As I slow down my hand, he bucks in the chair and groans. “No” he moans.

Harry, at just 28, is less than half my age. Yet this is what he wants. He previously told me that he has been obsessed with me since he was still at school, more than a decade ago. A member of my Yahoo group (long since dead) and furiously wanking away to my videos, even back then as a horny teen. Now he claims to masturbate to my videos three times a day on average. But ahead of his ‘therapy’ session – the first time we’ve met, after he had begged for this opportunity – he followed and exceeded my instructions. I asked him to abstain for a week and edge himself at least once each day. Instead, he boasts he managed ten days and not less than three edging sessions to my photos and videos each day, sometimes as many as ten.

When he removed his trousers, I could see he had not been exaggerating and I could see this might be a challenge. His cock was already pointed at the ceiling, his boxer shorts, soaked with pre cum at the front, almost dribbling from him. Not the biggest cock I’ve handled – maybe 6 inches – but very, very thick. That gets my attention, gets me wet.

His hands are handcuffed behind his back and through the arm of the chair. I’ve taken him up to the edge of climax six times already and then slowed it down or withdrawn my hand altogether. I sense his frustration. One more time I think and so I take him up, sense he is very, very close to climax and begin to take him down and just as I’m thinking I’ll release him next time, he makes a mistake. “I’m ready now” he says, or rather, he grunts it.

I laugh. “Ready? You think it’s your choice? No, I decide. When you cum. If you cum”. I’m stroking very, very slowly now, no pressure on his cock, though I can feel it throbbing in my right hand, though my glossy, black latex glove and the lube.

“No” he moans. “Now, please.”

“If you argue, I’ll stop and we can start again tomorrow. Is that what you want? Is it really?”

Feeling his pulse in my hand, watching him writhe in the chair, pulling against the handcuffs, I have an overwhelming sense of power and control. And that’s an incredible thrill, a genuine endorphin rush. I could stop now and deny his orgasm, tell him we’ll start again tomorrow. Of course, then he might finish himself off but we both know he won’t do that. He needs his Goddess’s hand to make him complete.

“No, no, please. I’m sorry … just …”

So I say, “Then beg”.

He makes a pathetic attempt at begging but I make him do it properly.  He begs, he pleads, he says he can’t bear it any longer, as I slowly increase the speed and pressure and then ease back down again.

“Are you looking at my tits?”, I ask, as I’m wearing a low-cut top, with acres of cleavage for him to gaze upon, to aim at.

“Yes, yes, fantastic tits” he groans and then adds, “and seams and heels and leather … fuck, fuck make me cum!”

I take him up one last time – pushing my luck as I know he is so, so close, it’s like a trigger on a landmine – and he is literally bucking in the chair, his body is almost in spasm and his back is arched upwards but he can’t lift up completely because his hands are cuffed to this solid wooden chair and then I say “Now I want you to cum on me, I want your sperm all over …” but before I can finish what I wanted to say it happens. I massive arc of semen hits my chin and neck, a second down my neck and cleavage and then there’s a slight pause and the rest of his sack contents spurt over my gloved hand and down my wrist. There is so much, my tits are totally glazed and I’m reminded why I like milking young men’s cocks so much. So hard, so firm, so erect and so full of lovely seminal fluid. Lovely, thick, healthy semen and sperm and all over my tits and my throat.

As I slowly stroke him down, he keeps saying “fuck, fuck fuck, fuck, fuck …” and as then as he begins to compose himself, he adds “I can’t believe it. Incredible, so, so …” I can sense he is struggling to find the right words as his head is still exploding with a mini firework display in his brain and I’m still stroking his cock but eventually he says “Powerful. Intense. Fucking awesome.”

As I uncuff him, I think, I’m wet, maybe I should listen to my body and just impale myself on this very thick cock. I know I want to, to have my own orgasm, to extract any last residual supply of sperm from this young lad. But I remain professional – I can finish myself off in the toilets shortly – and ask if he’d like to arrange a follow on therapy session. And when I ask if next time I could bring him off into a Champagne flute and then add some Champagne and enjoy a lovely, rich spermy cocktail, he looks as if he is about to faint.

Note: the photos here are illustrative and none were taken on the day

Well, I’ve done the deed: I’ve pretended to be a dead woman, the infamous mother-in-law. If that means nothing to you, you MUST go back and read this blog entry, otherwise what follows will make little sense to you:

https://wordpress.com/post/ladyinseams.home.blog/437

A lot of what I did, even the outfit I wore, went against everything I normally like to do but for once I wasn’t actually being me at all, I was a different person doing a different thing. For example, normally if I’m meeting a man for hand relief or similar types of fun, I’ll wear heavy make-up but for this encounter I wore just a gentle touch of pink lipstick and I had my hair pulled back and tied in a bun, and I thought I looked suitably severe, similar to the way Margaret, his mother-in-law, looked in some photos he’d shown me.

I wore a little pink sweater over a 1950’s style bullet bra and combined this with some strings of pearls. I had a tight pencil skirt, past my knees and of course I wore my black girdle but for once not with fully fashioned (seamed) stockings but with plain reinforced heel and toe stockings, as I had been informed by Phillip that he had never seen Margaret in seams. And probably the hardest choice of all was my shoes, as normally I’m selecting between five-inch or six-inch stilettos but sensible, strict Margaret preferred a modest heel, so I had to dig out a pair with just two-inch heels that I last wore to a church carol service. And although I had gloves and lube in my clutch bag, I knew they’d be staying there. My husband looked me up and down before I left the house and said I looked as if I was off to a Women’s Institute talk, rather than going to a man’s house to masturbate him.

I had decided in advance to remain ‘in role’ throughout but had not told Phillip this, as I preferred to catch him somewhat unawares. When I rang the doorbell at his rather grand house, he opened to door and put his arms out to hug me, saying how wonderful it was to see me again and how kind it was of me to come. I shoved him out of the way and strode into his hallway. He looked shocked.

I said “Look, we both know I don’t want to be here, so can we get this over with as quickly as possible?”

I took my coat off and hung it by the door and then went straight into the first room I could see off the hallway, which appeared to be a rather large dining room. I saw a sofa and sat down. He stood at the door and seemed to hop from one foot to the other and said “Oh, I thought we might go through to the piano room, as it doesn’t face onto the road.”

I said, “I don’t care what you thought, sit down here and take down your trousers.” Meekly, he sat down by my right and dropped his trousers, revealing boxer shorts and socks with a golfer motif. I took his left hand with mine and placed it on my right thigh and moved it up and down a little so he got the idea – feel my girdle straps – and with my right hand I grabbed hold of his penis, which was soft but rising quite quickly.

“Pathetic” I said as I began to pump it. As he continued to feel the outline of the straps of my girdle and the tops of my stockings, I went at it with a cold fury, my hand moving very quickly. Without any lubricant or oil – my normal technique – it felt harsh, brutal almost but I carried on almost as if trying to pull it off. After a minute or two he gasped “So good” and swallowed hard but I retorted “Shut up, idiot”. After another minute or so I said “Come on, come on, I haven’t got all day you know” and almost immediately at this point I sensed he was about to climax, so I held my left hand in front of the tip of his cock and he spurted into my palm, followed by another smaller spurt and then another and then his cock began a gentle flow of semen onto my hand.

For me, this was probably the most difficult part of the whole encounter. I pride myself on continuing to stroke cocks after climax, sometimes spending five minutes or more gently ‘warming down’ until the cock is flaccid and I know from feedback that many men find this to be almost as pleasurable as the moment of climax itself, as the waves of their orgasm continue to ripple through their bodies. But not today. So even as his cock continued to ooze ejaculate, I got to my feet and looking at my hand and his semen dribbling down my wrist and arm, said “That is absolutely disgusting” and marched out of the room. I suddenly realised I might have made a tactical error, as never having been in this house before I had no idea where the bathroom or kitchen might be but at the end of his hallway I found myself in an enormous kitchen and quickly managed to rinse his fluid off my hand and arm and washed my right hand too.

He stood at the kitchen door and watched me drying my hands on a tea towel and, doing up his trousers, started to say how wonderful that had been but I just brushed past him and went to collect my coat.

“Won’t you stay and have a drink with me, we can chat about everything”, he said in a rather beseeching voice.

“Don’t be ridiculous” I replied.

I put my coat on and stepped out onto the driveway but then I turned around and looked up at him in his doorway. “Do you know something?”, I asked. He smiled and waited. “You are the only man I have ever met who makes me feel physically sick.”

And with that I was off, into my car and driving away. And do you know what? I felt terrible, guilty at how I had treated him, guilty that I had been in his house for all of ten minutes, guilty that he’d gifted me most generously in advance and yet that was all he got – ten minutes and insults and a rough hand job and a semi ruined orgasm  … and yet, and yet I also felt elated, delighted I had remained ‘in role’ and thrilled at what a callous bitch I had been throughout. And in a way I did despise him, for getting his sexual thrills in this way with his mother-in-law and that this was his most powerful sexual fantasy.

Before I had even got home, he had messaged me to say it had been beyond his greatest hopes, I had been ‘Margaret’ with such accuracy he felt I must have known her or been possessed by her spirit. And he begged to do it again, soon.

*****

But I am left puzzling over something – why did she do it? I can understand why he found it very erotic and her distain for him somehow must have added to his excitement. It’s a power thing and I know from my own experience my husband can find it very exciting when I tell him how pathetic his dick is and I taunt and humiliate him. So I get his part of this relationship.

But what was in it for her? Was she secretly aroused by masturbating her son-in-law, a man she appeared to have despised? Or was it simply her way of controlling and making him feel even more worthless? Perhaps she didn’t dislike him at all and was putting on a front to hide her own powerful attraction to him, secretly hating her daughter instead, for marrying a man she loved for herself but could never have. I asked him if he knew her motivation but he was equally at a loss. I asked if he thought she might have dealt with her husband, his father-in-law, in the same way and he thought this was possible, as he was very much under her thumb and did as he was told. I even asked if he thought it was possible that, secretly, she had been a Masturbatrix, doing hand domination in the same brusque manner with clients. He admitted he’d never even considered this and acknowledged that she always seemed to have plenty of money, but on reflection he was almost certain this could not be the case as “she wasn’t like that” and I knew he meant she wasn’t a sex mad slut like me.

And now she is dead, we will never know why she chose to masturbate her son-in-law at almost every family gathering, dozens and dozens of hand jobs, pumping out his sperm and his seminal fluid and then declaring it to be a disgusting mess and rushing to wash it down the plug hole. Such are the mysteries of human sexuality.

This is a slightly odd post, I know, as it’s really someone else’s story and one in which – as yet – I haven’t done anything of note. But bear with me, as it’s interestingly weird, I think.

I was invited to accompany a gentleman friend to a slightly odd lunch event, held just after Christmas. Each man was expected to bring a ‘glamorous’ lady companion and it seems that this was widely interpreted as meaning an escort, although one man I met there was with his secretary. Just so you have the idea, I’d agreed to wear the exact outfit you see in these photos – including the long gloves and ankle bracelet (save for the fact that I wore a ¼ cup bra and in the photos I’m wearing a white bullet bra).

My gentleman proudly introduced me to a number of other men there and he was fairly open in praising my “hand relief” skills and described me as “a Masturbatrix”, a few times and encouraged those I met to consider making their own arrangements to subsequently meet me, if they desired. And some did very much desire!

One gent who was particularly keen said he had a particular and probably rather peculiar request, which he hoped I would not find off-putting, if we did meet again at a later date. However, he seemed very reluctant to tell me what his particular ‘kink’ was, as he thought I might think him weird.

I joked that if he wanted me to use him as a toilet, the answer was most definitely ‘no’ but he said it was nothing like that, it was simply he’d want me to pretend to be someone else. Intrigued, I tried guessing – schoolgirl, nurse, a celebrity – but he shook his head. “My mother-in-law” he eventually said. He explained that for many years he has had a powerful erotic attraction to this woman and fantasises about her constantly.  I asked if she was aware of this obsession and he laughed a little and said she had died five years ago, yet he still thought about her constantly.

He went on to say that what makes his obsession particularly odd is that she didn’t like him – in fact, it seems she despised him, wished her daughter had never married him and took every opportunity to make her feelings clear. She said he was a waster who would never amount to anything. When in time he built a successful time-share and holiday rental business, she said this just proved he was a crook.

I asked if she had been a sexy lady. He began by saying she wore girdles and corselets and seeing her suspender straps under tight pencil skirts and dresses always greatly aroused him and that she had had a nice figure – big butt and bust is how he put it – but he didn’t think she was overtly sexy and that girdles were just what women wore when she was growing up and she was simply set in her ways and rather old fashioned.

Of course, he was delighted when I told him I have both a white and a black girdle and wear each from time to time and would be happy to do so if we met again or if he took me to a similar social event. And, naturally, he adored the suspender belt straps he could see before him, under my tight, wet-look party dress, which was one reason I had reminded him of Margaret, his mother-in-law, along with the big bust.

And that’s more or less how things were left: we exchanged details and I promised to consider meeting him while role playing his late mother-in-law. And I did want to think about it, as it just felt odd to me that he should be so powerfully aroused by a woman who had obviously disliked him so much and that I was being asked to play the role of a dead woman.

We exchanged some messages and then he told me that everything he had said at the lunch event was true but also incomplete. He’d held back an important detail, as he thought I might either not believe him or it would seem too strange and I would be shocked. I assured him I am pretty much shock proof and of course I was eager to hear this secret but he asked if he could tell me over a drink and so we met in London and after sharing a bottle of Champagne, he opened up about the missing piece of his story. This is what he told me.

When he married, they would alternate between his parents and his wife’s each Christmas. The first year after the wedding, his mother-in-law made clear her distaste for him and even told him to his face that she didn’t like the cashmere sweater he gave her on Christmas morning and suggested he take it back to the shop. Wrong colour, wrong style, wrong buttons, wrong everything.

In the evening, when everyone else had gone to bed, he found himself sat on the sofa next to her, as they finished watching a film on the TV. He said they’d both had a lot to drink and when she made another catty remark, he just told her the truth. He said he knew she didn’t like him, although he had no idea why but nevertheless, he found her an attractive woman and he confessed to his erotic attraction and that he even fantasised about her. He half expected her to slap him but she looked at him and said, “Go on”. So he confessed that this feeling was so powerful that on occasions, when making love to her daughter, he imagined it was her that he was fucking.

