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The post where I tell you how I wank

As I prepare to go in a new direction (re finding/vetting clients) in this journey of mine, (and yes it is my journey, the only thing I have that is created by me, for me) it is time for some reflections. -Nah, screw it; let’s cut the excuses; I want to tell you how I masturbate. Just because. Because it turns me on; and that has always been reason enough for me to do anything.

I do it with gloves. You know those rubbery, slightly rough gardening gloves? Yeah, I do it with those. I’ve tried it with washing-up gloves – I prefer them pink – but they aren’t textured enough to produce enough sensation.

I get my gloves from Poundstretcher’s. I walk around looking at the gloves, and then I rub them lightly on my face to test the texture. My face is much more sensitive than my fingertips to texture. Some gloves are too harsh and some too smooth. (Though I had this great pair of smooth red gloves back in 2011; I think they worked because they were thick. They were a ride and a half, and I kept them for 2 or 3 months until my OCD-like tendencies got the better of me – no matter how much I wash my gloves, I can’t keep them for long without feeling like they’re dirty.) Then, after a while, I’ll buy the gloves. The pair I have now are purple. I’ve also tried wanking with face cloths of a texture that’s neither too smooth or too rough, but they’re just an emergency measure for when I’ve thrown out gloves without having bought a new pair. Back in ’10 I had a fab green pair, and I ‘used up’ one and threw it out before cutting the fingers off the other one and just wearing each finger as a sort of finger-cover. So the glove lasted much longer than usual. Not all gloves can fit snugly on your finger like that, not slipping but remaining faithfully bound to your skin as you bend, flick and manoeuvre. The green gloves had that. I bought them 3 times. I prefer gloves to be pink because that way I can pretend it’s, well, a cock. Or a finger.

When I wank, I do it on all fours. Roland once filmed me doing it. I once did lie on my back and do it, and it was successful; I used cream and a rough towel that time. But usually I get into the same position I’ve used since I was nine, my head resting on the bed. After a while I’ll let my thighs sink onto my calves. Wjen I was nine I didn’t masturbate; what I did was rub and stroke my bottom as I fantasised about boys being spanked, burned with fire, burnt with hot iron, caned, whipped, forced to wear nappies or girls’ pants. They were put in prams and dressed like babies. They were dressed as girls, or tortured by the cruel Authority and its Wardens. They were put in spanking machines or had hot forks stuck into their dicks and twisted in front of crowds. They wet and pooed their pants in public and were spanked for it. They were put in spanking machines and torture machines.

These days, my boys (aged 15-25 instead of 9-17 like when I was nine) also get publically gang-raped and filmed, given enemas and sodomised with all kinds of stuff. I’m a bit artistically inclined and created this blog’s logo and my ‘K’ Twitter avi. So it follows that I’m creative with my boys.

I do have girls. It started at nine but I quickly lost interest in my mousy-haired Alice’s spankings. At 17, though, Alice returned as the 14-year-old sister of my oft-spanked 18-year-old Alex and later on the redheaded 16-year-old  American Jilly moved in. Her devious friend, the black-haired Nadine, turned up later. So did Chastity White, unwilling heroine of The Seven Days, my fantasy based on The Ring movie. Roland is the hero of that fantasy (and subsequently the name given to my original client). If any of you ever leafed through my 5 notebooks in which all my wanking writing is kept, you’d be amazed that it took me until Lynne to figure out I am a bit bi. (Though I did wonder about it last year and I have said I’m not totally straight.) I  thought that what I was doing was roleplaying that I as one of these girls, though God knows how I justified all the F/F spanking scenes. (My favourite pairing is M/M, then F/M).

I’ve never allowed myself to orgasm, or should I say to complete an orgasm. I get to the stage where it’s like there’s electricity rippling through me and the contractions become powerful, then I stop. This keeps me in a near-constant state of sexual frustration, which focuses my mind. I was originally saving it for my first time and I must shamefully admit that I felt that it wasn’t ‘real’ masturbation if I didn’t orgasm. I did feel guilty about wanking when I started aged 19, whacking myself off to a fantasy of committing murder. I must also admit that I never wanked over She Who I Loved, i.e. Lynne, because it was disrespectful…despite the number of pics of her that must be available via Google Images. Well, I couldn’t even stalk her online or search for pics, so it’s no wonder I couldn’t flick myself off to her photos. Who I have wanked to include a neighbour, a school friend and, at age 13, a fantasy (though I didn’t masturbate then) of a female pupil who I despised.

It’s been incredibly freeing to sit at a bus stop or in a cafe and allow myself to think ‘that girl is hot’ instead of pulling back the thought as I used to BL (Before Lynne). I allow myself these thoughts now because I understand that I can’t deny who I am, and my bisexuality can’t be suppressed; I spent so long denying it only to have it revenge itself on me by condemning me to have serious (non lust-based) feelings for Lynne, instead of someone who’d be receptive and who I could have fun sexytimes with. Back when I stopped pulling the thoughts, I still fancied Lynne and believed she was probably ignoring me (which she may or may not have been – it’s hard to tell, because I avoided her for a while). So I thought that if I’m in love (which I believed I was) with someone who is very annoyed about it, why not allow myself to have much healthier, lustful thoughts that make me happy instead of sad? The Lynne thing also taught me the futility of ignoring my bisexual thoughts. They’ll come and get you in the end.

