I thought I should give my lovely blog readers an update on a few things.

First, you may remember I ran a little fun competition to select one of my admirers at random who I would meet for a ‘hand relief’ session. We have now arranged this for 4^th October and he has promised to write about the experience afterwards and I’ll post his account here.  Unfortunately, due to some sensitivities – both his being married and the nature of his job – he has asked that any photos or videos remain private and I have to respect his wishes.

Second, I’ve decided that after that appointment I will no longer meet admirers for hand relief sessions (or for photos followed by relief).  I’ll continue servicing a small selection of existing friends and as part of any ‘cheeky barter’ arrangements I have (see earlier blogs if you don’t know what this refers to) and of course I’ll always be ready to milk my husband, provided he books an appointment with me and pays my fee as I like to treat him as if he is a punter but otherwise my days as a Masturbatrix are over. There’s no drama involved in this decision, I just wish to slow down a bit and not be flirting at the edge of being a sex worker, as this was always meant to be just a fun hobby for me.

Third, you might have noticed, I have made most of my photos on Flickr private and family access only and many which remain public are not of me. When the Pro account comes around for renewal, I may close it altogether. Again, this is just part of reducing my public profile and stepping back a bit, especially from the more explicit material.

However, this blog will continue and my videos – of which there are more than 100 – will remain available to view for all those to whom I have given access, as many have been very generous in keeping me in stockings and heels in return for access and I’d like that to continue. Let me know if you’d like to be added.

That’s all folks!

If you have read my previous blogs, you will know that my current employment arrangement is somewhat unusual. In short, I work part time for a local professional services firm whose only other employee is the owner, Chris. The agreement I have with him is that when I go to the office I must always wear fully fashioned stockings and high heels and either a ¼ cup bra or no bra, although I’ve expanded this to occasionally wearing a bullet bra instead, which he then sometimes asks me to take off. When there, I give him gloved hand relief and about six times a year (quarter end, Christmas and on his birthday) a full oral service, and yes, I swallow!

In return for this slightly unusual – and some might say sleazy – arrangement I receive a significant full time salary (despite only working about two days a week or less) and a quarterly share of the firm’s profits and I can do most of the work from home, provided I am prepared to pop into the office when called up by Chris to give him additional ‘relief’. He enjoys leaving me messages along the lines of “Something has come up in the office which I would like you to handle personally.” How we laugh at his subtle humour!

I have been doing this now for close on fifteen years and I think I have masturbated him about 1,500 times and sucked him off close to 100 times. And it’s been fun. He is quite a heavy cummer, sometimes very heavy at least for his age, so I have received dozens of pints of semen over this period and we occasionally spiced things up: for example, a few times he has rung my husband and chatted to him, while I was sucking him off. Both my husband and I found this extremely erotic and it always resulted in lots of additional fun back home.

However, all good things must come to an end and next week I will be leaving the firm. I won’t bore you with all of the ins and outs as to why, other than to say he is selling part of the firm (or bringing in another partner, which is the same thing). I don’t blame him, as he needs to look ahead and wants to monetise his success and gradually pass full ownership to this new partner but it means two things for me, basically and obviously we cannot carry on with me being there “fully tackled up” is suspender belt, stockings and heels and walking around braless and being both a genuine employee and a Masturbatrix and also he cannot justify our financial arrangement, especially as future payments for his share of the firm will be determined by the firm’s profits.

As you might expect, Chris has proposed alternative arrangements, whereby I would continue to see him and give him ‘relief’, for which he would pay me from his own pocket but I have decided against, because although our current agreement may sound sleazy it has been a proper job (I have substantially increased the firm’s profits by my own efforts) with a bit of sexy fun on the side, whereas meeting him and being handed cash to masturbate him would just make me a sex worker and I’m not going down that road with him. I may be a slut, but I am not a prostitute.

I’ve known this was his plan for a while but things have moved quickly over the last few days. Although we remain on good terms, I’ll admit things have become tense between us and I’ve stopped going into the office. He’ll have to find someone else to pump his cock or just do it himself!

I’ll miss it and I’ll certainly miss the money but it’s time to do fewer hand relief sessions anyway, as I have spent so much of my life on my knees in front of men being splattered with or swallowing spunk. Perhaps I’ll now have more time and more libido to share with my husband – daily relief, darling?

This morning, I opened the spreadsheet containing the names of all those who have shown tremendous support for me by keeping me in suspender belts, lovely seamed stockings and high heels over the last four years and this generated, at random, the name of the person selected to meet me and experience my skills as a Masturbatrix.

I have contacted the person selected and he has confirmed that he will take up this opportunity. He has asked me not to disclose any personal information about him at this point and he has not yet decided on my outfit, although it appears to be a choice between a naughty nurse or an even naughtier St Trinian’s style schoolgirl. However, he has confirmed he will write a blog post about his experience after the event.

We have yet to agree a date and as I have a holiday coming up this month, it may get pushed into early October. Once the date is agreed I will be asking him to abstain from ejaculating for at least one week, with daily edging, so as to build up a very healthy reservoir of seminal fluid. Keep an eye on my Flickr account for updates: https://www.flickr.com/people/ladyinseams/

May I say how delighted I have been by the enthusiastic response this novel prize draw has generated. Many have taken the time to contact me and say which outfit they would choose if selected and it’s been interesting and varied, with everything from full PVC, thigh boots and whips, to all leather, my ‘Miss Massage’ overall, nurse, filthy secretary, schoolgirl, French maid and many others. One admirer said he’d want me to wear nothing other that a black suspender belt, black seamed stockings, and very high heels. I pointed out I would wish to wear gloves and he went for opera length black satin, a nice combination.

I have also been touched by how many have asked whether it might still be possible to meet and obtain gloved ‘relief’ by paying a fee for such an encounter, if not selected. I’ve been tempted, as it would be so nice to meet a dozen or more of my most devoted fans and just masturbate each man, one after the other until I am completely covered in lots of lovely, thick semen and sperm, which I know would result in some fantastic photos.

