a moment, I hesitated about how to reply. Should I tell him that less than fifteen minutes ago I was wiping my boss’s spunk off my tits, after masturbating him over them, wearing glossy latex gloves? That I kneel at his desk each day I’m at work and give him gloved hand relief. Should I say that I am well aware that many men find seams and heels a powerful combination because some will even reward me to attend events with them, on the understanding I’ll be fully ‘tackled up’ and provide them with relief before the end of the evening? Should I tell him that I am something of a Masturbatrix and try to arouse this stranger further still and ask if he’d like to arrange a hand relief session? Or should I just do what I often do, which is to say thanks, take his email address and send him a few naughty photos later, maybe even the link to my videos, so he can watch me in action while he masturbates?

Sorry to disappoint, but I said none of those things. I said “Better get back”, and waved the two pints of milk in front of me.

I looked back as I walked away and said, “Thank you for saying hello”, and he gave me a wave.

Perhaps I’ll bump into him again. Perhaps he’ll hang around our office door and approach me again. And, if this happens, perhaps I will say some or all of those things and – perhaps, even – I will be wiping his spunk off my cleavage at some point. But for now, I hope he went back to work and made himself cum, thinking of me in my suspender belt, seamed stockings and stiletto heels.

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.