Dial M for Masturbation

I have about eight or ten admirers with whom I chat online, one-on-one and I share some of my photos and sometimes we watch one of my videos together, while they make themselves cum and I enjoy this (and if you’d like to be included in this fun activity, get in touch with me). After the last chat I did, I was thinking back to a time before we had the internet or even mobile phones and the equivalent of today’s bit of online dirty chat was on a landline and this made me reminisce about my teens.

My dad had a group of friends with whom he went to football matches, or fishing or occasionally to the pub and some of them loved tinkering with their cars. At one time, my dad had an old car which spent more time up on a car jack than it did on all four tyres. 

They would take turns to host evenings at each of their houses and they’d drink and play cards and tell jokes. If they’d been women, we’d say ‘gossip’ but with men, it’s ‘banter’ isn’t it?

When it was our turn to host, my mother wanted nothing to do with it and would always go out with some of her friends, often to the ‘pictures’ as we called the cinema then. She didn’t say why, really, other than she once told me to watch out because when they’d had a few drinks, some of these men got a bit ‘handsy’ and because my mum was good looking and rather busty, I could imagine that being the case. To be honest, however, this didn’t put me off, as I quite liked the idea of giving men a bit of a turn on and I didn’t object to the odd sexy comment, so I offered to help on these occasions.

I always made an effort, appearance wise, when there were men in the house, as did my mother. Perhaps it was just that era or we were a bit old fashioned but even when the parish priest visited, we’d put make up on, do our hair, wear something nice. I wouldn’t even go to the corner shop without make up. I had high heel strappy sandals and usually wore stockings, often Aristoc Harmony Point (fully fashioned, aka seamed) stockings or fishnets, sometimes seamed fishnets. Now, you might think this was a bit ‘tarty’ but I’m talking about 1978 or 1979, when I was seventeen or eighteen and these stockings were an everyday sight, or at least they were where I grew up.

I’d bring the drinks in, made sure everyone’s glass was topped up, and bring a few snacks in later and I knew some of the men would look appreciatively at me: slender, big bust (I’d often not wear a bra as my tits were very full and firm), tight skirts, stockings and high heels. As the night progressed and the whiskey or whatever went down, some would get a bit friskier and have a little feel or twang my suspender belt straps and sometimes they’d get me to sit on their knee and ask me which card to play next “for good luck”, that type of thing.

I don’t think my dad approved, as such, but he didn’t stop it either, as it’s what was called ‘a bit of harmless fun’. My mum had once said to me, as I was about to leave the house in some outrageous outfit “Remember, if you dress like a slut, men will treat you like a slut” and I think he disapproved of some of my outfits and some things I did but on these occasions I think he was proud to have a smart looking daughter, mature for my age and doing well at school, on the glide path to a place at a top university.

I remember one of them saying to my dad that he should keep an eye on me as I grew up, as I looked like I’d be a handful of trouble and my dad replied “She’s already grown up, aren’t you?”

The youngest of his circle of friends was a handsome Irish man called Gerry, tall, slim, lots of dark hair and from our interactions it was clear he liked the way I looked and he could barely take his eyes of me when I was in the room and he’d always say nice things, complementing me on my skirt or my blouse, asking how I was getting on at school and he called me ‘gorgeous’ and ‘darling’ and the like.  He once stopped me as I was heading into the kitchen holding a tray and he was coming back from the toilet and he had a quick feel of my suspenders and told me how lovely I looked. I couldn’t push him away but would I have done so if I hadn’t had the tray? Probably not.

A few weeks later my dad was boasting about an award I’d received, which he’d framed and put on my bedroom wall and Gerry said “Oh, I’d love to see that” and so we went upstairs to my room and the moment we closed over the door the certificate was forgotten about and his hands were all over me and he was trying to put his hand up my skirt and saying I was a lovely cock tease and the like. I tried to push him away and as I pushed him towards the bedroom door, terrified my dad would appear any moment, I told him he needed to go home and have a wank to calm himself down and he said, “I will, thinking about you. Okay?”

As we went down the stairs he asked, “Can I call you?” and I said he could and he added “While I’m, you know, thinking about you?” and only then did I understand what he meant, that he’d call me while he was wanking himself.  But I liked that idea, so I agreed. I was at an age where I was willing to try almost anything when it came to sex. You may think all sixteen and seventeen-year-old boys are sex mad but let me tell you, it was no different for girls or at least not this one!

This then became our little game. Our phone was in the hallway, and normally my parents would let me answer it, as more often than not it was for me in any case but if Gerry rang and I was out and one of them answered, he’d have some reason to have called my dad already prepared – that part for the car, where are we playing cards next, will you be at the match, a horse racing tip, that sort of thing.

If he just took pot luck and called while they were in, we developed a form of code in case they might overhear me. He’d talk really dirty to me and I could hear him pumping away at his hard cock and I’d pretend to be chatting to one of my school friends. I’d listen to him wanking away and panting and I’d ask, “How are you getting on with that homework?” to test how close he was and he’d say, “Nearly there”, or “I need a few minutes”. When he came, I’d sometimes ask “What volume did you have for that one?”, which sounded like a maths or biology problem and he’d tell me how much spunk he’d just shot out. I’d let him know how turned on I was by getting the word “wet” into the conversation, such as “Oh she’s so wet that one” or “It’s so damp in there” and he knew that I’d be going straight up to my room and frigging myself to a powerful orgasm.  I also became adept at getting certain words into the chat – thrust, length, hard, sopping, stretch and even penetration.

However, the real fun was when my parents were both out and he would call (I couldn’t ring him as my father went through the phone bill, line by line and might recognise Gerry’s number). Saturday became our night, as he had his place to himself and my parents went to the late evening church service and then on to the pub and would both reliably be out until about 10 p.m. Now I did most of the talking and I was good, very good at the filthiest talk you can imagine.

I’d say, “I’m wet and dying for it so I want you to get your cock out and wank for me.”

He’d start masturbating and I’d carry on talking dirty as he did. Sometimes he’d ask, “What are you?” as he loved to hear me say things like “I am a dirty bitch. I’m gagging for some cock in me …”

“What do you want?” he’d ask me and I’d tell him. Now remember, back then, I was very sexually submissive or at least a lot of my sexual fantasies involved men overpowering me, tying me up, making me do the filthiest things with them, sometimes whole groups of men featured in these fantasies, often as I fingered myself to orgasm. A couple of years previously I’d found some porn magazines and in one (I think it was ‘Mayfair’ but I’m not certain) was a story which had really stayed with me. I don’t remember the details now but it was during WW2 and involved a woman on her wedding day when her village was invaded by Russian soldiers (or possibly German, I honestly can’t remember) but the groom fled and she was taken by the soldiers and they all took turns with her – basically, it was mass rape. I see now that it was a distasteful and worrying story but at the time, the scene in which she is being gang banged and the soldiers realise she loves it and is having one orgasm after another and begins to call out for the next cock, well that sort of blew my mind at the time and I’d often repay those scenes in my imagination as I made myself cum or when having sex.

