As you’ll know already, I’m a visual person. I like to dress to impress – seamed stockings, very high heels, leather skirts, wet look dresses, uniforms … you get the idea. And I enjoy parading myself around and having men drool over my long legs and big bust. And if you’ve seen my videos, you’ll know it’s more than drool, as I love being ejaculated on.

But even as a visual person, I appreciate the power of words and ideas and how they can affect people and be powerfully erotic. I’m going to use just two examples to illustrate this point, two lovely gentlemen who I masturbate from time to time and for whom words or concepts are all important.

Tim is a nice, fresh faced young man I met at a party. When we first met, he told me he how massively excited he was just knowing I was wearing a suspender belt (the straps of which were showing very clearly beneath my tight skirt) and as we chatted, I noticed he used those two words “suspender belt” repeatedly. Sensing this was having a powerful impact on him – the bulge in his trousers said it all, really – I reciprocated and chatted about how many belts I possess and how I wear suspenders and stockings regularly and how men loved to see me wearing seamed stockings and a suspender belt.

Cutting a long story short, we arranged to meet so that we could chat further and I could provide him with hand relief. When we got together, he explained that if I was to say “suspender belt” as often as possible as I stroked him, that would be sufficient to make him climax. And indeed, that’s what happened. I began by saying “as you know I’m wearing a suspender belt right now but I also always wear suspender belts when I go to work and my boss loves to feel my suspender belt straps under a tight skirt and I like to wear a belt and seams when I go shopping …” and I carried on like this for only a couple of minutes before he groaned and unloaded a healthy volume of semen and sperm over my gloved hands and chest.

Since then we’ve met a few times and I have found a thousand different ways to work the words “suspender belt” into my chat as I milk him and each time this has been enough to push him over the edge. On one occasion I scattered all the belts I wasn’t wearing that day – almost thirty belts – around the chair he was sat on and his eyes were swivelling manically as he took them all in before shooting his load on me.

On another occasion, I wrapped his cock in a 12-strap black suspender belt and as I pumped his cock the 12  metal clasps jangled noisily and he quickly reached the point of no return and shouted out “suspender belt” before ejaculating all over my lovely belt, leaving it deliciously wet and sticky.

So far, so standard you may say but the second man I’m going to tell you about, Joe, takes the power of words and ideas to a different level. Joe is my age (i.e. not young!) and he is obsessed with the fact that I am a married lady. So, for him the chat is all about marriage, my husband, about being openly unfaithful and about how I look for ways to betray my husband and humiliate him.

I’ve even talked about our wedding day and what I wore, where we held the reception, who was there. I’ve told him how I had sex with one of the black men working at the hotel on our honeymoon and how my husband sat back, sipping his beer, as I was being pounded on the bed in our room and watched me as I was taken from behind bent over our hotel balcony.

I only have to say “As a married lady …” or “Does my husband mind if I …”and Joe is ready for action.

But Joe also likes to ask questions. How does your husband feel about this? Are you not ashamed when you break your marriage vows? Are men excited when they know you are a married lady? Do you wear ankle chains so men will know you’re a hot wife, married but looking for extra marital sex? Has your husband ever pimped you?

And Joe has another particular ask of me. While my default for hand relief sessions is to wear gloves– glossy latex, disposable ‘surgical’ gloves, leather, satin, vinyl, faux leather, you name it, I probably have them – Joe has always asked for my hands to be bare for two related reasons: he likes to see and even refer to my wedding and engagement rings as I’m stroking him off but he also likes to ejaculate over them and, having done so, he insists that I don’t wash his semen off the rings but rather allow it to dry on them, which leaves them a slightly dull milky colour. Then the idea is that I show my husband that these rings, which are meant to signify our love for one another and my vow of fidelity are, in fact, soaked with another man’s seed.

And I’ll be honest – my husband has no objections to this strange little kink either!

He is visibly excited and has already told me that he adores my seamed stockings, the multi strap suspender belt under my tight skirt and the thin stiletto heels of my shoes.

I reach down to feel his erection through his trousers. “My, you are excited, aren’t you?” I say as I squeeze his thick, rock-hard cock which is now pointing upwards. “Would you like me to take care of that for you?”

He would. I mention some new red shoes I’ve seen and when I show them on my phone, he agrees with me: I have to have them. Once a quick bit of online shopping is completed, it’s back to the ‘problem’ of his cock and a gland that needs emptying.

