Match Fit

In 2019 a man who had enjoyed my “hand relief” skills said he would like to introduce me to a friend of his who wished to speak with me because he thought I could help him in an important way. Given this introduction and the nature of the “problem” as it had been explained to me, I agreed to meet his friend.

When I did so, I decided on a smart but sexy look: knee length leather skirt, seamed stockings of course, nice 5-inch heels and a tight leopard print sweater over a bullet bra. As he sat before me, I could see that he was taking this all in while he explained the issue he had. He is a professional sportsman (I’m deliberately not saying which sport or the team he plays for as many of you might know of him and I think this should remain confidential) and he was of the opinion that his own performance improved if he had had some form of sexual release before a game. As he had been living with his girlfriend this had not been an issue for him until now but they had split up and he attributed the drop in his performance, not to the emotional turmoil of their separation but to the absence of relief. He was convinced that he was more relaxed and better able to concentrate on his game if he had had sex.

He already knew from his friend that I wouldn’t be a substitute girlfriend but he had heard great things about my hand relief service and he believed that this would get him back to peak performance. While I was not averse to helping him there was an obvious question that I had to ask: why did he not simply masturbate before a game and thereby achieve his goal without involving me or anyone else. He explained that he had tried this but it not been successful and as his friend had been extremely enthusiastic about his own very powerful climaxes at my hands, he thought that this might do the trick.

I was sceptical that this would work and wondered if it was all in his mind but I was willing to give it a go and see if it helped. We chatted through how this might work and concluded that a Friday afternoon or evening relief session prior to the next day’s game was worth trying and I showed him some photos of outfits that he might like me to wear and he selected a number that he found particularly alluring, including my ‘Miss Massage’ uniform, nurse, schoolgirl and full leather.

As we looked through the photos and when I showed him a couple of my videos, he became visibly excited, so I asked if he would like to try being milked and of course he jumped at the chance, so I pulled on my glossy latex gloves, got on my knees, lubed his cock and got to work. This went well and after a lot of moaning, panting and groaning he released an impressive plume of semen onto my chest, soaking my top. Later he confirmed that it had been extremely powerful, much more so than he had expected and he was certain that it would do the trick for him.

And so we began to meet on Fridays so that he could obtain relief and in between these sessions he abstained completely and, as a result, his ejaculations were very full. We did these therapy sessions for a few months and he was delighted that they appeared to work as he had hoped and his performance improved considerably, as he started each match feeling relaxed and able to focus more than he had done previously. However, after a few months he told me that the effect was beginning to fade a little and he thought the reason for this was the gap of almost 24 hours between him obtaining relief and starting a match, during which tension and nerves would build back up again. He therefore proposed that instead of meeting on a Friday I should give him hand relief on a Saturday immediately prior to a match. I had no objection to this in principle, particularly as I was being generously rewarded for my massage service but the practicalities of the matter was such that I would have to travel to the stadium, he would have to find a private space there, then I would have to change into which ever outfit he had told me he wished me to wear that week before we could get down to business and I could slowly bring him to climax.

And indeed, that is exactly what we did and he was again delighted with the results and thought it had produced a notable step up for him and his in-match performance. But for my part I felt a little uncomfortable going to that stadium with a little case full of my “and gear” and then changing into a suspender belt stockings, heels etc and putting on my gloves before masturbating him and although he had found a room we could use and which he locked I was always worried that we might be interrupted or caught somehow.

Two things brought our unusual arrangement to an end. The first was when he told me that he had discussed what he described as ‘a special pre-match massage’ with some of his teammates and that a number of them had expressed interest in receiving the same treatment on match day. I’ll be honest, I was shocked by this suggestion and by the fact that he had discussed it with others without first asking me if he could do so. I asked him how he envisaged this working and the basic answer was that I would come to the stadium change into one of my uniforms and stockings and a group of them would gather in the room and I would masturbate them one after the other, no doubt leaving me completely splattered with spunk. This might be a sexy thought but to me it seemed completely impractical and I refused.

Naturally this caused some tension between the two of us and when he suggested he might look elsewhere for someone who would be willing to wank off pretty much the entire team I told him to be my guest.

And then the matter was settled in any event when COVID came along and we were all confined to our homes. There were no games and no more pre-match relief was required in any case.

To his credit he apologised if he had offended me, said he would like to stay in touch and asked if he could visit me in the future at my house for some further relief sessions but he was one of those relationships I dropped after the Covid pandemic. I later learned that he had patched things up with his girlfriend and she had moved back in with him so I assume she is now responsible for getting him match ready each week.

humiliate /hyoo͞-mĭl′ē-āt″/

transitive verb

To cause (someone) to feel a loss of pride, dignity, or self-respect.”humiliated him with a contemptuous refusal.”
To reduce to a lower position in one’s own eyes, or in the eyes of others; to cause a loss of pride or dignity; to humble; to mortify

I recently acquired a new and very devoted admirer who wishes to be humiliated by me and he asked about my own experiences of humiliating men. I wrote him quite a long email but here is the body of it, as I thought others might enjoy reading it too. Incidentally, he and I did an online chat earlier this week and after a suitable amount of encouragement and insults from me, he was soon emptying his balls while I demonstrated what a filthy bitch I can be when in the mood.

I enjoy humiliating men and in some cases inflicting pain too. I find this very arousing. If I think about humiliation this largely but not exclusively applies to my husband. In the past this meant allowing him to see me with other men or at least to let him know I was enjoying sexual encounters with other men and belittling him as a result. For him, seeing me getting ready and going out in one of my outfits – seemed stockings, high heels, short skirts, tight tops or semi transparent blouses with a black quarter cup bra beneath etc – knowing I was setting off to meet a man to have fun with is sweet torment and very humiliating for him but something he adores.