He expected her to storm out or slap him but instead she asked, “Are you aroused now?”. When he said he was, somewhat, she said “Show me”. He wasn’t sure what she meant, at first, but when she said, “Show me” and nodded at his crotch he understood. He asked, “Do you mean, get it out?” and she said “Yes. Show me”.

So he unzipped himself and pulled out his cock, at which point she grasped it and began to masturbate him. As she did, she insulted him: not even properly hard, stupid little willy, disgusting, sick, should be ashamed of himself, what would her daughter say … and so on until he gushed over her hand.

She said “There. Look at the mess you have made” and she got up, went into the kitchen and washed her hands and returned to the lounge only to say “I’m off to bed. Goodnight.”

The next day, nothing further was said and that was that, or so he thought. However, it wasn’t. On another occasion when they were otherwise alone at his in-laws, she suddenly said “Right, let’s get this over with” and unzipped him, gave him a rough and furious wank and then held her hand up to his face, his spunk trickling down her arm and said “Look at this disgusting mess” and walked off to wash her hands.

This then became a ‘thing’. He said it wasn’t frequent, as he didn’t see her often – five or six times a year – but each time she masturbated him. On one occasion he decided to see if it could become a regular pleasure and contrived to visit her with some plants for her garden, when he knew she’d be alone. When she opened the door her first words were “You’ve got a bloody nerve, coming here, unannounced” but a few minutes later he was gasping and spurting over her hand again. But when he asked if he could visit her again for more like this she told him no and if he did so she would not open the door to him, so that was the end of that possible avenue.

Nevertheless when I asked him how often she had masturbated him like this he said it must have been well over a hundred times, perhaps as many as two hundred as he’d been married for over thirty years when she died and pretty much each time they met she’d wank him off. He mentioned doing it in her kitchen, in the garden, a church yard and even his car, as places where she’d extracted his seed.

A couple of little details he told me intrigued me. When he ejaculated, she stopped pumping his cock almost immediately and would rush off to wash her hands, almost as if his semen was toxic, as if it genuinely disgusted her. There was no follow though or warming down, it was a case of bang, you’ve cum, now put it away. Another was that on occasions, she grabbed a tea towel and masturbated him onto that and then immediately threw it in the wash. After she’d tossed him off nothing would be said and she continued to let him know that she simply didn’t like or trust him, often ignoring him when he spoke or expressed an opinion about something. All very odd.  

That was his story and I now understood why he wanted a mature woman to replicate this experience for him. And so I told him that I am willing to give this fantasy of his a go. When I told him I though she sounded like she had been an absolute bitch he laughed and said, “That’s why I think you’ll be perfect.”

I will let you know how I get on.

Perhaps I should tell you a little more about humiliating my husband, which is something I really enjoy. In 2010 I informed him that I planned to find a younger black man to service me on a regular basis and that once I did I would no longer be willing to have sex with him. I was attending a club called “Black Lust” which was described as being “for white women wishing to meet black men”, so it didn’t take long and the ban was imposed and has remained in place ever since. I see my black stud once or twice a week and we have the most tremendous sex I’ve ever had, leaving me pounded, stretched, and flooded with his semen.

While I continued to give my husband oral on occasions, the focus switched to me giving him hand relief. After a time, I told him I was no longer willing to have his pathetic dick in my mouth. This was especially humiliating for him, as he knew I continued to give other men – including my boss – oral relief. Being denied a pleasure I give fairly freely to others was painful for him, much to my joy.

However, he enjoyed my hand skills and as he knew that very many men wished to have hand relief sessions with me he suggested I turn professional as a Masturbatrix, devoting one or two days a weeks to pleasuring fee paying clients. I took this as an opportunity to humiliate him further, so I said if this is what he wanted, he could become a client himself. Thereafter, I have made him book an appointment with me if he wants relief and I charge him a fee, albeit I fairly modest £100 per session, as a sort of loyalty discount. I also banned him from masturbating, so his only form of release now is by my gloved hands. I wear disposable latex or other gloves as I can now boast that I have not even touched his penis for some years.

Of course, as I am giving I him ‘relief’ I often take the opportunity to tell him how pathetic his dick is, as is his tiny dribble of semen, how worthless his sperm is and even how I wish I had never met him and had married a well hung black instead. I also describe the fun I have had masturbating and fellating other men and most of all taking by black stud’s massive, thick cock deep inside me during our fucking sessions.

He loves all this of course, the pathetic loser.

As readers of my blog will know, I enjoy giving men “hand relief”, so much so that I sometimes refer to myself as a Masturbatrix. But this wasn’t always the case, because although I wasn’t adverse to giving a man a quick hand job when circumstances required, I was much more likely to drop to my knees and bring them off with my mouth. In fact, I’d go so far as to say I was a prolific cocksucker and giver of blow jobs.

My penchant for oral probably began with my first proper sexual experience, the same day I acquired my first suspender belt and a pair of Aristoc Harmony Point fully fashioned (i.e. seamed) stockings, bought for me by a friend of my father’s and who I sucked off in the back seat of his car that evening, at the tender age of fourteen. When his cock exploded in my mouth and spurted five big gulps of semen into my young mouth, I was hooked. After that evening, and during the summer holidays, he would pop round to our house while my parents were out and I’d be ready for him in gym skirt, stockings and heels. I wasn’t ready for full sex, so I confined myself to blow jobs and he had no complaints about the service he received!

I’ve written elsewhere in this blog about how a couple of years later I found myself sucking off my headmaster. The version of that episode I posted here is somewhat fictionalised and meant to be humorous, but the event was real and although today people would say he abused his position and me for that matter, I’ve no complaints and I enjoyed it, although being caned was sometimes a bit too severe!!

One inevitable question I get asked is do you swallow and my answer is “hell yes”! I love the taste and texture of semen and I gulp it down with glee. Over the 46 years I have been regularly sucking guys off, I must have swallowed hundred perhaps many thousands of pints of semen. Indeed, I like it so much I encourage my men to abstain for as long as they can and to edge themselves before a fellatio session, as this tends to result in much more and much thicker semen.

However, I don’t always swallow. Here’s why. When I was eighteen I was looking through some porn magazines with a boyfriend, and saw some photos of a lady who had ejaculate all over her face and dripping down onto her breasts. I was fascinated! Up until then I’d never thought of taking a facial and no one had suggested I should but now I knew I wanted to. Fortunately, that boyfriend, who was only seventeen, had particularly good volume and a powerful ejaculation, so I suggested he masturbate onto my face, so I could be like the lady in the magazine. He was actually a little reluctant at first, as he said it might make me feel ‘degraded’ which was sweet of him but I told him not to be a pussy and to spunk on me, which he duly did. Suffice to say I got one of the biggest loads I’ve ever had and when I looked in the mirror (with one eye, as the other had a huge glob of spunk on my eye lid) I was stunned and excited, as it looked awesome!

From that day on, the first time I gave a man a blow job I would begin by giving them a choice: cum in my mouth and I’ll swallow all you can offer me; or withdraw and cum on my face and I’ll lick up as much as I can reach with fingers and tongue.

My husband always says that when we met I was ‘casual’ about blow jobs. What he means is that I had a view that if I went for a drink (or to a party or other social occasion) with a man and I went in full ‘gear’ – suspender belt, stockings (often seams but sometimes fishnet or lacy stockings), high heels, top or blouse showing of my tits etc, then I would expect them to be aroused and get hard and that, therefore, it would be unfair to expect them to go home in this state, so I would always offer some form of ‘relief’ even if it was only them wanking onto me in a bus shelter. But, more usually, I’d take them into the pub or restaurant toilets and suck them off. I felt it was almost an obligation on my part.

As you might imagine, I became very popular with the lads in the office where I worked in London and there was always someone who wanted to take me out for a drink. Fridays were always very boozy nights and I’d normally end up on my knees at some point in the evening, gulping down some guy’s seed. And at the staff Christmas party I pretty much had a queue of them waiting to have a dance and feel me up on the dance floor. When I left that company to join another, the lads in the office bought me a pair of knee pads as a ‘joke’ leaving gift, such was my reputation.

My husband has never forgotten (or stopped talking about) the first Christmas party I went to after we got married, when I returned home in the early hours, so drunk I could barely stand up in my heels and woke him up to declare “I’ve got spunk from two different men in my tummy and now I want yours”. He tells me – I don’t remember that much about this night – that although I could hardly walk and my speech was badly slurred, I gave him a very proficient blow job while he told me what a filthy slag I was. He says this was “muscle memory” because I’d already done thousands of blow jobs by this time, it was now almost automatic.

Before we married and occasionally thereafter, I did a bit of erotic modelling for amateur photographers who were usually stockings and heels fanatics, although big boobs and fetish gear were also sometimes themes. Again, I never thought it would be fair to send them packing when the photos were done without some form of ‘relief’. I’d got into what is sometimes called “wet modelling” which means the photographer or photographers are permitted to ejaculate on the model and will often take additional photos of the splattered woman. I really enjoyed having guys gush on me like this but from time to time more was requested and in the right circumstances I was happy to get on my knees and bring them off into my mouth – or over my face or tits if they preferred to end their blow job in this way.

I think many of my readers and admirers will know I’ve been into aspects of ‘cheeky barter’ for many, many years. Indeed, I have built up a reasonable list of men – mainly tradesmen like plumbers, electricians, builders etc but also some professionals such as accountants and the like – who are willing to trade work for sexual pleasure. These days it is pretty much entirely payment with hand relief but in the past I would often (perhaps I should say usually or almost always) offer oral relief in return for work done. Shortly before I married, we bought a modest house in Wimbledon and had a new kitchen installed. Naturally, we paid for the kitchen itself and all of the appliances but the fitter – an absolutely gorgeous black man, by the way – didn’t charge a penny for his labour. Instead, each evening when I returned from work, he’d be waiting for me and I’d give him a nice, sloppy, deep throat blow job. 

My willingness to dress up in the outfit of their choice and drop to my knees and swallow all they could offer became so well known amongst the tradesmen in our area that I began to receive direct approaches from men offering to do jobs for me free of charge and I even had one cheeky chap who knocked on our door and offered his services in return for mine. Another one who had done some work for me previously, even more cheekily, turned up to do a job accompanied by his young apprentice and suggested I should blow them both, one after the other. I thought that was a bit rude – what sort of girl did he think I was? – so he was dropped from the roster.

As you all know my useless husband has had the pleasure of watching me with other men. But if asked he would tell you that, for him, the ultimate sexual pleasure is watching me sucking another man off, or rather the crucial moment when a man starts to groan with pleasure, as his cock spurts into my mouth and he can see me gulping down their seed. Seeing me wearing a big smile with my thick, bright scarlet lipstick smeared all over my mouth and perhaps a string or two of semen dangling from my lips – he says it doesn’t get any better than that.

On a few occasions I’ve also had my boss and, previously, a local businessowner I used to see, phone him while I’ve been giving oral. My husband liked hearing me slobbering away and gagging on cock but he absolutely loved the moment when Chris, my boss, said he was about to ejaculate in my mouth and asked if that was OK.

This blog has already become far too long and I haven’t yet covered many topics and experiences I had which I could write about: for example a party where I did a lot of oral, the time my husband ‘caught’ me in the toilets at a swingers’ club, sucking off a black and also the subject of ‘forced oral’ (or oral rape) and also being throat fucked and the like. But time to draw this one to a close for now.

p.s. a quick plug for my videos: amongst the 104 available to view, there are many of me providing oral relief and in some I am wearing a clip on microphone, so you can hear me slobbering away on cock and in one I’m giving deep throat, so gagging and choking on a nice rock hard, thick cock being pushed down my throat. If you’d like access all I ask in return is a pair of fully fashioned stockings (using a simple online voucher, details of which I can explain if you’re interested).

We can probably all agree that charity is a good thing and so raising money for charities is also a good thing. But there are as many ways to raise money as there are charities, or so it seems. Some people do a sponsored walk, some bake cakes and others, mad souls that they are, choose to run a marathon or cycle from London to Brighton or from Lands End to John o’ Groats.

I’ve been asked to say a few words about a charity related lunch I attended. I’ll try to keep this brief (and by the way, this was many years ago).

I was one of several ladies asked to help at a charity lunch in London. I don’t remember the exact words but we were asked to dress ‘glamorously” or ‘sexily’ or something similar, as the idea was we would go to each table asking for cash donations (yes people carried cash back then!), soliciting bids for auction items and selling raffle tickets and it was mainly a business i.e. male audience.

I wore the tight dress you see in these photos with a very deep suspender belt, seamed stockings, high heels (and no bra!).

There was a lot of flirting and sexy banter as we extracted the donations and I probably got most attention because of my outfit. At one table a gent was about to put £5 in my cash bucket but said he’d increase that to £50 if I sat on his knee. Well, it was for charity (any excuse) so I was happy to oblige. He had a good feel of my suspender belt and straps under my dress and he was sort of moving me back and forth on his lap and I could feel his erection against my backside. I didn’t let that go on for too long and said something along the lines if he wanted more of the same he’d need to be equally generous in buying the raffle tickets.

At the end of the event he came over to me and said he thought I looked stunning and he adored my dress and especially my stockings and asked if I’d be willing to have lunch or dinner with him.  When I hesitated, he said he’d give £500 if I wore the same outfit, for me to keep for myself if I wished. I took his details and said I’d think about it.

Long story short, turns out he owns a huge estate in Surrey and when I said my husband might have to accompany me, he assured me I’d be quite safe as he had staff there who would serve our meal, so in the end I agreed to lunch. My husband drove me there as I’d already confessed my weakness for Champagne and he took these photos before I went into the house (or should I say mansion). I’ll admit now I was feeling very sexy and I knew what I was going to do and perhaps what was expected of me.

We had Champagne and as he showed me round his hands were frequently on my back and I knew he was feeling my suspender belt, so to make things easier I told him to go ahead and have a feel and his hands were then everywhere, feeling my suspender belt, my stocking tops and squeezing my tits. I felt his erection and asked if he’s like me to take care of it for him. I dropped to my knees, unzipped him and he quickly came in my mouth.

We joked about my pre-lunch appetiser as we enjoyed a lovely meal – and it was served by his staff who must have wondered who the tart was but said nothing. When we’d finished, I phoned my husband to come and collect me but as we were almost saying our goodbyes, his hands were all over me again and perhaps because I’d had a lot to drink, one thing led to another and … well, another blow job, so my husband was sat outside in the car on the drive waiting for me, while his wife performed fellatio for the second time.