Re her, I’ve looked into blocking all IP addresses from her region but you can only do that with countries, so I’m stuck. I can’t figure out all this PHP stuff anyway. And I’d really only block her from seeing the Lynne Post and not the entire blog, because she’ll probably figure out it’s her if she reads it. I’m just worried she’ll be annoyed that I’ve written about her without her permission, especially since I’m writing about something which pissed her off so much. Though it’s not like she hasn’t done the same thing. I don’t want her to know my private thoughts about her, though granted they were Disney-esque and Puritan in the extreme (except that I would’ve wanted her to spank me).

I love wanking to comics, cartoons and anime art of boys getting spanked or crying after a spanking. Ditto pissing or shitting themselves. Girls also work for me, too. I had a flash drive with 6 massive Word files of all these pics and I used to have loads of such files on my old laptop so I could scroll down while I was having a wank. Once, I left my flash drive at the uni library and someone found it, located my CV to find out who I was and texted me that she’d handed it in to Lost Property. I’ll always wonder if she found the porn. It was a good thing that happened, or I might keep my CV and backups of this blog and individual blog posts on the same flash drive now. I think if you’re a sex blogger or blog about sex work, it’s safer to have two flash drives for your different identities. Or your normal and secret life, whichever you’d choose to call it. My laptop has all my stuff, so I password-protect some files in case it gets stolen. Lochlan’s laptop got stolen. I’ll wipe the hard drive if I ever sell it (which I won’t; it wasn’t a very expensive one, so it wouldn’t fetch much).

I’ve also wanked to porn videos of people shitting or peeing themselves, but never to bloodplay, knifeplay, torture or scat/watersports videos. That’s a bitty too far for me. I am an innocent young virgin, remember?

 

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To Newcastle

Unusually for me, I wasn’t dreaming of what I’d done during the day, or everday activities, travelling, car chases, being shot at by police or knife-fighting – which is usually what I dream about. One time I dreamed of gun and knife fights in a brothel which I infiltrated, taking out every escort until I killed my enemies and their daughter, then I wasted a load of other brothel girls as I escaped. Joyriding and nicking cars to get away from murderous police are frequent dreams, but usually I dream of mundane stuff.

What I was dreaming of that night was unusually materialistic (though I have had dreams of owning several hundred pieces of jewellery all stored in one place, or furniture made of gold, or a private plane. It was red.) I really liked that plane. Anyway, to get, at long last, to the point: I was dreaming of buying designer heels in Harvey Nichols. And I don’t even usually wear heels, especially high ones. I’ve never had anything designer cos of being a student and, more importantly, preferring to have lots of clothes instead of a few designer ones, so I can easily express my own style. If your style is eclectic with elements of Goth, Egyptian and steampunk, you will find it difficult to shop designer. There are not a lot of designer corsets (for the steampunk look) or Goth-esque clothes. The rest of steampunk is easier, as it is basically Victorian + utility with a dash of military. Cue military jackets, combat trousers, white shirts, tailored silhouettes, empire lines, buckle boots, ruffles and waistcoats.

*Although I don’t wear an Egyptian-, Goth- or steampunk-inspired look every day. Sometimes it’s just eclectic. But the cinched-in waist and layering are always, always there, and I never wear clothes that aren’t form-fitting; I like to look elegant. And the styles are subtle, not costumey.

Anyway, to get back to the Rolanding adventure:

I was dreaming of taking a pair of gold strappy heels off the shelf, looking at them. Then the blankets came down off me a bit, exposing my arms. I felt it, and knew they had dropped off. Then I felt pressure on my forehead from nowhere. I realised a large fingertip was pressed onto my forehead; then it rubbed in tiny circles. I slowly woke up, and thought it can’t be quarter to six already!

“How are you?” asked Roland’s voice.

“Good,” I murmured, my eyes still closed. Hearing his voice had made me remember where I was, and why – a good thing, as sometimes my brain panics when I wake up after staying over at someone’s house, as I don’t remember where I am or how I got there.

I opened my eyes after a bit, asking him what time it was. Then he switched off the light and left, saying “Fifteen minutes.”

I lay there, having had two or three hours’ sleep, and felt oddly refreshed, considering I’d slept just 5 or 6 hours the night before seeing Roland, too, because of general excitedness. I thought of all that had happened the previous night, and smiled happily to myself. Who knew I’d enjoy it so much? He’d said he’d pay me today; I would have to make sure of that.

He came in again and said “five minutes.” It was exactly how my mother used to wake me up for school.

I got up, showered, applied the Bio Oil I’d brought, checked for texts, changed into a red jumpsuit and went down to kitchen, which, as I’ve said before, is a nice kitchen. Magda really has a good sense of style, or perhaps one similar to my own – others may not have liked the style.

Roland got me a coffee. He was doing work stuff on his laptop. I said I’d never been to Newcastle, which is true – I’ve travelled all over the Highlands and (some) Islands but not been anywhere in England apart from a few places.  Incidentally, I got the sauce from Ann Summers in Carlisle. Didn’t think much of their spanking implements though, they seemed too light and thin to use. Maybe it’s what vanilla people think counts as BDSM. I have never understood the attraction of vanilla sex.

I’ve always loved long drives. I like looking out of the window at the landscape, which is usually beautiful in Scotland and a lot of England. As a child and teen, we’d drive 100 miles away every Saturday, to a few favourite spots and some other places anything from 70 to 170 miles away. And I love visiting new places, and taking photos of scenery, buildings, etc. So that might have factored in to me tagging along with Ro, where others might see a drive from Edinburgh to Newcastle as really boring. I said I wanted to eat something but he didn’t have anything that could be prepared in such a short time. BISCUITS, people! Always keep biscuits – or cereal – handy.

“Last night was really fun,” I said. That made him laugh.