In 2010 I took this a step further: I told him I had acquired a young, black stud as a regular sex partner and that from that point on I would never have full sex with him again, and I have stuck with that. Later, I told him that oral sex was also now banned for him and he found this particularly hurtful because he knows I am happy to give other men blowjobs. For example, I used to suck off my boss at work from time to time. I continued to give my husband hand relief and I still do but when he was pressing me to become a semi-professional Masturbatrix I turned this against him and said that in future should he wish me to service him with my hands he needed to book an appointment, like any other punter, and he has to pay me a fee each time, although I do give him a discount as my most loyal client and he now pays £150 each time.

Hand relief and hand domination can provide another form of humiliation for men. For example, I sometimes like to slowly bring a man to the point where he is ready to ejaculate and then prevent him from doing so, making him beg and plead for release. This puts all the power in my hands and leaves them helpless, writhing beasts.

I don’t allow my husband to watch me with my sex partner but I do sometimes get him to drive me over to his house and collect me afterwards, partly to add to his humiliation but also because this allows me to enjoy a few drinks during our sex sessions and enables me to wear some of my more extreme outfits then I am able to do when driving myself. From time to time, as a bit of a treat, I phone him and talk to him and allow him to listen while I am being fucked senseless by my stud. Initially, this didn’t work too well because of the sound quality but he bought me a Bluetooth microphone and headset and now he can hear every detail of what is going on.

My stud has an enormous cock: it’s 10.5 inches in length but probably as important it is thicker than my wrist so of course when my husband is listening I emphasise how massive it feels as he penetrates me and as I’m being ridden. It does genuinely hurt at first but I really exaggerate this when I know he is listening.

Another way in which I humiliate my husband is going out in outfits that he knows will gather a lot of attention and have men falling over themselves to talk to me and just to take a closer look. This is generally about seamed stockings, stiletto heels, leather skirts, miniskirts, sometimes an ankle chain or bracelet but I also have a big bust of which I’m very proud and I like to show that off, so sometimes it will be a very low cut top with an acre of cleavage on display or a tight top over 1/4 cup bra which makes me look braless from the front with nipples clearly on display but with my breasts supported by the bra and held up. This look always gets me a lot of attention. And very heavy makeup adds to the look.

Of course, I know a lot of people will look at me when I’m out like this and think I look like a desperate old tart who is looking for a quick fuck in the toilets or in an alleyway behind a pub but I don’t mind that impression, at least sometimes I’m in the mood for that sort of showing off. In the past a genuinely looked to be picked up on some occasions and there were many times I took a new admirer into the toilets for a bit of fun (generally oral but I enjoy being tit fucked as well) but these days it’s more about display and tease rather than hardcore action.

Sweet torture

My husband had been away for a few days on business and on the day he was due to return home I sent him this photograph, which I thought he might like. However, he slightly misunderstood my reason for doing so, thinking it was intended to entice him home and promise him a hot hand relief session, although if he had stopped to think he might have wondered who had taken the photograph.

In any case, when I heard his key in the door and him placing his suitcase on the floor I popped out from the lounge and after he had a quick feel of my suspenders and stocking tops, I put him straight, explaining that I had a young man with me, his hands handcuffed to a chair behind his back. When I added that I was torturing this lad, he for a moment thought I meant that I was using my cane, or riding crop or my dressage whip and he knows I can be a bit of a merciless bitch on such occasions. But I clarified that this was a different type of torture. James was a young man who had not ejaculated for almost two weeks and his balls were fit to burst with billions and billions of sperm and I hoped with a fountain of a seminal fluid too.

But by now I had been stroking him, gently, slowly on and off for over forty-five minutes and despite my very gradual approach to the task in hand (if you will excuse the pun) we had rapidly reached a point where I had to stop at regular intervals in order to prevent him unloading too quickly. So the return of my husband was a welcome interruption.

I had previously stopped to do some emails on my phone, to make a call and to just walk out of the room and make myself a coffee leaving him there writhing in sweet agony. I even went upstairs and found a face flannel, which I dampened and used to mop his face, as he was dripping with sweat and his face rather redder in colour than looked healthy.

Of course I forced him to beg for his release and to be fair as we went on he did so with gusto but each time he begged me to finish him off I told him that his pleading was not good enough, not convincing and he needed to do it properly, to really beg, beg as if his life depended upon it but each time he did so I told him it wasn’t enough and I withdrew my gloved hand and imposed another break in proceedings.

When I had explained the situation to my husband, he asked me if I had made this lad beg and I confirmed that with his hands cuffed to the chair behind his back he had no other option than to hope I would finally grant his release and allow him to ejaculate. But when I returned to the lounge, I left the door slightly ajar and invited my husband to stand just outside and listen as I tortured the poor boy further and this time I told him to speak up, to shout for mercy so my husband could enjoy hearing him plead so earnestly.

Hearing the arrival of my husband had softened James up a little, so I managed to keep this going a little longer, hoping to extend his agony to the one hour mark (which mayhave been a personal best for me) and in order to do so I took some further breaks but when the time came, I spoke in a clear, loud voice, knowing we were being listened to. By this time my ‘subject’, the cock owner was close to tears and he kept lifting his backside off the chair, as if thrusting his cock harder against my hand might complete the job for him.

Instead, I loosened my grip slightly looked him in the eye and said, “Right. I’m going to grant you release now and I want every last drop from those swollen balls of yours. I want you to shoot everything you have got here, “and I glanced down at my big chest. “Can you do that?”