However, after sober reflection, I have decided against, as it creates too many issues for me and this prize draw was intended to be something of a swan song for me, after which I may hang up my suspender belt and no longer service men by hand, other than my pathetic husband, of course – I must keep him in order!

Thank you all again for your fantastic support. I hope all of you have access to my videos will continue to enjoy them and cum when watching your favourites (do let me know!) and of course everyone has access to my photos on Flickr.

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.

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.

I recognise that the number of people visiting and reading my blog is a matter of importance to me and probably of little or no interest to anyone else.

Nevertheless, I’m going to share my own excitement because I was pretty exited last year to find that this blog had attracted almost 63,000 visit. So you can imagine how thrilled I am to see that we have already comfortably exceeded that total with 74,000 visits and April isn’t even over yet.

Put another way, the average monthly total last year was 5,236, while this year it is 18,485, three-and-a-half times as many!

Added to which my photos on Flickr (https://www.flickr.com/people/ladyinseams/) have been viewed over twelve and half million times, a staggering figure. It would see you all love a slut, especially one wearing a suspender belt and in beautiful seamed stockings and towering high heels. Big tits help too!!

You can email me and let me know what you think of my blog and my photos or just to tell me what you’d like to do with me – the filthier the better! My email is ladyinseams@gmx.com

And don’t forget my videos. There are over 100 to view, with many hours of very sexy content. I do expect a pair of stockings in exchange for access – you know, a bit of ‘give’ along with the ‘take’ – but anyone who has gained access can confirm, it’s well worth it!!!

And I have provided over 300 hand relief sessions.

What a wonderful treat for an older but very horny and busty housewife to be taken to a hotel by two young studs and given a good seeing to.

Of course, a suspender belt, black seamed stockings, lovely high heels and a quarter cup bra were all demanded and worn. And an ankle bracelet was an added bonus.

After a few glasses of Champagne to relax everyone, it’s time for action.

Hubby is left sitting in the hotel bar and waits for them to finish with her. But as they take turns, and they’re young and virile, he has a long wait.

Condoms? No, we won’t be needing those. You’re with a bareback only lady who wants to be pumped full of spunk.

Getting their slut for the day on all fours, they each take a turn riding her, and riding her hard, while the other watches, and takes photos. Hearing her moaning with pleasure and urging them to spunk inside her, as they thrust deep into her and seeing her reach one orgasm after another as her tits swing back and forth just heightens their excitement and desire.

Each has five turns inside her and she happily uses her mouth to get them hard again in between, so that they can take another. When the tenth is complete, she is a sticky mess with thick, gummy semen dribbling out of her well used pussy and exhausted after having so many back-to-back orgasms that she has lost count of her own total.

Eventually, she is returned to her husband: one well used, well worn housewife. He’s delighted to hear that she is flooded with sperm and seminal fluid from the two studs. Did she enjoy that, he asks. Are you fucking joking? When she thought one might be flagging, she suggested going back down to the hotel bar, dressed in her tarty outfit and seeing if she could pick up a stranger to join them in the hotel room, as more cock might be required.

We need to get you on the game he concludes, not for the first time, but right now, relief is urgently required. He’s already staked out the disabled toilet near the hotel bar. It’s time for the Masturbatrix to do her thing.

I guess every workplace develops its own Christmas traditions. After graduating, I worked at a firm where a tradition had been established even before I joined that at the staff Christmas party all the women wore stockings – I had no complaints as I was wearing stockings to work almost every day anyway!

Now I work part time for one individual and as you probably already know we have an unusual arrangement whereby I must always wear seams and heels when I’m in the office – about twice a week, usually – and boring bras are banned, so it’s either a quarter cup, occasionally a bullet bra or none at all. And sometimes when I wear a bullet bra I’m told to remove it and hang it on the back of my chair! Each time when I do go to the office I give my boss, Chris, hand relief and sometimes he asks me to come in for this sole purpose – he still thinks it is funny to leave me a voicemail saying that something has come up at work which he needs me to handle personally!

So regular hand relief is our norm but the ‘tradition’ we have developed, if that’s quite the right word, is that in the run up to Christmas, I give him oral. In the past I’d just choose a day close to Christmas and surprise him by taking him in my mouth but now we plan ahead, so much so that I’ve even put it in his diary this year – Friday, 15^th December and a picture of some big red lips.

One of the reasons we arrange this in advance is that he likes to abstain for a week or more before so as to build up a really full load, which he knows I really like. Chris is one of those men who always produces a large volume of semen and who ejaculates with considerable power but I think he sees his oral treat as a performance, so likes to impress with an especially full load of thick, sticky spunk.

And it’s something of a special performance for me too. I always put on lots of thick bright red lipstick and then I gloss them so they’re shining like stars in the sky. I also put my hair in a ponytail, so it’s out of the way and also so he can grab it, for reasons I’m about to come onto.

When I’m giving him oral relief, Chris likes to do three things, if he can. The first is easy – he likes to hear me gagging on his cock. So I allow him to ‘force’ my head down, so I begin to choke as his cock hits the back of my throat and he pushes it down my windpipe. I don’t let this go too far as I don’t want to be bringing up my mince pie and Champagne but I make plenty of gagging noise.

Last year I managed to record some of this ‘performance’ and you can hear it yourself by following this link (as I don’t think I can add an audio file here).

https://www.flickr.com/photos/ladyinseams/53373694847/in/dateposted/

The second thing he likes to do is give a lot of verbal abuse. Normally, when I am giving him hand relief, he starts these comments as he is approaching climax and says it’s because he begins to lose control, as his sap rises and he’s just about to spurt all over my chest. But with oral, it starts from the outset. Now I know a lot of women, most perhaps, would be insulted by such talk and wouldn’t tolerate it but I’ve never felt that way. In fact, when I’m giving any man oral I think being called twenty different versions of ‘whore’ is very erotic and it gets me wet and ready for my own orgasm.