“Well I’m glad you enjoyed it,” he said. After a bit he said we had to get going, and I felt that his haste was not purely motivated by a desire not to be late for the photoshoot, which he’d said he could easily cancel if he didn’t manage to get enough sleep. I knew Magda would be back sometime this morning, and I suspected he was eager to be off before she returned.

I quickly did my make-up in less than a minute – eyeshadow, liquid eyeliner, mascara and lipstick. I don’t wear foundation, primer, concealer or blusher. I ditched the foundation aged 14 because I felt I was getting dependent on it and couldn’t go out without foundation.I honestly think that if you’re young, you don’t need a foundation except temporarily to cover spots, dark marks from spots (which I had as an early-mid teen) or uneven skin tone. If you don’t have these problems, focus on getting your skin to be healthier so you don’t need foundation, concealer etc. You can use the money you would’ve spent on foundation to buy a product that makes your real skin look great! ( Did I mention Bio-Oil?) Then I plugged in my mini-straighteners, which I always carry if I stay over, and did my fringe but didn’t straighten any of my other hair.

Roland was running around making sure there were no traces of my presence and that I’d got everything; he worried about my necklace as I couldn’t find it, but I assure him I must’ve just stuffed it in my bag, which turned out to be true. I let him keep the anal beads as long as he promised not to use them on anyone else, so I wouldn’t have to stuff that many things in my bag next time. He kept the Pike book, (The Last Vampire 5: Evil Thirst) to read. He’d asked me to bring it so he could read it and see how we came to be here having this adventure. He thinks the book affected the 10-year-old Kalika and the fact that it’s my favourite means it could reveal things about me which led me to this point/being who I am today.

Then we were off, going down the A68 as rain pounded and the car automatically scanned through available radio stations. I found out he didn’t have a yacht, either. I said “You’re not doing the millionaire thing properly. You should live in a mansion and have a Ferrari and a boat like a proper millionaire.”

He laughed and said, “Well, do you know what happens if you do that? You don’t get to be a millionaire!” and laughed his head off.

My bum hurt after sitting for a while. I told him, and he said he was sorry; I’d expected him to be pleased or amused. Later, I asked him why he’d thought I didn’t like giving him a blowjob when I gagged, and he said it was because I had a disgusted expression on my face. But that’s just because I was gagging.

He told me about the book/film Dangerous Liasons, about a virgin driven mad by having sex with five men, which results in the death of one of them and the public ruining of another. Which is very unfair, as it’s hardly their fault, is it? Incidentally, the day before, in the studio, we’d been discussing the video of the consummation in the brothel and I’d told Roland that it might be better/more dramatic with some other guys in it too (I’d draw the line at 9 others and Roland/10 in all), as long as I get paid 9 times more (whether by him or those guys) but we didn’t reach any conclusive decision on this. Lochlan thinks I’m not ready for it emotionally. I’d need to know that they had degrees, so there might be practical difficulties, too. (Yeah, I’m a snob.)

Roland told me about a time he was on fire from having a BBQ in the back garden, which sounded scary but he hadn’t been scared at the time. One time my hair was on fire from a candle, but I didn’t feel scared, I just rolled and banged my head on stuff. Maybe people keep cool when stuff actually happens. He asked if he could keep my purity ring now that I was debauched and depraved, as he’d asked before and I’d said yeah. I said that he still hadn’t taken my virginity yet. Like I paid £8 for that ring, I wouldn’t give it up after wearing it for a day.

He’d said in the house that my job was to read the AA directions to Newcastle, which he hadn’t been to for four years but he used to go there…so why couldn’t he remember the way? I can remember the way if I’ve been somewhere once or twice, but I’m terrible with numbers or patterns. Eventually we arrived and parked and stuff. I got out of the car and, because of sleep deprivation, I suddenly wondered what was I doing in Newcastle so early in the morning? Roland had gone away to pay a parking meter so I’d forgotten about him. But then I remembered.

 

 

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In the bedroom – ironically, this post is the cleanest!

We were in the bedroom which is pretty big, but again not really really big. It had an en suite. I stripped to change into this red cami thing and then I saw the full length mirror and went to look at myself instead. Although I have a full-length mirror in my room, it isn’t wall-mounted so I have to stand really far away to look in it. Roland’s mirror was free-standing. I looked at myself and liked what I saw; I have a narrow waist and my broad shoulders – they’re as broad as some mens’ – and wide hips made it look even narrower. Although I used to think I had a small chest, now I don’t, and looking in the mirror I felt that, compared to my waist, my chest was large. I’m skinny* too.

Just then Roland came in and saw me looking in the mirror.He’d gone to check he’d locked the door or whatever. He made some comment at me admiring myself. I couldn’t help it, though, because seeing my whole body nude made me realise I looked good – you could see my figure and I looked better than with clothes on. And to think I sometimes wish I could lose a pound or two, that most women – even 12 year olds – do. Stupid corporations, blinding us to how fabulous we look when we’re not androgynously skeletal. I said, “It’s just that – wow, I’m gorgeous. I think I look stunning. Like no wonder someone would pay £8,000 for me. I totally get it.” Roland laughed. (Yeah, this makes me look very superficial, arrogant and shallow, but I promised to tell the truth in this blog. It’s a true story, and in real life there are few heroes and heroines, only humans with all their flaws and inadequacies. And since he’s a pervert and I’m a slut*, this isn’t exactly a values inspiration or a guide to living a fulfilling life or whatever.)