Latex gloves on, I unzip him, pull his cock away from his stomach and with a squirt of lube, I begin work. He’s quickly approaching climax and as he approaches the edge the only question for me is, do I slow it down or will I need to stop completely? He looks shocked when I do. It’s his first time with me, poor young thing and he wasn’t expecting this.

He doesn’t soften, as some men do (asking how their wife is will often help at this point) but he’s no longer at the edge. After an interval I resume stroking. And then stop again. After doing this five or six times he shows signs of frustration.

“Let me cum now, please” he says through gritted teeth.

I laugh. “No, not yet.”

“Please.”

“I decide, not you. Not yet.” And I laugh even more at his wretched condition.

“I need …”

“I want to hear you beg. Beg for it.”

He begins to plead with me.

“No, beg properly or I’ll stop completely.”

He begs. He whines. He looks like he might start to cry. I make him beg some more.

“I want every last sperm and drop of fluid from you. And I want it now”

My hand gives firm, long strokes and thick, very thick creamy semen begins to flow from the tip of his penis. It doesn’t shoot out, as I had thought it might but it continues to flow, so much so that he is still producing while his river of fluid has trickled down my arm and almost reached my elbow. I’m impressed.

And he’s impressed when I begin to lick his ejaculate off my arm while continuing to slowly stroke his lovely cock, which I do for another few minutes, knowing this is often as pleasurable as the climax itself.

As we chat afterwards, I tell him how exciting I found the volume and thickness of his spunk and say it’s the sort of ejaculation I wouldn’t mind taking in my mouth and swallowing, as I love the taste and texture of health fresh semen. He’s enthusiastic and starts suggesting dates. I think I may be looking at some more expensive shoes, don’t you?

A number of you have kindly offered to donate stockings for me to wear. I have found that the easiest way for people to do so is using an Amazon email gift card, as I can then pick a pair based on what’s in stock and this also guards each of our personal details. In return, I can provide access to over 100 videos I have made of myself having fun and showing myself off – if you’ve read my blog you’ll have some idea of what you will see!! You’ll need to use my email address which I will provide upon request. If you need more info, please ask!

A few months before the pandemic struck, I was in the West End of London, doing some indulgent shopping and showing myself off a little: I was wearing a strong 10 strap suspender belt, black seamed stockings and five-inch stiletto heels, which I’d matched with a nice, tight black leather skirt.

On such trips I’m quite used to being followed and on this occasion I’d noticed a well-dressed man, roughly early thirties, in a few of the shops I had visited and assumed he was enjoying my attire. In one shop I caught his eye and gave him a little smile and a few minutes later, as I left the shop, he stopped me and said he was sorry to bother me but he just had to say how lovely I looked and how much he admired my “nylons”, a term men often use when they’re a little hesitant about saying “stockings” out loud. We chatted for a while and he admitted to being a very big fan of fully fashioned stockings and stiletto heels and he knew the brand names – Gio, Aristoc, Chanel – and some of the terminology – welt, Havana heels etc. However, his wife didn’t even own a suspender belt, he told me rather sadly.

After chatting for a few minutes, Robert as I now knew him to be, asked if I’d care to join him for a drink. I was tempted, as he was polite, charming and had a lovely twinkle in his eye and I could imagine having a few glasses of Champagne with him but I was due to meet another gent that day and was now a little pressed for time, so I politely declined but I asked for his email and confirmed it would not cause an issue for him if I sent him some photos.

That evening I sent him an email, saying how nice it had been to meet him and attaching half a dozen photos of me in seams and heels. He replied the next day expressing his delight at meeting and thanking me for the photos. We had a bit of back and forth on email before he told me he had another reason to thank me: after our little chat in the street he’d been hard and restless for the rest of the day and when he got home he and his wife had made love and he confessed that as he was fucking her, he imagined it was me and in his imagination I was wearing my suspender belt, stockings and heels and, as a result, he’d fucked her harder than ever before and they had sex three times that evening.

His wife was shocked by this virile performance but not dissatisfied in any way – quite the opposite – but she was puzzled as to what had got into him to make him such a stud. Of course, he couldn’t tell her he’d been thinking about another woman.

I heard from him from time to time and he told me his love life had changed and that he and his wife were now having sex much more regularly but that she had become suspicious that his new energy was because he might be having an affair at work. He repeatedly told her it wasn’t so but eventually he told her the truth – that he’d seen a woman in the street in seams, heels and leather and he couldn’t stop thinking about the way she had been dressed.