And the third thing Chris likes to do is phone my husband, who can then listen as I’m sucking Chris off. Chris also taunts him and as he approaches his climax, he either informs my husband that he is about to ejaculate in my mouth or he has, on occasions, pretended to ask his permission: ‘I need to cum now. Would you mind if I cum in your wife’s mouth?’

My husband absolutely adores this and says it is probably his favourite thing in the world, especially as he then hears Chris groaning with pleasure, swearing sometimes and he knows at that precise moment I am busy gulping down lots and lots of thick creamy semen and sperm. There is so much and his ejaculation is so powerful that I have to really concentrate to gulp it down rapidly, otherwise there is a risk of my mouth being flooded and I could end up coughing spunk all over the office!

Of course, I continue to fellate post climax as I know this really adds to the whole experience for him and when I’m finished and I disengage there is aways lots of thick bright read lipstick smeared over his shaft and all over my face. A quick selfie which I send to my husband and my work for the day is complete.

Well, almost – when I get home I know there will be another erection waiting to be milked but after my earlier performance, I know it won’t take long.

Saturday 16th December

Yesterday was the day and as I have had a lot of enquiries I thought I’d add a postscript. Everything went as planned, I was dressed like a tart in a leather miniskirt, 10 strap suspender belt, new seamed black stockings (BTW – thanks to all who have gifted me stockings during 2023!), five inch heels and an ankle bracelet. I also had way, way too much makeup on, so looked like a 1970’s porn star.

Today I have a sore throat and sniffles, so perhaps I’m getting a cold but having a rock hard penis rammed down my throat yesterday may have something to do with it. Chris managed to keep the action going for quite some time, by allowing me up from time to time, demonstrating outstanding self control. He delivered a very healthy load, although I’d say thicker and creamier than usual rather than it being a particularly larger than average volume. I did manage to swallow all he had to offer and he was impressed, once more, with my technique and willingness to accept the way in which he held my head and rather forcefully drove it up and down his shaft.

So another year goes by and this girl has earned her wages and her bonus and received another five star performance review.

Over the years I have built up an incredibly valuable roster of tradesmen and professionals who are willing to do work for me, without charge, in return for sexual favours.  This began well over 30 years ago – I needed something done, money was tight, I knew he liked me, loved my outfit, couldn’t keep his eyes off my bust, so I asked if we could come to an arrangement which wouldn’t involve cash and … well, one thing led to another, as they say and I still see him to this day.

I really enjoyed that first bargain: it saved me money, of course, but it was very flattering too and I was excited by the slightly sleazy nature of the deal. Was I using my body to get what I wanted or was I selling myself like a cheap whore? I told my husband what I had done and he was very supportive and said I should think about doing this more often. And so it began.

I’ve sourced these plumbers, electricians, gardeners, builders, engineers, car mechanics and even some what might be called ‘professionals’ (accountant, architect etc) in a variety of ways.  Originally, I’d get a young tradesman round, I’d be in something sexy and sky-high heels and I’d hint at the proposed deal and see where it went. This was successful in some cases but proved a bit hit and miss, so I largely stopped using this approach. Some were introduced to me by others from my roster, people they knew and could vouch for and who had already agreed they’d be interested in a mutually beneficial arrangement. I even had one cheeky chap who had heard about my hand relief skills and simply came to my door and pitched his services for mine. I thought that was too forward and I turned him away.

One or two are men I’ve got to know through other means who have then turned out to be very skilled in a trade. And then there is the Internet, of course! For a time there was a website called “Cheeky Barter” (see photo below) and I looked though those offering services there and also placed my own advertisement. This got a good response, the only issue being that I like to have men who are reasonably local (not too local!!) so that if I have an urgent need – the lights go out, the oven stops working – I can get them over to my place within the day and some of those who responded enthusiastically lived quite long distances away.

I should say that some have come (no pun intended) and gone for various reasons. Some just did not work out, others proved a bit too demanding, some moved, one dropped his trade and became a policeman. But other than a chauffeur I have a pretty complete list and I love all of them.

There has always been an element of ‘rough justice’ in this set-up. For example, recently my electricity tripped out and each time I reset it, it tripped off again. It took my electrician about five minutes to identify the appliance responsible (a soup maker), but it took me longer to get into the nurses uniform and stockings he requested and I then spent half an hour or more giving him nice, unhurried relief, with plenty of post climax stroking. Yet if the job had taken half a day his “payment” would have been the same, which can seem unfair.

I’ve always said they must accept a bit of rough with the smooth but on occasions when it’s been a big job, I’ve invited them back for further servicing or given them some cash too, although handing cash to a man who I have just masturbated always feels the wrong way round to me.

But the other somewhat unfair element of all this is that some get to see me regularly or at least a few times each year while others – on standby, ready to help if asked – aren’t needed very often. So to take an obvious example, Ben who has been doing my garden for longer than I can remember has been here at least once a month this year. In fact, we’ve had so much done this year, getting trees planted and the lawn completely dug up and reseeded from scratch, that he’s had to bring a colleague each time, so I end up masturbating them both and getting a double dose of spunk. They like to joke that after spreading seed on my lawn they then get to spread their seed all over me! And my electrician and my plumber both know they’ll be needed at least a handful of times each year. However, there are those who may not be needed or only very rarely.

This bothered me so last year I tried an experiment which I intend to repeat this year. I looked at my list and identified those who had not needed to visit me to that point during 2022 and in the run up to Christmas I invited them to come over for a little Christmas thank you gift. I’m not sure if they were expecting a bottle of whisky or some chocolates but what they got was me in one of my outfits (naughty nurse is always a winner, as is a lot of leather) and then it was, sit back, gloves on and balls totally drained.

This was great fun and I think really generates a lot of loyalty. And as one of them brought me six bottles of my favourite Champagne, everyone was a winner! So this year, in the week or so before Christmas I know I’m going to be pumping quite a few cocks, as there are these lads and then there’s my boss of course and my husband always needs regular servicing, so whether it snows or not, it will be another white Christmas for me.