And to add, I was very much into a good spanking, being punished for my wayward thoughts and behaviour and going over the knee to be spanked or being tied to my bed and caned or belted and this was a very big turn on for me which I have written about previously here: https://wp.me/sauHXB-moonglow.

So, when Gerry would ask me what I wanted, I didn’t hold back. I wanted cock and I wanted lots of it, I wanted him to take me behind the block of lock up garages by our house and use me as a sex object. “What will you be wearing?”, he’d ask and of course it was school uniform, stockings, high heels, mini skirt, no bra. He’d ask “Shall I invite a few friends along for this?” and I’d say yes, the more the merrier, I wanted a whole group of them to fuck me senseless, pass me around like a parcel. And I wanted spunk, lots and lots of spunk.

“Where do you want it?”, he’d ask.

“Everywhere; all over my face; in my mouth; over my tits; on my stocking tops and up my seams; and over my shoes”.

He’d say, “You’re a very naughty girl aren’t you? Someone needs to teach you a lesson”, and I’d say “I need to be punished. Spank me, tie me up and punish me properly, make me beg for mercy.”

He’d groan, he’d shout out, he’d swear and I knew he’d shot his load, holding the phone in one hand, the other a sticky mess of ejaculate and, he told me, often a puddle on the floor. But he was not alone in his pleasure. I’d have my fingers down in my knickers and I could barely hold back long enough for him to climax before letting rip my own orgasm.

After we’d done this a few times, I progressed to occasional ‘object insertion’. A banana was okay but not great. I’d read somewhere about peeling one and freezing it and using that as a dildo. That was absolutely dreadful, a complete failure (though I ate it afterwards when it defrosted – you may say I ate the evidence). However, a cucumber proved very effective and, slightly surprisingly, the plastic handle of a fish slice, really did it for me and I’d plunge this up inside me as I said the dirtiest things I could think of as he tossed himself off. I even tried a door handle (not very successful) and a top on my bed frame (much better but requiring a degree of athleticism which was challenging).

Quite why I found these phone calls so erotic is hard to explain. Afterall, it’s not as if there was a shortage of opportunities to experience the real thing. Apart from the obvious explanation that I was simply an extremely horny teen, I think for me it was the power of being able to get a mature adult to such a height of excitement that he would spill billions of sperm just listening to me talk and the power this gave me. Plus, it was just so damn sexy.

The very obvious question is did we ever move from erotic chat to making some of our fantasies a reality? I would love to tell you more but this blog is already far too long, so it will have to wait for another date, and another blog update.

AON_

What are you wearing?

When I do an online chat with one of my admirers, I am often asked what I am wearing. I know they want to hear that I’m wearing one of my lovely multi strap suspended belts, fully fashioned stockings and great big heels. But there’s a problem with that: more often than not I am not “tackled up” and as I never want to lie, I probably disappoint them when I tell him the truth, whether it’s joggers or jeans or sometimes even just my dressing gown. “Nothing sexy”, I often find myself saying.

However, occasionally if I am in the mood I will get into a sexy outfit. Here is one example when I was doing a chat and wearing my ‘Miss Massage’ outfit with stockings and heels.

A couple of weeks ago I had an online chat booked with an admirer and I intended to write one of my blogs before our chat began. I don’t know if it was because I was feeling particularly frisky that day but I put on some tight faux leather trousers, 1/4 cup bra and a black low-cut top, finished off with some ridiculously high heels. After admiring myself in the mirror I was ready to begin writing. From one perspective it’s rather silly as no one would see me but it did help get me in the mood and I do find writing this blog a big turn on (which is why I do it) and often after an online chat I am so aroused I have to make myself cum and I will confess that on occasions my left hand is down inside my knickers while my right hand does the typing.

That’s how it was on this occasion. I felt horny after writing my blog and during our chat, unbeknownst by my admirer, I undid the button and zip of my trousers and probed my wetness. When we had finished chatting, I felt so hot that I briefly thought of phoning my sex partner and asking if there was any chance of a quickie, as the thought of 10 1/2 inches of thick black cock sliding into me ticked all the right boxes but then I remembered that he was away on business.

So I decided to wait until my husband returned home and have a session with him, hand relief for the cuck and a finger fuck for me. When he saw my outfit, he asked, “What’s going on?” and I explained about the blog and the chat and I told him that he was about to be milked. He was delighted, of course but never being one to miss an opportunity to act as if he is my pimp, he had another suggestion. He said if I was feeling this horny, we should go to some sleazy pub and show me off to all the punters there and see what happens. I know how much he loves to see me interacting with other men, flirting, talking dirty, getting them turned on, maybe even suggesting a bit of fun of some sort. And that day I did indeed feel extremely horny, so I agreed.

Now I should explain that when we do one of these pub visits there are essentially three ways that we approach it. The first and simplest is we just go and have a couple of drinks and let any of them in there admire me if I’m in my fully fashioned stockings, high heels etc. Occasionally a bold man will come over and say hello, say how he likes my stockings or my shoes or boots, maybe offer to buy us both a drink but more often than not men are nervous about approaching me in case this causes trouble with my husband. If only they knew! Sometimes at the bar or in the toilets they will speak to him instead and that gives him the opportunity to invite them to join us and we’ve had some great encounters when this happens. On a few occasions I have been stopped either going to or coming from the toilets and again this allows a conversation to develop and I am able to reassure them that if they wish to join us my husband would be delighted to meet them. But as I say, more often than not it’s a case of looking but not approaching, which is a pity.

Hence the second tactic. Here we go to the pub (and by the way, we now always choose somewhere sufficiently far away from our home that it’s extremely unlikely we will see any friends or neighbours there but in the past, when I was younger, I was happy to parade myself around our locals), have a drink and if we see a man or even a group of men who are taking a particular interest in me, then my husband goes outside “for a cigarette”, although in truth he has never smoked. However, this opens the window of opportunity for the man who has been looking me up and down to come over and say hello and after a bit of chat I suggest he takes a seat and I then assure him that my husband will welcome him to stay when he comes back into the bar.

The third and more extreme approach is that I simply go into the bar by myself, order a drink and sit where everyone can see me. When I have done this, I always feel rather nervous and it may simply be because of this that I always sense a change in atmosphere, with many groups of men becoming suddenly quiet as they look over the new arrival. They see me in, say, a low-cut top with lots of cleavage on display, a leather skirt, seamed stockings, five-inch heels and I am certain they are trying to size up if I might be waiting for someone, a hot wife looking for a bit of action or a hooker. One thing I have definitely noticed is that if I wear an ankle chain or ankle bracelet this appears to make it much easier for men to approach me, I assume because it narrows the options down, clearly signalling that it’s either hot white or prostitute and some men or even cheeky enough to ask which of those it is.