His wife, who was enjoying their rekindled sex life, asked if he imagined this woman when he was fucking her and he confessed that this was the case, though he didn’t at this stage admit he’d chatted to me and had been emailing and receiving photos to fire his imagination further. He thought she might hit him but instead she said if he liked those stockings so much, she’d get some and so – with some advice from me in the background – they ordered a belt and a pair of FFNs online and he said his wife was now wearing a suspender belt and seams almost every evening and they were having sex more than they had ever done before. He couldn’t thank me enough and he ordered some stockings for me as a little ‘thank you’.

He said initially she only wore them in the house but as time went on she’d ordered more pairs and a few suspender belts and she began wearing them for evenings out and very much enjoyed the attention she gained. Robert was so pleased that he’d spotted me that day in London, as he now got to see his wife in beautiful fully fashioned stockings and high heels, he got to go out with her and see other men observing and admiring his wife and he told me his sex life had never been better.

And at this point the messages ended and I didn’t hear from him for well over a year. That is, until last week when he got back in touch to tell me of an interesting new development. Robert explained that his wife’s confidence in her own sexual attractiveness had grown significantly, as a result of evenings out in seams and heels to the point where she had ventured out without him, fully ‘tackled up’, once to go shopping in London and once with a man they’d met in a bar some weeks before and who had asked if she’d consider going for a drink with him.

After her date Robert couldn’t wait to see if anything had happened with this man and while the answer was ‘no’ they talked about it while they made love that night and she described a fantasy fuck in the pub toilets. Afterwards, he asked if she’d ever consider such a thing as anything other than a fantasy but she replied by asking him how he felt about it. I think like a lot of cuckolds (for that is what he was becoming) his feelings were mixed but mostly excited, so he said he’d like her to try it if she wished.

Now cutting a much longer story short, the reason Robert had contacted me again last week was to tell me that his wife is now enjoying being openly unfaithful and not only with her earlier date but also a man she met at her gym and a fully fashioned stockings fanatic they ‘met’ online. And he is loving it! He told me that she had bought quite a few ‘slutty’ outfits – short skirts, a PVC dress and some leather and seeing her going off to meet one of her new partners in such outfits has him almost bursting with excitement. When she gets home – and apparently she has stayed overnight with one of these men a few times – they have the most fantastic, filthiest sex imaginable.  

His latest idea was to ask if she’d consider having two of these men or even all three fuck her in the same session, while he watches, ready to join in at the end and although she hasn’t yet agreed, she hasn’t ruled it out either and he is hopeful that before long he’ll get to watch his hot wife in her lovely stockings being used as a sex object by a group of men.

His final comment to me was that he feels like he has a brand new wife and a brand new marriage and all thanks to spotting me in a street and to the magic of seamed stockings and stiletto heels.

I was walking to the tube one morning, in a hurry as normal. I still remember what I was wearing, even though this was over 35 years ago: a green satin blouse, black pencil skirt, fishnet stockings and black strappy, high heel sandals. And, crucially, no bra – back then I often didn’t wear a bra to work.

As I strode along the side of Clapham Common, I passed two men who were digging a trench at the side of the road. “Hello busty” one of them shouted, as I bounced by them. I smiled and gave him a little wave. As I passed them, his colleague shouted even louder “You busty slut.” I think I was meant to be insulted but I laughed and turned around and blew him a kiss.

‘Busty slut’. I though about this as I sat on the tube and decided I rather liked it and so I adopted that description as a sort of nickname. When I was about 12 or 13 my mother had told me that I would always be ‘top heavy’ and to be proud of my assets and while the other girls at school desperately prayed for their breasts to bud and grow, I was already in full size bras.

I’ve always been proud of my big tits, my knockers, my fun bags, melons, puppies, boobs, jugs, sweater stretchers, hooters …

I am now a 40E cup, nature’s gift to me.

When I started work after university, I often didn’t wear a bra, as I liked the freedom and comfort of not having to do so (although fair to note that my boobs were a lot firmer and not as big as they are today). I went though a phase of wearing basques to work quite often, but while I liked the firm boned control on my torso and the suspender straps, I found the cups a bit flimsy and used to fold them under my breasts and so have a ‘braless’ look but with my boobs sat perched on top. I quickly discovered men – in the street, at work, in the pub, even on the tube – loved this look too.