And I love it!!!!!

Well, the ceiling …

One question I am asked quite often is what is the youngest man I have played with. If I ignore some of the fumbling and sucking that went on in my early teens, the honest answer is seventeen, a seventeen-year-old schoolboy. I’ll explain.

I was at a local charity event with my husband. I wasn’t dressed sexily, although as you can see from this photo taken that evening, I was wearing patent boots. To be honest, it was rather a boring event and perhaps that’s why I’d had rather a lot to drink.

A fresh-faced lad came over and introduced himself as Robbie. He’d also had a lot to drink, too much in fact. He said he’d seen me around the area a few times and wanted me to know that he considered me to be the most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen. He described seeing me some time before in a particular supermarket in a leather skirt and high heels boots and said from that moment on he’d be completely obsessed and thought about me every day.

All I could do was laugh and say it was very flattering to hear this. It was fun flirting with a lad still in the lower sixth form of a local school and as the conversation went on, he used words from which I deduced he was very interested in mature, dominant women. I don’t remember exactly what he said that evening – as I’ve said, I was pretty drunk – but it was about my being stern and my husband knowing his place and he thought I was clearly commanding and someone who demanded obedience.

I probably shouldn’t have but I acknowledged that I am rather dominant and like men who do as they’re told. He asked if I ever dressed in a style to assert my dominance and I admitted that I sometimes wear thigh length boots and love them and that I have quite a collection of PVC, leather, uniforms and the like. At this point he looked like a puppy with his tongue hanging out. Then I mentioned the magic word “whip” and he was almost bouncing up and down in his chair with excitement. “You have a whip?”

“Several”, I confirmed. “Two riding crops, two bullwhips, one long dressage whip and a cane and, of course, handcuffs, a gag and a leather dog collar and chain leash.”

We had even more drinks, and the conversation turned kinkier. He asked if I ever use my whips or handcuffs with my husband and I explained that he’s not really into the pain thing but that I do occasionally do such sessions with other men. He was beside himself with excitement by now. “Doesn’t your husband mind?”, he asked. “No, not at all. He knows I enjoy it. And, anyway, he does what he is told.”

Now he made his move: would I do a discipline session with him? He was willing to pay whatever I demanded; it would be an honour. He wished to serve me, do work for me, clean my house and so on and on.

Now at this point a light came on in my head and I sobered up a little, as it suddenly struck me that this lad lived locally, went to a nearby school and while I didn’t know his parents personally, I knew who they were and chances were they knew friends or neighbours of mine. So I tried to ‘back off’ and said it had been fun chatting to him but it was all a bit of harmless fun and I had no intention of doing a Miss Whiplash session with a boy. “Why not?” he pleaded. “You’re too young, and you’re too local” I told him “And I don’t want people I know gossiping about me.” He begged, he pleased, he offered me his savings but the only concession I made was to take his email address and promise to send him some photos of me in some domina outfits for him to “enjoy”, on the promise he would keep them strictly private. The next day I sent him some – I can’t remember exactly which ones but along these lines.

I received a series of emails from him begging me to reconsider and to give him the greatest thrill of his life by agreeing to a domination session. Of course, I politely told hm it was simply out of the question and I shouldn’t have told him the things I did, blaming too much wine.

But all the time, the idea kept going around in my head and I couldn’t shake off the idea of having a young lad, horny and full of virile spunk, lying at my feet. As is usual, I told my husband of my dilemma: lots of reasons not to do this – too close to home, being the major one – but admitting that the idea was giving me a thrill. He was very clear: he thought I should do it as a one-off and only with a very firm agreement that it must remain our secret.

For weeks and weeks, I thought about it and I continued to receive his emails pleading with me for just one hour with me. I kept saying no but I couldn’t get the idea out of my head and I came to realise that if I didn’t do it, I would never be able to stop thinking that maybe I should. So, eventually, hesitantly I said I would, provided he agreed it was a one off, that he’d never request another meeting and we’d probably never meet again and that he would not breath a word of this to anyone. No bragging about this at school on Monday! He readily agreed.

And so I did it. We waited to a weekend when his parents had gone away to Paris, so there was no chance of being disturbed and I went to his house in ‘plain clothes’ and a long overcoat which concealed my outfit, just in case any of his neighbours spotted me. When I took off my coat and he saw what I was wearing, I thought for a moment he might faint, as his face went white and his mouth just opened and closed but no words cam out until, finally, he said “awesome!”

I wore a PVC suspender belt and PVC quarter cup bra, fully fashioned stockings (naturally!) and thigh length, high heel boots, long PVC gloves and a PVC mini skirt and PVC jacket, each item in black. I brought with me my long dressage whip and a riding crop, smuggled in under my long overcoat, and a pair of handcuffs in my pocket, should I need to restrain him.

I won’t go into all the ins and outs of what we did but he had told me he wasn’t looking for a heavy punishment session, or severe whipping, more one of domination and control, so I quickly had him on the floor kissing and licking my boots. After a while, and as I became more and more aroused, I opened my jacket and ordered him to suckle on my breasts. He took a few mild strokes from both whip and crop too and one or two slaps across the face. For the finale, I told him that I intended to masturbate him and drain all of his young, healthy sperm from him. By this point we were in his bedroom and I handcuffed him to his bed and got to work. I worked him up and down towards his climax but I wanted him to suffer through delay and denial and he began to plead with me to finish him off. He was made to beg while I edged him, before I was willing to grant his wish.

When I did, an extraordinary thing happened, as his first spurt was so strong, so powerful, it actually hit his bedroom ceiling. Now, I should add here that his room was quite small and the ceiling not particularly high but bloody hell, I had never seen a cum shot as powerful as that, as it flew past my face (just) and literally hit the ceiling. He had four more very large spurts, all of which hit me and then there was a pause and I thought he was fully drained but after a pause, he began spurting spunk again, albeit with decreasing power until his fluid just poured and then dribbled out over my PVC gloved hand.