My lunch companion later invited me to stay the night at his house and also offered to take me on holiday with him to his house in Florida and substantial incentives were offered but I decided against and we didn’t meet again.

I mentioned in my last blog (https://wordpress.com/post/ladyinseams.home.blog/353) that when I had a meeting with my young friend who likes me to role play being his “mum”, I took a taxi from Waterloo station to the hotel in Bloomsbury where we were due to meet and had an interesting conversation with the cab driver.

He was one of those ‘old boy’ East-end characters we get driving taxis in London and must have been well into his 70’s, maybe late 70s even. Nevertheless, he had a sharp eye, because after I got into the taxi and sat down – long coat opening in the process – he asked if I was going to a wedding at the hotel.

I told him I wasn’t but asked why he thought I might be and he explained that he’d spotted by “wonderful stockings” when I was stood in the queue and thought perhaps they were for a special occasion, given how infrequently he gets to see seams like mine in his cab these days. So, naturally, we had a brief chat about fully fashioned stockings and suspender belts and I opened up my coat so he got a better view.

“So what is the special occasion today, then?” he asked. I told him it wasn’t really a special occasion but that I was meeting a friend, staying at the hotel, who likes me in seamed stockings and high heels.

He immediately picked up on the fact that I had referred to him as a ‘lad’ and asked what this lad had done to earn a vision like me and how old he was. Now here was my dilemma: how much to say? Do I tell him this man is just 24 and that I’m 58 (as I was then)? Do I say I’m old enough to be his mother? Or do I go all in and tell him I’m not only old enough to be his mother but I’m expected to pretend I am his mother, and that shortly I would be masturbating him? On the other hand (excuse the pun), I didn’t feel able to say nothing, as by this point he probably thought I was a prostitute – after all I was dressed like one!

I wasn’t sure how far to take this so I just laughed and said “He’s a lot younger than me”.

“Lucky lad” he replied. But then he said he’d noticed I had a wedding ring. “Hope you don’t mind me asking, but you separated? Divorced?” he asked.

“No, happily married” I replied. Oh Lord, how to explain? There was an awkward silence and I felt his disapproval. So I added, “It’s okay, my husband knows I’m seeing him.”

There was another silence and he said “Oh, one of those marriages, is it?”

“Sort of” was my rather lame reply. As we edged through the traffic past Holborn tube station, I suddenly fell compelled towards full confessional mode. Well, almost. I told him I was not meeting this ‘lad’ for sex, not full sex anyway but that I was planning to give him “hand relief” and that I liked doing it and did it quite frequently and with other men too and I even found myself explaining what a Masturbatrix is.

“Masturbatrix” he said, almost savouring the word. “I’ve never heard that one before and I’ve heard most things in my time, believe me”, he said with a big chuckle.

I wondered what he would have said if I’d told him that I would shortly be pretending to be this young man’s mother and that we were due to act out his incest fantasy, with me masturbating him and encouraging my ‘son’ to ejaculate all over my breasts. I decided against that level of disclosure.

As we pulled up outside the hotel he gave me his card and said “Call me when you’re ready to head home. I’d like to hear how you get on”. And with that he wished me a wonderful day and drove off. I’m sure he was shaking his head in amazement.

I’ve written here before (see https://wordpress.com/post/ladyinseams.home.blog/80) about a young man I met in 2019 who has a very particular fantasy, namely sexual attraction to and interaction with an imaginary mother. When he first proposed this scene to me I tried to talk him out of it, as it held no appeal for me and it felt rather deeply weird. However, one thing led to another and I tried it and – to my complete surprise, I really enjoyed it.

Since then we have got together from time to time and acted out various scenarios which he proposes. He is a very flamboyant individual, very theatrical and he enjoys setting a scene and even sketching out lines of dialogue for us both to follow. In addition to particular scenarios, which always end with me giving my ‘son’ firm ‘hand relief’ we have been shopping together and been out socially too.

When we have been shopping or in a bar I’ll admit there have been times when I wasn’t sure if my sense of embarrassment was greater than my desire to just laugh out loud at some of the things he says and does.

For example, while shopping for shoes and lingerie in Soho – me in leather skirt, seamed stockings, 5 inch heels, and very heavy make up (he likes his ‘mum’ to look like a cheap tart!) – in a very loud voice he said things like “Oh mum, you’d look great in this” very loudly, while holding up a corset and “Mum, do you think your boyfriend would like you in these?” pointing to a pair of thigh length patent boots with stripper heels. He even held up a huge black dildo and said, “I know you’d really like one of these, wouldn’t you mum?” and then asked if my boyfriend’s cock is bigger than that.

In a bar in Covent Garden, he began stroking my satin skirt, feeling the suspender belt straps which were clearly on display and saying how sexy this felt but all the time referring to me as his mother at every opportunity and saying how lucky his father is to have such a sexy wife. On one occasion he made a loud comment about how magnificent by bust looked in a low cut top and said it was no wonder so many men were after his mum.  To say we got some odd looks would be a considerable understatement!

However, the scenario I wanted to write about here was one which involved me visiting him one Saturday morning at a hotel in Bloomsbury, in London. I suggested I get changed at the hotel but he insisted, no, I had to travel by train into Waterloo and then take a taxi in my full ‘work’ uniform, namely leather mini skirt, seamed stockings and heels, a diamante ankle bracelet and a tight white top over a black quarter cup bra, “ready for action”. Needless to say I wore a long coat over that lot or I might never have made it to his hotel!

The scenario he had painted was that he was a young man in London on business and, bored and lonely in his hotel room, he’d phoned an escort agency. He’d specifically asked for a mature, busty lady who must be wearing seamed stockings and high heels  and as a special request he’d like her to have glossy red lips, as this lady was there to perform oral.

There’s no denying, I was excited when I got to the hotel (I’d had an interesting conversation with the cab driver but that’s another story for another day). I went up to his room and after removing my coat and tweaking my nipples to make sure they were rock hard and showing like bullets beneath my top, I knocked on his door. Of course, the script then required that when he opened the door and I saw my client was my own son I had to say “Simon!” in a shocked tone and he had to say “Mum! What are you doing here?!!”

Then we each had to explain our respective roles – he’d called for an escort and asked for a mummy lookalike character and I had to reveal I’d been doing some escort work to earn some extra cash.

I asked him why he wanted a call girl and he told me he couldn’t stop fantasising about me and wanting to fuck his mum. In turn, I explained, I liked meeting different men and giving them hand relief, while not denying the money is good and it allowed for one or two luxuries and helped cover the cost of all my fully fashioned stockings, heels and lingerie.

My ‘son’ was completely shocked (according to his script) by this revelation and wanted to know – in some detail – what I did with these men and I told him I was primarily a Masturbatrix, offering busty hand relief sessions and some domination services. Did I enjoy it, he asked. I love it I told him: I often have an orgasm while masturbating a client, especially if they pull or suck my boobs, I added.

“Does dad know?” he asked.

“Of course he does. We have no secrets. He loves me doing escort work – in fact sometimes he drives me to meet punters and he wants me to do more”.

But then I told him I didn’t want him associating with escorts and call girls and the likes. They have pimps, I told him, you could be robbed. And some of the girls, they’re crack addicts, they’ll do anything and you could get a venereal disease or worse.

This was the key moment in the script, because he asked what he is expected to do, when he can’t shake off his overwhelming sexual desire, for me, his mother. My response – as you can probably predict – was to say that if it kept him away from prostitutes, I was willing to give him hand relief and satisfy his urges this way, so he no longer had to waste his money on whores. “I’ll be your whore” I said “No need for a substitute when you can have the real thing”.

He asked if oral was an option but I explained that while mummy was happy to masturbate him – onto her chest if he liked – she would not be putting her son’s cock in her mouth. “Even your dad doesn’t get to do that” I told him.

I so we moved on from the dialogue to the action.  I donned my signature glossy latex gloves and after he removed his trousers and pants I squirted his erection with Liquid Silk and got to work, but nice and slowly. As he began to approach climax, I explained I’d have to stop and remove my top as I had not brought any spare clothing (after all, I’d been expecting to give my punter a blow job) and I knew he was likely to shoot a huge load on me and I made the interval last a few minutes so he softened a little and then I got back to work and told him I wanted him to glaze my tits.

He asked if he could suckle on my tits as I stroked him and with a bit of adjustment in positions, I was able to lean over him, get by breasts in his face and still stroke him. I couldn’t resist a bit of an ad lib, saying it was just like when he was a baby and I used to breast feed him and as he sucked and slurped on them, I was close to orgasm but before I could cum I sensed him close to his climax so I knelt back down and told him I wanted all his semen all over my big tits  and at that his cock exploded and shot his fluid all over my neck and breasts. I managed to keep stroking him, extracting every last drop of sperm and semen but as his climax slowly ebbed away, I shoved my tits back in his face and just said “Suck” and as he did so I managed to trigger my own wonderful, body shaking orgasm, which nearly caused me to topple over, as my body focussed on the muscle spasms in my vagina.

He wanted me to stay and have some drinks with him in the hotel bar, no doubt embarrassing me by shouting about me being his mum, with me dressed like a street prostitute. But I decided on another bit of ad libing: “Sorry love but I’ve got another punter waiting for me in Claridge’s.”

He asked what was on the menu with this man. I looked at the schedule on my phone (so many men, it’s hard to remember). “He’s getting oral – full cum in mouth service. And before you ask, yes, I will be swallowing”.

“Oh mum, you’re such a whore, aren’t you?”

And with that I was off, in reality off home to my husband who I knew was waiting to hear all about how our boy was and what I’d been up to that morning, while I stroked him off yet again.

Delighted to say this blog had 547 views last week alone. In October last year it had almost 1,800 views – lets see if we can beat that this month! Spread the word!!!! Remember, it’s 100% free.

We did it! In October 2022 this blog received 1,922 visits, comfortably higher (over 9%) than the previous highest month, October 2021 when we had 1,759 visits.

The first year that I started writing this blog, I had 340 views. This year, 2022, it’s approaching 14,000! Thank you all for viewing and especially those who add comments.

I am sometimes asked what the difference is between a hand job, ‘hand relief’ and ‘hand domination’.  I can only say what each of those terms means to me. To me there is a clear distinction between the first two but less clear difference between ‘hand relief’ and ‘hand domination’. 

With a hand job the aim is to make the man cum and to do so quickly, without a lot of build-up, delay or tease. There’s a time and place for hand jobs. Say I meet a man in a pub and I decide I want him to cum and we go outside to the car park. There are people around so it’s risky. In this situation I’ll unzip him and go for it. Strong, fast, determined strokes, my hand a blur as he approaches climax and very quickly we reach the magical moment where his sperm is pouring over my hand and onto the ground. Job done and all in a matter of a couple of minutes. I’ve done this is bus shelters, shop doorways, trains, cinemas, the changing room in a department store, once on a aircraft, in cars … you name it and there’s a good chance I’ve wanked a guy off there.

For me hand relief is very different. First, as the word ‘relief’ suggests the subject is usually almost bursting with untapped semen and sperm. I will often have asked that he abstain from climaxing for as long as he reasonably can, often two weeks or more. I also encourage them to edge themselves each day, as this seems to promote the generation of even more sperm and creates lovely thick, white semen.

My approach to the ‘task in hand’ is to wear gloves (usually), to lubricate the cock with baby oil or lube and then to slowly build the strokes until the cock owner is approaching climax. I will then often slow it down or even stop altogether if necessary. Then I build them back up again. And down. And up again and so on. Even with a cock that’s not ejaculated for two weeks or more, in anticipation of our session, I can easily make this last for half an hour or more, as I’m very skilled at it. I’ll sometimes make them beg for release. When they are finally allowed to climax it’s usually very, very powerful and the force of ejaculation often results in their semen spurting over my cleavage and hands. Getting the first few plumes of sperm over my lips, chin and neck is not that unusual either. I’ve provided thousands of hand relief sessions, so I’m extremely experienced.

Another very important difference between a hand job and hand relief is what happens immediately after ejaculation. With a hand job there’s usually not much time to hang around, so cleaning up the mess and zipping him up is often the next step. With hand relief, I like to continue to stroke the erect penis for quite a long time, sometimes over ten minutes. I think the mistake a lot of women make is to think “there, you’ve cum, that’s it” but the reality is that long, slow strokes prolong the pleasure for the man and I know from the feedback I get from my cock owners is that this is almost as pleasurable as the moment of climax itself. So come on ladies – keep stroking, tell them how much you enjoyed it, how wet it’s made you, how you loved their ejaculate shooting over your cleavage or pouring down your hand or, if it’s your husband, tell him that his cock is pathetic, that hand relief is all he will get in future and that you’re off to meet a real man who will fuck you senseless and satisfy you in a way he never can.

Hand domination is very similar but here I might stop altogether and cancel the session, simply to demonstrate that I will decide if and when the man can ejaculate. I may also mock his small penis or lack of firm erection. Making them beg for release is a joy and I have sometimes reduced men to tears because the frustration has become too much for them. If feeling particularly cruel I may start but stop and demand they perform some favour for me before I finish them off. On occasions, I’ve done some online shopping for heels and stockings using their credit card. I also sent one gent to the shops to get me some items before finishing him off on his return, desperate, humiliated and totally under my control.

And of course the outfit can be different if domination is part of the mix – more leather or PVC for example, perhaps whips or riding crops as part of the visual stimuli and lovely patent boots – knee length or thigh length add a certain something to the occasion.

I’m pleased to say that after hand relief or some hand domination, many men have told me that it was the most intense orgasm they have every experienced and most are so completely drained of seminal fluid that they are unable to ejaculate again for some time.

One gentleman told me earlier this year that the experience had been life changing for him, as he no longer wishes to have full sex with a woman, preferring to teach her the art of hand relief and now only cums by the hand. I felt proud of that.

p.s. if you are interested in hand relief, you will almost certainly love my videos. There are 104 of them and in 52 of them I am providing hand relief, usually wearing gloves and in almost all in seams and high heels (in a few I’m in tight leather trousers), uniforms, leather, PVC etc. To gain access I do ask for a pair of stockings in return (using a very simple online gift card) but with many hours of home made material, well worth it I believe. Ask if interested.