We have played this in different ways over the years but if someone has approached me, maybe offering to buy me a drink or inviting me to join their friends elsewhere in the bar I have usually said that I am waiting for my husband and suggested that they can keep me company while I wait for him to arrive. Assuming I like the look of my new friend, I then pretend to message my husband asking how long he will be but in reality letting him know then I am ready for him to join me and watch me chatting to my new admirer. This then can go in many different directions: often we will just have a drink, the man will tell my husband how lucky he is to be married to such a sexy lady and that’s it. But on other occasions I have sat between my husband and the admirer and let them each feel my suspender belt straps beneath my skirt, admire the welts of my stockings and run their hands up the back seams, as we chat about all things sexual. And have I ever taken one of these men into the toilets for some “relief”? You know I have!

So, finally, you want to know what happened recently when we went to a pub with me in a very low-cut top and tight leather look trousers, wearing heels which give me vertigo. Well, here is the boring answer (I did tell you that I always want to tell the truth): nothing. To be completely honest, this may be to downplay it a little, because the pub was very busy and I would say 90% of the clientele were men and so there were plenty of glances and while I was stood at the bar waiting to be served one man did say, “I really like your jeans. Are they leather?” I told him that they’re fake leather but as I collected our drinks, I couldn’t resist turning back to him and saying that faux leather is better because it wipes clean more easily. I left it at that but I’m pretty sure he understood the meaning of that comment.

When we got home that evening, I gave him the dirty chat he likes so much. I told him that I thought all of the men in that pub had been admiring my big tits, staring at my cleavage and that they had all thought about tit fucking me. I said when they saw me stood at the bar in the tight leather look trousers and the massive heels, every one of them had wanted to rub their cock against my arse until they spunked on me. As he was approaching his climax he asked me if I had been offered enough cash, would I have been willing to allow one of the punters in that pub to wank themselves onto my backside or over my tits and I said, “One of them? I could have had a group of them.” I said, “Imagine me in the disabled toilets bent over, with one group wanking and spunking over my backside while another group at the front glaze my tits and face …” and he obviously did imagine exactly this as he shouted out, “You busty whore!” and his gland began to empty. Another happy punter. Now it was my turn …

Super Vixen

“Try and keep your eyes on the road.”

“I know, sorry. It’s just when we went over those speed bumps, you know, you were bouncing so much.”

I look down. “Yes, I know, nature’s gifts. Long legs and big tits.”

“Not just big, they’re magnificent and the way you showed off your cleavage in that pub … wow!”

“I’m glad you enjoyed the display.”

“Not just me. The guys in that pub were certainly enjoying the view of nature’s gifts, weren’t they?”

“Yes, I did notice. I like it, the way they look at me.”

“Did you see that guy behind the bar? He couldn’t take his eyes off you. I guess he could hardly believe it, you showing so much. And when you bent down to pick up your handbag, I thought his eyes might pop out. Mind, you almost fell out of your top yourself.”

“He looked nice. How old do you think he was? He seemed very young”.

“I don’t know. 23, maybe 24”.

“Mmm … nice. Maybe even younger. I should go back there sometime, see if he’s there, see if he would like to have a play with these. You know what I mean, take me into the toilets or something.”

“Maybe but no need for the toilets. They have rooms there you know; I mean hotel rooms upstairs. I’m sure he’d be more than happy to take you upstairs for half an hour or so. What are you thinking you might offer him?”

“Oh, probably just the usual, if he likes my tits so much. You know, get them out, shove them into his face, suffocate him a bit, let him squeeze them, pull them, suck them, get my nipples between his teeth, rub the tip of his cock over my nipples until they’re as hard as bullets and then lie back and let him hump them. I’m sure I’d get a lovely pearl necklace.”

“Would you cum to?”

“Probably. I’d maybe have to work myself up a bit beforehand, makes it more certain, as long as he doesn’t cum too quickly. You know how sensitive they are.”

“All the men in that pub were having a good look at you but I could see he was really focussed on your cleavage. I don’t think he even noticed the rest of your outfit.”

By which he meant my tarty gear for that trip: my leather skirt, the black fully fashioned stockings, the five inch heels and my ankle chain. Is the ankle chain a bit too much, I sometimes wonder, as a lot of men appear convinced it means I’m either a hot wife ready, maybe even desperate, for some cock or otherwise a prostitute and some are not too reticent about asking me which it might be. But on this occasion, I was really in the mood for a bit of flaunting and so, after hesitating, I put on the ankle chain just before leaving the house.

“You don’t mind me displaying myself like that, do you? In public, I mean.”

“Not at all, you know I love it when you parade yourself around, and your tits do look magnificent in that top.”

“And you don’t mind if I really do go back to the pub and see if the lad behind the bar is interested in a bit of fun?”

“Of course not. I always want you to have fun and I know you’ve got the eye for younger men. You’re almost too old to be his mother. You’re a GILF!”

“Hey! Don’t be rude! I’m not a granny. But I know what you mean.”

“Anyway, nothing I say would make any difference. I don’t know why you always ask me if I have any objection because we both know you’re going to do what you want, regardless of whatever I might say.”

“Yes, that’s probably fair but I like to ask you because I like to hear you agreeing to me playing with other men.”

“You could try treating him like a punter. You know, offering him the full range of services.”

“Mmmm … I don’t think so. I’m interested in a bit of fun with a young man. I’m not trying to turn him into a paying client.”

“But go on, indulge me. I like to hear you say it.”

“Oh, alright then. Here goes. Now then young man, I can offer you a full range of services that I know you will love. There is hand relief either with or without gloves. You can tit fuck me, when I’m on my back and you hump them or, if you prefer, I can wrap them around your cock and wank you off with my tits. Then there’s oral, and that’s a full cum in the mouth service and I swallow everything you have to offer, that is unless you’d prefer to ejaculate on my face, which I also like. Then of course there is full penetration with condoms or, the ultimate experience, drum roll, please, there’s full penetration without protection, bareback, in other words. There, how does that menu sound to you?”

“Amazing. You certainly sound like a professional, like you do this every day.”

“You’re getting excited, aren’t you?”

“Getting? I’ve been hard since we walked into that pub.”

I reach over and squeeze his cock through his trousers. He’s hard.

“Just look where you’re going, and slow down. If it is too much for you, I know a quiet spot about 5 minutes from here. We could pull over. We wouldn’t be disturbed. And I could give you some relief.”

“And do I get offered that full menu that you have just run through?”

“Of course not. You are my husband. And you are pathetic, a pathetic cuckold. You should be grateful that I am even prepared to milk you, more or less on demand.”

“Oh, I am. It’s fantastic. You are so good at it, it blows my mind, even though you do make me pay each time.”

“Of course I make you pay. You don’t think I should offer you this service for free, do you? I enjoy treating you like a punter, a pathetic, desperate, frustrated punter. Now do you want to pull over for some quick relief or not?”