It was a wonderful experience and he was so thrilled he could barely speak. He stuck to our agreement and never emailed me again asking for a repeat session. However, each year to this day I receive a Christmas card from him with a short note and he is doing well. I wonder if he has a domina in his life.

If I am being completely honest, I felt two slightly contradictory emotions for some time after the session at his house. While it had gone perfectly, I did feel a degree of guilt about dominating and masturbating a schoolboy, especially one living so close to my own home. But on the other hand, I kept thinking about his ejaculation and I talked about this with my husband. At first, I was tempted to contact him again and suggest a hand relief session or maybe oral, as having a cock explode like that in my mouth and having to gulp down so much semen was an idea that excited me and still does. My husband asked if I might not prefer to invite him to our house and get him to ride me one afternoon, and pump me full of seed, the idea of a very young spunk filled stud inseminating a housewife much older than his mother was something which we both found very erotic.

But caution ruled the day and I parked the idea and gradually the temptation to revisit faded. Sometimes it is better to leave things as they are with wonderful memories after a perfect encounter. But I will never forget seeing his spunk fly past me and later dripping down from his bedroom ceiling.

I’ve previously explained the slight problem I have had with a young man who loves me to role play being his “mum”, insofar as we had begun out of fresh ideas for scenarios which result in his “mum” giving him hand relief and had sometimes repeated previous scenarios. I’m fairly relaxed about repeating things (I do the same scenarios with my boyfriend many times if we have both enjoyed them) but my “son” is rather more creative and likes to always be trying new things.

He suggested one new scene which we’ve just tried and it worked reasonably well, I think. The idea was that I was giving my husband – his “dad” – hand relief, but I was hoping for a good volume of semen across my breasts, so as to get a few naughty, spunky photos to post on my Flickr photo stream (https://www.flickr.com/people/ladyinseams/), as I know how much my followers like such images.

However, as is fairly typical my pathetic husband could only manage a disappointing volume of fluid.

So, as I was leaving the lounge to clean what little there was I told him what a pathetic dribble it was, how useless he is and asked if it is any wonder I have to see other men. But my “son” overheard this and came downstairs and said, “What’s up, mum?” so I explained that I had been hoping to get some interesting photos for Flickr but that his father had, once again, failed to come up with the goods.

“I can help with that, mum. You know I can, all you have to do is ask.”

“I know love but somehow it doesn’t feel right to be sharing photos of my tits covered with my son’s sperm, does it?”

“But no one will know, mum, all they’ll see is your beautiful breasts splattered with lots of fluid. It doesn’t matter who the donor is, does it?”

And with that impeccable logic I returned to the lounge put my gloves back on and stroked off my “son” onto my tits and then proudly held them up for the camera, glistening, shining like great white orbs of flesh glazed with lovely, fresh, virile sperm.

Thanks son!

I’m a devoted suspender belt and stockings girl and have been for over four and a half decades but I acknowledge there are other sexy outfits and different people like different things. I knew the first day I met Dave that I looked good in a tight white top, with a black quarter cup bra beneath it and in tight faux leather trousers, combined with a pair of five-inch spike heels. What I hadn’t anticipated is the extent to which this outfit would blow a fuse in his brain!

Since that day, I’ve done some work for Dave, helping him with his business of buying and selling high end used cars. I won’t repeat the whole story, as you can read about it in some of my earlier blogs but what Dave likes me to do – in addition to some genuine work, I should quickly add – is to go to his office in those tight faux leather trousers or wet look leggings or shiny vinyl trousers and ‘assume the position’, which is bent over his desk, ready to be spunked on. He also likes me to wear tops or blouses which show off my tits and when it comes to shoes his view is simple: the higher the heel the better.

Initially, he would stand behind me, masturbating, until he was ready to cum and then he’d step forward and unload over my backside while muttering a few expletives. In time he slightly adjusted his technique, so now he tends to rub himself up and down my backside and slap his erection against me until he is ready to ejaculate. This seems to get him to climax more slowly but delivers ones with greater intensity. In the meantime, with his free hand (or sometimes hands) he gives my tits a welcome level of attention, squeezing and pulling them until I sometimes reach climax before he does. When this happens, I can slightly lose control and find myself more or less shouting “Cum on me, spunk on me, I want you to spunk all over me!” and such like. It’s not very dignified urging a man to use me as their cum dump but lordy I enjoy it!

Of course, there’s quite a clean up operation required afterwards, as I’m not going to ruin my car by getting in and driving home with his thick, sticky semen all over my backside! But a trip to the drycleaners is often required to get the stains out. I visit one where the owner knows I often have garments with spunk stains – he was rather shocked when I first told him why a skirt I had brought in had so many whitish stains on it but now he seems to find it amusing.

I had been doing these little fun sessions with Dave for a while when he said he had something to ask me: how would I feel if he was to ask a friend of his to join us for one of them. ‘To watch or to join in?’ I asked. It was most certainly to join in he told me. OK, I thought, why not, provided my role is properly recognised and appreciated, the more the merrier.

So, one afternoon we met in Dave’s office. There was a bit of dithering about whether it was both at the same time, one on each cheek, or in sequence but in the end it was decided his friend would go first, watched by Dave, who would then add a second load. I was excited!

Some men go very quiet when they’re doing something like this and some men like to talk. This one liked to talk! As I leant over the desk I hear him unzip. ‘You’re a very naughty girl, aren’t you?’

‘Very’, I replied.

‘Yes, very naughty indeed. Filthy even. Do you like men spunking on you?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Have a lot of men spunked on you?’

‘Oh yes, hundreds over the years.’

‘Where do you like it?’

‘Everywhere. My tits, my high heels, boots, suspender belt, stocking tops, backside – obviously – face …’

‘Oh, you take it on your face, do you? You really are a dirty, dirty lady. Mmmm. I’m going to spunk on you in a minute. You ready? You want it?’

‘Yes, spunk on my arse.’

‘Oh, I will, don’t worry. I’ve not cum for ages, so you’re going to get a lot.’