If you’ve read my previous blog posts you will know I do some work for a business which deals in luxury used cars. Mostly I help host occasional drinks events where we show some of the cars and I also take customers for test drives and sometimes collect them from a hotel or the airport and so forth. I’m not paid a salary, and rely largely on commission, although Dave, the owner, does give me something each time I help at one of the drinks events.

Dave absolutely loves the way I look and he asked me to help his business because he firmly believes that when it comes to wealthy clients and luxury cars, sex sells and he has a very fixed idea of what I should wear – tight leather look or wet look trousers, tight white tops with a quarter cup bra supporting my 40E cup bust or sometimes very low-cut tops showing an acre of cleavage and the highest heels I can walk in without toppling over.

A while back at one of our drinks receptions I met Ross, a charming gentleman about my age who was absolutely fascinated seeing by 40E bust held up by a black PVC quarter cup bra under a tight white top and he hold me exactly that and asked if we could meet again. I took his details and later sent him some photos of the ‘busty’ variety, as he had confessed to being a big boobs fanatic.

After a bit of back-and-forth communications, he made a proposal: he asked that I come to his club in central London, wearing the same outfit I was wearing when we met at our drinks event and he’d take me around and introduce me to some of the other members, who he thought would be interested to meet me.  Then he proposed we’d retire to a private room where I could tit wank him.  I was a bit anxious about the last part, not at the idea of giving a tit wank, which is something I’ve always enjoyed, but at doing it in a club rather than a private house or hotel but he assured me the room locked from the inside and there was no CCTV, so it would be totally private.

He sent a car to collect me, which also waited to take me home. I was nervous, I’ll admit and I had not fully appreciated was how much it meant to him to ‘show me off’ or, one might say, parade me around. Not only did he introduce me to some of the men there, but he also he specifically commented upon what he called my “magnificent bust” and when he introduced me to two particular friends he described me as something of a Masturbatrix and after we chatted about what one called “hand therapy” and which I called “hand relief” both expressed interest in meeting me subsequently for ‘treatment’.

After they’d had a good look and a bit of dirty chat with me, Ross took me off to the private room and there I removed my top and bra and, after putting some lube on his cock and between my boobs I got to work and wrapped my tits around his erection. I am very fortunate to have extremely sensitive breasts and nipples and I can often achieve orgasm from having them squeezed or pulled, licked or sucked and, indeed, I sometimes find it difficult to get to orgasm unless my tits are receiving such treatment. Consequently, while I knew my job was to tit wank him, I was already turned on from being paraded around and the earlier dirty chat, so as I worked on his cock, I was rapidly closing in on my own climax. Fortunately, just seconds after I managed to gasp that I was about to cum his cock began to spurt and as the sensations crashed through my body, I felt the familiar sensation of thick ropes of semen hitting my chin and neck and I was soon proudly wearing a beautiful pearl necklace.

He was absolutely blown away by the fact that I had orgasmed while tit wanking him and he couldn’t wait to arrange another session with me. However, his desire to show me off – or maybe I should say, to show off my tits – seemed even more important to him than being tit wanked again.

He asked me to meet him in a pub wearing a white body stocking under a little jacket (as you can see me wearing in the photo here) and his idea was we’d go to a pub and after I’d had a few drinks to relax myself, I’d take off my jacket and let everyone in the pub have a good look at my big boobs. I would loved to have agreed to this as I am a shameless exhibitionist and the idea did excite me and I wanted to please him but it was just too much for me to do. I suggested some alternative tops, still very daring I thought, but he was unimpressed and we dropped the idea.

Then he changed tack and asked that we meet privately, and me to wear a satin blouse without a bra. When we met, he got me to sit on a chair and stood behind me and began squeezing my boobs and pulling my nipples, though the blouse. I knew in advance this was his plan but I hadn’t realised he wanted to squeeze so hard and pull me so roughly. Although it was extremely erotic and I was building to orgasm it was also quite painful and I asked him to be a little gentler with me but he carried on like this.

I was panting and moaning and he said, “You’re going to cum, aren’t you?” and I manged to mumble “yes” just before I did so, a great big crashing wave of orgasm washing over me. As I was trying to lift my head and focus – the room had gone a bit blurred – he stood in front of me and stroking himself released a series of quite thick ropes of creamy white semen all over the front of my blouse, later handed to my husband to be dry cleaned!)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I laugh. “No, not yet.”

“Please.”

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

“I need …”

“I want to hear you beg. Beg for it.”

He begins to plead with me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop it you bastard!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh God, yes” I pant.

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

“Oh no, Jesus, yes, yes …”

“You want to be gang banged?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some time ago I had a popular Yahoo photo group (with over 25,000 members!) and the discussion turned to the subject of verbal abuse, which I admitted I find quite a big turn on, especially when I’m sucking a guy off. This raised a lot of interest and I started a competition: the men to send me the things they’d like to be able to say to me while I was bringing them off with my mouth, the winner to get the opportunity to say it all to me face to face. This was the winning entry I selected:

“Down on your knees your dirty slut”

I ram it down her throat. She’s an experienced whore and immediately breathes through her nose and takes my full 8 inches down to the hilt. But there’s a look of panic in her eyes when I pinch her nose shut and the air is cut off.  She starts to pull back, to free her throat of the blockage. But I’ve paid good money for this session and I’m determined to get value for my money and I grab the back of her neck and hold her there.  Her face begins to redden and she’s now choking. Her gag reflex – almost trained out of her from decades of oral and deep throat action – begins to kick back in and tries to cough my cock up out of her throat.

I don’t want her to puke so I get her slip back and she gasps for air.

“Take it easy, you bastard” she says with some venom.

“Shut up you stupid tart and suck my cock, you filthy old whore” I tell her.

She gets to work.  She knows if she wants any repeat business from me she has to satisfy my needs.  But she’s good – my God, she’s good at this!

“That’s so good” I tell her.  Her head is bobbing rhythmically in a steady beat, getting ever so slightly faster with each slide to the bottom and back up to the top of my shaft.

“You fucking slut. You big-titted slag.  You love doing this don’t you?  How many men have come in your mouth I wonder? Is it hundreds?” She doesn’t respond.  “IS IT?” I almost shout.

She mumbles her assent.

“More than five hundred?” She waves a hand side to side.  So about five hundred.

“God, think of all the cock you’ve sucked and all the spunk you’ve swallowed over the years, you filthy street walker.  Gallons of it!  What a dirty old trollop you are. You dirty slag, with your big tits and your stockings and your slutty high heels. You cock sucking whore. Do your parents know what you do? I bet your mum and dad would be proud of you, if they knew their lovely little girl had grown up to be a part-time prostitute.   Doing tricks in the afternoons to earn a bit of extra cash.  Oh yes, they’d be really pleased with the way you’d turned out wouldn’t they? A cock sucking, cum guzzling whore.  Do you think they’d like that?”

She doesn’t look too pleased with my verbal commentary. Her pace has slowed.  Too bad – I’m paying top dollar and I can say what I like.

“That’s it, suck it now. You dirty old tart. You busty slut. You like that name don’t you?  Proud of your big knockers, eh?  Fucking whore.  Dirty old slag.  Do your children know this is where the money for their birthdays and Christmas present comes from?  Do you think they’d be pleased about it?  Proud of their mummy working so hard to earn the money for all the things they want? Even if the work involves spending much of her day on her knees sucking strangers’ cocks and swallowing their spunk? Oh yes, I’m sure they’d be proud of their mummy and they’d tell everyone at school that their mum is a hooker”.

She keeps working away with her mouth and her tongue but she looks up at me and there are tears in her eyes.

Seeing her bright red lipstick smeared all over her face and her head bobbing away in a frantic rhythm I know I’m close to coming, and I start to shoot two weeks’ worth of spunk into her mouth. As I climax I let fly with a final volley of abuse “I’m coming in your dirty whore mouth, you fucking tart, swallow the lot …. go on swallow it all you big-titted old slag, oh yes, you cock sucking, cum gulping slut”.

I stand back to admire the mess – lipstick smeared all over her face, strings of semen hanging from her chin.  But she’s quickly cleaning up with a wet wipe and reapplying her scarlet lipstick in big thick layers.

“Sorry to have to hurry you love” she says “But I’ve got another two punters waiting for their blow jobs before the kids get back from school”.

“OK – I’ll see you next week then” I say as I’m pushed towards the door “You busty old slut”

p.s. the photos are NOT of me!

I was in a nightclub in my home town when I met Norman. I can’t remember if I was sixteen or seventeen but I know I was still in school. It was the fashion back then for girls to wear very slim pencil skirts – usually black – with a slit at either or both thighs and on a Friday or Saturday night these were often worn with fishnet or seamed stockings. A flash of creamy thigh and stocking top wasn’t always on show but they weren’t rare either.

I’d noticed Norman eying me while I was stood at the bar and he came over and introduced himself. He was old – I mean really, really old at least to my teen eyes, older than my parents, too old to be in a nightclub, I thought. But he bought me a drink and we chatted and then another and we chatted more and he had a little feel of my suspenders and stocking tops and when I went to leave, he took my number and I took his and we agreed we’d meet again and he’d take me for a drive down to the coast in the rather fancy car he owned.

At that age, being driven anywhere, in any car seemed to me to be about as sexy as it could get!  We went down to the coast one Saturday afternoon and “had a fiddle” and then we began seeing each other from time to time.  He’d park around the corner so my parents wouldn’t see him and they thought I was seeing someone my own age, so didn’t think too much of it when I left the house in heavy make-up, high heels and stockings.

Norman was in the habit of giving me little gifts and he took me shopping and if I wanted something – a new top or some shoes – he’d offer to pay or he’d refund me if I’d splashed out on an outfit he liked. Like most men he was a stockings fanatic and he insisted I wear a suspender belt, seamed stockings and high heels when we got together but as I wore them much of the time anyway this was not a big deal for me and we’d park up, often at the coast looking out to sea and he’d have a little feel and then I’d toss him off. On one occasion I decided to show myself off in some new silver skin tight shiny lycra trousers which were all the rage and although he was disappointed at first, he got me to bend over the bonnet and rubbed himself up and down my backside until he ejaculated on me. Made quite a mess and when I couldn’t wash the stain out completely, he bought me two new pairs – silver and red.

But Norman had a peculiar little kink, because he ‘got off’ on being verbally abused. And not the usual ‘what a pathetic little dick you have’, which is quite common with a lot of men. I did do a bit of that but Norman’s kink was a bit more ‘specific’ or niche: he liked me to tell him what a dirty old man he was. In fact, he absolutely loved that and he’d often suggest the lines I might say, although I needed little direction.

I’d unzip him and pull out his erection, and as I began to wank him, I’d start.

“You’re a dirty old man, aren’t you?”

“You’re disgusting. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Sometimes he’d join in and agree with me. “I know, you’re right, I’m sorry”.

“You’re a filthy old pervert.”

“You make me sick.”

“You’re no better than a kiddie fiddler, aren’t you?”.

“You’re a dirty, disgusting old pervert, aren’t you?”

“I am, I’m so sorry …”

“Shut up you filthy sicko”.

“Going around corrupting children, I’m still a schoolgirl you know”.

“I know, I know I can’t help it. You’ve such lovely big tits”

“It’s barely legal what you’re doing.  Men like you should be locked up.”

“Forcing me to do this with your stupid little dick, it’s disgusting.”

“You turn my stomach, you sick old wanker”.

“I’m going to tell my dad about you, have you locked up …”

It would be at about this point he’d shoot his thick spermy load over my hand. But my fun didn’t end there. I’d express disgust at having his ejaculate all over my hands and make him wipe it off quickly, while his cock was still throbbing from his climax.

Then it would be my turn to lean back in the car seat and let his fingers do most of the talking, although he enjoyed his own running commentary about my body, my outfit and, most of all, my own sexual morals.  Or should I say lack thereof?

Those who know me today will know I’m a bossy woman – a dominant, strict, demanding bitch, standing for no nonsense. I also take pleasure in hurting and humiliating weak and pathetic men – and there are plenty of those around!

But what they may not know is that it wasn’t always this way. In fact, my first sexual feelings and fantasies were all about powerful men, often ‘forcing’ me to do things for them. Sometimes, in my imagination, it was groups of men, just using me for their pleasure. Why was it this way? Who knows where any of our sexual drives and fantasies arise from but for me one part of it was being released from any sense of guilt – if this brute makes me do this or forces himself on me, it’s not my fault, is it?

Being forced, being tied up, being punished and used, these were all fantasies of mine from a very young age, just 12 or 13. When I had my first boyfriend, I’d get him to tie me up and spank me before he ‘forced’ me to give him oral or brought himself off between my breasts. He’d also tie me to the bed and leave me for a little while before returning to punish and be beastly to me.

Once I left university and moved to London to work, I got into this theme even further, so much so that I reached a point where I couldn’t orgasm unless I was spanked or whipped first. Perhaps that’s putting it too strongly – I found it much easier to orgasm and do so quickly and intensely if I was first restrained and/or punished. I bought handcuffs and a leg spreader, riding crops, whips and canes and a leather dog collar and leash, and used scarves and ties as gags and blindfolds.

I don’t remember who first suggested I try a club called Moonglow, “The club for the sophisticated spanking enthusiast and connoisseur of the spanked female bottom”. I wrote to them and asked if I could attend one of their parties and some weeks later found myself at the back of a hall with about sixty or so men all on chairs facing a stage and three women who had been hired for the afternoon and who were brought onto the stage one by one, told how naughty they were and then a small group of men was invited onto the stage and took turns spanking these women (I think the way it worked is the men paid to attend and those who paid a premium could then spank the women).

I asked if I could go on stage too – I’d worn a pleated skirt, a suspender belt and fully fashioned (seamed) stockings and five-inch heels especially in anticipation of doing so – but the reaction I received was rather cool. I thought they’d be delighted to have a girl who was genuinely into being spanked and didn’t require payment, volunteering to go on stage and take a spanking but they seemed rather suspicious of my motives.

After a bit of humming and hawing, I was eventually invited up to the front, bent over a chair and three gents came on stage and took turns to make my backside glow. Two were quite tame but the third really went for it and was spanking me so hard his glasses fell off, at which the audience roared with laughter.