“Do you know what I would really like to do now?”

“I can probably guess it will be something disgusting but go on, tell me”.

“I’d like to take you back to that pub, right now and you can see if that lad wants to make full use of your assets. I can wait in the car if you like, while he is humping your massive tits in one of the bedrooms ….”

“Or in the disabled toilets. You know how I love I really sleazy encounter.”

“Yes, fantastic! Are we going back?”

“No. Not today. I don’t want us to crash. But I will go another day and look for him and I will tell you what happens afterwards. I think we should go home now and I’ll drain you, as you need a firm milking. And if you’re good, I may even let you play with my tits.”

Feedback

Following my last blog about gloves, I received very nice emails from two of my most loyal followers, which I thought I would share with everyone, with their permission. Putting this blog together does take quite a bit of time and the last one was particularly time consuming, as I looked through all the photos I have of myself – of which there are more than 17,500 – and then had to select which ones to include and the even larger number I could have used but decided against.

So it’s nice to receive such positive feedback. If you like the blog (and, even better, if you sometimes cum while reading it and viewing my photos!) I would love you to add a comment or give me your feedback directly by email (ladyinseams@gmx.com) or both of course. Although I can see from the statistics the blog is very popular (last week was a record with over 8,500 visits) the comments are relatively few and it would be great to see more.

Anyway, here are those two emails:

Hi Emma

I thought you’d been quiet lately, now I know why! Your latest blog on gloves must’ve taken hours to put together. Superb detail accompanied by all those photos. A true masterpiece and one of your best yet.

I particularly enjoyed the photos of the sheer black long gloves. They must feel incredible wrapped around a cock, both for you and the cock owner as you put it so well. I assume there can’t be any lubricant involved though for risk of damaging the gloves, so it would have to be a long, slow wank, nothing too frantic. Otherwise you’d have to change into your nurse’s outfit and administer to a nasty friction burn 😎 

Thanks again for such an erotic entry into your canon. Speak soon and enjoy your weekend. Oh and happy Burns Night (Rabbie not friction 😀).

Emma

After reading your latest blog on gloves, the least I could do was sent a short email to say “wow”. Seriously wow! Whilst I’m not necessarily a gloves afficiando, the stories and photos are amazing. I love how much effort you’ve gone to and can’t believe how many sexy photos you’ve shared on this blog. I was so hard straight away that I had to go and change into some pvc boxers and play with my wife (she didn’t realise I was so turned on by your photos but she wasn’t moaning…well, actually, she was moaning!!!).

Can’t thank you enough for all the effort. It’s so appreciated and definitely promoted my love life.

Thank you so much.

Gloves

It’s perhaps a little strange that I’ve not written about gloves before now. You may associate me with gloves because of my passion for providing ‘hand relief’ and as a self-described ‘Masturbatrix’ and if you’ve seen my videos, you will already know that I very often wear gloves while masturbating men. But my own love of gloves goes back much, much further than that. Even as a very young child, when I played dressing up games, I often put on gloves – normally many sizes too big for me, of course – and when I look back at old photos of me at parties and other events in my teens, I am wearing wrist length black satin gloves in many of them. I think I had a single pair and, remarkably, they’re still in my box of gloves, extremely well worn and with much sentimental value.

Don’t expect me to explain why gloves have always been so important to me, other than to say that when I was that age, I thought they added a touch of class and elegance, a hint of sophistication which I didn’t really possess. I loved all those period dramas in which the ladies never seemed to attend any ball or concert other than in long satin gloves. As a recent article in Town & Country magazine put it:

“Debutantes and heiresses were probably the first thing to come to mind, when thinking of opera-length gloves. The style was very much associated with aristocratic women from days past … [but the] long and elegant formal glove has recently started to make a comeback … It’s the perfect way to add an unexpected element of sophistication to formal wear, or even a cocktail look”. 

As I matured (and, frankly, when I had more money) I gradually gathered quite a collection of gloves to be worn for special occasions and by that I am including for sexy moments and showing myself off. Wrist length leather, of course and longer leather gloves, satin in black, white, red and even gold and both elbow and even shoulder length satin gloves in red, black and white and PVC and faux leather and wet look, all formed part of my collection.

I’d like to share some photos with you of just some of the gloves I possess and wear. I’ll begin with ‘regular’ wrist length leather gloves, essential during cold weather, of course, but also providing a hint of dominance when worn with a sexy outfit or when clutching a whip or cane.

Wrist Length Leather

A fairly frequent request from the cock owners is for leather gloves but I found that with the combination of semen and lubricating jelly or oil soaking into the leather, they often became very stiff and the leather began to crack and this made them unsuitable for relief work, as they’d hurt a cock too much and so had to be thrown away. I soon became well known in all our local charity shops because if I spotted a pair of leather gloves which fitted, I snapped them up.

Of course, longer leather gloves hint at domination and cock milking much more clearly and, naturally, I have some in my collection too.

Long Leather

There’s obviously nothing new about gloves as fetish items.

Unquestionably, many men are attracted to women wearing gloves. I noticed this when I was out, even just wearing regular leather gloves on cold winter days but very much more so if the gloves are slightly incongruous, for example, gloves worn with a short sleeve top or dress or very long gloves worn under the sleeves and simply not removing gloves in a social setting – a bar or party – seems to be a trigger for many men. Perhaps it hints at decadence or kink and I know many men instantly associate a woman wearing gloves with masturbation.  

Back in 2010 I became really interested in and excited by the whole ‘Masturbatrix’ theme (and here I must credit the porn star known as ‘Lady Sonia’ as her milking videos were an inspiration for me) and found I derived enormous pleasure from providing men with long, slow luxurious ‘hand relief’ (and you can read as to how I differentiate that term from ‘hand job’ elsewhere in this blog).

As I was soon completing hundreds of relief sessions every year, I began to accumulate more and more gloves for this purpose. The most obvious choice was the disposable ‘surgical’ latex gloves and I got though many boxes of them. Indeed, to this day I carry a pair in my handbag, together with a small tube of lubricating jelly, on the off chance that I meet someone who requires this service and persuades me that they qualify for such a treat.

Disposable Latex

As you can see, I use a variety of styles of disposable gloves, from clear vinyl, though to traditional white latex and even blue or purple. But there is a lot to be said for black latex gloves for masturbating men as they show the semen very clearly after ejaculation.

Black Disposable Latex

Recently I asked on my Flickr page, if I was to offer relief, would gloved or bare hands be preferred. The answers were roughly 50-50 but one person replied “gloves please – psychologically it feels a bit more impersonal and detached” and I think that’s exactly it for me and for many men. It’s more ‘clinical’ which is why disposable latex gloves suit very well – peeling these off and throwing them into a bin saying “There, that’s your sperm disposed of” is a little extra thrill for me at the end of a healthy milking encounter.