Then he was panting and saying disjointed words and phrases like ‘Dirty girl. Heels. Naughty, filthy, leather arse, big tits …’ and then with a grunt and a ‘Fucking hell’ I felt his fluid splattering down on my backside. I allowed a minute for him to squeeze out the last drops of jizz on me and rub his cock through the mess before I reached back and felt the puddles of sperm and semen on my backside. He had been right, there was a lot.

As he stepped back Dave was immediately in position and wanking away. His friend was still vocalising on his theme ‘What a dirty bitch she is. Look at her. Filthy. So naughty. She loves being spunked on Dave, give her what she wants, she’s a cum slut, she wants loads of spunk, doesn’t she, what a dirty, naughty …’ and with a groan and a thrust of his cock up my backside Dave almost doubled the size of the spermy lake, all over my bum.

When the panting had died down and trousers adjusted it was suggested I do a quick walk around the office so they could inspect the gorgeous mess they had created and their semen dribbled down the back of my legs and some dripped onto the floor. It took quite a while and a lot of wet wipes and kitchen towel to get me cleaned up sufficiently that I could contemplate going home and telling my husband all about my wonderful, sticky afternoon’s work.

You know by now that I have been seeing a wonderful, kind gentleman who has a fixation with my big bust. In my last blog I told you about how he had me marching down streets and jogging up and down stairs in London, wearing a satin blouse and no bra.

More recently he proposed a tight white top with my black PVC quarter cup bra, or perhaps I suggested this as it is one of my favourite combinations and really shows off my chest to good effect. I suggested two possible tops – one is this fine lambswool sweater from Benetton…

And the other was this tight t-shirt …

He found it difficult to decide but eventually plumped for the latter but on condition that we’d meet gain soon with me wearing the sweater.

Before setting off to meet him I put my nipple pumps on for around 15 or 20 minutes, as these make my nipples rock hard and very prominent, like bullets and they stay like this for quite a while once pumped up. I combined the top with my tight faux leather trousers. As he’d asked me to wear these spike steel heels and acknowledging that they’re not easy to walk any distance in them, he kindly arranged a car to whisk me into central London.

I say “whisk” – have you seen the traffic in London recently? Normally he likes to parade me around in public but on this occasion, I was driven straight to his club where, as usual, he had booked a private room.

Once in there and with my coat off he was straight on task. He admired the swell of my breasts tumbling over the top of my quarter cup bra which is only just strong enough to hold my tits up and horizontal, with my nipples pointing straight at him. Then he stood behind me and began to cup them and squeeze them and pull my nipples. I could feel him grinding his erection against my backside, as he squeezed and shook my breasts. I suggested he get his cock out and that he rub himself against my backside properly. He didn’t need a second invitation and as he pushed his hard cock up and down my arse he began to groan with pleasure, so I asked if he’d like to spunk on me like this (so many men do!). He admitted he was sorely tempted but he wanted to tit fuck me even more.

At one point he squeezed my tits so hard I couldn’t help letting out a yelp of pain and I asked him to take it a little easier on me but he was in full throttle and he continued to cup and squeeze them very hard.

I was well on the way to my own orgasm and once he pinched both nipples between his fingers and thumbs and shook my tits up and down very vigorously and feeling his hard cock really grinding against my leather clad backside, I was over the edge, the fireworks in my head were lit and my legs went weak as a powerful orgasm ripped through my entire body.

He allowed me a few seconds of ecstasy before ordering me to take off my top and bra and lie on the floor. My head was still spinning as he put lube on his cock and as I squeezed my breasts into a deep valley for him, he began to hump my tits, I think harder than he has ever done before. He didn’t last long. He called me a few rude names  – I always enjoy being called a ‘busty slut’ and the like – and then he managed to point his cock slightly upwards and began spurting all over my mouth and my chin.

You know by now that I have been seeing a wonderful, kind gentleman who has a fixation with my big bust. In my last blog I told you about how he had me marching down street and jogging up and down stairs in London, wearing a satin blouse and no bra.

More recently he proposed a tight white top with my black PVC quarter cup bra, or perhaps I suggested this as it is one of my favourite combinations and really shows off my chest to good effect.

I suggested two possible tops – one is this fine lambswool sweater …

And the other was this tight t-shirt. He found it difficult to decide but eventually plumped for the latter but on condition that we’d meet with me wearing the sweater at a later date.

Before setting off to meet him I put my nipple pumps on for around 15 or 20 minutes, as these make my nipples rock hard and very prominent, like bullets and they stay like this for quite a while once pumped up. I combined the top with my tight faux leather trousers. As he’d asked me to wear these spike steel heels and acknowledging that they’re not easy to walk any distance in them, he kindly arranged a car to whisk me into central London. I say “whisk” – have you seen the traffic in London recently? Normally he likes to parade me around in public but on this occasion, I was driven straight to his club where, as usual, he had booked a private room.

Once in there and with my coat off he was straight on task. He admired the swell of my breasts tumbling over the top of my quarter cup bra which is only just strong enough to hold my tits up and horizontal, with my nipples pointing straight at him. Then he stood behind me and began to cup them and squeeze them and pull my nipples. I could feel him grinding his erection against my backside, as he squeezed and shook my breasts. I suggested he get it out and that he rub himself against my backside properly. He didn’t need a second invitation and as he pushed his hard cock up and down my arse he began to groan so I asked if he’d like to spunk on me like this (so many men do!). He admitted he was sorely tempted but he wanted to tit fuck me even more.

At one point he squeezed my tits so hard I couldn’t help letting out a yelp of pain and I asked him to take it a little easier on me but he was in full throttle and he continued to cup and squeeze them very hard.

I was well on the way to my own orgasm and once he pinched both nipples between his fingers and thumbs and shook my tits up and down very vigorously and feeling his hard cock really grinding against my leather clad backside, I was over the edge, the fireworks in my head were lit and my legs went weak as a powerful orgasm ripped through my entire body.