Afterwards I was chatting to one of the other women there – mid forties, blonde, quite chubby but very nice looking and a few of the gents joined us and were asking how I felt (hugely turned on was my answer) and one asked if I did private parties. The woman said something along the lines of oh, you must, great fun and she rubbed her fingers together suggesting the money was good. As a twenty-something straight out of college, saving for a car and a flat and more than happy to be spanked, I said sure, why not and so one of the gents took me to one side, explained what he enjoyed doing, suggested a fee which seemed very fair or even generous and asked if I was free the next weekend.

And that’s how I found myself, one Sunday lunchtime, in a flat in Tooting, in gym skirt, seams, heels, white blouse and school tie. Robert – late 40’s but doing a good impression of a much older man – was in a tweedy suit, checked shirt, regimental tie and polished brown brogues. I made the mistake of congratulating him for getting into his character’s uniform – he wanted to do a naughty schoolgirl and headmaster scenario – but it turned out this was his normal style of dress and it was only when he put on an academic gown and mortar board hat that he was ‘in uniform’.

Robert explained a sort of ‘problem’ which was that he didn’t feel able to really get into a spanking scenario unless he genuinely felt the woman was wayward and would actually benefit from a hard spanking, so he proposed we have a little chat and he asked me questions: was I a virgin? Had I ever performed fellatio? Did I enjoy it? Did I swallow the ejaculate? Had I ever had sexual relations with an older man?  With more than one man in the same week? (he looked shocked when I replied I’d had sex with more than one man in the same room!).  He even asked if I had ever asked for or received payment for providing sexual services, in response to which I pointed out he was paying to spank me, so he should know!

He seemed genuinely angry with me for that reply and so the conclusion from my interrogation was that even at my tender age I was a fallen woman intent on leading innocent men astray and therefore I needed to be taught a lesson, delivered through a firm spanking.

So, over his knee I went, skirt lifted and my lesson began. As he spanked me, he muttered things and I remember some of them as they all seemed so old fashioned. I was used to being called all sorts of names but with each strike from his hands he said things like“jezebel”, “trollop”, “brazen hussy”, “harlot” “strumpet”, “tart” and “scrubber” and even “jailbait” and there was some French, which I think was “fille de joie”. 

Although it wasn’t too hard, I nevertheless pleaded for mercy and pretended to sob with the pain and shame which seemed to greatly add to his pleasure, judging from his erection, and after about ten minutes of this my cheeks were glowing and I knew I wouldn’t be sitting down on the tube on the way home.

At this point he asked me to stand up and bend over the back of a dining chair and produced a cane saying, “Time for six of the best”. I protested, as this had not been part of our arrangement as we’d only discussed spanking and caning is quite a different matter, but after his wallet came out and the terms of our agreement suitably modified, I resumed the position with his promise that there would be only six strokes and not too severe at that. Well, the cane really did bring tears to my eyes and my yelps in pain were anything but fake and I knew I wouldn’t be sitting down anywhere for a day or two, as my buttocks came up with six purple wheals.

When the six strokes were complete, he said he hoped I had learnt my lesson but I remained in position and took his right hand and guided it to where I very badly needed it to be. “Oh my God” he exclaimed, “you’re so wet” and as he pushed a couple of fingers in and out of me a few times I had a rip-roaring, thunderous orgasm which left me gasping for breath and clutching the chair for fear of hitting the floor, as the room seemed to spin around.

We then had a short discussion about how he might also take his pleasure and although I offered to fellate him, I think for reasons of economy – he was learning I wasn’t quite such a cheap slut, after all – he decided he would masturbate over my bruised and swollen buttocks and proceeded to shoot his sperm and seminal fluid onto my throbbing globes and rubbed it in, saying it would make them better.

As I packed my things away, he asked if I’d be willing to have a repeat lesson but one where one or two friends of his might join.  It didn’t take long to agree the details, so almost a fortnight later I was back in his flat and introduced to his friends, Simon and Nicholas, who he joked was known as ‘Nasty Nick’. I was about to find out why.  All three were Moonglow members and enthusiastic spankers of young ladies, he told me.

So, it was over each of their knees for two minutes with each, then back round again, then touching my toes I felt the sting of a wooden ruler (not bad at all, really), then it was time to bend over a chair and be caned and here Nick showed his nasty side pulling me by the hair and delivering some brutal strokes. My buttocks went from glowing, to bruised, to swollen and purple over the course of an hour or so but for the finale, Nick told me I needed the belt, which he took off from round his trousers. He put me face down over the dining table, pulled my hands behind my back and tied them together with a rope and then went at me with his belt.  Now that really hurt and after ten or twelve hard lashes and with me screaming for mercy, Robert stepped in and told Nicholas to stop as he was “in danger of ruining our young lady”.

I was sobbing and my legs were like jelly and I had to hold onto the chair to remain upright but Robert didn’t delay in using his fingers once more and I didn’t delay in having my orgasm, either. Then all three stood behind me and unloaded over my backside, suspender belt and stockings, all of them muttering about what a naughty girl I was, filthy, slutty, dirty bitch etc.

I think that evening I’d reached my limit and although Robert invited me back to ‘party’ with them again and even suggested I take discipline from a larger group, I declined.

NB: for the avoidance of doubt, I don’t feature in any of the photos used to illustrate this piece.

Here’s a game I sometimes play with my husband.

Before I describe the game, let me offer a little background, if you’ve not read my blog before.  I enjoy controlling and humiliating my husband. A few years ago, I told him I had found a sex partner who is better able to satisfy my needs and that, therefore I would no longer have sex with him and he would have to be satisfied with ‘hand relief’ and occasional oral (and I subsequently stopped providing oral relief too).  Added to which I banned him from making himself cum – the only way he is allowed to climax is by my hand – and I charge him a fee each time he requires milking, although I do give him generously low rate, as a loyal and regular cock.

So to the game. As he has got older and less potent, he can often take quite a long time to reach climax, as those of you who have viewed my videos might have noticed. So, from time to time I take the cash for his ‘relief’ session and then tell him it’s against the clock. I set the timer on my phone – it could be four minutes, or six, or three and he must climax and ejaculate before the buzzer goes. I go fast and furious with my gloved hand, pounding his cock as hard as I can.

Then there’s my verbal assault too: “Come on, come on for God’s sake” I’ll say “I haven’t got all day. I’ve got better things to do, so if you don’t cum quickly, I’m going to stop. Come on, you’re pathetic, do you know that? With your tiny flaccid dick and when you do cum it’s hard to tell, there’s such a pathetic little dribble of cum. I’m used to much bigger ones than this, proper hard cocks with huge loads of spunk …” and so on.

Now he concentrates really, really hard and tries to get to his climax before he’s timed out and probably about half the time he succeeds, and then there’s a big shout of joy and relief from him, his sperm shoots out and I slowly stroke him down until he’s calm once more. But if the buzzer goes and he’s not cum, I stop immediately. Then he has to get dressed and we reconvene the next day and try again but this time, I shave some time off the clock, so he has to try and cum in even less time than the day before.  Oh, and he must pay the fee again too.

I’m a heartless bitch, aren’t I? But he wouldn’t have it any other way.

I’d agreed to join him for a drive in one of his rather lovely cars, of which he appeared to have too many for a man only just in his thirties. We drove out into the country and although we both knew what was going to happen, it had never been said out loud, so there was a certain tension in the air and I was excited to see how things would develop.

I was – as requested – wearing my very tight faux leather trousers, an extremely low-cut black stretch top, which showed an acre of cleavage and some of my favourite shoes which have 6-inch steel stiletto heels, with a deep platform sole, enabling me to walk in them, although not too far!

As he drove I noticed his gaze was increasingly on my cleavage, so I warned him to keep his eyes on the road and he laughed and agreed and said that as we’d approached some speed humps a minute earlier, he had hoped I might be bounced out of my top altogether. This was my chance, so I said “If you’d like to take a closer look, I’m sure we can arrange that, when we’re parked somewhere quiet”.

He didn’t say anything for a few seconds and I thought maybe I’d shocked him but he said “Yes, I’d like that” and then added “I know a place”.

As we drove on I told him I thought his car was sexy and it just felt sexy being driven like this, “There’s just something about this which is quite a turn on for me, you know” I added. This opened the conversation and he said he was glad to hear that and that he too was feeling very turned on, so I asked him if he was getting hard at all and he said “I was completely hard the moment you got in the car”.

So I said “Let’s just see if that’s true” and I leant across and squeezed his cock through his trousers. “Oh my God, that feels massive”, I said. It was true but I would probably have said something similar even if it wasn’t. He was certainly fully erect. “I’ll have to do something about that, won’t I?”.

“That would be great” he almost squeaked, as I continued to gently stroke his hard-on.

“We can’t have you going home like that, can we? Wouldn’t be safe, would it?”

“What do you have in mind?”, he asked.

Now I was aware that he already knew I’d offer him gloved hand relief in return for a little token of appreciation, if I can put it like that, because I’d stroked off a friend of his during a test drive, and this is how we came to be introduced to one another. I knew I’d been highly recommended.  So, do I come right out and say it, I wondered?

“Let’s just say, I’m good with my hands” I offered.

“Yes, so I’ve heard”, he replied.

“Shall we agree everything when we’re parked up?” I suggested and he agreed.

We drove on for what seemed a very long time and I thought the excitement might begin to fade but he was taking us to a place he knew where we could park and be guaranteed not to be interrupted.

“Tell me how this works” he said when we finally got there. I explained what I wanted and he readily agreed and I as I pulled on a pair of black, very glossy latex gloves I told him that I planned to squirt a big dollop of lubricating gel into my right hand and then slowly, slowly stroke him towards climax but keep him this side of orgasm for some time – “You can beg for release if you wish: I’d like that” I added – and then I told him I’d like him to gush all over my cleavage. “I want you to cover my tits with your sperm” were my exact words.

He was happy with this, very happy in fact but he also had a request: would he be allowed to take a closer look at my boobs first? Looking down at my assets I said “Of course, be my guest”.  So out they came to be squeezed, pulled and – oh my God – sucked and sucked. Now, my breasts and nipples are extremely sensitive, and I was riding a wave towards something special, when he seemed to stop. He was just pausing for breath but I managed to groan “Don’t stop, I’m going to cum” and he dived back on them with gusto and that was it, my back arched, my head became light, my vision blurred, the world seemed to spin for a few seconds and then the wave of orgasm crashed down on me and rippled through my body.

He said afterwards that I had cried out, but I hadn’t noticed that and didn’t remember it either.

After I’d recovered, it was time to lube my gloved hand and get to work. I did my best to postpone his own climax but even though I stopped a couple of times I knew he couldn’t last long and as he began to beg I shuffled down so that my breasts were perfectly positioned under his very swollen cock and I said “OK, I want you to spunk all over me, come on, cover my tits with your sperm, shoot your load on me now …” and at that point his first spurt shot up my chest, and over my chin onto my lips, his second hit the underside of my chin – this was a guy who clearly had a forceful ejaculation – the third arched upwards and came down onto the target area and he continued to gush over my chest for another ten seconds or so.

After licking his sperm off my lips and scooping some more off my chin, neck and chest, I began the clean up operation with wet wipes. I know some may say I should have made him lick it off me but he told me that wasn’t his thing.

He said after that it was probably the most intense orgasm he’d ever had and that he didn’t think he’d ever shot so much fluid with such force before “Maybe when I was about 16” he joked. But he said for him, the best part, the bit which caught him completely by surprise was when I had my orgasm and, apparently, went into a sort of spasm. Knowing that I’d been as turned on as him was the most erotic thing he could ever imagine, he told me.

So, already, he has asked if I fancy another drive. This time he wants me to wear a suspender belt and seamed stockings and the same shoes and he’s asked if I’ll consider bringing him off with my mouth. Well, with that much sperm on offer, how can a lady refuse?

My mobile rings.

“Hi. John?”

“Yes”.

“Hi John, it’s Chris”.

I should explain that Chris is the man who employs my wife, part time. He’s a sole practitioner with his own professional services firm and she is the only other person in the office. She only goes in two or three times a week but they have an ‘arrangement’ which needs some explaining. Basically, she has agreed to always wear seamed stockings and high heels when she’s in that office and he further insists that she either wears a quarter cup bra or no bra at all. Each day when she’s there she gives Chris hand relief. In return he pays her well and gives her a share of his firm’s profits. She also likes how much he is besotted with her and the way she dresses for him and she loves the fact that he is a heavy spunker. It’s an arrangement which works well for both.

“Oh, hi Chris”, I said.

“John, I’m here with your wife but she can’t talk to you right now”. Throughout this call he referred to her only as my wife, not by her name. I understood the message he was conveying. “Do you know why?” he asked.

I did, immediately know but I played along. “Why’s that, Chris?”

“Because her mouth is full of hard cock. My cock. Listen …”

He must have held the phone down near her mouth, as I could clearly hear her slurping away on his cock. After a minute or so of this I heard her gagging and it sounded like she was trying to cough up something.

“That’s right, take it all down, you dirty bitch” he said. She told me later he had grabbed hold of her ponytail as she was kneeling at his deck fellating him and rammed his erection down her windpipe.

He came back on the line. “Yes, she’s a dirty little whore, your wife, isn’t she?”. I could only agree with him and said “She’s a slut”.

“She’s a slut alright” he concurred. “Do you want to know what’s she’s wearing?”

He didn’t really need to tell me as I’d seen her getting dressed and heading off less than an hour before. Ten strap suspender belt, black seamed stockings (Manhattan heel, I had noticed), five-inch heel black court shoes, leather skirt and a white satin blouse, over a black PVC quarter cup bra. But he ran me through the details anyway, pointing out that she’d removed her blouse “So I can see her big tits” and her skirt, so he could view her suspender belt as her head bobbed up and down over his lap.

Chris continued to talk to me. Told me she was good at oral, very good, had obviously practiced a lot, hundreds of men had experienced her skills over the years, apparently. Asked me if I’d known she was an unfaithful slut when we married, and how I felt about her being a prostitute. At this point I started to object, as she’s not and that’s not a term I would ever use about or to her but he interrupted me and asked “Why do you think your wife is sucking me off, John? Because I pay her so well, that’s why. So what does that make her then?”

I could see his point. “You should get her on the game, John. Pimp her out, make a few bob. And she’d fucking love it, I can tell you. She’s a natural. She’s a whore.”