But I don’t insist on gloves at all. In fact in a previous blog I mentioned a friend who has a strange obsession with the fact that I am an unfaithful married woman and likes to ejaculate over my wedding and engagement rings, I suppose wishing to defile the symbols of my faithfulness and he insists I allow his semen to dry on the rings and then show this to my husband, to reinforce the point that his is just one of many cocks I service and that my husband is a pathetic cuckold.

There is a benefit to bare handed milking, which is that it makes it easier to lick off the semen from my hand and fingers, or it would be were it not for the fact that I almost always use a lubricating jelly or oil and this is why in many of my photos and videos you may notice I’m wearing a glove on just one hand, as this is the hand which is used to stroke the lubricated erection and then when the man ejaculates I will sometimes try and catch his lovely sperm and semen with my other, bare hand, creamy fluid I can then lick up. You know how much I enjoy swallowing spunk!

A Single Glove

So, it’s the cock owners choice: gloves or bare hands? If it’s gloves, they then have a wide range from which to choose: the surgical disposable type or vinyl, or PVC, rubber, long satin ones, wet look or these long ones with the prominent silver zips, which again are very popular with my admirers.

Long Zipped

Let’s take a photographic walkthrough of some of the gloves I have in my collection and some of the options available to a cock owner who is about to be milked dry.

Long Black Satin

Long Red Satin

Long Black Sheer

Red Red Metallic

Some Other Colours

Probably most popular of all are my wrist length black glossy latex ones, with which I must have completed many hundreds of relief sessions and received dozens of pints of seminal fluid. When I have completed a milking session, I hand the gloves to my husband to be cleaned and he then reapplies a gloss finishing spray, so they are as good as new and ready for the next cock.

I also have some red latex gloves too.

PVC and Wet Look

Another very popular choice is PVC or wet look gloves, of which I have many different pairs, perfect for hand domination sessions and giving someone a good thrashing. Did someone say ‘busty dominatrix’?

The only person who does not get a choice is my husband, as I now insist on always wearing gloves when he needs relief and this enables me to say quite honestly to him and to all of you that I have not touched his penis in over five years and I have no intention of doing so. It’s a further little humiliation for him: I am happy to handle your cock but not his.

So, there you have it. My perfect set of clothing when I want a bit of fun is a nice suspender belt, a pair of fully fashioned stockings, some very high heeled shoes (or boots) and a pair of gloves. Then I am ready to play and quite prepared to remove and destroy a man’s worthless sperm.

At the clinic

A while back, when I was encouraging some of my more devoted followers to contact me, if they were keen to experience my ‘hand relief’ skills, I had fairly frequent contact with Jake, a young fan of mine. Jake was keen to meet and after he showed me a photograph of his very impressive penis, I was equally keen!

When we did I was so astonished at both the size and the girth of his tool that I spent some time afterwards toying with the idea of taking things much further than simply manual relief and I imagined what it would be like to have him deep inside me, so much so that I even had a dream about this scenario. However, I resisted the temptation and we confined ourselves to occasional masturbation sessions.

Subsequently Jake contacted me with a specific fantasy in which he wanted me to participate. He had seen a video in which a man purported to go to a clinic for a genital examination by a nurse and he asked if I would be willing to play that role with him. Of course, I was delighted to do so and we put together a rough script for our meeting. I recorded this session with Jake on my phone and with the help of an AI tool, I have managed to transcribe it and (with a little tidying up here and there) I have set it out below.

He is lying and naked on a bed. I am in one of my nurse’s uniforms, a white overall with a wide black patent belt and of course I am wearing a suspender belt, black fully fashioned stockings and very high heels. I pull on a pair of disposable, surgical latex gloves and taking a tube of lubricating jelly, I am ready to begin.

Now Mr. Lawrence, I am just going to perform an examination of your genitals, your scrotum, your testicles and your penis. Make sure everything’s working properly. You have not been experiencing any discomfort or pain, I assume.

No nothing like that.

Everything has been OK, is that right? No difficulty in achieving an erection, no trouble ejaculating, no pain when you ejaculate or urinate?

No.

Good. I’d like to do a little test to see how long it takes you to achieve a full erection. And then I’ll continue to see how long it takes you to ejaculate and see how much you ejaculate and then I will do a quick test of your sperm and semen, just to make sure that everything appears normal and healthy.

OK. Thanks.

Now I can immediately see that you have a very large penis and it is extremely thick. Do you have any difficulty during intercourse as a result?

You mean because it’s a bit too big for some women?

Yes exactly. Causes them discomfort. Or even frightens them.

Yes, occasionally that has been an issue, maybe that’s one reason I like older women more and also, you know, getting it by hand and blow jobs and stuff.

Well, I can think of many women who would be absolutely delighted to accommodate a penis of this size and girth, who like to be stretched.

I lube up too.

Good, that’s sensible. OK, see, it certainly doesn’t take you long to become fully erect and I can feel it is extremely hard in my hand now. Very firm indeed. When was the last time that you ejaculated?

Umm … I think three days ago. No, sorry, four.

Intercourse or masturbation?

Err … not sex. Masturbation.

Do you not normally masturbate every day?

No, not every day, I sometimes try to save it up. But other days I might do it three or four times in a day.

Well, that’s an excellent erection and shows good levels of responsiveness because you became very hard almost immediately I began my examination. Although for a man of your age who hasn’t ejaculated for four days, I would say that’s fairly normal. What sort of material do you normally masturbate to?

Just Internet porn mainly.

What things get you hard most?

I like mature women, stockings, high heels, boots, that kind of thing. And big boobs, that’s a big thing for me too but natural, not the plastic silicone ones. I guess I’m really into the whole stockings and high heels look. Also, dominant looking ladies, strict, you know a bit bossy.  I’m a bit submissive, like being told what to do, told off, like teachers.

Nurses?

Yes, of course, nurses.

Well, that’s fairly standard stuff. As you can imagine, I myself get a lot of interest from young men like you, due to the way I dress and of course because of these.

I glance down at my cleavage, which I have now positioned to the side of his erection.

I’m very proud of my big bust.

Yes, you should be. They’re amazing.

Some of my patients have a nickname for me: they call me ‘Busty Slut’. One called me ‘Nurse Knockers’. Feel free to have a good look at them, if that helps you along a little bit. There we go. Just try to relax. Think about my big tits, and my suspender belt and stockings and these high heels … this may help you reach orgasm. I am stroking the whole length of your shaft, which I’m happy to report has remained very firm throughout this examination and I’m going to speed my hand a little and tighten my grip somewhat and with my other hand I’m going to check your testicles. Squeeze them.

That’s incredible. I’m holding back as much as I can, it’s so good. Aaagh … that’s just fantastic. Oh my god!

As I said earlier, this is a very nicely erect penis, very firm and engorged. Nice and thick. Assuming this test is a success, perhaps we could get you back to the clinic for some further examinations and experiments.

Yes?  What’s that? What do I have to do? Make me.