He nodded his head vigorously and grunted, by now incapable of speech. I tightened my grip and began long, firm strokes but he only required three or four more before he let out an enormous bellow and began the process of unloading his considerable store of thick spunk. Although I had shuffled forwards and placed my chest in what I thought was the best position to receive his spunky gift, I should probably have anticipated that after such a long period of abstinence combined with almost an hour of hand torture his ejaculation would be as powerful as it proved to be as his spurts flew upwards, first landing on my face, over my nose and cheek and then my chin and much of the rest up my neck before it slowed somewhat and my white top got some of the soaking I had expected. He continued to release his semen for quite some time and then it stopped but as soon as I thought he was spent there was a second flurry of spurts and I was pretty heavily splattered.

I did as I always do and stroked him down for a couple of minutes but I was eager to get off my knees and show the mess to my husband. When I did I emphasised that he should note what a real, healthy, virile man can provide in contrast to his own “pathetic dribble”. Having stood at the door listening to proceedings he was ready to unload as well, so I quickly got to work on him.

As I did we were almost talking over one another as I mocked him for his pathetic cock and how that young man in our lounge was so much more of a turn on for me than he could ever be, while at the same time he kept saying things like, “Look at that mess. You’re covered in spunk, you filthy slut, you big titted tart…” and so on before he too moaned and unloaded his spunk over my gloved right hand.

Later I told my husband I was thinking about handcuffing him to a chair like that, next time I invited one of my young spunk donors over to be milked. “Would you like that”, I asked. Indeed, he would love to watch me he confirmed and if his hands were cuffed that could add to the experience. And then I had an idea: what if I did that but also gagged him, so I wouldn’t have to listen to his insults and blindfolded him, so he could listen but have to use his imagination. He was a lot less keen on this idea, which only made it all the more enticing for me!

Loaded pistols and words

You may have seen a blog I wrote almost three years ago about the power of words. If not, it’s here:

Words and Loaded Pistols

One of the two men I wrote about is extremely aroused by suspender belts and the thought of women wearing them and even hearing me talking about suspender belts was enough to make him ejaculate powerfully while I masturbated him.

However, last year I decided to largely give up my role as a Masturbatrix and I had to let those men I had previously been ‘servicing’ by hand know that this would now come to an end. Tim, my suspender belt fanatic, was naturally disappointed, not least because for him, to just sit opposite a woman wearing a belt and stockings was an intensely erotic experience.

Naturally, I felt bad letting friends like Tim down and after he pleaded with me and offered me a temptingly large financial incentive, I came up with an idea which, although not as exciting as seeing me in person, has gone a long way to satisfy his particular interest.

Tim and I now chat online. While I chatter on, making as many references to stockings and suspender belts as I can, Tim strokes himself. He asks me occasional questions which I’m always happy to answer honestly but for most of the time I do the talking, while he does the stroking and it usually doesn’t take him very long before his sperm is released. And of course, the great advantage to him is that other than an occasional gift to me of a pair of stockings this doesn’t cost him a penny.

Of course, I always get dressed for one of our chats even though he can’t see me because it’s important for me to be able to say, “I am wearing a suspender belt and stockings” and mean it. I also find this quite erotic for myself and if I can arrange things I will sometimes chat with Tim (and with others, it must be said) before going over to my sex partner’s house for a good seeing to.

So, I might say to Tim, “as you know I’m wearing a suspender belt right now but I also wear suspender belts when I go out in the evening and my husband loves to feel my suspender belt straps under a tight skirt and I like to wear a belt and seams when I go shopping …” and so on. I have found a thousand different ways to work the words “suspender belt” into my chat as he masturbates and each time this has been enough to push him over the edge.

I talk about the number of suspender belts I have in my collection, the colours, the number of straps on each, my favourites, the metal clasps that I insist upon and so on. Initially, he was a little reluctant for me to even slightly stray from the very specific words “suspender belt” but he now quite likes it when I refer to alternatives such as girdles, waist clinchers, basques and corsets, all of which I do wear from time to time.

He loves to hear about when I’m out in public in seamed stockings, suspender belt and stiletto heels and how men react when they see this, when they see the outline of my suspender belt straps under a tight leather or satin skirt or a wet look dress. He asked me recently whether I believe some of those men go home and masturbate while they think about what they have just seen and I replied, “I certainly hope so”. He seemed a little shocked but very excited by the idea that I wanted men to do this and when I told him that if I’m approached by some of these men I am happy to chat to them and talk about the fact that I am indeed wearing a suspender belt, well that was enough to finish him off and secure another happy ending.

Wash your own car

I mentioned in my most recent blog that Nick, a long-standing admirer for whom I modelled, many years ago, took the opportunity to explore some fantasies with me. I thought I would tell you about two, which both started with the same basic premise – namely me calling at his door but each went in very different directions. The first was entirely his idea but the second was one that we concocted together, perhaps with more input from me than him.

May I count on your vote?

Nick had a bit of a thing about me being “posh”, well-educated and it is true that I’m from a solidly middle-class background and with a university education. I think at first, he found it puzzling that I would pose for erotic photographs and allow some photographers to ejaculate on me and this first scenario was inspired by this contrast between my slightly genteel upbringing and this behaviour as a wanton slut.

For this scenario I wore a nice floral dress, albeit with a bullet bra, a PVC suspender belt and fully fashioned stockings beneath, together with some nice high stainless-steel heels. I knocked on his door and explained that I was canvassing on behalf of the Conservative Party and wondered if we could count on his vote. He looked me up and down and asked if I had time to discuss some of my party’s policies, perhaps over a cup of tea. The idea being that, foolishly, thinking I might have a convert to the party, I agreed and stepped into his hallway.

Of course, at this point things took a dramatic turn and he told me that he knew that what I really wanted was not his vote but a good seeing to. He pulled me down onto my knees and with his spare hand unzipped himself and pulled out his fully erect cock. “Now let me explain my policies to you”, he said with a chuckle, as he thrust it into my mouth. “Which is that sluts like you should get on your knees and suck cock whenever you are told to do so. Do you understand?”