A minute later I was near Roland and he was just looking me over in the usual Roland way. He touched my front teeth, and asked whether I’d ever had braces cos they stick out (not quite the Bugs Bunny effect, but still noticeable). This was quite a powerful moment for me because at school I was laughed at and made to feel unattractive for having buck teeth; though in fairness to the bullies, they were sticking out more at that time and have become less noticeable as I’ve matured.) It was powerful because I’d proved them wrong – I am still desirable even with sticky-out teeth; I’m good enough to pay for while they’re all in dead-end jobs living together and having babies with their first or second gf/bf they got with when we were at school together. Roland made me open my mouth to check the rest of my teeth and ran his finger around all my teeth, in a coincidental imitation of a scene that didn’t make it into Kemet 1. He seemed pleasantly surprised and said that my teeth were in really good condition.

“I should’ve added a few hundred more onto the price then,” I said, and he laughed as only Roland can, sincerely and totally absorbed in the humour.

Anyway how can he criticise my teeth when his teeth look like they’re engaged in a shoving match which has resulted in the maiming of a couple of them, all the while trying to look as yellow as they possibly can?

A minute later I got to see Roland with his top off, and I was so relieved!! There weren’t any jiggling lumps of fat jostling under his skin, or an obscenely bloated belly. He was thinner less fat than I’d thought he was. I prodded him in the side. My finger met with mounded flab, but not a lot of it; underneath was hard muscle like my own body. He felt more familiar than alien.

“Wow, you’ve got a nice body,” I said, impressed.

He asked what did I think he was going to be like.

“I thought you’d be like a blancmange, wobble-wobble,” I confessed with a straight face, “But you’re gorgeous, Roland.”

(I’ve never actually seen blancmange, but I’m told it’s like jelly, only more wobbly, damp and sticky. And almost tasteless. And lumpy. But maybe blancmange isn’t wobbly so the simile might not make sense. I still don’t know if it’s that wobbly or not.)

As I prepared to get into bed, he asked if I’d ever been in bed with a guy before.

“No,” I said truthfully. “Virgin, remember?”

He chuckled and as I lay there he switched off the light. I felt him get into the bed, and realised how heavy he was – over double of my own weight. I couldn’t see him at all which was eerie because I knew he was right beside me.

“Okay, this is what happens,” he said, and slid his arm under me so it was wrapped around my shoulders. It was snuggly. We were talking a little bit. I reached out and ran my hand down his back/whatever bit of Roland it was. The skin felt as smooth as my own, and baby-soft, which surprised me as the skin on his face is rough (not dry skin, just rough). He turned over so he was on all fours over me. I knew without being able to see. He ran his hand over my thigh.Just like when I’d held the knife to his balls, the feeling of absolute rightness hit me. He kept stroking, even as he said “But we can’t do anything more, because we need to get some sleep.” I thought, Goddamn it Roland, then why are you touching my thigh?! Don’t you understand what that DOES to me? It needs to be fulfilled, you can’t start it and not finish it!! Well, maybe boys can. I wouldn’t know. I’m quite ignorant/naive when it comes to this stuff.

I actually forgot to write that when I was holding the knife to Roland’s balls, I asked him if I could slap him and I did, twice, just before snogging him.

So, we tried to sleep, but couldn’t. We had to be up at 5:45am to arrive at 9pm in Newcastle where he was doing a photoshoot. I’d asked to tag along because being dropped off in Princes Street at 6am didn’t appeal. Yeah, there’d be a bus for me at 7am so only an hour to kill, and I had my mp3. I’ve waited for 4 hours for the 7am bus before, after leaving a club once, and it honestly flew right by because I had a meal, got talking to people, including a guy who wanted me to come back to his flat and whose parting shot was, “I would love to take you back to my mattress.” He was good looking, went to engineering college, and I was considering it but went with the thumbs-down. Obviously God was saving me for £8,000 Roland. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes: that waiting an hour for the bus didn’t bother me, but it wouldn’t look plausible to arrive home that early. My mum knew the bus times, and I love sleeping in so waking up at dawn would be an implausible story- I’d have to wander till the shops opened and head for the bus at 10am or later. Roland had offered to drop me off in my area/town, but since a car would arrive much earlier than a bus, this would only seem more implausible – in fact, it would be obvious I hadn’t taken the bus, as Roland reckoned he’d drop me off at 7am, which is the time the bus would leave. Telling her that my (student) friend had a car (and more importantly, that much petrol to burn) also didn’t sound plausible, and would still mean that we had got up at dawn.

So, it made more sense for me to go to Newcastle with Roland and be dropped off on his way back, up past Edinburgh to meet some lawyers.

Anyway, we couldn’t get to sleep. For me, maybe because it was all new, having someone next to me and wrapped around me. For him, maybe because I wasn’t Magda. We tried different (sleeping, you dirty readers 🙂 ) positions. When he wasn’t holding me I felt more sleepy but still couldn’t get to sleep. I also found out that Roland snores when he’s awake, which I thought was impossible. Maybe it’s just a Roland thing. Dunno how Magda copes with it, though. Maybe she just puts him in a cage at night, or a kennel with “Roland” on it. He would make a good doggie. But I know he’s not into it.

Roland suggested we sleep separately and “since you’re comfortable here, I think it’s fair if I leave you here and sleep in another room.”

It wasn’t as snuggly with him gone, but I had a double bed to myself – it might’ve been a king-sized bed, actually – and it was fun thrashing around in it. I was asleep in about half an hour.

*Skinny in terms of a normal, healthy person…i.e. still fat if I was put in a TV ad.

*Shame-words such as ‘slut’ and ‘whore’ are always used ironically or in a non-serious way in this blog, as they are sexist and illegitimate concepts created by the patriarchy to repress women.

 

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Long description of a blowjob – you know you want to read it!