He allowed me a few seconds of ecstasy before ordering me to take off my top and bra and lie on the floor. My head was still spinning as he put lube on his cock and as I squeezed my breasts into a deep valley for him, he began to hump my tits, I think harder than he has ever done before. He didn’t last long. He called me a few rude names  – I always enjoy being called a ‘busty slut’ and the like – and then he managed to point his cock slightly upwards and began spurting all over my mouth and my chin.

I felt so good lying there, my tits a little sore and swollen from his rough handling, my nipples as stiff as pegs, his sperm dribbling down over my lips, allowing me to lick up a good amount while the rest tricked down my chin and dripped onto my neck and chest.

I can’t wait for ‘sweater day’ and nor can he!

If you have read all my previous blogs – and if you haven’t go back to the beginning and do so, you naughty boy! – you already know I see a lovely gentleman who has a complete fixation with my big bust and believes there is no finer pleasure on earth than tit fucking me or having me tit wank him.

However, as a prelude to such ecstasy, he likes me to show myself off in public places or should I say, perhaps, that he enjoys parading my bust around. For example, last year he took me to the Summer Exhibition at the Royal Academy, an event more associated with blue rinses and retired accountants than with sexy fun, but to which I wore a ridiculously low-cut top with a quarter cup bra, displaying more cleavage than even I thought possible, which caused quite a stir among the art lovers! One gentleman told me that of all the beautiful objects on display at the exhibition, I was the most attractive of them all!

More recently he has proposed a few things which even for a daring exhibitionist like me are simply too much. For example, he asked that I go to a pub with him wearing this sheer white body suit under a little jacket, similar to what you see in this photo and that after one or three drinks – as many as you need for Dutch courage, he said – I remove the jacket and allow everyone to admire my big, heavy breasts. I would love to have done so for a dare but it just felt too much, so I had to decline.

Having thrown a few more such ideas around, he came up with one I was happy to go along with, as he asked me to wear a satin blouse without a bra. Personally, I think this looks sexier with a quarter cup bra but he had a very clear idea of what he wished to see and that was me, striding down a busy street in very high heels, so that my boobs would bounce and sway very noticeably.

We discussed if this should be with leather skirt and seamed stockings but he felt this would distract too much from my boob display and so we settled on my tight leather-look trousers instead. Sexy but more understated than seams and a tight leather mini.

He stood at one end of the street in London and asked me to walk quite quickly towards him from the other end, as he wished to see what reaction I received.  I didn’t like to say that walking swiftly in five-inch heels is no easy matter but off I set. I hadn’t got halfway down the street when a man walking in the opposite direction stopped me, said hello and said how much he liked my satin blouse. We chatted for a moment and I could tell he was more interested in my chest than the blouse but he was avoiding saying anything to which I might object, so I made it easy for him by explaining that I was going to meet a friend who likes to see me without a bar. He admitted he had noticed and thought it quite daring, given my … and here he hesitated so I said, “Big tits?” and he laughed and said yes, but he didn’t mean to cause offence. I assured him no offence taken, and that I’m proud to be so busty and enjoy showing off. We talked bra sizes and then he asked if he might take my number, buy me a drink sometime, chat more. I politely declined but took his email address and later that day sent him some ‘busty’ photos which I know he has ‘enjoyed’ a great deal.

When I reached the end of that street my companion was thrilled and wanted to hear all about my new admirer and what we had discussed.  We repeated this little exercise on two more streets but although people looked and, in some cases, stopped and stared as I bounced past them, no one else stopped me. We then went to a big set of stairs and he had me sort of skip up them and then back down again a couple of times. This had my tits bouncing so much I was in danger of slapping myself in the face!

By now he was massively aroused and we went straight onto his club where he had again booked the private room for our little session – blouse off, a little lubricating jelly between my breasts and I clasped my breasts around his erection and began to stroke him off. Sometimes when I’m doing this, he likes to say things to me, call me names but today he wanted me to talk and he gave me a few pointers as to what he wanted to hear. This is what I said, or approximately so as obviously I’m doing this from memory:

I know I have lovely big tits. I’m really proud of my big tits and I enjoy showing them off. Everywhere I go men notice my big boobs and often they stare at them. I know a lot of them want to tit fuck me or suck them or squeeze them and pull my nipples. I like being braless but I also like to wear a bullet bra which makes my tots look enormous or a quarter cup so my nipples really show. And when I show off my cleavage …

At this point he began to gasp and said something about me being a cock tease with big tits and spurted up and over my breasts.

Often when doing this I can reach orgasm before him, because my breasts are so sensitive and when I’m aroused – which I more certainly was by this point – my nipples are like bullets. The fact that I climax while tit wanking him or being tit fucked is probably the thing that thrills him more than anything – he simply adores my very horny nature and the fact I can climax with only my breasts being stimulated. But on this occasion, I didn’t quite get there before him which, while a disappointment for us both, was no tragedy as after he did a bit of nipple pulling and tit squeezing, I got what I very badly needed.

I’ve subsequently done another little trip to his club, which I’ll write about in my next blog.

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

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

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

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

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

Of course, the other way on which these wrinkles and a certain looseness develops is during a good hard fucking session. My lovely black fuck buddy likes to put me through my paces and give me a solid work out, jack hammering me on all fours and then putting me face down over his dining table and then on my back, with my legs held up high in the air as he pumps another load of thick spunk deep inside me. After a couple of hours with him my stockings are often all over the place, as is my hair and makeup!  When I return home my husband says it just adds to my image as a complete slut and as I stroke him off and tell him what I’ve been up to. I know he likes to admire my wrinkled seams.

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

From time to time, I receive requests for an update on some of the men I’ve written about here. For example, there is the unusual scenario where I role play a gentleman’s late mother-in-law, Margaret. I’ve continued to visit this gent and there’s little to report, as we simply act slight variations of the same situation, wherein I give him a fairly rough and disdainful hand job. It’s not how I usually like to do things but if my mission is bringing pleasure to men, which it is, then I must be willing to fulfil their fantasies.