I remember getting my first quarter cup bra – black, PVC, from a fetish shop in Soho and I loved it and quickly bought others in white and pink. Breasts lifted and supported but nipples pointing out at the world and still plenty of bounce as I strode down the street or though the office in my high heels. I’d tweak and pull my nipples before going out to make sure they were full and hard for all to see and later discovered nipple pumps, which I sometimes attach for half an hour before a night out, ensuring my nipples were engorged and rock hard and stay like this for an age.

Tight, thin sweaters in autumn and winter, tight t-shirts and low-cut tops on warmer days, often showing a lot of cleavage. I later discovered 1950’s style bullet bras, which under a tight top or sweater make my boobs look absolutely enormous. I remember my mother-in-law when she saw me in a leopard print top worn over a big bullet bra and she just looked and said “Oh my God – you look like you might topple over!”

As you might imagine I got a lot of attention and reaction. At work one or two people made comments which showed their disapproval at such slutty displays, but for each of them there was a long, long queue of men who wanted nothing more than to get their hands on my tits and their mouths around my nipples.

Which I absolutely loved, as my breasts and especially my nipples are extremely sensitive. I can orgasm just from having them squeezed and pulled, licked or sucked. In fact there are times when I find it difficult to climax unless my breasts are being attended to.

There can be a downside to this – I once had an orgasm on the dance floor at a wedding because my boobs were brushing against the chest of a man who had simply asked for a dance and when I experimentally wore nipple clamps for as shopping trip, I had an orgasm as I walked through a shopping centre and had I not grabbed a nearby hand rail I would have hit the floor, as I blacked out for a second or two. But, overall, it’s been a joy having big, sensitive breasts and nipples.

So many men I have met just want to tit fuck me or have me tit wank them and I’ve not exactly fought them off, as I love a pearl necklace and if I get it just right, I too can have an orgasm while being tit fucked or bringing them off with my tits and if I get it exactly right I can sometimes start to orgasm just as they start to shoot their semen up my neck and over my chin and face.

Holding my breasts up so a guy can ejaculate over them and then holding them up for the camera to capture my shiny, glazed orbs is fun and when I give men hand relief, I usually encourage them to spunk over my cleavage, while topless relief is a popular request too.

Quite a few men have asked me to smother them with my jugs, shoving them in their face and stopping them breathing. Occasionally, I’ve had more unusual requests. One gent bet me quite a large sum that I wouldn’t play a game of tennis with him without a bra. I was very happy to accept (I love a bet) and I bounced around the court while he made weak jokes about hitting myself in the face. I could see he was hard when we finished our short game, so I suggested we shower together, and so with my boobs nicely soaped up they got a good hard humping in the club’s showers and I got my pearl necklace!

My blog followers will know that I have a sexual relationship with a younger black man – I refer to him as my boyfriend but it’s not a romantic thing, we just get together each week for some amazing sex sessions.

Sometimes we devise little scenarios and act them out and this one is something of a favourite for us both.

I’m a horny housewife – not much acting required for this part, as I really am a horny housewife – and planning to surprise my husband when he gets back from work, so I’m wearing an eight-strap black suspender belt and black seamed stockings, a quarter cup bra, a thong, high heels, and a sheer black gown and my make up is a bit too heavy to be decent, with scarlet red, glossed lips. I’m wet and ready for some fun.

The doorbell rings: silly fool, I think, he must have forgotten his key. But when I open the door, there’s a delivery man on the doorstep. He looks me up and down and smiles. I look him up and down – tall, athletic, black and he’s wearing tight leather trousers, a favourite of mine. I unconsciously lick my lips.

“Hello lady, I need you to sign for this” he says. “You’re looking lovely – expecting company?”

“Yes, I’m sorry I thought you were my husband. He’ll be home any minute now.”

“Very sexy. Love your stockings. Nice tits too. Maybe I could come in while you wait. Have a drink together”

“No, I don’t think so”, I say flustered, “my husband wouldn’t approve.  But if you give me your number, maybe we could have a drink later in the week.”

At that, he shoves his clipboard towards me, pushing me back into the hallway and before I can say anything, he has grabbed hold of my hair and pulled me down to my knees.

“Hey, what are you doing? Get off me!” I yell, as I try to escape his grasp.

With his free hand he unzips his trousers and pulls out the biggest, thickest cock I think I’ve ever seen.  And I’ve seen a lot of cocks! Ten and a half inches of thick, thick black cock, thicker than my wrist.