Well, we have a health plan where you can have a monthly examination like this. That’s very popular with our patients. Or there is the gold plan, where one of the nurses – well it’s me actually – removes your ejaculate orally.

Orally? Jesus. With condoms?

No, it’s a full cum-in-mouth treatment and all of the ejaculate is swallowed. Very tidy. No mess.

Doesn’t your husband mind?

No not at all, he knows it’s my job and that I really love my work. If a patient needs to be masturbated or fellated– well, that’s what I am here for. He understands. He’s a cuckold you see, likes me to enjoy myself, so this is a perfect job for me. Sometimes, after a busy day at work, my uniform is soaked with semen and when I get home I give it to him to launder for me and he is delighted to see all the other men’s sperm and seminal fluid and to wash it all out for me and iron it ready for my next clinic. Pathetic, really, isn’t it?

Christ! Maybe I feel sorry for him. Maybe, a bit.

Don’t. He loves it. Now I know you’re holding back on me but I want you to reach climax now. Look at my cleavage. I want to see your ejaculate and I’d like it all over my chest. Cover them with your sperm. Can you manage that? If it helps, you can think about another test we perform here. That’s full penetration, I mean full intercourse and we don’t use condoms. It’s bare back only here, so you need to have a blood test first.

OK.

Think about how that would feel, fucking me from behind on all fours, in my seamed stockings and high heels, sliding into my sopping wet vagina, stretching me wide open, my breast swinging back and forth and then pumping me full of sperm.

Fuck, yes. I’ll do anything! Honestly. Anything. I want you …

That’s it, I can feel you’re almost there. That’s it, just relax into it. Enjoy the sensation of these latex gloves on your cock. Such a nice, big, thick penis. So nice and hard. Look at my boobs now and let’s see how much you can ejaculate for me.

I manoeuvre my cleavage into position, close to his penis as I deliver the final, firm strokes up and down his shaft. He grunts and pants rapidly and then begins to ejaculate.

Good boy, look at that. There you go. That’s it. Just let it go. Oh wow, that’s fantastic, look at all that ejaculate. Wow, it’s still spurting out. It’s not stopping. Let’s get it all out. You don’t need it. I do. Come on, every last drop.

He continues to grunt and groan, gasping and panting wildly.

Your first blast must have gone two or three feet up in the air! I’m really impressed. Four days’ worth for a young man like you, there’s a lot. You must feel better now. Yes? Relaxed. Calm.

Yeah, oh wow, fucking amazing, aagh, … unbelievable. Unbe fucking believable!

Just lie back and relax. Enjoy the sensation. I’m going to keep stroking you as I know your orgasm will have been very deep within you and the sensation is still strong even now, isn’t it?

Yes, oh my god, yes, thank you. Thank you.

Good boy. Look at my breasts, they’re covered with your fluid, it’s even in my hair!

Sorry. You look amazing. That was indescribable.

Good. That’s lovely.

You said you were going to test my sperm, do you look at a sample through a microscope or something?

Oh no. Nothing as sophisticated as that. This is how I test it.

At this point, using my left hand, I scoop up some of his semen from my breasts and lick my fingers clean

Yes. That’s absolutely delicious. That’s just how semen should taste. You’ve passed that test too. That was very successful and I have no concerns about your penis or testicles and their performance. You are obviously a virile, fertile and healthy young man and I would suggest the next step in your treatment plan should be an oral examination, followed a few weeks later by a full intercourse test to see how you perform in that.  And I can assure you that I am sufficiently experienced in such matters, that I should have no difficulty in accommodating your penis, even if it is exceptionally large and thick and I would be happy to find myself at the end of my shift carrying your sperm and ejaculate home inside me. But can you abstain for a week or so, with daily edging?

I can try.

Do. I would like to see you to produce an even bigger volume of ejaculate. You can get dressed now.

And at that I pull off my latex gloves and throw them into the waste bin.

That’s all your sperm removed and destroyed. At least for now. I’ll see you again soon.

Photo credit, Lady Sonia

Seams close to home

In a recent blog post https://ladyinseams.home.blog/2024/12/24/ghosts-of-christmas-past/ I explained that, in contrast to past years when I would frequently attend Christmas parties or other events as a companion for various of my admirers, this year I chose not to do so, as part of my move to reduce the number of slutty adventures I have.

Following that blog, I was chatting online with one of my lovely followers and he asked if I was attending any parties at all at Christmas and I said only one, with my neighbours. Naturally he asked if I would be wearing stockings.  I’m sure he would have  loved me to have said yes, seams with six inch heels and my ‘Queen of Spades’ ankle chain but I always like to be honest during these chats, so I told him the truth: yes, I would wear stockings (and indeed I did) but plain not seamed not even RHTs and I think only my husband was aware that I was wearing a suspender belt.

And this got me thinking about how rapidly things can change. It’s not that long ago that I was very confident to wear fully fashioned (seamed) stockings, not just to parties but almost ‘day-to-day’, for example when out shopping. Today much less so.

And thinking about this reminded of another Christmas drinks party, not that many years ago. I don’t remember exactly when but I think it was in 2016 or 2017. Strictly speaking it wasn’t a neighbours’ drinks party, as it was about two miles from where we live and I know Jill and Paul, the hosts, through a local club we belong to, rather than them being near neighbours but I don’t think this influenced what I wore.

To be perfectly honest, I didn’t give it much thought. It’s Christmas time, we’re going to be drinking Champagne or cocktails and I feel a little frisky and so I wore a nice multistrip belt, black seamed stockings, nice heels and a sequin cocktail dress. I felt elegant and a little sexy at the same time, a perfect combination at that time of year.

This was my party dress and shoes, although I didn’t wear the ankle bracelet (nor, as far as I can remember, the gloves)

It was fun, I felt great and the Champagne flowed freely. I’ll confess that once I start on Champagne, I find it very hard to stop and I’ll acknowledge now that I’d had more glasses than is good for the liver, as each time I had almost finished a glass it was refilled. However, I was not alone, as almost everyone was walking and the volume of noise in the two rooms being used got greater and greater and it was clear that almost everyone was at least tipsy.

A gentleman, probably early 40s if I had to guess, introduced himself: “Hi, I’m Tom from number eleven”, which I took to mean he was a neighbour. We had the usual polite and very predictable neighbours’ drinks party chat: Where do you live? How do you know Jill and Paul? Any special plans for Christmas? Children? Going away at all? You know the form.

And then he said something along the lines of “I hope you don’t mind but I couldn’t help noticing your stockings, earlier. They’re lovely.”  So, first, we established that they were indeed ‘proper’ stockings by which he meant not hold ups or put another way, that I was wearing a suspender belt. I confirmed that they were indeed and when he used the word ‘vintage’, I told him that they’re properly described as fully fashioned nylons and he immediately demonstrated he had good knowledge by saying he was familiar with the term, flat stitched, individually sewn to create the back seam, finishing hole, nice welts … and said “I’m a really big fan of them, in fact but you see them so rarely, that’s why yours caught my eye.”