Of course, at this point I could neither agree nor disagree with his own ‘policy’, as my mouth was full of his throbbing cock, so I did as he instructed and brought him to climax at which point he took it out of my mouth and shot his spunk over my face and as he came he shouted “I’ll vote for that!”

Wash your own car

We acted out the second scenario on my subsequent visit to his house. For this I dressed in a full Saint Trinian’s style uniform: pleated gym skirt, fully fashion stockings, high heel Mary Jane shoes, a white blouse and tie over a black quarter cup PVC bra and I had even managed to find a straw boater and a badge which said “Prefect”. It should have said “Perfect”!

I knocked and he opened the door. “Sorry to bother you mister, but we’re raising money for my school and I wondered if you’d like to help.”

“Well, I love your uniform, for a start. Very smart. What do you want me to do? Buy some chocolate brownies?”

“No. That’s too boring. You see our headmistress, or ‘Queen Bitch’ as I call her, she says we each have to raise £100 or the school might have to close and I don’t want to be making brownies or washing cars. That’s no fun and it’s hard work and will take too much time.”

“So what do you propose instead?”

“Well, mister, you like what you see, don’t you?”

“I certainly do. Tell me more.”

“It’s £25 for hand job or £50 for a blow job, £10 extra if you want deep throat. Would you be interested?”

“Yeah, definitely. But what if I gave you the whole £100 now? What would I get for that?”

“You mean, will I go all the way?”

“Yeah, something like that. What about a bit of everything? Start with your hands then you give me a blowjob and then I give you a good seeing too, like you said.”

“OK. £200.”

“But you said you needed to raise £100.”

“Yeah, so £100 to keep Queen Bitch happy and £100 for me.”

Up to this point we had been following a rough script that we had agreed for this scenario but as he led me through to his lounge, I decided on a fairly outrageous piece of adlibbing and said, “I’m only 16 you know. And I’m a virgin, so this is a very special moment for me. You will be gentle, won’t you?”

After he had finished laughing and saying the word “virgin” a number of times, he said “In your dreams. I’m going to treat you like the dirty little slut that we both know you are and I think you deserve a spanking to begin with for being such a filthy tart and selling it door to door like that.”

And so we got down to business and the little scene we had just acted out seemed to really energise him and he continued to speak to me as if I really was a lazy, slutty schoolgirl offering sexual services because I couldn’t be bothered to bake or wash a car.

More than I bargained for

Part One

This is the story of just one photograph, above. Or rather, it’s the story of what led up do it being taken and then the immediate events which followed.

However, to tell the story properly I need to go back more than 30 years. At that time, I was recently married, working full time and had not yet started a family. I had for some time enjoyed posing for what I like to describe as ‘tasteful erotica’ photos, mainly on the theme of fully fashion stockings, stiletto heels and suspender belts but I also enjoyed being photographed in uniforms, leather, PVC and what might be described as fetish outfits.

Of course, the money was good, sometimes great and when I was younger and saving hard for a car and to be able to pay the deposit on a flat the money was very much welcome. But to be totally honest, at least in time, I was motivated less by the financial rewards and more by the fact that I obtained a very significant erotic charge posing before the camera and meeting some of my admirers. Put bluntly, being photographed like this made me extremely horny and I often found myself hovering close to orgasm as my photographers snapped away and sometimes rubbed themselves against my legs and backside.

I had built up a considerable following and had a Yahoo photograph group with over 25,000 members and another Yahoo group on which I posted some of my videos, which also had thousands of members.

Naturally, I received hundreds of requests from admirers who wished to meet me and in almost all cases this progressed no further but in a small number of cases I offered to do a photo shoot with those of my admirers I thought I could trust. Inevitably, the sort of fee I proposed was too much for most of these men but for others it was not enough to deny them the opportunity to meet me and take those photographs they had always dreamed of and then a bit more besides.

I had discovered very early on that I could double or triple my modelling fee by offering to spice things up a bit and, in particular, having been introduced to the idea by another model I’d met at a shoot, that something referred to as ‘wet modelling’ could be especially lucrative and, perhaps more importantly for me, extraordinarily erotic. What wet modelling means is that the photographer is allowed (or should I say encouraged?) to ejaculate on the model and will then sometimes take additional photographs of her splattered with his semen. Sometimes this involved more than one photographer; in fact, for my very first wet modelling booking I had eight young men who, as you can imagine, left me heavily splattered with spunk!

I am not saying that the additional spice in all the photo shoots I did involved being spunked on. As I have explained in the past, I was a very enthusiastic provider of blow jobs in those days and so on occasions this would form part of the agreement when I attended a shoot with one of my fans. Now you might ask whether my husband was content with this arrangement but I had been doing erotic modelling long before we married and I can assure you that if he had had his way I would have been going a lot further and a lot more frequently that was the case.

Part Two

Which leads me on to Nick. Nick had been a longstanding fan of mine and he had sent me gifts of stockings and lingerie but he had made it clear that he didn’t just want to look at photos of me, he wanted to take some and as he was a reasonably accomplished photographer, I was interested too. Although only a year or two older than me, he had semi-retired having sold the technology business which he founded while at university for a considerable sum (I don’t recall precisely but from memory I think he received £36 or £38 million for his shareholding). He had bought a summer cottage in the West Country not far from Bath and he suggested I come down there for the day, do some photos both indoors and outdoors and have some fun. Normally, if I didn’t know the person already, I would be accompanied by my husband or by another male friend as a simple common sense precaution but Nick knew some people I knew who vouched for him and I had checked out is business profile and so I felt able to take this risk and go on my own.

He was a fairly proficient amateur photographer and when he picked me up from the station, he explained that he would like to take both black and white and colour photographs both indoors and outdoors and so a number of cameras and lenses were involved. But I’m going to cut to the chase and explain the significance of this single photograph.