“Can your husband offer you this” he snarls and whacks me across the face with his erection, first one way and then the other. And it really hurts!

“Stop it you bastard!”

“Shut up and suck it, you dirty old whore.”

If he’d stop hitting me with his weapon, I would suck it but he seems to be enjoying slapping me over and over again with it. Eventually he thrusts it towards my mouth and I try to take him down to the hilt but I know it’s pointless and I gag and cough him back up immediately.

We alternate between me sliding my mouth up and down his shaft and him holding the back of my head and forcing it down my throat. When I begin to choke he laughs and says “That’s it, gag on it, bitch.”

After a minute or two he pulls his cock out of my mouth, holds it over my face and after a second or two’s delay a fountain of semen erupts over my lips, nose and chin and begins to run down my neck.

He chuckles. “You loved that, didn’t you? Tart.”

When the eruption subsides, my face is covered with his seed and fluid. “Get out of my house, you animal. My husband will be home any moment.”

“Then he can take a seat and enjoy the show,” he replies, “because I’ve not finished with you yet, not by a long way.” At which he pulls me up off my knees and drags me into the lounge, pushes me face down over the dining table, kicks my feet so my legs are forced wide apart and I’m thrust chest down onto the table. He pulls my thong to one side and – bang – his massive cock is thrust deep into me.

“Get off me you black bastard. You can’t do this to me, you animal.”

“You’re lovely and wet, aren’t you? You’re loving this, you dirty bitch.”

I can hardly deny what he says, as I have my first deep, deep orgasm, which makes the room spin for a few moments. I try to push him back a bit, to slow down, so I can enjoy the moment and even ask him to ease up a bit but he’s not interested.

He jack hammers into me and only a few minutes after glazing my face, he groans as he unloads for second time, this time deep inside me, after giving the neck of my womb a battering. There’s semen all over the table, where it’s run off my face.

I want to tell him how fantastic that felt but I try to stay ‘in role’. “Leave me alone. You can’t treat me like this, you beast, you brute. You’re like all the other black bastards – you’re no better than animals”

“Oh but I can treat you like this, you’re loving it aren’t you? You’re just a piece of white fuck meat and I’m going to fuck you again. Get on your hands and knees, bitch.”

“No. Stop. You’re raping me. I’ll go to the police, you pig.”

“The police?  What’s your complaint? That you’ve only had one orgasm? That your husband is a tiny dicked, flaccid cuckold who can’t satisfy his wife? Or that I didn’t bring my mates with me and let them take turns with you?” Getting his mates involved is something of a running theme with him and he has seriously proposed a gang bang evening where they’d all get a go with me.

He points to a spot in front of a long mirror. As I take up position on all fours facing towards the mirror I say, “Let’s get this over with and get out of my house before my husband gets here and calls the police.”

He quickly slides into me and begins to ride me, hands on my hips feeling my suspender belt, occasionally running a hand up the seam of my stocking and feeling the stocking top and the straps of my belt and reaching around to cup and squeeze my tits. Although I’m meant to be suffering an ‘ordeal’ I can’t suppress my moans of pleasure as he slams himself deep inside me and I can hear the slurping sound of my wetness combined with his earlier ejaculate, which is almost enough to tip me over the edge into my second orgasm.

“You’re loving this aren’t you, you dirty tart? Shall I come back, same time next week, right?”

“Oh God, yes” I pant.

“Shall I bring some of my mates? Would you like that? They’re all black you know.”

“Oh no, Jesus, yes, yes …”

“You want to be gang banged?”

“Yes, shit, yes, yes, use me, pimp me out …”

“I’ll pimp you, make a fortune, you dirty little slag …”

And at this point I’m off, into the wonderful world of my orgasm, where time stands still, nothing matters and it’s only as the crashing waves of climax begin to recede that I realise he is spasming inside me and pumping more sperm into my sopping wet pussy.

He carries on like this for another hour, managing to cum in me three more times, making me orgasm each time too. When he’s finished with me, I’m left lying on the lounge floor, exhausted, sweating, semen dribbling out of me.

“That parcel you came here to deliver – I can’t wait to see what’s in it.”

I’m often asked about what might be described as ‘the cuckold lifestyle’, how it works and how it began. For me, the start pre-dates my marriage. From about 13 years of age I had a very high sex drive (and still do) and had my first sexual experience – oral sex with a much older man – while still at school. So I suppose I always knew I’d be most unlikely to settle for almost a lifetime of sexual experiences with just one man.