So – and do bear in mind I was quite drunk at this point, as was he, I think – I said I loved my FFNs and it was a real pleasure for me to meet a man who really appreciated their glamour. He said he was relieved to hear this, as he’d been unsure if he should even comment upon them and I could see he now felt relaxed and able to chat freely about them and I think I encouraged him along the way. He asked if they were for special occasions only and I said no, not for me, despite the cost, that I wear them frequently, yes for evenings like this but also shopping and to work and at some point, I mentioned that I own over thirty suspender belts. Now he was visibly excited – in fact he was almost hopping from one foot to the other.

Of course, he made the obvious joke that if I was in his office he’d get no work done and he didn’t know how any of my colleagues could cope. For a very brief moment, I considered telling him the truth: that I only work with one man, that he obliges me to wear seams and is truly fanatical about them and that each day I’m in the office I masturbate him. Thankfully, despite being rather drunk and by this point feeling quite horny as a result of our chat, a bit of my brain applied the handbrake and I realised that saying this would not be a good idea, not least as Chris, my boss (then, I’ve since left this role) is quite well known in the area and I’d already met one local solicitor earlier in the evening who knew him.

We moved onto safer and familiar ground: your husband is a lucky man, does he like them as much as you do, doesn’t he mind you going out in seams and high heels (we’d covered stiletto heels by this point, I should add) and I would loved to have told him the truth: that I am a cuckholdress, that my husband wants me to attract other men, that he not only permits me to have fun with others but positively encourages me to do so and that sometimes when I go out fully ‘tackled up’ in lovely seams and spike heels, I hope to be chatted up by men but again I managed to restrain myself. Some of these people are almost your neighbours, the voice inside my head reminded me.

But then after a bit of umming and aahing, and after stumbling over his words, trying to find the right formulation and after saying he hoped he was not being too cheeky, he asked if I, you know, umm, keep aah, ever keep them on.

“Keep them on?”, I asked. And as he started to mumble something about ‘in the bedroom’ I said, “Oh, you mean for sex” and I couldn’t help laughing before I told him, I don’t just keep them on, I put them on.  And now my brain released the handbrake and I explained that I wouldn’t dream of doing anything at all sexy without first putting on a suspender belt, seamed stockings and high heels, although sometimes boots, occasionally fishnets and of course it could be a girdle or a basque or a corset or a waist clincher but almost always a suspender belt and seams and as his eyes grew wider and his mouth fell open I went further and told him the last time I had sex when I wasn’t wearing stockings was over a decade ago and even then it was during a heatwave in Spain (I didn’t add that I was fucked outside a restaurant and not by my husband!) and that I loved to dress for sex and had lots of uniforms and leather and PVC and wet look dresses and also bull whips and riding crops and a dressage whip and handcuffs and I started to explain why I have dozens of pairs of gloves, leather, latex, PVC, vinyl … and as he gulped down his drink, I realised I’d probably gone a bit to far with the detail and he looked like he might need to sit down.

There was quite a pause as my brain gained control of my mouth and he looked at me, blinked and said “Fucking hell. Incredible.” He looked absolutely stunned and it amused me to think how he might have reacted if I’d not stopped when I did, if I’d told him everything, about being an enthusiastic Masturbatrix, about giving my boss hand relief each week and occasionally sucking him off, about having a black man with a massive cock purely for sex, about all of the photos and videos of me that men view and wank to, about how much I enjoy being spunked on and how swallowing a big load of sperm and semen is, for me, one of life’s great joys, about how I can be a mean and dominant bitch, how I like to role play nurse, secretary, schoolgirl, teacher, mother, hooker …

If I’d met Tom in, say, a nightclub or a distant pub I might have said all that. I might have asked him if he was getting an erection. I might even have suggested I take care of the bulge in his trousers and taken him into the toilets for a bit of impromptu ‘relief’ or slipped my knickers off and handed them to him, instructed him to take them into the gents and wank onto them before returning them to me. At the very least I’d have asked for his email and sent him some photos afterwards, maybe given him access to my videos so he could watch me masturbating men, seen me being spunked on, listened to me gagging on cock during an oral session and seen me being fucked on all fours in my signature seams and heels.

But of course, I was at my friend’s house and Tom was their neighbour and I’d already said too much.  I suggested that what I had said was just between the two of us, as he was such a fan of my stockings, although I already knew it probably wouldn’t stay that way and, secretly, I didn’t especially mind if some friends and almost neighbours knew I had a healthy attitude to sex and enjoyed a lively sex life, with my husband.

As we left to walk home (changing out of my heels into flat shoes, btw), Tom thanked me for our chat and once again said how much he loved my outfit. I pulled him toward me for a polite kiss and as I did, I felt one of his hands on my hip. Was it just chance or was he feeling my suspender belt?  I whispered in his ear, “Sweet dreams” and he gave a little laugh and I think we both knew, he’d be thinking about me in my stockings, maybe imagining me in one of my uniforms, as he fell asleep that night, perhaps even requiring a bit of self-relief before he could even manage that.

As something of a postscript, Tom obtained my email from Jill and sent a message saying how much he’d enjoyed meeting me and said he was annoyed with himself, because he’d been so busy chatting, he’d failed to take any photos of me looking so lovely (and he added “and those fantastic stockings!”) and if I’d like, he’d be delighted to meet for a drink or lunch. I did consider sending him a photo or two and my husband even suggested I consider whether he might be a suitable candidate for my hand relief service but all a bit too close to home, so I gave a vague reply about being sure we’d run into one another again and that was our last contact, although every time I see Jill she likes to say that Tom has never shut up about me since that evening. I hope he cums thinking of me.

Wrinkles in stockings

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

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

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

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

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

Of course, the other way on which these wrinkles and a certain looseness develops is during a physical session and I know my husband likes to admire my wrinkled seams.

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

Christmas cock tale

As I have decided to cut back on some of my sluttier adventures, it’s probably inevitable that this blog will be more about past deeds than contemporary escapades or will otherwise focus on fun with a smaller cast of characters. Which brings me to my ‘son’, about whom I have written on numerous occasions and who most definitely fits the description of ‘character’ as he is, as they say, larger than life.

He asked to visit ‘mum’ an ‘dad’ before Christmas, so as to deliver our presents and with one thing and another the only convenient time for us all was the evening of Monday 23rd December, before my children arrived to stay with us after work on Christmas Eve. It’s never enough for him to simply visit, however, and we have to agree a scenario with which we’re both comfortable and he often suggests a rough ‘script’ for us to follow. I’m sure he is a frustrated actor at heart!

He gave my husband, John, a very nice book and he brought me flowers and a bottle of Champagne (which I had on Christmas morning) and a beautifully wrapped little package. When I opened it, I found a very nice eight-strap, black suspender belt.  