Roland came back and I was all, “That was quick”. I slipped onto the floor, the heat from the fire warming my skin. I’m going to skip to the part where Roland had his thing out, which of course put me in a state of lust instantly, so that I couldn’t think properly. I really had the urge to bite it, hard, near the tip, to feel my eye-tooth go into the little hole at the end.

I reached for the sauce and squeezed a drop onto my index finger and licked it off. It was good; strawberries and cream. It would do. I squeezed it liberally all over his cock, and then used the cream as well before realising it’d have a lot of calories. But I reasoned it was OK, as I’m skinny. (Not commercial/advert skinny, I mean skinny for a normal healthy person). Roland said, “That can be your dinner.” And yeah, I was hungry just looking at it. I hadn’t had dinner, or snack. Neither had he, we’d been too busy spanking. I mean, it’d been 7 or 8 by the time we’d even started the spanking. The cream looked very appetizing and I didn’t even feel like it was a blowjob because all I could see was cream. I squirted some more sauce on top.

I leaned my head forward, and with the tip of my tongue scooped up some cream. It was warm but tasted really nice – it hadn’t gone off from not being refrigerated. I scooped out a deeper trench, still not touching dick. I carried on like this for a couple more licks, then I took the whole thing in my mouth.

It was quite big relative to my mouth and I couldn’t breathe very well, but at the same time it was easy to lick because I instinctively wanted to lick it, and licking prevented drooling. So I experimented with techniques, doing quick, little laps and hard flicks with my tongue, the aroma of vanilla all around me, the warmth of the fire on my skin. Then I intersperesed some longer reaches up the underside of his thing, and  rolled my tongue over it, then quick flicks right acroos the tip. It was lots of fun, and I knew I was doing it right because Roland sighed happily and he said I was doing good. He seemed surprised about how good I was.

I tried shooting my tongue out just below my top teeth, then tried to take more of it in my mouth.Then, unable to resist the urge any longer, I bit it, and Roland moved, and I took my mouth off and said “sorry” and he said, “No it’s okay, you can bite,” so I commened licking and biting, on the tip, shaft and towards the middle of the shaft. Most of the cream and sauce was gone now but his cock was still flavoured with it so it was still tasting great. After some more biting, licking and changing of rythms – and Roland moaning and saying it was good – I took my mouth off again and said “Pull my hair.” I knew this was not smart as my hair breaks easily, but I wanted it. Roland grabbed my hair but not hard, and I went back to my mouth excercises. After a few minutes of this, during which I asked him to pull my hair harder, Roland started thrusting into my mouth which was totally amazing! It made me REALLY want to lick and bite! He was thrusting his thing into my face, I felt totally debased, like I was being forced to do it! I was pushing myself onto his cock, and after a bit I gagged and drew back, afraid I would be sick but I wasn’t, it was just my gag reflex. Obviously I can’t do deep throat.

“Are you hating this?” asked Roland, looking into my eyes.

I told him no, it was just a gag reflex. About five seconds later, the reflex had subsided and I squirted more sauce on and went back to sucking dick. And so it went on for another 15 minutes or so.

 

 

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Torture

“Right now?” I said, lying over his knee.

“Right now,” he grinned.

My arm was still twisted up my back.

“You have to torture me first.”

“I think you’ve been tortured enough for one night,” he chuckled, and I felt his fat fingertip on my bum, “So I get you to give me answers and only ifI get the answers you’ll do it.”

“Yep.”

“So how many do I have to get?” he asked, rubbing my bottom.

“Five.”

“So I have to get all five?”

“Yep. And I can lie.”

He rearranged me on his lap and said “I want you to tell me your favourite colour, and what age you were the first time – or have you – had an orgasm.”

He spanked hard and fast, and I moved and closed my eyes, resting my face on my arms. It hurt a lot. Not like the gentle spanking he’d started off with, and I’d asked him stuff like:

Where do millionaires buy their socks? A: They let their wives buy their socks

Why don’t you live in a mansion like a proper millionaire? A: anything that could be called a ‘mansion’ in Scotland would be a million [He only has nearly 3 million and most of that’s in the company, so I guess he can’t afford it. Weird how rich people can’t afford things, just like the rest of us!], and I don’t need one for just two people

Do you have, like, a private jet you keep at the [Edinburgh International] airport?/probably phrased as “so you don’t have, like, a private jet?” in a disappointed voice. A: No, because they cost hundreds of millions. In the 1920’s being a millionaire meant having a lot more than today.

I suppose he’s right and a million isn’t really a lot; after all, half a million is only 500,000 which is a lot but it’s not that much; enough for 4 or 5 houses, I guess. And a quarter is just 250k.

He spanked my thighs too, which I’d thought I would dislike, but I actually enjoyed it.

 

Anyway, right now he was spanking really hard and I was moaning and whimpering a bit. “Are you ready to tell me?” he asked. “No,” I said, burying my face in the sofa arm. He spanked even harder, the noise of each slap really loud. I put my hand down to try and hold the burning skin, but he grabbed my arm and easily twisted it behind my back. As if to punish me, he slowed down a bit but made each smack come down really hard and each time he spanked me I moved. “It’s too hard!” I whined, and he stopped. “Well then, what is your favourite colour?” I shook my head and he continued, pressing down firmly with each smack. It was very painful and I realised that I’d underestimated his strength – or my resilience – and would never be able to keep from revealing the five things. He had all night to spank me. I could, I thought, quickly reveal four things and make him work for the fifth, but that wouldn’t help me. I needed to stall him.

So I said, “I need the bathroom.”

He stopped, and let me up.

In the bathroom I put cold water on my bum but I knew it wouldn’t really help me withstand it, and I had to stall him more. When I came out Roland made us coffee again, and I guessed he must’ve known I was trying to stall him and was letting me do it. By this time it was around 10-11pm.