What happened with my husband, John, is as follows. We’d been dating and enjoying a good sex life at weekends. He liked the fact I wore seamed and fishnet stockings and that I enjoyed showing myself off in pubs, wine bars, clubs, even out shopping and the like. One Saturday we were getting down to it in my flat – I was on all fours in a suspender belt, seams and heels and as he was about to go into me he spotted a big semen stain on my suspender belt. Questions were asked. I denied everything and said it was his but he remembered the last time I’d worn this particular belt and knew it wasn’t. I continued to deny everything, despite the fact that I knew it was a colleague’s spunk after he’d cum on me in a pub toilet the night before. But he knew I was lying and stormed off.

A couple of weeks later he rang and asked to meet and so we talked about it and I admitted having a ‘thing’ with Andy, a guy at work (I was actually playing with two guys at the time but I didn’t tell him this until later). He said he had thought about it and didn’t object to me having fun, as he knew how much I loved sex but he did object to not knowing and being lied to and made to feel a fool. He asked me to describe what had been going on with Andy and as I did so, he asked more and more detailed questions and admitted he was very aroused hearing about my slutty behaviour, sucking Andy’s cock and encouraging him to spunk all over my face, for example.  I told him I could never imagine only having one man and if he couldn’t accept that, he should find someone else.

He said he could accept this but only if he was involved. Involved how? Threesomes? He didn’t really know but as a minimum I must tell him everything. So the next Friday after an evening drinking with Andy and being a slut in the toilets, I went to John’s flat, he saw how I had dressed for my night out (seams, heels, mini skirt, black ¼ cup bra under a thin white blouse) and as he fucked me I told him what I’d been up to. Fair to say that was the best sex we’d ever had.

For a time this worked for us – I’d be a slut on a night out, I’d tell him everything, even taunting him about it and we’d have terrific sex. John always knew I have a big thing about black men and in time I told him about the second colleague, Greg, who was black and very, very big (and very kinky).  John wanted to watch me with Greg, so one evening while he hid himself in my bedroom wardrobe, I brought Greg back to my flat. I found that being watched was a massive turn on for me and I really put on a ‘show’ – every position, moaning loudly, shouting that I wanted to be gang banged by Greg’s mates, all sorts of really filthy stuff. After Greg left, John and I fucked until the middle of the morning.

Then we progressed to John watching openly, watching me with a variety of men. He even introduced me to some of them. I didn’t always have full sex – I was very keen on oral back then and John loves watching a man ejaculate in my mouth and I also greatly enjoyed having men ejaculate on my face.

When we married, I had assumed I would need to turn down the dial on my slutty behaviour but John said no, if anything, he wanted to step it up, arguing that this would help to keep our marriage and our sex lives fresh, so he suggested I continue to wear suspender belts, stockings and stiletto heels or patent high heel boots to work as often as possible, left my bra at home (or wear a ¼ cup) and continue to fellate and fuck as many as my colleagues and work contacts as I wished.

After we married and now living together, we played different ways, enjoying the variety. For example, one summer evening we arranged for me to have a sex session with a guy, pretending my husband was away, but he was actually outside and able to watch through the French windows. However, shortly after his ‘show’ got underway, I played a mean trick and closed the curtains. He could still hear us going at it with the windows open but was very frustrated that he couldn’t watch and I found his frustration was a thrill for me and something I wanted to do more.

I think this was when things began to change. I wasn’t enjoying him watching as much as I used to as the outfits, positions etc were to his liking, not mine and he was interfering too much, rather than just passively watching. I did a few meetings with guys where he would see me getting ready, putting on my stockings, doing my make-up, preparing myself for my date but he remained at home and we both found the power of his imagination of all the things I might be doing actually added to his pleasure. For example, I found a club in Wandsworth called ‘Black Lust’ which described itself as a club “for white women, wishing to meet black men” and I got him to drive me there and drop me off, watching me walk in dressed in my sexy best and huge heels but he had to go home and wait to find out later what I’d done in the club.