My new suspender belt, a Christmas gift from my ‘son’.

Naturally he insisted that I must try it on to see if it would fit, although we both knew it would. I went upstairs and put on the belt and a pair of black point heel fully fashioned stockings, a leather skirt, a black quarter cup bra with my slashed pink top with which you’ll be familiar, a diamante ankle bracelet and some strappy and very high heels, heels so high they obliged me to descend the stairs rather carefully.

Dressed like a tart, I was ready for some milking action!

He was absolutely delighted with my outfit and made no effort to disguise the fact he was almost fully erect. “Oh mum, you look amazing,”, he said. John, chipped in “She looks like a tart”, but my boy was quick to respond “I know, that’s what I mean. I think she looks fantastic and I’m proud of my mum.”

Normally I don’t allow John to view my sessions, or not often but I thought, after all he is my ‘son’ and it is Christmas, and a family should be together at Christmas, so I had agreed he could stay and enjoy the show.

The three of us went into the lounge (as had previously been agreed) and I sat between my two men and we began to watch TV.  Both took the opportunity to feel my suspender belt straps and John adjusted my top so my nipples were through one of the openings in my top. After a few minutes we all agreed the TV programme was rather boring and our son suggested we watch some of my own, home-made, amateur porn instead. Watching me masturbating and sucking got both of them very much more excited and I found each of my hands stroking a cock to either side of me, beneath their trousers. A clip where I was driven to a car park and asked to remove my dress revealing black suspender belt, bra and stockings and then bent over a car and fucked from behind, immediately had the young man’s zip down and a big, fully hard cock appeared, which he then began to stroke.

Fucked in a car park.

“Don’t do that”, I said in admonishment. “That’s what I’m here for. Mummy will take of that.” On a side table I had what I needed: a pair of disposable black latex gloves and some lubricating cream. I got to work on his cock and John watched very intensely.

“Oh, mum, you’re so good at this. My balls are so full, I’m going to explode. Mum, I love you, I want to pump my seed inside you. Please let me …” and on and on he went. I walked him up to climax and then slowed to take him down a little about three or four times before I stopped altogether. This had also been pre-agreed but he still pretended to object.

“Don’t stop. You can’t stop now. I was just about to cum on you.”

I laughed and told John what I needed now: a Champagne flute and the bottle of Cava we’d put in the fridge earlier. When he returned from the kitchen, with the bottle and three glasses, all that was then required was another minute of firm stroking and manoeuvring the glass into position with my free hand … and then – BANG!

Lady Sonia had the same idea!

I’ve admitted previously that one of the reasons I like seeing my imaginary son is he produces truly impressive volumes of semen, probably as much, if not more, than any white man I have ever been with, and with impressive force too. But even I was slightly astonished by the result on Monday. He spurted five times and I mean really solid, plumes of very thick semen and I was either very skilled or very lucky to get all of his product into the glass, without losing a drop. Of course, he was shouting about his mum and so forth but I was concentrating so hard on catching it all that I honestly can’t remember what he was saying. Then he stopped ejaculating and I assumed he’d finished but of course I kept stroking, quite gently so as to squeeze out any remaining drops. But then, to my complete surprise, and after a delay of ten or fifteen seconds, it started again and he shot three more ropes of creamy white jizz into the glass, followed by a long trickle and further drops which continued for some time.

A glass of semen (but not the one from my ‘son’)

John was stunned. “That’s incredible”, he said. “What on earth do you eat?”

“Well, it’s your genes”, he replied. He wasn’t laughing and I do sometimes wonder whether in his head he convinces himself, at least in the moment, that we really are his mother and father. I was tempted to say that while John was a very good spunker in his younger days, I don’t recall him ever producing that volume of cum but I had more important things on my mind.

I’d expected maybe half an inch or even an inch of his creamy baby gravy but I was now holding a glass which was almost half full. I was still stroking his cock, warming him down, so John did the honours and uncorked the bottle. We all laughed as the cock flew out, as the analogy with the cock I still held in my grasp and which had just popped its own cork was all too obvious.

John filled the glass with the sparkling wine. The semen was so thick that the two fluids did not immediately mingle, so letting go of the cock and using my gloved little finger I swirled the two together. John filled the other two glass with fizz and I said “Cheers, happy Christmas boys”, and downed my creamy, fizzy drink. “Now that’s what I call a Christmas cocktail”, I said.  “And you”, I added pointing at the drained cock owner, “have been on at me all year about wanting to get your seed inside me – well, now you have, although not in the way you meant!”

After we finished the Cava, it was my husband’s turn. He takes so long to climax these days that I don’t do any of the building up and edging. Instead, I go in fast and brutal, furiously pumping his almost hard cock. After a few minutes I pile the pressure on: “Come on, come on, for God’s sake. I don’t have all night. I’ve things to get ready, presents to wrap for Christ’s sake. If you can’t cum now, I’ll have to stop and try again tomorrow. But the kids will be back, so you’ll have to wait until next week or something.”

He whined a bit and apologised and said he was nearly there. Anyone not familiar with our relationship would think we hate one another. I said he was “pathetic” and not even hard and a waste of time anyway and he called me a big titted tart and a busty whore and the like. As he got to his final phase – I can tell when he is almost ready to pop – he suggested I use the Champagne flute again but I squished that idea and said there was no way I’d be willing to ever swallow his pathetic dribble of sperm again. And that was enough to have him spurt into the palm of my spare hand and, to be fair to him, it was a decent load which I’d extracted.

Not bad from a pathetic old man!

As a special treat for Christmas, I’d invited our boy to stay the night, in the spare room. In the morning, I decided to give him a little extra gift for Christmas. I put the belt, stockings, bra and heels back on and a white satin dressing gown, through which the black bra and belt show fairly clearly. He was propped up in bed, looking at his phone. I told him I had eggs, toast and coffee for his breakfast and asked if he had the normal early morning ‘problem’ most men in their twenties seem to ‘suffer’ from and he confirmed that he did, or at least he did now, pulling back the duvet to reveal another stonking erection. I said mummy knew how to deal with that and proceeded to prove that she does indeed know how to handle a young man’s hard cock.

Dressing gown with suspender belt and stockings (though here worn with boots)

After he’d cum, I reflected on the incredible power of nature. The previous night I had completely drained his gland and extracted an incredible volume of fluid. I firmly believe he had nothing left to give. Yet, here he was, less than twelve hours later, his ejaculate all over my hands, billions and billions of fresh, fertile sperm that his body had simply manufactured overnight. I licked up as much of his sperm and semen from my hand as I could, sucking each finger clean, a really lovely Christmas Eve breakfast snack.

He tried to persuade me to get into bed with him, so he could complete his Oedipal fantasy of inseminating his mother but I’d done my maternal duty for the day and after a decent breakfast, he was off.

But I know he will be coming back before long and he’ll be cumming for his mum.