It was a sunny day and we were outdoors and I was posing, bent forward over a stonewall when he stepped forwards and adjusted my thong. Foolishly, I assumed he was simply straightening my outfit so I was totally unprepared for what happened next. Having tugged my thong to one side, he thrust his cock deep into me. I promise I said no, told him to stop and tried to wriggle free but he had me pinned against the wall and my efforts to shrug him off were rather compromised by the fact that as he thrust into me I had an intense orgasm which made my legs go weak and I think I briefly blacked out, resting on top of the wall as he held me by my hips, his hands on my suspender belt and took his pleasure.

If this wasn’t bad enough, he said something along the lines of “I knew you wanted it” or “I know you want it” and then I felt him thrusting so hard into me I was worried we might fall through the wall before I felt him begin to spurt his spunk into me. He had me pinned like that and I knew I couldn’t wriggle away from him and so I had no choice but to wait as he slowly continued to push himself back and forth in me.

When he let me go, I was absolutely furious, so angry I must have used every four-letter word I’ve ever known. In many ways he made things worse by chuckling at me and waving his hands up and down saying “calm down, calm down”. I marched back inside and began packing my case of lingerie, heels and uniforms but he pleaded with me not to leave and suggested could come to some arrangement.

“Surely”, he said “this isn’t the first time you have gone all the way with one of your fans, is it?”

I pointed out that that wasn’t the question because had I ever done so it would be at my choice a new one before had ever simply forced themselves on me and without even wearing a condom so I was now left with his jizz inside me. But of course, this gave him a chink of light and he asked what fee I would have commanded if we had agreed in advance for something like this to happen. I was reluctant to go down this line of thought but he kept asking the same question in many different ways so eventually I thought of a number and pretty much doubled it. He whistled in response but said he’d agree on one condition, namely that we could carry on for the rest of the afternoon.

We went back inside and he placed some cushions on the tiled floor and sat in a chair. It was blowjob time! I did my thing and was pretty pleased with my performance but he was even more pleased with himself after he had ejaculated on my face, as he had managed a very healthy load and not that long after coming inside me. He grabbed one of his cameras and snapped some photos of me kneeling there, looking up at the camera with a big smile on my face, covered in spunk. I’d love to share some of these photos with you and there’s a really good close up of me licking his sperm from my lipstick lips but that’s not possible.

He went on to ride me face down over a large oak dining table, and then had me on my back with my legs up vertically and over his shoulders at one point and then later he placed me on a wooden staircase, took some more photos, got me to stand up with my back to the camera for some more shots and then he fucked me bent over the stairs.

I recall he kept saying it had been obvious I had wanted to be fucked and of course, each time I had an orgasm it validated this view. And he loved it when I called out “God, that’s so deep” as he thrust into me and at one point I yelled “That’s a bit too deep” as he smashed against the neck of my womb and he was absolutely delighted and said it was obvious my husband wasn’t able to properly service me.

It was a very warm summer’s day and I was very hot, and now when I look at the photographs from all those years ago I can see that my face is beaded with perspiration, so you might say I worked hard for my fee that day and I was fairly exhausted by the time we’d finished and he dropped me back at the railway station but I’d enjoyed it not only because I’d had a number or orgasms but I was sort of thrilled with the sheer filthy way in which the day had developed, with me thinking I was going to do some sexy photos and then finding myself on my knees or face down over a table being bare backed by a man I’d never met before. And it didn’t finish there.

When I arrived back in London, my husband came to collect me from the station. He asked me how I had got on and as he drove, I told him what had happened. I thought he might be angry with Nick for forcing himself on me like that, but quite the opposite, he was electrified and the moment we walked through the door he pulled me into the lounge, place me face down and was in me within seconds. Inevitably, as he rode me, he told me what a filthy unfaithful wife I was: “tart; whore; slut; bitch; cock sucker” etc.

We had sex three times that evening but the effect lasted for weeks and he couldn’t keep his hands off me. He was further thrilled when I agreed with Nick to do a further session with him. On that occasion, and one subsequent to that, the photography was very much secondary as he focused on enjoying my body and the numerous outfits I brought with me and as we acted out many of his fantasies, some of which were distinctly kinky. Perhaps I can write about some of these another time.

I really enjoyed sex with Nick and in the days leading up to our two additional sessions I found myself extremely aroused in anticipation, once so much so I had to nip into the toilets in a shopping centre and make myself cum. By the time I arrived at the station where he collected me, you might say I was wet and willing! However, there is a rather sad epilogue to this story.

Epilogue

As I continued to do occasional photo sessions with some of my admirers, I’d sometimes be asked for a reference. It was understandable that before handing over fairly substantial sums of cash, some wanted to check out that I was for real and to hear from those who had booked me in the past. Nick agreed to play this role and whatever he said appeared to put minds at rest and persuade the recipient to go ahead with me.

However, I subsequently was given a cop of what he had written and I was shocked and rather upset by his words. While he said many nice things, such as “without doubt the sexiest woman I have ever met” and that he and that I had given him “some of the most amazing days in my life” but he also revealed some things I had told him which he must have known sounded bad and he said some very unpleasant things too, essentially branding me a nymphomaniac. He also described my husband as “odd” for being a cuckold and wanting his wife to have sex with other men, which is surely a matter between him and me and was none of Nick’s business.

I told him I’d read what he’d said and that, consequently, I would not be seeing him again.

A few years later a mutual acquaintance emailed me and asked if I knew that Nick had died. She sent me press cuttings from two local papers, which said he had died suddenly of heart failure. I might have expected the press to be interested because he was quite a well-known and very successful businessman and that was mentioned but their main focus was on the fact that in his teens he had been a guitarist in a band which – under a different name and after he had left – went on to be one of the most successful of all time, one which if I were to name it you would know. And the weird thing is I didn’t know this, he never mentioned it and I don’t even remember seeing a guitar in that house.