The phone then moved back down towards her again, as the sound of her slurping became much louder and she was sucking much more rapidly now. Again I could hear that he was pushing himself down her throat and I heard her wretch, as if she was about to be sick but I knew she could cope with deep throat. She manages her boyfriend regularly and he sports ten inches of thick black cock.

I also heard her moaning in manner I recognised as moans of pleasure.

Chris delivered another wave of verbal abuse – cocksucking slut, dirty bitch, big-titted tart … and on and on speaking more quickly and panting at the same time. She’d previously told me that he tends to be very abusive, verbally, as he approachs his climax, so I guessed it couldn’t be long now.

“Are you still there, John?”, he asked.

“Yes, yes of course.”

“John, is it okay if I ejaculate in your wife’s mouth?”

I didn’t have time to respond before he said “I’m going to cum in her mouth. She’ll swallow all my spunk, you know. Your wife … filthy … fuck … whore … oh God …” and he let out a little bellow, followed by a deep, deep groan “oh Jesus Christ, fucking hell …” I knew he was cumming and I was sure I could hear her gulping down his sperm.

After a pause of half a minute or so, when all I could hear was his little sobs of pleasure and a gentle moan he said “She’s still going you know. Christ she is so, so good at this, isn’t she? She’s just swallowed my huge load of spunk and she’s still sucking on me, fuck, what a woman. What a dirty bitch”.

I laughed.

“You’ll want the same, later, won’t you? Well, you’re not getting it. She’s already told me, you’re getting nothing more than a hand job. How does that feel, John?”

And so I told him how it felt. Knowing I’d later be getting hand relief from my horny wife, wearing latex gloves and in her stockings and heels, big boobs out on display and talking me through her blow job with Chris, how much semen she’d swallowed and how much she’d enjoyed it, that felt – right then – absolutely fucking fantastic.

If my school file said anything about this – and I’ve no way of knowing if it did – it would have recorded that I as “sexually active” from a young age. My first proper sexual experience was on the back seat of a car with a friend of my father’s when I was just 14. He’d taken me shopping, bought me a suspender belt and FFN stockings earlier that day, we’d been to see a film and of course I wore my new stockings and on the drive home, we stopped, I got in the back with him and sucked him off. And I bloody loved it!

I did quite a lot of oral after that but clung onto my virginity, as my mother urged me to do, until I had turned 16. And then I REALLY started to enjoy sex, mostly with older men. These days they’d be in trouble and people would call them paedos but back then, late 1970’s, this was fairly common and quite a few of the girls at my school had active sex lives with older men. Sometimes with a lot more men than me!

Not being stupid, I got on the pill and when I noticed a slight discharge (as it turned out, nothing to worry about) I went to the doctor.

Again, I think a difference today would be the doctor would have a female nurse with him but in those days, it wasn’t like that and we were alone when he examined me. He asked some questions about my sex life, symptoms, whether I used condoms etc and I remember he wore latex gloves when he placed me in stirrups, legs wide apart and mid-air. With a speculum he opened my vagina and examined me. He reassured me there seemed to be nothing to worry about and asked me to kneel on the bed with my backside in the air, my front bent down. What we now call the cat position in my Pilates class. His fingers went into me and he only probed and looked for a few seconds but something must have alerted him to what was happening – either I pushed back onto his hand or I let out a moan or both but he said, very calmly, “I’ve probably finished here but do you want me to stay like this?” and I managed to gasp “Oh god, yes …” and he held his hand firmly against me, his fingers not moving but inside me and I had a shuddering orgasm, and as my vaginal muscles spasmed, I knew I was crushing his hand very, very tightly. I was almost crying with the incredible sensation, coming on this stranger’s hand and he was saying “it’s okay, it’s okay, don’t worry” but I was absolutely mortified and kept apologising, saying “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it …” I was in tears. I felt ashamed. Would he tell my parents? Report me to the school?

But this lovely doctor hugged me and said “Don’t worry, it’s okay, it’s perfectly natural, it happens more times than you might imagine, lots of women experience this, it’s okay, it shows your body is healthy and normal, just relax, take deep breaths …” and so on until I stopped sobbing and apologising.

From that day on, I’ve had a very powerful fantasy about medical ‘examinations’ and I always get my husband to wear a latex glove when he ‘probes’ me and I think of that day, as I have yet another thunderous orgasm.

A few years ago, I was contacted by a company which said they had a proposal for me and asked me to ring them, to see if I’d be interested. I spoke to the Managing Director and he explained that he’d seen some videos in which I’m giving ‘hand relief’ and he wondered if they’d been professionally shot and when I said not he expressed surprise because in his view they were of exceptionally high quality and the lighting and angles all seemed to be of studio standard, adding that he should know as making such films is what he did for a living. I had to tell him they’d been shot on a home camcorder, sat on a tripod with just me and mainly my husband.

Which brought him on to the reason for the call. His company was working for an adult entertainment company which was about to launch a web site called ‘Cheeky Barter’. The idea behind the site was that people could place adverts, either offering services (like plumbing, building, driving etc) in return for sexual favours or looking for tradesmen and others willing to do work on this basis.

What he wanted to know was would I be interested in appearing in a video they wished to make for the launch. He explained the scenario: I’d be addressing the camera, with my hand wrapped around a very large, thick hard cock, belonging to a male model with a six pack – “a real hunk” he said. I’d be stroking this cock and saying something like “This is Mike. He’s my [plumber, painter, electrician, they hadn’t get decided on the final script]. I met him through Cheeky Barter, the adult bartering network site. And this is how I pay him …” and at that point, he’d ejaculate. He said they’d not yet identified the male model, but they were looking for someone from the porn business who could both cum on cue and shoot a very large volume.

He said it would take about half a day to film and told me the fee, which was nice while not spectacular. Was I interested? My first question was, would you show my face? He laughed and said no, it would be a close crop of hand, cock and muscled guy’s groin and stomach and the tricky part was getting the guy to the edge so he could climax just as I finished my last words.

I was cheeky myself and asked if they might find a black male model (I had visions of nipping off to the pub with him after the shoot and seeing what other fun we could have together!) and he laughed and said “Oh you like the black lads do you?” but thought this might be a great idea and would ask the agency they were using to put forward a couple of profiles and let me choose which guy I preferred to work with.

I told him I was interested and would discuss it with my husband. He quickly assured me that my husband could accompany me, and it was all very safe and professional and that his wife, who was also a director, would be there throughout. My husband was predictably keen – he loved the idea and couldn’t wait to watch me saying my lines and masturbating a stud to climax in front of the cameras.

Unfortunately, it never happened. By the time I got to visit the studio to see the set-up the client had changed the brief and insisted that the shoot would begin with the camera close cropped on my face as I started to speak and then pull back to show that I was masturbating the stud cock, just as he started to shoot his load. They tried to sell the idea to me by saying my hair and make-up would be done professionally and I would look fantastic, but I said it was a flat “no way” and so the idea died. In fact, I don’t think they ever made the video at all.

I placed a couple of adverts on their site and encouraged others to do so. I got a modest level of interest and found one guy who was willing to be my chauffeur for a short while but the site never generated sufficient interest to bring in the advertising revenue it needed and after year or so, it closed.

I’ve never had any interest in incest fantasies – they seem a peculiarly American phenomenon and slightly disgusting. So when a young admirer – just 22 years old – contacted me and told me I was his ultimate mummy fantasy and he wanted to meet me and act out a scenario with him, I was flattered but dismissive.

Instead I tried to convince him that what he really needed was me, dressed as a nurse, providing him with hand relief. But he was adamant and after a few weeks back and forth I agreed to meet him and give it a go. Oh, boy, am I glad I did.

His scenario was this: his ‘mum’ was about to go out, heading over to her boyfriend’s house for a good seeing to. Naturally, she was wearing her signature suspender belt and seamed stockings with extremely high heels, a leather mini skirt and a low-cut black top worn over 1 /14 cup bra. Her hair was done nicely, make-up on the heavy to excessive side and a diamonte ankle bracelet completed the ‘my mum’s a bit of a tart’ look.

I go into his room to say goodbye and there he is, in front of his PC and he’s masturbating! I go to look at what he’s viewing and even from a distance I can see it’s a porn video but only as I get closer do I realise it’s one of my videos, one in which I am moaning with pleasure as I ride up and down a huge black cock.

“What are you doing?” I shout at him.

“Sorry mum. I found these videos of you … and I just couldn’t stop myself.”

“Oh, God. How many have you watched?”

“Dozens, loads. Over and over. But don’t worry I won’t tell dad.”

“Tell him what?”

“About the other men. This black man, for example.”

“Don’t be stupid,” I say, “Who do you think filmed me?”

“Dad? He already knows?”

“Yes, of course he knows. He likes to watch. He enjoys me seeing other men. It’s his thing, you know?”

“Oh God, please don’t tell him about me.”

“How often have you been wanking to my videos?”

“About once a week. I save myself up.”

“OK, don’t worry. Don’t feel ashamed. A lot of men want to cum when they look at your mum. I like it. I like making men want to masturbate. It’s a turn on for me knowing so much spunk is being spilt by men looking at me. And you’re a young man now and it’s natural to be attracted to a sexy woman like me, even if I am your mum.”

“You do look fantastic mum. You’re every man’s fantasy.”

What you need is hand relief, done properly”

At this point I take a pair of glossy black latex gloves from my handbag and a small tube of lube jelly. I pull the gloves on and squirt the lube into the palm of my right hand. Then I begin to slowly stroke his hard cock.

“Oh God, mummy, that’s so good.”

I’m leaning over him at his desk, making sure he’s getting a very full view of my cleavage. After a few minutes he lifts my breasts out of my top and begins the suck my nipples.  I have exceptionally sensitive breasts and nipples and by this point, I’m already aroused. He’s switching from one breast to the other, suckling like a baby and after only a couple of minutes of this I am hit with a very deep and intense orgasm. I have to clutch the arm of his chair with my left hand, to stop myself keeling over but my right hand keeps the rhythmic pumping going. It’s almost an unconscious act for me now after so many years of doing hand relief, so many masturbation sessions.

He realises I’ve had an orgasm and his own arousal leaps a gear as a result. He hadn’t expected that and neither had I!

Now he’s tensing and I sense he’s preparing to cum so I speed up my hand. I move my breasts close to his throbbing cock and say, “I want you to spunk all over my big tits.”

“Ok mummy,” he manages to grunt in reply.

Then he shouts out “Oh mummy” and the first big thick rope of his semen flies out and hits my chin and the top of my neck. Another follows and goes straight over both my breasts, then a third and a fourth … and for a moment I think to myself, where is all this semen coming from, then I remember he’s 22 years old, he’s abstained for a week in anticipation of our meeting and he’s been edging himself many times each day as he has worked his way through my video collection.

This is one reason women like me love young men like him. This is the biggest load of semen I’ve taken from a white man in quite a few years.  When his ejaculation is complete, my chest and neck are covered with his sperm, my black top splashed, even my leather skirt has his seed running down one thigh. It’s everywhere, and I’m properly splattered.

I know immediately, that this won’t be a one off. I want his cock and his semen again and if that means playing ‘mummy’, well what’s wrong with that? The family which plays together, stays together.

In June 2010 I took on a young black man as a regular sex partner, my stud. His 10.5 inches of hard cock is so thick I often squeal with pain as he penetrates me. At the same time, I told my husband I would never have sex with him again and that he would have
to be satisfied with hand relief. Later I also banned him from making himself cum, insisting he only do so by my hands. After he pressured me to take on fee-paying clients, I turned the tables on him and said he would have to pay for my services and so he pays £100 each time he requires relief. Last year this cost him close to £15,000. This is from a recording of one such session …

“This is pathetic” I tell him. “Why aren’t you hard?” I ask, as I wrap my right hand, encased in a glossy, black latex glove around his cock, which I’ve just coated in lubricating oil. I’m wearing a suspender belt, seamed stockings and 6-inch steel heel shoes, a leather mini skirt and a top which shows off my big bust, but his penis is semi-flaccid.

 “I know, I’m sorry but I will be in a minute.”

“You’d better hurry up as I’ve got other things to do, you know.”

“OK, sorry.”

“I want to get some black cock in me today. You know that don’t you?”

I pump his gradually stiffening cock. “God this is such a waste of time. Your pathetic little limp dick and then there’ll be an even more pathetic dribble of cum. I don’t know why I bother.”

“You’re used to much bigger ones, aren’t you?”

“Yes, much, much bigger. Much harder too. Big and thick. I can hardly get my hand round some of them. Come on, come on, I haven’t got all day. If you can’t cum soon, I’m going to stop and we’ll have to do this again tomorrow.”

“Oh no, please don’t stop” he begs in a rather annoying whiney voice.

“Get on with it then. I wish I never married you. You’re completely pathetic. I wish I never met you in fact. I could have been married to a well-hung stud.”

“A black.”

“Yes, a black man. He’d have fucked me every morning before he went to work and every evening when he got back. And at the weekend he’d invite one or two of his friends around, to take turns with me.”

“Would you really have liked that?”

“I’d have loved it, you know I would.”

“But they would just have treated you as a spunk bucket. A cum dump. Just a piece of fuck meat to pass around.”

“And what’s wrong with that? All that lovely, big, thick black cock. Better than having to put up with your puny dick.”

“You’re just a big-titted tart aren’t you? A busty slut.”

When he starts to talk like this I know he is close to climax. His body is tensing, his breathing rapid, his cock is properly hard now.

“You’re a filthy fucking whore with big knockers aren’t you, going out dressed like a tart, parading yourself around, sucking and fucking, you dirty slag, you’re just a black man’s plaything …”

He lets out a yell and a plume of semen shoots from his cock and I catch most of it with my left hand. Then there’s another smaller one and then his semen slowly flows out and down my gloved hand. I don’t rush this part: in fact I spend another 10 minutes slowly stroking his cock as I know the sensation continues and is very deep inside him. He’s paid, so he deserves a proper service and to be left totally drained.

When he is done and completely soft once more I say “Right, I’m going over to [my stud’s] house to get some proper cock. Would you mind giving me a lift? I’ll give you a call when he’s finished with me so you can bring me back.”  And god am I ready to cum by now.

Last year I was invited to help a man who sells used luxury and super cars. His view was that a busty mature lady in tight leather-look trousers and very high heels would appeal to some of his customers and help ‘seal the deal’ and sell more cars and so far, he’s been proved right.