 

 

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The virgin/whore dichotomy: you can either get screwed or get married

The virgin/whore dichotomy is the source of slut-shaming, whorephobia and rape culture. The dichotomy is simple enough, if absurd; it is the belief that some girls want sex and others don’t. Secondly, the dichotomy confuses ethics and repression by naming women who want it as ‘bad’ and the repressed ones as ‘good’. Finally, men want to sleep with ‘bad’ girls and marry ‘good’ girls.

This means:

No grey areas. Women can choose to be a good girl or a slut; they are limited to these two unreal, impossible extremes which allow no scope for natural, real sexuality.

In popular culture, ‘good’ women were preferred, as they got their man (through marriage) wheras ‘bad’ women only had the man for a short time. Even 50 Shades of Grey carries the message that virginity is prized by men, is an attractive state, and is rewarded by ****SPOILER ALERT!!!*** marriage at the end of the trilogy.Christian marries the virginal Ana instead of his many previous girlfriends and one night stands.

The dichotomy leads to both genders seeing sex and marriage as entirely separate and not on a continuum of lust/attraction/friendship/love. In this way, the virgin/whore dichotomy is a cause of and closely connected to the madonna-whore complex (a psychological problem that makes a man unable to sleep with his wife, because he cannot connect love and marriage. He will instead seek out sex workers and have extra-marital affairs.)

The dichotomy also leads to slut-shaming (including stigmatisation of female single parents, young female parents, sex workers, and most commonly, bitching about other girls in high school and calling them ‘sluts’ while desperately asserting that you are definetly not a slut,…)

The worst outcome of the dichotomy is an aspect of rape culture – that victims are often blamed for ‘inviting rape’ by drinking, being out at night, wearing a certain outfit/showing skin, ‘leading the man [the rapist] on’, being in a bad area of town, walking alone down a street…

On a less disturbing, but nevertheless quite important, note, the dichotomy is indirectly responsible – along with religion which reinforces it – for the abstince cult (Daddy-daughter purity balls, abstinence education, virginity pledges, abstinence rings etc).

Why the dichotomy is totally stupid

I see no reason to use less colloquial/PC language but it is stupid!!! To the utmost level. Because nobody – man or woman – is either a virgin or a whore; human beings are complex, multi-layered, context-specific, culturally-influenced beings. A virgin may have a very ‘dirty’ mind, and a female Casanova a relatively ‘pure’ one. And how on earth can you compare two people? Our childhood development, background, experiences, friends, jobs, religion, availibility and expectations of sexual partners all heavily influence our sex life. If your partner talks you into sleeping with them, how can you be compared to a virgin with an abstinent or more respectful partner, when she has not faced the pressures that you did? Who can say who would have caved in the quicker, had the playing field been equal.

Furthermore, the dichotomy assumes that only women can be whores or virgins – men are all created equal no matter how slutty* they are. This of course leads right to the double standard.

The dichotomy is not equal – it doesn’t apply to men. Women do not want to marry male virgins and fuck whores.So, men’s promiscuity doesn’t harm their chances of marriage; they have a golden ticket to indulge their most slutty desires.

The implication is that women were/are given the goal of remaining a virgin until marriage, or she might lose her chance to marry.This represses and constricts their sex life.

This put men and women at odds with each other – women had to preserve virginity while men wanted them to sleep with them. Women who did lose virginity to keep their boyfriend would actually lose the chance of keeping him. Thiscreates tension in dating and relationships and is not conducive to a harmonious community.

Women who were literally ‘easy’ to talk into bed were not valued by the men.

It creates an ethos of mens’ goal being sex and the woman’s being the opposite which is unfair; men wanted virgin brides when they themselves were not virgins.

It means there can never be any concept of men being virgins or whores – or easy to get into bed/devalued versus hard to persuade and marriage material. It also precludes concepts of women actually taking the initiative or even wanting to sleep with a man without persuasion or coercion.

It leads to men telling lies or using coercion to get what they want; the sexes are literally battling each other.

Mens’ ethics are not called into question; if they are whores they are not ‘bad boys’, or, even if they are, they are called such in a much more flippant, non-stigmatised way. They cannot be shamed for losing virginity. Usually, the more slutty a man is, the greater his bragging rights.

Its premise is utterly delusional, as nobody is either extreme.

The dichotomy oppresses women, as it means we have less control over our sex lives and much less rights to an autonomous, fulfilled sex life than men. So, women are always unequal and inferior.

The dichotomy in the real world:

-Can often be seen in literature, non-contemporary art and religious scriptures

-Is less relevant in the west nowadays, however in certain regions of America it can still be seen. It also lurks, unseen, behind the double standard, rape culture, slut-shaming and stigma attached to lone mothers.

-Apparently some men still believe in it – even the whole ‘good girls and bad girls’ rhetoric. Never met one.

-Is not expressed in such strict terms; a relatively inadventurous woman nowadays may be the ‘virgin’ and a more adventurous woman the whore in popular consciousness, media reports and contemporary literature. Respective examples I just thought of are: the wife versus the lone mother; tabloid portrayals of “foxy”, promiscuous femme fatale Amanda Knox versus quiet studious Meredith Kercher. This was a complete fiction, as we do not know enough about their personalities, fantasies and experiences to even hazard a guess at who was ‘foxy’ and who wasn’t.- (As if labels like ‘foxy’ and ‘studious’ could somehow encompass and sum up the multi-faceted, complex characters of two people). In contemporary literature and also film, the femme fatale is usually also sexually adventurous, just like how the tabloids painted Knox. Ana and Kate are contrasted in terms of the dichotomy in 50 Shades, and the heroines or protagonists in literature and film tend to not to be overly adventurous, especially in recent phenomena (Hermione, Ginny, Bella, Babydoll, Ana) but also generally.