Despite our falling out, I felt sad at his very premature death and was left wondering, how well do we ever really know a person?

Below are two more of the photos Nick took:

Meeting an admirer

One of my lovely admirers, who was kind enough to gift me a pair of fully fashioned stockings, emailed me details of an imaginary meeting with me in a bar. I liked it but I then wrote my own variation of our encounter, one in which I play a more ‘processional’ role. I though I’d share it with you – let me know what you think.

We agree to meet in a bar I have chosen and you arrive early in anticipation. Your cock is hardening as you sit awaiting my arrival as I’ve told you the outfit I will be wearing and you haven’t played for a week so your balls are heavy with semen awaiting release.

As I walk in, everyone turns to look, as I’m wearing a tight leather skirt, which in reality is too short to be worn with stockings but I’m in the fully fashioned stockings you gifted to me anyway, five-inch heels and with an ankle bracelet. My make up is on the heavy side and my lips are thickly coated with bright red lipstick, which has then been glossed and sealed. I’m wearing a white stain blouse and a black PVC, quarter cup bra.

In short, I look like a tart but the staff know me here and know what this is about, so barely give me a second look. However, I know all the men in that bar will be getting hard, thinking about what they’d like to do with me.

As I take my seat you see my skirt is too short to cover my stocking welts and as I cross my legs half an inch of creamy thigh and four suspender belt metal clasps are revealed. After pouring the Champagne, you push the envelope full of cash across the table and I pop it into my handbag. “Bad boy”, I say with a laugh.

You ask if you can feel me and of course, I agree. I want you fully hard. As we sip our Champagne you run your hand over my thighs and stocking tops, and when I push the heel of one of my shoes into your foot, you stiffen more. I then put my hand on your crotch, just to check. I squeeze you and give it a gentle rub but after a few moments you grasp my wrist and ask me to stop – “I’ll cum in my pants if you don’t” you say.

So, I know it’s time and you are already leaking fluid. I get up and go to the disabled toilets. I’ve chosen this bar specifically because this facility is around the corner, observed by no one and out of ear shot and as the staff know me, I know we won’t be disturbed, even should one of them see you sneaking in after me.

You give it two minutes, as ordered, then follow me in.

I sit you down on the toilet, pull your trousers down and kneel in front of you. Now things can develop in one of two ways. If you have selected my hand relief service, I take a pair of disposable latex gloves from my handbag, pull them on and squirt a little lubricating jelly into the palm of my right hand. I grasp your fully erect cock and get to work. I try to make it last, going slowly, stopping a couple of times, but I saw your shorts were soaked with precum, so even I can’t keep this going as long as I would like and after a few minutes, your cock erupts. I try to catch your fluid with my left hand but such is the force of your ejaculation, inevitably some hits my face and hair.

However, if you had chosen an oral service (and the envelope had contained a suitably larger tribute) I would take your cock in my mouth and show you my deep throat skills, practiced thousands of times since I was still at school. I would have asked you to make a choice before we started: would you prefer to ejaculate in my mouth and watch me gulp down your heavy load or to withdraw at the last moment and ejaculate all over my face and then watch me lick up as much as I can? Either way, I now have thick lipstick smeared all around my mouth and your cock is smeared too.

“Better get that wiped off before your wife sees it” I say.

“Better clean your face up before you go back into the bar”, you reply.

“Not so quick,” I reply. What about me? You hadn’t expected this.

“I thought you were just here for the money.”

“God, no, love. I don’t need the money. I’m here because I’m a horny bitch and doing what I’ve just done has left me gagging for it. Now you need to do your bit.” I bend over the toilet with my back to you and guide one hand to where it needs to be with two fingers pushed into my soaking wet pussy, the other hand up to squeeze and pull my nipples and tits and I cum in less than one minute.

Back in the bar, we finish our drinks. The barman looks across and winks at me. He knows I’ve just extracted your sperm and semen. You suggest a second bottle, perhaps thinking you can get hard again quite quickly and pushing your luck a bit, ask if a second visit to the toilet might be on offer but I’ve other ideas.

“No, sorry love but I’m meeting another punter here in …” and I look at my phone, “… ten minutes, so you’d better be going.”

You’re obviously disappointed. “Will he be checking out the disabled facilities here as well?”

“Yes, I’ll be on my knees again shortly. He’s booked a full cum in mouth service. One of my regulars. He’s a bit naughty, this one, likes to make me gag, you know, ram it down my throat a bit, hear me choking on it. Makes him feel big. Anyone walking past might think someone’s in there throwing up, as I like to make a lot of noise for him, he loves that, pays extra.”

“And will he also … you know …” and you wiggle two fingers in front of me.

“Tim, you know what I say. Life is too short not to orgasm every day. And once is never enough. So when I get home tonight, I’ll tell my husband all about what I’ve done today, every filthy detail as I stroke him off. And then I’ll be ready for my third of the day.”

“You really are a dirty bitch, aren’t you?”

“And aren’t you lucky you know me?” I reply

Relief

Doing what I do best.

This is a tiny clip from one of my videos. If you’d like to view all of it and the 103 other videos in my collection, all I ask for in return is a single pair of fully fashioned stockings, to help keep me in these lovely nylons.

If you’d like to know how to gift some stockings, email me at ladyinseams@gmx.com (but please only email me if you are sincere about this).

Meal Deal

As I lean over the customer’s table to take his order, he appears transfixed. As I am wearing an extremely low-cut top, a 1/4 cup bra and displaying an acre of cleavage, I am not altogether surprised.

“What would you like?”

However, not only is he unable to take his eyes off my cleavage, he seems unable to speak either.

“Can I interest you in one of our specials today?”

