Hand in my pants

Originally published in Express Magazine on 11th May 2012. This is not the picture originally included with the article!

Hooray for May! While it’s rapidly heading into the chilly season, I happen to be flinging off my clothes rather than wrapping up warmly. Why? Because it’s International Masturbation Month, and I want easy access to my nether regions!

Not that I don’t wank the rest of the year, of course – but come May I ramp up the intensity considerably. The rest of my spelunking-related-activities increase too. I suspect by the end of the month everyone will be sick of me talking about jilling, writing about rubbin’ the nubbin, whinging about my aching fingers, hunting for more batteries and taking up all the outlets recharging my toys – not to mention asking if everyone else is blissing off as well.

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Chill Pleasure

I pull the glass dildo from its fur pouch, and a shiver goes through me as I feel the solid coldness of it. Smooth and rounded, weighted and clear, it holds all the chill of winter within itself.

Other than my questing hand, the rest of me is snuggled deep into flannelette sheets; the winter duvet and two blankets weighs warm atop of me. Resting by my feet is a toasty wheat-bag; another is by my groin. (Over the other side of the bed, Apollo’s feet clasp a hot-water bottle instead. To each their own.)

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Dressing room

“Follow me,” he says abruptly. He turns away from me and I hear the sound of the front door being locked.

We brush past the racks of clothes, heading toward the back of the store. My scalp aches from where, earlier, he had pulled my hair fiercely, and I know that the persistent customers have frustrated him as much as me.

Now, with the shop emptied, it’s just him and me – and the knowledge of what happens next.

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Salty sweet

There are three of you, and one of me. Three of you still clothed, while mine are crumpled in the corner. I can’t even quite remember who divested me of what – all I know is that five minutes earlier I was wearing a skirt, a blouse, and underwear, and now all I am clad in is skin.

There are three of you, and one of me. Three of you sitting down on the edge of the bed, watching me as I touch myself. I stand with my legs spread, cunt welcoming my fingers.

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Gamahuche

It’s been too long. Too long since you knelt between my legs and used your fingers to part my lips, carefully slipping past the curly tangle that frames my cunt. Too long since I last felt that deliberate flick and caress of tongue across my mons and down to my clit. Too long since my insides clenched and tummy tingled while your lips explored my labia, then your teeth gently grated past my clit, teasing me before your tongue pressed itself deep inside me. Too long since I moaned and tightened my thighs around your head, feeling your chin down low and nose up high while you bury your face between my legs.

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Hot Summer Night

It’s late – later than it should be on a school night, but we’re finally in bed. The lights are out, and we’re settling down to sleep. It’s slightly less humid than earlier in the week, so we’ve left the fan off for a change. Still, I feel hot, despite the duvet tossed back and the sheet only partially covering me. I lie on my back, feeling Apollo’s cool arse pressed against my side, and try to drop off to sleep.

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I am not a slut? Huh?

According to my brother, I am not a slut. It totally floored me when he said this, because ‘slut’ is one of those words which I have cheerfully laid claim to for a number of years.

I mean, of course I’m a slut (albeit an ethical one)! I sleep with lots of people, and get nude in public, and talk about sex all the time!

But no. My brother thinks differently. Which led to a fascinating conversation on Sunday morning.

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We sleeping wake, and waking sleep

I don’t often dream about sex. It may be that I get enough during my waking hours, or cover the possibilities during my fantasies. Either way, to dream of sexual dalliances, relations, meanderings and savourings is precious and memorable to me. Strangers all, my dream lovers – unforgettable and yet not a threat to those I love when my eyes are open. Sparkling brightly, my dream self comes together with them only once, before they move on to another setting, another dreaming desirer.

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Tempestuous

Streaming, slipping, sliding. Hot water and warm flesh, damp hair and the taste of chlorine and ephemeric bubbles. I lie back, head resting against hard plastic, while you slip (slick) between my legs. You kneeling, worshipping, bubbling breath up past my belly as you dip below to take me in your mouth.

Your tongue is hotter than the water.

Slipping, sliding, streaming. I buck hard (making a bruise on my hairline, which I find tomorrow), spasm over you. You rise to breathe and I caress hair out of your eyes. You rise to breathe and I kiss you, give you my air. You rise to breathe and then sink below again, suckle me. I cannot stop the shudders that move from clitoris to head, cunt to toes, groin to heart. Your hands rest on my waist, so I cannot float away and lose myself completely.

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