This blog

Through the dichotomy, women can choose one of two fictional extremes. This blog represents a challenge to that. As a virgin woman, I am selling my virginity – the ultimate whore act (prostitution of the prized innocence). So, which am I, virgin or whore? This journey proves that even if you believe in the dichotomy, you have to accept that the transition from virgin to whore is gradual. There is a huge grey area in between. If I am a virgin, do I become a whore the moment Roland and I have sex? Or the moment we finish? Somewhere in between? And if I am a whore, did I become a whore when I decided to go to the photoshoot to trial him? Or when I agreed to meet him at the Tower? Or when we finalised the deal? Or perhaps it is entirely physical; you may take your pick from my first spanking to oral sex or whatever act you think would change someone from virgin to whore.

Whichever way you look at it, this blog captures a transition from virgin to whore. It expressses a virginwhore, an entity who is neither and who is both. As we all – women, men, trans – are.

 

 

*’Slutty’ is used in a non-sincere manner in this blog. I don’t believe sluts exist. It’s just a tool to repress women.

 
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Posted by on August 18, 2012 in Feminism, Virginity

 

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The 7 Nights (chapter 2)

I wrote this a year ago, too. It’s my ultimate fantasy!

Chapter 2

Five minutes later, Roland and Chastity were sitting (in Chastity’s case, very uncomfortably) on the black leather sofa watching The Ring movie. It was the Japanese version, and though neither of them could understand the language and so had to read subtitles, the effect on Roland’s 50″ TV was still great, even though it wasn’t a 3D TV or blu-ray disc. Chastity was trembling with terror and shifting about on her sore seat.

“You know, in Scotland we sometimes say ‘I shat masel’ to mean we got a fright,” said Roland, “But do you think someone could really shit their pants if they got a fright?”

“Oh Roland, please don’t swear,” she whispered, eyes locked fearfully onto the screen.

“Just answer the question, Chas, for godsakes.”

She was visibly shaking now as someone else got killed onscreen. “Please don’t take the Lord’s name in vain! It’s blasphemy! And I dunno…maybe.,.my behind stings…”

“Do you think if someone did shit themselves, they should be spanked on their backside?” he was gazing at her intently; she didn’t seem to be paying attention.

“Well? Do you? You got spanked for peeing yourself – should someone get spanked for pooping?”

“Yeah, I guess so. This is really scary, Ro.”

Roland leaned back, a smirk playing around his lips. He deftly threw the remote up and caught it in his open palm. It made a very satisfying smack, like the smack he was going to give the girl’s butt soon. He looked quickly at the door – yes, it was locked. Phase Two of the Seven Nights was well underway. He whistled under his breath, an old tune about a homeland and the faraway hills. Chastity felt an uncomfortable, full feeling in her tummy. She had to poop. She began to fidget as the poo nudged at her trembling turd portal. Roland casually laid an arm across her shoulders and squeezed her gently, platonically, the way her mommy and daddy used to do. Yeah, he’d seen them both a fair few times. They were a good-looking couple, but their daughter – here, cradled in his arm – their daughter was HOT! Chastity’s heart sank; she really wanted to get up and let all her poo come out. She clenched her asshole but the large load kept insistently poking her brown pucker.

“Look at us,” Roland purred, “We’re like an old married couple.” Poor Chastity shuddered as the horror-movie music built to a crescendo. She slipped out from underneath Roland’s arm, with only one goal in mind: the bathroom. And in that instant, Roland realized his ineptitude, his own weakness and the fragility of his plan. But only for an instant. Because Chastity was still in full view of Roland and the TV screen. As she looked at the screen, her mouth opened in a wide O of horror, there was a farting noise and a large Yule log pushed out of her frightened asshole and plopped into her pants. Chastity had lost control again. But it wasn’t pee. It was solid. It was squelchy. It was shit. A brown patch spread over the back of her bulging white skirt and her now chocolate brown pants sagged lower and lower, way below her little skirt. Chastity grabbed the waistline of her pants as they slipped downwards under the weight of her accident as the shit slipped out.

Roland’s member leapt into action and he pitched a huge tent in his jeans. Chastity was filling her knickers right in front of him. The shape and length of the stinky sausage could so easily be seen – he was surprised at how the pants had moulded around the squidgy cucumber. Her knickers had never been so full.

“Well, that obviously scared the shit out of you,” Roland observed. “Out of you and into your panties. You were scared shitless.”

“Ohhh…I think I just pooed…oh no I did, I pooped my pants!” She could smell her accident, it was disgusting and she wrinkled her perfect little nose. Chastity began to cry as her face turned red with embarrassment. “I did a poop, I didn’t mean to, I just got scared!”

Roland smiled, an evil smile. “Oh dear, Chastity got fwightened and made fudge. But only liddle girls poo-poo their knickies. So I guess you need another botty warming.” He grabbed her wrist and pulled her over his knee.

“Oh no!” Chastity squealed, “It was an accident, the poop just popped out!”

The doorbell rang. “You’d better answer it,” Roland purred.

“But…my pants are full of poo,” murmured Chastity, hanging her head in shame.

“You should have thought of that before you let out your shit,” he replied smoothly, “You laid that chocolate Easter egg in your briefs, now hop to the door like a good bunny.”