Dave asks me to come into the showroom when he has an established or prospective customer coming in who he thinks might be interested in a bit of a sexy sell.  If they show interest in me and the way I look, he offers to have me take them on a test drive and then I swing into action. What I typically do is gauge how ‘interested’ they are before we set off. Some are quite open about it others much less so. If they show no interest at all, Dave will normally go with them instead of me. That will be the gay ones!

If they’ve shown enough interest, then I get the boring factual bits out of the way quite quickly and then try to turn the conversation round to sexier matters. I tell them I think the car is very sexy and see how they react.  If that’s good, then I tell them I find being driven in this car a real turn-on and if I sense interest in this, I ask them if they’re getting turned on too. If they say yes, they’re turned on too I put my hand on their thigh and say I want to feel if they’re getting stiff and so I rub them and make sure they are. Now at this point most make a joke about crashing or not being able to concentrate on driving and I use that as my cue to say if they want to find a quiet spot we can park up and I can have a better feel for how much they like the car and maybe even take care of the ‘problem’ for them.  “Don’t want you crashing, now do we?”

If they agree I wait until we’re parked and sure no one is watching and then I explain that I have gloves and lube with me and that if they’d like me to, I can give them “hand relief”, assuming they’re buying the car of course or – if they’re not – that they’ll take care of the commission I would otherwise have been paid for a successful sale.

The deal I have with Dave is that I receive a percentage of the sale profit margin as a commission for each car I help sell but he has also agreed that if I’ve “had to go the extra mile” to get a sale (that’s the phrase the he uses, meaning if I’ve unzipped the customer and tossed them off) then I get additional commission.

To date I’ve only had two who flat refused to take things any further. With all of the others, we have arrived at a mutually satisfactory arrangement. Shortly after starting in this role I had one guy who made a very clever suggestion. He said he’d like hand relief but would much prefer that I suck him off.  I wasn’t going to agree but he came up with a smart proposal. He said he was definitely buying the car and the asking price was fair but if I could get the boss to agree a £2,000 discount, he’d transfer that sum straight into my account, then and there but in return I had to get on my knees and suck him off. I rang Dave and he quickly agreed the discount, so there I was in a country car park, kneeling on the customer’s coat, my head bobbing up and down as I brought him off with my mouth. When I started, he said, “Oh, deep throat, you really are experienced aren’t you?”. Well for two grand I thought he deserved a professional level of service.

Back at the ranch we completed the paperwork and he went off but I felt bad about what had happened. Not that I’d pretty much whored myself – I know it’s seedy, but come on, two grand! – but it felt a bit like I’d cheated Dave, who has been very good to me. So I confessed all and offered to share the money with him. He was very sweet about it and said I’d earned it and could keep it, on one condition. I think you can guess. So there I was, in his office and for the second time that day, my head bobbing up and swallowing my second load of semen.

When I got home I told my husband everything and he suggested that he would make it three in a row. I told him he was dreaming – he’d get gloved hand relief as normal, and he’d be bloody grateful for it too!

Last year, I bought some tight leather-look trousers and was delighted with the reaction I got in a pub the first time I wore them, as a result of which they became one of my wardrobe regulars when I wanted a bit of attention and to feel a little sexy.   

My husband, John, and I went for lunch in Surrey and I wore my now favourite trousers, huge heels (I like to feel tall) and a tight leopard print top over a black bullet bra which makes my breasts look enormous: “like Zeppelins” was how my husband put it. With the tight leather trousers, he said I looked very ‘top heavy’ and I was pleased with that description.  We had a bottle of sparkling wine but as he was driving, I drank almost the whole bottle. I wasn’t drunk but I was distinctly merry when we left the restaurant.

We stopped at a dealer which specialises in used prestige cars – Ferrari, Aston Martin, McLaren etc.  We had no intention of buying but John likes to look at these ridiculously expensive machines. He had been in before and chatted to Dave, the owner to whom he introduced me. As I climbed into and out of several of the incredible cars on display, I knew his eyes were all over me, as he glanced from my backside to my heels and up at my chest.

After looking at a few cars I asked to use the toilet – all that wine!  John later told me that he had quipped that I’d be gone some time as I’d have to squeeze out of and back into my tight trousers and Dave said something along the lines of “I hope you don’t mind me saying this but she looks fantastic in them, doesn’t she?” and John made a comment about me being very busty too and Dave agreed. Dave asked him, “Is she as naughty as she looks?” and John said, “Oh she’s even naughtier than that!”

When I got back John asked Dave to repeat what he’d just said. He was reluctant at first, a little embarrassed but then said he’d just complimented John on how fantastic I looked, how much he liked my outfit and that John was a very lucky man indeed. I’m sure I blushed as I thanked him for his kind words.

As I looked at yet another sports car, Dave came over and said he had a question for me. He explained that four times a year he held champagne parties at the showroom for existing and potential customers. At first, I thought he was inviting us to attend but he was actually asking if I’d be willing to assist on those evenings as a sort of hostess, for which he would pay me.

I asked what this role would involve and he laughed and said “My customers are almost all wealthy men, so basically, meet, greet, flirt and look as gorgeous as this.”

He asked if £250 for each party sounded interesting and my immediate reaction was being paid to attend a champagne party and chat is almost too good to be true! So I asked if he’d like me to dress more sexily for his customers and mentioned that I wear seamed stockings and heels a lot, or I could wear leather skirts etc. I showed him some photos on my phone of some alternative tops – a tight white sweater over a black ¼ cup bra, a leather-look zipped top and a very low-cut black top, with acres of cleavage on display.

I could see he was pretty excited by now. He said he loved the white top but thought it might be a bit too much for some customers because my nipples could clearly be seen but he thought the leather look top would match my trousers perfectly. He was absolutely clear that although he loved stockings, he thought the leather trousers were best and went well with the sports cars in the showroom.

When he said my role was just to be friendly and sexy and make sure his top customers were happy, I started to ask if I’d be expected to take things ‘a bit further’ with any of them but when I mentioned offering them ‘relief’ he immediately said “Oh no, no, nothing like that” and I thought he looked pretty shocked and that maybe I’d pushed it a bit too far.  However, he took my details and we left with him promising to send through dates and more information.  I said I’d pop back sometime and show him the leather top and some others from which he could choose.

That evening I got a text from him, asking if it was okay to call. When we spoke he said he’d been thinking it over and wondered if I could come in again and go through a few things in more detail and we agreed I’d do so the next evening, when the showroom had closed.

So the next evening I went off, leather trousers, massive heels again, leather-look top unzipped to show plenty of cleavage, held up by a quarter cup bra and heavy make up. I also brought some elbow length leather-look gloves with prominent silver zips along their length and my laptop.

When I arrived, he said he’d been thinking nonstop about me and would like to ‘firm up’ our arrangement by paying me the £1,000 now, up-front in cash and  – provided I was willing to help – looking for ways to get my more involved with the business and taking care of his most valued customers. As we chatted he asked me to expand upon what I had meant when I had referred to ‘relief’. So I opened up my laptop and showed him some video clips where I am giving hand relief and I explained about being something of an amateur Masturbatrix.  I also showed him the long leather-look gloves and I put them on so he could see the full outfit.

By this point I was bent over the table to use the laptop and he was stood behind watching the video clips and he began rubbing himself against my backside.  I asked if he’d like to sample my hand relief skills and he said, “God I’d love that, but do you know what I’d like even more?” And then he told me how he not been able to think of anything else since yesterday other than cumming over my backside in the tight trousers.

So I just moved the laptop to one side, lay face down over his desk and said “Go on then”. After just a couple of minutes he let out a loud groan and unloaded onto me, and I was soon stood in that show room with his semen dribbling down my backside.

I’ll describe how my role developed in the next part

What follows is absolutely true and not “a story”.  But you need to read to the end!

My mobile rings.  “Hello”

“Hello, is that Miss Massage?”

“Speaking”.

“Oh, hello, I was ringing to get some more details of your massage service.”

“OK.  Where did you hear about me?”

“From Loui – your gardener?”

“Ah, yes, Loui – a satisfied customer, I think.” And I laugh

“Very.  Extremely.  So how would this work?  And what are the fees?”

“Well, I come to you.  I dress pretty much as you want but I’d suggest my regular massage uniform –  a low cut overall so you can admire my 40E cleavage, seamed stockings and high heels and so on.  I can send you a photo if you like so you see what you’re getting”

“Oh, that would be great.  Thanks.  And the massage service?”

“Well, I offer hand relief or for a little more topless hand relief if you prefer”.  I describe the fee structure and he appears happy with that.

We fix a time.  I wear my pink massage overall, a black suspender belt and black PVC quarter cup bra, beige stockings with black contrast seams and welt and high heel court shoes.  I’m also heavily made up.  I also have a large box of surgical gloves, a bottle of baby oil and some KY Jelly.

When we meet I like what I see.  Nice house, tastefully furnished.  He’s about my age, but with grey hair.  Nice figure, friendly face.  We sit in the kitchen and chat for a while and share a bottle of Champagne (another nice touch). 

He asks if he can take a few photos.  To be honest, I want to get on with it, so I say only if he pays an additional and not insubstantial fee.  He doesn’t blink as he hands over the cash.  I pose as requested and find myself getting very wet.

After that interlude we get down to business.  He strips off and I put on latex gloves and apply the lubricant to his engorged penis.  I begin slowly.  At his request my overall is zipped up to show cleavage but when he gives me the signal, I unzip it part way and lift my breasts out.  That seems to get him going and now he’s panting and my hands are a blur.

I hear him gasp and I know he’s about to come.  Semen spurts from his cock and dribbles down the shaft.  I continue the motion with my right hand, using his jism as additional lubricant.

After he’s calmed a little I tell him how I want to come: rubber glove on his right hand, I bend over his knee and he pushes the fingers of that hand into my sopping wet vagina while his other hand pulls and twists my nipples. I come in under one minute, a fabulous, crashing, head spinning orgasm.

I ask my punter if he thinks I could make a living doing this.  “Absolutely” he replies.  “But what does your husband think?”

And we both laugh.  “Indeed”, I say “what do you think?”

And now it’s time for us to clear up and head off to our bed.

I could really get into this massage business!

I agreed to meet a guy and go shopping with him. He had a very particular outfit request: jodhpurs, lace up knee length patent high heel boots and a white semi-transparent (or maybe I should say very thin) blouse, no bra, so really showing my boobs. Because of the high heel on my boots he thought my breasts would bounce and sway nicely. 

I suggested it might look better if I wore a black ¼ cup bra to lift me breasts but still leave me looking braless, and he went with that.

He wanted to see me walking down a high street and through a busy shopping area and in a few shops so people would see me, with him hanging back to see people’s reactions. Once we’d done that he said he’d take me to a very busy bar, so he could show me off again.

I met him in Soho and all went to plan. Before I set off I wore my nipple pumps for half an hour as this leaves my nipples very swollen and hard and the effect lasts for an hour or two.

I’d asked him what he wanted me to do if someone approached me or made any comments and he was very enthusiastic about the idea.  I should chat to them and maybe take their phone numbers and he even suggested that if the chat was erotic enough I should get onto the subject of providing hand relief e.g. by saying I was on my way to meet a man who had booked me for a relief session. 

As it happens, though I got lots of looks only one guy approached me direct, said I was lovely and asked if he could buy me a drink so I took his number and said another time but the chat didn’t get too dirty, so I didn’t mention my Masturbatrix role.

My date kept back most of the time and let me wander around. But once we went to a bar he was really determined to parade me around in front of lots of men, so I had to go up to the bar and to the ladies toilets a few times and we ended up visiting thee different pubs so quite a few people got a good view of my big tits.

Needless to say I emptied his balls in the disabled loos in one of the pubs.  He’s asked for a repeat session and says he wants the same outfit again (clearly his ‘thing’) but wants me to wear long leather gloves next time.

What follows is a description of what I did on Valentine’s Day.  It’s not a ‘story’ or fiction – this is what actually happened (although you need to read to the end to fully understand).  I‘ve tried as accurately as possible to recall the dialogue but some is inevitably paraphrased and I’ve had to leave out quite a bit or it would otherwise be too long.

I approached the wine bar – deliberately 15 minutes later as I did not want to be sat in a London bar on my own dressed like this – and as I reached the door I removed the long overcoat I had worn to cover myself on the train journey and cab ride.

I’d chosen the bar carefully.  It forms part of an elegant hotel, near Seven Dials in Covent Garden.  Attentive staff, nice cocktails, good choice of wine, if all rather expensive but none of these were the reason I had chosen it. I had used this as a meeting place before and knew it was perfect for its purpose.

I was here to meet an admirer – a fanatic, one might say.  I was wearing the outfit he had requested:  under the long coat I was wearing a short black jacket, under which was a sheer white blouse and my black quarter cup bra.  A short black leather skirt – perhaps too short in fact – and black fully-fashioned stockings with a square heel, held straight by my ten-strap black suspender belt.  As requested, I was wearing my black strappy high-heeled sandals. He’d also requested heavy make up and I had gone for a pancake style, with bright red lipstick sealed with a thick layer of lip gloss.

I reached under the jacket and squeezed and flicked each of my nipples, knowing that when I slipped off the jacket they would be pointing out through the blouse like bullets, making an immediate visual impression

I spotted my date immediately, sat on one of the black leather sofas and we went through the usual rituals of greeting.  He called a waiter across and we chose Champagne, which arrived quickly.  Once we’d saluted one another with our flutes I slipped off my jacket. He made a “wow” shape with his mouth as he took in the sight of my big 40 E cup breasts lifted up but not covered by the bra.  I’ll admit I felt a little self-conscious as not only were my big breasts quite clearly on display for all to see but as I had sunk into the sofa my skirt was riding up and not only the whole of the deep welts were visible but one or two of the metal clasps of my suspender belt.  I could feel men glancing across at me and had little doubt that already some would have blood flowing into their penises and semi-erections would be beginning to form around the bar.  Perhaps some had already identified me as a prostitute.

My client suggested we get the business part out of the way and he passed me the white envelope which I slipped into my handbag.  He said “Aren’t you going to count it?” and I said “No, I trust you”.

We talked about this and that – he asked me what was the sexiest thing I’d ever done, the dirtiest, was there anything I’d done of which I was ashamed, how many men in the offices I’ve worked in had had me, did I enjoy feeling used by men as a sex object.  The usual in other words.