However, I wanted to update on another friend and perhaps ask for your ideas. You may recall I see a young man who likes me to play ‘mummy’ to him. I like him – he’s funny and flamboyant and very imaginative with many of the scenarios he suggests (although therein lies the problem) and he also has a very good cock, which gets so hard it’s vertical and I have to pull it down away from his torso and his ejaculation is very powerful and there is always a lot of semen, which I really like.

But the problem is we appear to be running out of ideas. Or, rather, I feel uncomfortable about the things he now wants to do and have found myself saying ‘no’ to the last four or five proposals he’s made. We began with me ‘catching’ him masturbating while watching one of my videos and being the loving mum I am, and feeling horny as I did, I offered to finish him off. The I ‘caught’ him going through one of my lingerie drawers and getting ready to splash his seed all over one of my black suspender belts. Naturally, I wrapped that belt around his rock-hard cock and slowly brought him to climax. I brought him a cup of tea in bed one morning and helped with his ‘morning glory’ hard on. And recently he came to me just as I was about to go to my boyfriend’s house – and hence I was in full gear of seamed stockings, high heels etc – and said he’d taken two Viagra tablets and could not get his erection to go away. No problem, his mum knew how to deal with that issue and she soon has his spunk all over her cleavage.

All of these are terrific fun and I want to do more such scenarios. But he most enjoys the public appearances if I can put it like that. Going shopping and making loud suggestive comments to his mother, for example. Or in a pub, when in a loud voice he said ‘Oh, mum, you’re such a slut!’ And he somehow persuaded me to go to a party with him, dressed in my usual seams and heels, with a leather mini and low-cut top and then he introduced me to everyone as his mum, asked a couple of guys if they agreed his mum is super sexy and told some others that he was proud of his mum for still being so sexy and active at my age. Even after a few drinks I felt very self-conscious and embarrassed about this.

The he asked if I could bring him with me, when visiting one of my men for hand relief, and I did try, telling the gent that my husband was unavailable and my son would accompany me for my security, which he just about bought, but when I said my son would like to watch he absolutely refused and I hadn’t got to the part where I was to say I would also be offering my son hand relief, after his own session was complete. I had to go back to this man, later, and explain it had been a fantasy scenario and did not involve my real child.

My ’son’ has also said that his ‘mum’ should be prepared to service him using her mouth which I’ve refused to do, as while I can just about see some mums might be prepared to give a horny son a hand job, I don’t think this would extend to blow jobs too. I did say that if he is absolutely fixed on me providing oral, I’m happy to do so (remember, I love to swallow a really big load of thick semen!) but that we’d have to drop the ‘mum’ and ‘son’ before I could agree. He has even suggested a bareback session, which I’ve told him isn’t going to happen even if he drops the son and mum fantasy!! Even my husband is denied that pleasure.

So, my request to all you horny folk out there is this: can you come up with some fantasy scenarios where a mum can satisfy the lustful energy of a horny young man who simply adores his mother and thinks she ticks every one of his sexual boxes but in which she only provides him with hand relief?

I have a longstanding admirer who, despite his relative youth – he’s less than half my age – has been following me for many years, as far back as when I had a very lively Yahoo photo group, when he must surely have still been at school.

Recently in our regular email back and forth I asked him a question, which was how he would react if I invited him to my home for some hand relief and when he arrived, I was dressed as in this photo.

He replied that he thought he would be too embarrassed and that he would not last long and that he felt a sense of shame even saying this to me. This is what I said in response:

No need to feel embarrassed. I would tell you that you’re here, with me, so that I can remove and destroy all of your sperm but that I also intend to give you the most intense orgasm you have ever experienced. I will make it last, don’t worry about that, I am absolutely expert at this.  I would wrap my latex gloved hand around your erection and slowly stroke you. As you approach climax, I would slow or even stop altogether. I don’t want you to climax too quickly. If needed, we can take a break, have a drink, talk about work, family, the weather. Then we start again. I would take you to the edge of your climax at least 10 times, maybe more. Then I would tell you that this time I want you to cum, I suggest you focus on my cleavage, look at it as I stroke you firmly towards your orgasm and as you are at the edge I tell you that I want your semen and all of your sperm over my tits and then you explode on them, spunking up my neck, hitting my chin with your youthful, powerful ejaculation and covering my big, heavy, creamy breasts. I’d continue stroking, more slowly, for a long time, as you savour your orgasm.

When I take my hand away, I ask if you are satisfied, as I like a happy customer. Then I pop next door to show my husband what a real man can produce, in contrast to his own pathetic dribble of semen. He’s impressed and I shove my spunk covered cleavage in his face and smear it with your fluid and sperm. Of course, he’s ready to cum too, so I give him a fast, brutal handjob, using your own fluid as lubricant. As I toss him off I laugh at his small cock and how it lacks real hardness. After watching him cum on my hand, you dressed and are ready to leave us.

“Same time next week, then” you say.

“Of course”, I reply. “Just let me know which outfit you want and bring plenty of spunk.”

I don’t know if the data from this blog is of much interest to anyone other than me but nevertheless …

When I began writing it in 2018 this blog was viewed just 340 times and in the first full year, 2019, 3,472 times. That total was easily exceeded in a single month this year, with 5,397 views. So far this year it has been viewed over 26,000 times and we’re less than two thirds of the way through the year. Should that rate continue the total for 2023 looks set to exceed 42,000 views, which is very gratifying.

Perhaps even more impressive are the data for my Flickr photo collection which you can find here:

https://www.flickr.com/people/ladyinseams/

My photos there have been viewed 5.9 million times and that figure is increasing by the minute, sometimes by more than 30,000 in a single day. I know from the messages I receive that many men regularly masturbate while viewing my photos and videos and I find that very flattering and when I think of all that rich, sticky semen and the billions and billions of sperm being released and spurted as they gaze at my body and my outfits, I’m very aroused. If only, for just one day, I could be splattered with all that lovely spunk! Maybe I should organise an event …

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.