The red-faced, unhappy girl walked upstairs and along the landing to the entrance, holding her loaded frillies up with one hand. When she opened the door, a young, well-built but slim guy was smiling down at her. He had light brown hair, green eyes and dimples; what her mom would have described as All-American good looks. It wasn’t the slightly exotic beauty of Roland’s features; this guy was cute rather than gorgeous, his lips were not full like Roland’s, but he had a more chiseled sort of face. He was wearing a checked shirt and chinos.

“Hi, I’m Ewan,” he said in a slightly posh voice. “My, you’ve completely emptied your bowels!”

Chastity blushed an even deeper red. Then she realized another guy was walking to the door. This one had brilliant flame-coloured hair with shaved sides; the gelled spikes on the small Mohican reminded her of fire. He was wearing a blazer, t-shirt and jeans. He had wonderfully detailed tattoos, four tongue piercings, a lot of ear piercings and stretched earlobes with mahogany plugs. He too was handsome, and taller than Ewan.

“You must be Chastity,” he said, extending a beautifully tattooed hand, “I’m Arthur, but usually I get called Art. ”

He stared at her sagging underwear before a redfaced Chastity mumbled “please, come in,” and the two hotties stalked into the house. Had Chastity not been sexually repressed, she would have drooled over their deliciously rounded bottoms and muscular thighs, Art’s toned abs pressing against his t-shirt and the perfect v-shape of Ewan’s slender body. Roland grinned as he saw them and told Chastity to fetch them all some cokes. A few minutes later she shuffled into the living room, awkwardly serving the drinks while painfully aware that her full pants were on display. She sat down with a loud squelch. “This one wet herself earlier and I had to spank her,” Roland said with a smile. “You’re not allowed to use the bathroom,” he added to her. Chastity wasn’t particularly bothered by this – she didn’t need to go. But as the movie wore on and her fear of it increased, Chastity got a fright and wet her panties. She burst into tears of embarrassment as the boys laughed. Her bowels felt loose and watery and soon the only ring she could think about was her own. Chastity stood up and pressed her hand into her bum. She pinched her poohole tightly shut, but the wave of diarrhea sprayed out of her poo-gate, swamping her panties. Chastity slowly sank into a semi-crouch as brown water spurted down her legs and lumpy faeces fell out her ass. The smelly sludge squirted all over her knickers, making a chocolate lake, and the boys were in hysterics, pointing and laughing as brown goo slopped down her thighs, solid craps slithering out of her twanging poopchute. Chastity whimpered and hung her head, she could feel the shit slipping out of her, the mushiness sticking to her buttcheeks as her bowels released all down her legs. It felt like a poo explosion in her panties. Liquid shit splattered onto the floor. Finally, it was over and a now very messy Chastity looked fearfully at the boys. Art’s jeans were stretching at the seams. Ewan had his phone out and was videoing her pooping accident.

“Well, the liddle girl has diarrheared her panties,” Roland mocked, “I’m going to diaper your sorry ass.”

Chastity gasped and her hand flew to her mouth. “Please Roland no! You can’t be serious! A- a diaper…! I’m not a baby!” Her cheeks were ass-red, she was blushing so much.

“You sure look like a baby,” Ewan sniggered, “Dumping in your pants…pissing yourself…baby clothes all covered in shit…”

“NO! No, I’m NOT a baby, I just had a little poo-poo accident!” Chastity pleaded desperately as her boobs fell out of her cutesy baby top, picturing herself, a big girl, wearing a diaper…it didn’t bear thinking about!! Her poo-flap sharted out a chunk of hot brown chutney with a loud farting noise. Fluid faeces squished into her overloaded panties and some of it trickled down her leg. “I’m NOT! I don’t need to wear a diaper!” the unfortunate girl wailed. She doubled over as diarrhea splashed onto the rug and a steaming load was emptied into her pants; her pants fell down instantly with a loud, heavy splat. Filled with shame, Chastity attempted to cover her wet cunt and shitty asshole with her stained skirt, but it was too short.

A few minutes later, the poor pants-pooper was lying on her back on a baby changing mat which the boys had laid on the floor. Her legs were raised, her hands clasped over her thighs. The boys were cleaning her panty area, as Chastity would have called it, with baby wipes. They were good at it, getting into every nook and cranny to make sure they got her as clean as possible. Roland was being nice to her; he rubbed baby oil all over her bum and crotch so she wouldn’t get a rash. Chastity started feeling tingly all over her lady parts. Then she felt Ro’s finger going a little deeper into her wedding-hole than was proper.

“Oh, dear,” Chastity gasped, “I’m not sure daddy would approve.” Roland’s oily finger was thrusting in and out now, producing a most peculiar feeling.

“It’s okay, honey, I promised your mom and dad that I’d look after you, and I take my responsibilities seriously. I never make promises lightly – it’s not godly, princess.” The finger continued oiling her for a while, and for some reason the friction became more pleasant, then Roland announced, “Okay, that’s that done, I’ll just put a drop more on your little love button.” Chastity found herself purring as oil was massaged into her now throbbing jewel, and this must have stirred up childhood memories of innocent joy, never again to be relived, because soon she was sighing with happiness, forgetting all about the humiliation of the day. This was peace, not breathed from the pages of the holy book but present in the depths of her soul. She began thrusting to meet Ro’s hand; her dear, sweet friend – how lucky that she could share this moment with him! A bliss like electricity rippled through her and she was back to earth, but her spirit still afloat in a sea of calm. Roland was paddling her ass with a ping-pong paddle but after a few swats he stopped and Ewan diapered her, pushing the front over her pussy and doing up the tapes. The diaper enfolded her bottom snugly. Art pulled a pink thong over the diaper and then a pink micro-miniskirt.

 
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Posted by on August 4, 2012 in The 7 Nights

 

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