“Mmmm … probably. What do you have?”

“Well, as you can see we have some delicious breast meat today. So, if you would like to suckle on them, that is one choice we can offer. Or perhaps you would like to try our world-famous gloved hand relief option.”

“That sounds very tempting. Can you tell me what’s involved?”

“of course, no problem. Wearing glossy latex gloves, I stroke you until you are on the edge of climax and then I keep you there for a while, maybe even make you beg for it and then eventually I grant you release and you can unload onto my cleavage. Or we have a slight twist on that option, whereby I wrap my breasts around your erection and use those rather than my hands to bring you off. It’s a tit wank you will never forget. And finally, there is the full cum in mouth oral service and for a small supplement you can add deep throat to that, if you’d like to hear me gagging and choking on your cock as I take it down my throat all the way to your hilt.”

“Oh my God! How can I choose? They all sound delicious. Can I be greedy and order two things from the menu?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Would it be possible to suckle on you for a while and then try the hand service?”

“Yes, I don’t see why not, a sort of starter followed by your main course.”

He laughed at this.

“Just one question: for your hand relief main course would you like the standard busty service or would you prefer topless relief. There’s a supplementary charge for topless.”

“No, I think I will go for the busty option as I would like to splatter your cleavage.”

“Oh, promises, promises. I hope you will!”

I reached down into my top and lifted each of my full, heavy breasts out. I was already very aroused and my nipples were hard and engorged. Before popping them into his mouth I swung my breasts across his face backwards and forwards and this stimulation was enough to take me close to the edge at my own climax. So when I shoved my tits into his face and he took one in his mouth and began to suck and slobber on it, I knew I wouldn’t last long and when he took the other breast into his mouth, caught the nipple between his teeth and gently bit down on it and pulled his head back away from me stretching my nipple, I lost control. As I began to orgasm, I let out a bellow that must have sounded a little like a cow.

I think he was a little shocked at how quickly I had climaxed or even that I had done so at all and he stopped suckling on me. He was more than ready for his main course however, so I pulled on my black glossy latex gloves and got to work on his cock.

The challenge wasn’t to make him ejaculate, the challenge was to stop him doing so too quickly. After only a minute or two and I could tell he was ready to explode, so I slowed down and actually took my hand away once or twice which I knew was very frustrating for him but ultimately it was for his own benefit, adding power and force to his climax. After making him beg a few times I manoeuvred myself into position so that my cleavage was under his cock and my busy right hand.

“Right”, I said, “I am going to allow you to come but I want every last drop out of you and I want it all over my tits. Are you ready? Can you splatter me like you said?”

He grunted, which I took as confirmation of both. I went a little faster with my hand and with some swearing and a very deep moan, he began to spurt. I knew he had abstained for nine days and had been edging himself daily while watching my videos, so I was neither surprised nor disappointed by his powerful ejaculation, which initially hit me in the neck rather than on my cleavage but by swiftly and slightly altering my position I managed to gather much of the rest into the canyon between my breasts and distributed the remainder first on one and then on the other, so that by the time he had finished spurting and then dribbling my chest looked completely glazed with fresh sperm and semen.

“Oh wow! That’s impressive.”

“So my waitress will not be expecting a tip, is that right?”

“I’ve just received it. So how was your meal deal?”

“Let’s put it this way. I need a loyalty card.”

Whacked and Wanked

Gareth and I had agreed on how his fantasy scenario would play out but I had decided on a nasty little surprise for him.

He was certain he wanted me in full ‘Domina’ style. I wore a PVC suspender belt, my signature black fully fashioned stockings, a black PVC quarter cup bra, a red PVC skirt and a black PVC jacket, long black PVC gloves and – most importantly for him – my black, high heel, patent, thigh length boots.

To be fair to Gareth, I knew that he was more into the psychological aspects of submission and domination than the physical, pain related themes, although he had said that the odd crack of a cane or whip could add to the occasion. But what he wanted, what he craved was a mature and genuinely dominant lady who would bark orders at him, bully him, make him feel worthless and generally act like a cruel, cold bitch. It was more about being controlled, being treated like an inferior being by a goddess, a cold, heartless bitch than about chains and whips, if you can understand the distinction.

We exchanged views on possible scenarios but what became clear was a quite specific set-up which he’d been entertaining in his mind for some time, years even. He would be sat behind his desk in his office. I should explain that Gareth has a rather senior position in a manufacturing business (and, as an aside, I’ve often found the men who most crave submission very often have authoritative professional roles, a theme I should probably explore further in a subsequent blog) and for this reason we had to have our fun on a Saturday afternoon, when his workplace was otherwise closed.

As he sat there reviewing whatever it is directors of a manufacturing business might review, I was to walk in wearing the outfit I’ve described and clutching my black riding crop, I would shout abuse at him and demand he do this or that – he left it to me to think of things he must do but he wanted me to tower over him, make him kneel before me while I intimidated and belittled him.

I was happy with our agreed scenario and I do find such situations a massive turn on. I once even had a completely unexpected orgasm while delivering a topless whipping. But I’d decided on a surprise little twist for Gareth, to move us away somewhat from a purely fantasy role play into a sphere of authentic fear for him.

As I stepped into his office, that Saturday afternoon, I had fully psyched myself up for what I was about to do. As he looked up at me from behind his desk, I raised my riding crop and I hit him with all of the force I could muster. Perhaps because I have done so many thousands of hand relief sessions my right arm is stronger than I imagined but that single blow across his arm and chest had such force he was almost knocked out of his chair. He screamed, I think as much in astonishment as in pain and as he raised his arms above his head to stop any further strikes, I could see from his face that he was almost numb with shock.

I yelled at him and as I came round the desk towards him, he pushed his chair back and shouted “No, no, no!”