More recently I made a lifestyle choice and decided to find a regular sex partner – black, of course – and so now I don’t have full sex with any other men although I provide hand relief or occasional oral for others, like my boss. I don’t even have sex with my husband – he must be satisfied with regular hand relief and as he likes the idea of me being ‘on the game’ I charge him a fee even for that ‘service’. Of course, I taunt and humiliate him about the fact that he’ll never have sex with me again and I’ve recently stopped giving him oral as well but he enjoys his humiliating status. I’ve never let him watch me with my partner but I have occasionally phoned him and let him listen as I take a hard pounding from my lovely black beast of a man. He liked this so much he even bought me a Bluetooth headset, so he could hear it all in glorious detail.

Is this lifestyle for everyone? No, of course not. But it has worked for us and I know I am happier and feel so much younger than my age, thanks to the hundreds of men I have milked, sucked and fucked. Does this make me a wanton slut? Yes, and what’s wrong with that?

I could sense Paul was a little disappointed when he collected me and saw I was wearing a long black plastic raincoat, covering most of the outfit he had specifically requested that I wear: white body stocking, no bra, tight leather mini skirt, suspender belt and black fully fashioned stockings, 6-inch steel heels and a diamante ankle bracelet. I had also thickly applied scarlet lipstick, sealed with a clear lip gloss – blow job lips as my husband called them.

So, once we left the A3 and the busy suburban roads I asked him to pull over, removed my coat and put it in the boot. Now as we drove on into the countryside, his left hand felt my thighs, the welt of my stockings and the clasps of my 10-strap suspender belt. He also gave my boobs a few squeezes and pulled my nipples. That’s the benefit of an automatic car, I suppose.

We found an appropriately quiet spot and pulled off the road into a little lane with a gate across it. Not much chance of being disturbed here he said and I knew he was eager to get started.  He invited me to join him in the back of the car but when I climbed in and sat next to him, he said “No, not there, not on the seat”. He must have seen a puzzled look on my face, because he added “On your knees, bitch”, with a soft chuckle.

Of course, that was what I was here for: so, I got on my knees and began work. As I slurped up and down his shaft, he told me how fantastic my seamed stockings and huge heels looked and added that the ankle bracelet made me look like a hooker.

After a few minutes of deep throat stimulation, I could feel his body tensing and I knew he must be close to climax. I didn’t want this to happen too quickly, so I deliberately slowed right down, with long slow moves up and down the full length of his throbbing erection. But he wasn’t willing to have me control his pleasure like this. Instead, he grabbed hold of my ponytail and began forcing my head up and down, with increasing speed. I was no longer sucking him off – he was just using my mouth to bring himself off. It didn’t take long.

“I’m coming, I’m coming” he shouted and then there was a short pause before the first burst of semen hit the back of my throat and he gasped and with a loud groan said “You’re a dirty bitch” as he unloaded the rest of his sack into my mouth and down into my stomach.

I continued to work up and down his cock after swallowing all his semen, as I know how pleasurable this can be (so many women stop immediately after ejaculation, which is a schoolgirl error) and he grunted his appreciation. When he began to become flaccid I stopped and looked up at him. He laughed and said “You’ve got lipstick all over your face, you know.”  I wasn’t exactly surprised to hear this, so I whipped out my phone and took a selfie, which I then sent to my husband with a short message: “Guess what I’ve just been doing”. That was enough to guarantee he’d be waiting for me when Paul dropped me back home, waiting and hard.

As loyal readers of this blog will know (is there any other type?), I enjoy providing ‘hand relief’ and I don’t think anyone who has personally experienced my skills or even watched my videos would disagree with me when I say I’m also very good at it.

Wrapping my hands – usually in gloves – around a really hard cock and slowly, gradually bringing its owner towards the point of climax but delaying it, slowing down or even stopping altogether when needed, sometimes forcing the cock owner to beg for his release and then having them shoot their lovely, thick semen all over my cleavage is simply a great joy for me.

Now, I need to make one thing perfectly clear. I am not a sex worker or anything like that. I’m an ordinary, although busty, housewife who just continues to have a very high sex drive, a little like a 17-year-old boy might possess, even though I am in my late 50’s. I don’t do this for a living. I think of this as my hobby – something I love to do and which I’m very good at.

However, the analogy I sometimes use is that if my hobby was baking cakes, making hats or flower arranging, no one would expect me to give away cakes hats or flowers to anyone and everyone who asked for them and I don’t see why my hobby of milking hard cocks should be any different. So, while I mainly masturbate my husband, my boss at work and a few lovely friends I’ve gathered over the years, I also do it as part of what I call ‘cheeky barter’ as payment or part-payment for work done by a plumber, an electrician, a builder and a couple of handymen and sometimes I’ll agree to milk a gentleman who is willing to pay a reasonably hefty fee for the experience of a lifetime.