As we chatted, he moved a little closer and he ran his hand over one of my stocking tops and felt the suspender belt straps.  I reached over and felt his cock, just to check he was hard.  However, a man sat on a stool by the bar had begun to watch us, so I quickly took my hand off his crotch.  I asked if he’d saved any up for me and he replied that it was already dribbling out of him, his pre-cum oozing out.

I told him it was time for him to get what he’d come here for but he said “No rush, let’s have another glass of Champagne”.  A very cool customer I thought.

I explained to him why I’d chosen this bar.  Round the corner from where we were sat was an area which led from the bar to the hotel.  It could be seen from neither and this is where the disabled toilets are situated.  They were also amongst the largest and cleanest toilets I’d ever seen and perfect for the business we were about to transact.  Leaving my overcoat and jacket and our Champagne, I slowly headed towards the toilets.  The risk at this point is that another man – say the chap on the bar stool – seizes the opportunity to follow, whether just to watch, to give me his phone number or to engage in conversation.

But on this occasion I got into the toilets without being followed and pulled the door shut without locking it.  I’d told my date to wait two minutes before following me in.  Sometimes this can arouse suspicion but what’s perfect about this venue is that to a casual observer we could each be going through to the hotel.

Once he joined me I undid the buttons on my blouse, lifted out my breasts and knelt down in front of him.  This had been pre-agreed.  He got out his cock – quite thick, firm and solid looking – and began to masturbate over my face. Also by prior agreement the verbal abuse began.  Another reason for choosing this bar is that no one would hear us.

“You dirty little slut.  You whore.  You fucking love this don’t you filthy tart.  I bet your mum and dad would be delighted if they knew you’d become a prostitute …”

I started to object at this point but he said “You’ve just taken my money so I can spunk on your face.  That makes you a pro, a whore, a tart, a scrubber …” I can’t even remember all the words he then used as synonyms for the oldest profession. 

As I looked up at him, his fist moving fast, I joined in.  “Come on then, spunk on me”

“You want it?”

“Yeah, of course I do.  I want you to shoot your load all over my face.  Come on, splatter me.  I can’t wait to lick it all up.  Give me your cum, now. Empty yourself on my face, come on.  Spunk on me – shoot your baby gravy all over my mouth”.

His hand was now a blur, his head started to tip back, and he let out a low moan.  I spotted the signs and closed my eyes. Bitter experience has taught me that an eye full of semen can ruin an evening out.  There was a long pause and he said “Jesus Christ” and then I felt the first big splash shoot up the bridge of my nose and just reach my forehead, the second landed right across my lips, a third hit my chin and as I opened my eyes I saw him squeeze out a fourth onto my cheek, before he was reduced to a dribble of cum.  He wiped the strands on the side of my face and said “You dirty old slag.”

By no means the biggest ejaculation I’d had across my face but not too bad for a man of his age.

He was gasping and trying to catch his breath.  As his semen dribbled down my face my tongue flicked out to capture the rivulets before they dripped down onto the floor.

“Go on, lick it all up, you dirty bitch” he said, rather needlessly, as that was exactly what I was doing.  He pointed to a large dollop I’d missed and then when I could not find any more with my tongue I stood up in front of the mirror and used my fingers to direct as much of his semen into my mouth as possible, before using a tissue for the rest.

At this point our deal was complete and I should have been heading home.  However, by now I was so, so wet, so incredibly turned on that I made a quick change of plan.  I took a latex glove from my handbag, told him to put it on and I got down on all fours.  “You know what to do” was all I needed to say and three fingers entered my vagina while a thumb pushed into my anus.  He started telling me what a disgusting whore I am once more but I shushed him immediately – this was about my orgasm and he was just the tool to deliver it.  After only about 30 or 40 seconds of being manipulated like this I had an orgasm of such intensity that my vision became blurred and I briefly blacked out.

As I came to, he was tucking the wet glove into his trouser pocket “A souvenir” he said. “Well, you paid for it, I suppose” was all I could think to say before we went back to finish our drinks.

As I said at the beginning, this is what happened.  However, in the interests of full disclosure, I should add that the admirer in question is called John.  He is my husband and this is how we celebrated Valentine’s Day.

I should take a step back and explain what I am into and how I have got to this point.  I suppose I am an exhibitionist and from an early age (14, 15 about then) I discovered the power I could hold over men from the way I dressed.  Seamed or fishnet stockings, suspender belts and high heels became my regular dress style.Because I am very busty (now a 40E cup) I also liked to wear low cut tops or tight tops without a bra and flaunt myself about quite a bit.

I also discovered that I liked giving oral and having a guy ejaculate in my mouth was and remains a real pleasure, although I also got into having them cum on my face.

However, I was not at all dominant – quite the opposite. I liked to be spanked, enjoyed being tied up or handcuffed, and I even liked being caned or whipped (not too hard!). In fact this ‘interest’ became so strong that I got to the point where I was unable to orgasm unless I was smacked first or at least I reached orgasm much more quickly if I was. Indeed, I could achieve orgasm from being spanked,which I think is unusual.

My husband is quite dominant and liked treating me in this way. He also encouraged me in doing quite sordid things with other guys – blow jobs in alley ways, occasional rough sex in hotels with a couple of the guys from work, this sort of thing.

However,gradually as I got older I found myself wanting this less and less and becoming much more dominant myself. Maybe because I was cuckolding my husband and humiliating him with other men – once you start calling a man pathetic and inadequate it is difficult to take a spanking from him.

We went to some fetish clubs in London – Submission, Whiplash, a few others and generally I’d dress in PVC gear and thigh length boots. Even though I was the submissive one I found guys would come over and offer to serve me, lick my boots etc. I remember the enormous thrill I got the first time I kicked one of these guys.Oh God it felt good!

So we started going to these clubs so I could find a really needy sub guy and then beat him. Not my husband’s scene and he found it a little disturbing.  Of course once men know you’re genuinely in to this they want you to be their dominatrix and some are willing to put their lives under your control.

Last year– and this was a first – I had an orgasm while whipping a guy. Such a powerful feeling.

But I’d say these punishment sessions are secondary for me. What I like best of all is doing femdom hand relief sessions.  I dress up, get the guy worked up and then lube or baby oil his erection and then (generally very slowly) stroke him usually wearing latex or leather gloves until all of his semen has been removed. I also sometimes do very, very fast and brutal hand jobs when I’m in the mood or circumstances dictate.

I average a bit over a session a day or close to 400 a year. Who you ask? Mainly my husband (I banned him from having full sex with me over 8 years ago) and my boss – I work part time and each day when I do go into the office I give him‘relief’. I have ‘cheeky barter’ arrangements with about half a dozen tradesmen– an electrician, plumber, builder, gardener, etc where they do the work and I then put on the outfit of their choice and masturbate them. In fact I did one earlier this morning.

And then occasionally I just meet someone – in a pub, out shopping and you know how it is, get chatting, and maybe have a drink. If they are genuine fanatics either for seamed stockings/stilettos or big boobed women or both then I will often ask if they’d like to experience my skills as a Masturbatrix and I’ve not had one refuse to date.  I also go to a sex club or swingers or couples club, whatever you wish to call it, and there I will generally masturbate at least one guy before then taking my husband in hand too. Some of guys there have seen me doing this a few times, so I will often get approached by one or two asking if I’d be willing to milk them.

Of course if someone shows exceptional generosity it’s only right that I express my thanks appropriately  – earlier this year a guy bought me a case of Bollinger, my favourite Champagne, so needless to say he got his gland drained with great gusto from me. He said afterwards that it was the most intense orgasm he has ever experienced.

Last year a man contacted me and asked if I would be willing to do a sort of workshop with his wife about some of the finer points of hand relief, for which he was willing to pay. I spent about four hours with this couple and we used him and my husband as subjects on which to practice.

I originally thought this was for their personal pleasure but in fact she had decided to become a professional Masturbatrix working from home and offering hand relief sessions, at a very reasonable rate.

By the time we’d finished I thought she had a good technique and she understood the importance of dressing for the role and of using delay and denial to enhance her client’s experience. We also covered how being verbally abusive to the client can add to the experience for some men while others enjoy being verbally abusive to the Masturbatrix, especially as they approach their climax.  She was very enthusiastic about getting as much semen out as possible and enjoyed having it shot over her cleavage, which is an important attribute to be a successful Masturbatrix because I think men can tell if you’re really enjoying it or not.

I contacted them again about six months later to see how things were going and she was very positive. She was doing an average of ten to fifteen sessions  each week – a mix of regulars and new clients – but she’s also found she needed to spend longer with each gent than she had originally expected, so as not to rush them, so had been obliged to increase her fee quite a bit to make it worthwhile. But she was making a very good living from it.

I asked how her husband felt about it and she said he was delighted and loved coming home each evening to see her outfits all covered in spunk. She said that as a result their own sex life had really taken off and that whereas previously they had sex about two or three times a month, they were now having sex almost every evening, sometimes with her wearing one of her spunk splattered Masturbatrix outfits. In fact her husband was urging her to“take things to the next level” and offer an oral service and possibly even full penetration both with condoms and a premium priced bareback service. She wasn’t yet ready to take the plunge but from our discussion it was clear she was tempted to do so.

This is a ‘true’ story insofar as it is loosely based on a genuine experience I had at school when I was 16. It didn’t happen exactly like this but not too far off. Of course today my headmaster would be put in prison but back then there were a number of sexual relations between members of staff and some of the more ‘mature’ girls.

“Come in”
“Ah … hello, headmaster, Miss Price told me to come and see you.”
“Yes, I know. Come in Emma and sit down. You’re in trouble again aren’t you? What was it this time?”
“Ah … well, I don’t really .. I mean ….”
“Perhaps if you have forgotten I can remind you, as Miss Price has already informed me. She caught you performing fellatio on Rob, the grounds man, didn’t she, Emma?”
“I’m not sure sir”
“Not sure? Perhaps you’re not familiar with that term but I’m told you’re more than familiar with the act itself. Do you know where the word comes from? It comes from fellātus, which in Latin is the past participle of the verb fellāre, meaning to suck.”
“I don’t think Mr Griffin has taught us that one in our Latin classes, headmaster”
“Don’t be smart, Emma. You know what this means, don’t you?”
“No, headmaster”
“It means you have a choice: either we tell your parents and let them deal with the matter or you choose corporal punishment here and now. Once again, I might add”
“Oh God, sir, not the cane again”
“Yes, the cane – six strokes. And I’d thank you not to take Our Lord’s name in vain again”
“Yes, sir. Sorry sir”
“Tell me, in detail, what happened”
I give him the briefest summary possible and express my regrets and promise there’ll be no repetition. I have my fingers crossed as I recant. But he wants detail, lots of detail. Did he force me? Did he pay me? Did he climax? When he came, did I swallow? How much semen did I have to swallow? How old was I when I first performed this act? How many men have come in my mouth in this way? Was I wearing the same stockings and suspender belt I have on now? Why am I not wearing a bra?
I notice he has his right hand in his pocket and appears to be stroking a very solid erection. Seeing my opportunity I say “Perhaps it would be easier if I was to show you exactly what I did sir.”
“Yes, yes, perhaps it would.”
I unzip him and get to work.
“My goodness, you really are good at this Emma, aren’t you? Pity there’s no ‘O’ Level in giving O, eh?” and he allows himself a chuckle. I take his entire length in my mouth, gagging at first as the head slides down my throat and then I up the pace and his whole body is rigid with tension, his breathing becoming faster and faster and then he shoots his seed into my mouth and down my throat.
As he gasps and wipes the sweat from his forehead, I take out the mirror from my make-up pouch and check how I look: I smile back at myself as I take in the scarlet lipstick smeared all over my cheeks, and a stray string of semen, which somehow escaped my greedy mouth.
“I assume we can forget the cane on this occasion, headmaster” and as I say it, I can’t hide my smile.
“Emma, has no one taught you the expression ‘assume makes an ass out of you and me’? You assume wrong young lady. Quite the contrary in fact – six strokes for your disgusting behaviour this morning and a further six for your wanton conduct in my office this afternoon.”
“God, sir, that’s so unfair. I wouldn’t have gobbled you off if I’d known you’d be so mean. That’s so not fair.”
“Gobbled off? Gobbled off? Emma, you’re sixteen years old and already you sound like some common prostitute. At least use the proper Latin term.”
“You said I was good though, didn’t you?”
“Yes, yes .. well heat of the moment and all that. I was led astray perhaps. But yes, you seem quite ..err, well practiced one might say.”
“Practice makes perfect, sir. Perhaps I could practice some more with you.”
“Yes, maybe that’s possible. Keep you away from those rough types. Makes sure you come to no harm. Maybe once a week should we say?
“Of course. As often as you like. Can we agree something on my allowance, headmaster? Say £20 a week.”
“£20?! Whatever for?”
“Sir, these seamed stockings are not cheap and I’m always in need of some new stiletto shoes, sir and then there’s the make-up, suspender belts, I’d like a corset but they cost so much and my parents only give me a pittance …. “
“Yes, yes alright. I had heard a rumour in the staff room that you were selling it.”
“Selling it, sir?”
“You know exactly what I mean – offering oral sex in return for cash. You know what that makes you, don’t you? Quite literally, you’re a cock sucking little whore, Emma”
“I didn’t hear you complaining a moment ago.”
“No, well. I’ll have a word with the bursar. There’s quite a bit in the account for helping our poorer boarders and although I know your parents are not too hard up, I’m sure we can find a little something to, err, make sure you have the right uniform and so on. We don’t want our girls looking a poor show, now do we?
“Exactly my point, headmaster. I’d better go – I have French in 10 minutes. Will you let me know when I need to practice my …err, fellatio some more”
I got up and walked to the door.
“Emma. Haven’t you forgotten something?”
I looked back. No, my handbag was over my shoulder; my knickers were still on; no condoms to clear away.
“Forgotten, sir?”
“Yes”
“Oh, sorry sir. I see what you mean. Thank you for coming in my mouth, sir”
“No, no, no, no!” He sounded utterly exasperated. He reached down beneath his desk and reappeared holding a vicious looking cane, at least ¼ inch thick. My stomach turned over. My heart beat faster than I thought possible.
“Now, I think we said 12 strokes, did we not, Emma? Please remove your knickers, bend over my desk, place your feet approximately four feet apart and don’t you dare move. I’m going to teach you a lesson you won’t forget, young lady”