I raised the riding crop above his head, as if to hit him again but I knew already this would not be necessary, as he cowered back in his chair, arms raised to protect himself from the bitch who had proved more vicious than he could have imagined.

“Please!” he cried. And he really did look as if he was about to start blubbing.

“Shut up, you pathetic wanker!” I shouted. I placed the end of my crop on his chest and pushed him back a little further.

“Kneel.”

He dropped to his knees.

“Lick.”

He began licking one of my boots and as he did so, I stroked my riding crop across the back of his head and over each side of his face. I could still see the shock on his face at what had just happened and he was shaking with fear as to what I might do next.

“Up!”

He got to his feet and I pushed him face down over his desk. I tugged at his trousers but he was wearing a belt and with only my left hand free I struggled to get them down, so I ordered him to drop his trousers. When he had done so I removed his belt.

“I should use this. Would you like it across your face so everyone on Monday will think you’ve been in a car crash?”

He began to whimper. I knew that just the hint of further, extreme violence was enough to make him tremble. Whether he was really enjoying this or not, I was less sure about but I was also unsure whether I cared either way. I was loving it!

“No, no, please not that. I’ll do anything for you. No need to hit me. I’m begging you.”

I left him lying face down on the desk, as I first ran his belt back and forth cross his buttocks and then my riding crop.

“Lie down.”

“Where, mistress?”

“On the floor, moron.”

Trousers around his ankles he lay down next to the desk. I sat in his chair and placed my feet on his face at first gently, then I began to apply more pressure until his face had a sort of cartoon character to it. He mumbled something I couldn’t hear but I noticed he was now fully erect beneath his shorts.

“You look funny”, I told him and he did. Jacket, shirt and tie but lying there in boxer shorts, his trousers around his ankles, brown shoes so shiny they reminded me of conkers. I scrolled through my messages and emails for a while, every now and again giving him a little kick, just to hear him groan.

I moved one foot towards his groin and rubbed his cock for a few seconds and he moaned. “Oh, you’re hard aren’t you, you filthy pervert? You make me sick. You’re disgusting. You should be ashamed of yourself”.

Using my phone, I took some photos of him lying there.

“Rubbing your cock against my boots, you’re disgusting. I should send these photos to your wife. Should I do that?”

“No, no, please, this isn’t what we agreed.”

“Shut up, you sick, depraved piece of shit. You know I’m going to blackmail you, don’t you? A nice monthly payment or your wife gets these photos”.

As he began to protest, I placed the sole of my boot on his mouth and pressed hard. He went quiet.

I stood up from the chair.

“Up. Sit.”

When he was in the chair, I put my crop on the desk and took each of his wrists and placed his arms on his lap in front of him. He was about to be astonished for a second time, as I took a pair of handcuffs from under my jacket and cuffed his hands together. He looked down, puzzled.

“You are a dirty little wanker, aren’t you?” He didn’t respond. I lifted the crop and placed the business end on his nose. “Aren’t you?”

“Yes, yes I am”, he blurted.

“So, go on then. Wank.”

He looked a bit confused, so putting my face about two inches from his I yelled at the top of my voice “Wank!” I noticed I’d flecked his face with spittle and that gave me an idea.

He reached down and began to masturbate, using both hands, the handcuffs jangling as he did so.

I stood back and laughed. “Look at your pathetic little dick. No wonder you have to pay to get your kicks. It’s useless and you’re worthless.”

I unzipped my jacket to the waist and began to stroke and squeeze my breasts. I was heartily aroused and as I did so I sensed an orgasm might be on its way.

“Look at my lovely big tits. Do you like them?”

He nodded and panted as he worked on his cock.

“Do you like my stockings?” I stroked the welts.

“My boots?” and I raised one up onto the chair between his legs.

He groaned and said “God, yes!”

I could tell he was close but I thought I’d give him a little prompt. “If you don’t cum for me soon, I’m going to pull you onto the floor, kick you in the face and stamp on your balls. Would like me to do that?”

He shook his head vigorously from side to side but he seemed unable to speak as he was so close to release. I leant forward and spat on his face.

That was it! That did it! He bellowed, his face contorted and he threw his head back as if looking at the ceiling and he began to ejaculate.

Now I’ve been rude about Gareth’s penis – it wasn’t particularly small, maybe six inches erect and reasonably thick. I wouldn’t have minded masturbating his but his Goddess was never going to touch his dick. But I’ll give him this: his ejaculation was impressive. Spunk flew upwards and it was one, two, three, four quite big spurts then a slight pause as if his body was gathering all his spermy resources and then it began again, with almost as much force and more semen flew up over his legs and chair and some even landed on his desk.

Of course, afterwards, and if you would excuse the pun, I debriefed Gareth about our session together. He admitted that he had been absolutely astonished, horrified even, when I marched in and absolutely whacked him with my riding crop but he also said that it had set a brilliant tone for the rest of our encounter because he had felt that at any moment I might snap and inflict even more pain, more damage upon him and that fear was for him electric.

And that was that. Except there is something of a strange twist. Naturally, I had assured Gareth that I had no intention of sending the photographs I had taken to his wife or had ever had any intention of blackmailing him with the photos and I said I would delete them from my phone, it had just been part of our mutual mind game. However, he’d said “No, hang on to them for now”, without explanation which I thought was a little odd but we were locking up at the time and I didn’t give it much thought.

But a few days later Gareth got back in touch with me and said he had been unable to stop thinking about my blackmail threat and he wondered whether we could continue with this idea, whereby I would threaten to send the photographs to his wife or even go to his house and show them to her and tell her that her husband was the pathetic, depraved pervert and he would be forced to buy my silence. This, he told me, would be the most humbling, humiliating experience of his life and he begged me to be a blackmailing bitch.

I’ll leave you to imagine how that particular idea developed.