I say reasonably hefty as I have found this is the best way to reduce the hundreds, if not thousands of requests I receive from horny men wishing to be masturbated and to have the chance to ejaculate on me, down to a manageable number.

When the pandemic took hold much of this came to a halt, like so much else and more recently I’ve been trying to work through something of a back log of my more established and regular contacts, making sure they receive the relief they so desperately need.

However, recently I met a young man and it’s got my head in a spin. Let me explain: his cock is absolutely massive, probably the biggest, thickest, heaviest, hardest cock I’ve ever pulled from the trousers of a white man. I hadn’t expected this, as he’d not mentioned it before but it was an absolute monster.

I stuck to the task in hand, if you’ll excuse the pun, and gave him gloved hand relief. I’d like to say his ejaculation was also the biggest I’ve ever seen but while it wasn’t, it was nonetheless impressive.

That evening, as I masturbated my husband, I told him about this monster cock and its owner and explained how excited I was and how I’d been unable to think of anything else all day. He asked if I’d like to have him inside me and I said of course, I was wet just thinking about it as if my body was readying me to be penetrated there and then and I said I’d been thinking of almost nothing else but impaling myself on his rod. Of course, my husband, who loves to see me with other men, urged me to invite the lad over to our house and have him service me and pump me full of his sperm. Of course, he also asked if he could watch me being fucked hard.

But this is where things get difficult. You see I have a regular sex buddy, stud, boyfriend, whichever name you wish to use and we made a promise to one another that we will not have full sex with anyone else (not even my husband, in my case) to allow us to enjoy bareback sex when we get together without any health worries and I don’t want to break my promise.

Not unreasonably, my husband pointed out I’d also promised in front of over one hundred witnesses and a vicar that I’d be faithful to him for the rest of my life and then allowed him to watch while the best man fucked me on our wedding night. But somehow that’s different.

He also suggested that if this is a deal breaker, I could get the new stud to wear a condom but I’m not sure them make them that big and anyway, I’ve always hated condoms and much prefer to have my men ejaculate inside me.

So, I should just forget him but I can’t. All I can think of is his massive cock sliding into me, stretching me so wide it hurts, pushing himself deep inside me, forcing his way into the neck of my womb and flooding me with his sperm and ejaculate.  Dear readers, what should I do?

Please spare a thought for all those health workers who continue to look after people in need of treatment.

For example, I’ve just visited a young man who asked for a home visit and badly needed treatment. He was obviously tense and has had difficulty sleeping, his mind racing with uncontrollable thoughts. I quickly diagnosed that he had had an excessive build-up of sperm and seminal fluid, not helped by his habit of ‘edging’ five or six times a day while viewing videos of me, something he’d been doing for over a week.

The treatment required was obvious: release the sperm and fluid so he could relax and get some sleep, so I pulled on a pair of disposable latex gloves and got to work. I didn’t want to rush his treatment, as I’ve found a cautious, gradual approach works best so, after applying a generous amount of oil to his engorged and throbbing penis I slowly built him up towards the moment of release. I had to stop a couple of times, to make a phone call and to just walk around and look out of the window and each time I had to start the treatment again, slowly taking him nearer and nearer to his climax but postponing it for as long as possible to ensure as much fluid could be extracted as was possible. Finally, I told him that I wanted him to climax and ejaculate as much fluid as he possibly could onto my chest, that I wanted to get every drop out of him and leave his gland completely dry.

He was a good patient and quickly complied with my instructions and a very large plume of semen hit my neck and chin, followed by three more large spurts over my cleavage and neck. There was then a short pause, where nothing emerged and then he started to spasm again, releasing three or four more healthy jets of fluid. By now I was quite heavily splattered with his ejaculate but in my line of work I am used to finishing treatment with the patient’s fluid all over my uniform and body. It sometimes even gets in my hair!  You should see my dry-cleaning bills!

An easy mistake some therapists make is to stop stroking the patient once their fluid has been removed but I know from experience that for the health and happiness of the patient, it is important to continue to gently stroke their member until it become flaccid and only then should the hand be withdrawn and the gloves removed.

I left a very happy and grateful patient but as I pointed out to him as I left, he’ll almost certainly need further treatment sessions, so I expect to be seeing him again before long.