Monday, 30 July 2007

The Catalyst

I had known this moment would come. I had known it for weeks. The little voice in my head knew that I could never compete with a woman half my age and had started withdrawing my desire for food several weeks before. It was coming up to Christmas and I was so busy trying to have an online affair as well as doing all the things necessary to ensure the Festivities were observed as normal in our house that I hardly noticed there was no time to eat. But still I trained. The weight began to fall away. The people closest to me must have seen but, as usual, said nothing. I still saw a fat woman with a huge arse in the mirror.

After exchanging, emails, ims, texts, photographs and masturbatory phone calls for two months, The Catalyst and I actually met each other at an exhibition a few weeks earlier. Our relationship was at an amazingly intense stage and those three little words hung heavy in the air, unspoken but underlying every conversation.

Texting each other nervously from our hotels both the evening and the morning before, our excitement was palpable. Would the virtual attraction survive our actual physical meeting? There would be no possibility for any sort of intimacy because we both knew too many people who would be at the event. I had seen him long before he had noticed me because he was wearing a very distinctive jacket. He called me on my phone and I hid around a corner, my heart pounding in my chest, panic spreading bile into my mouth. I could refuse to see him, keep my dignity, not let him see me and burst his bubble. I ignored the phone, desperately trying to work out what to do. And then I thought, this is stupid. If he hates you, he hates you. You can't just ignore him all day and hope he doesn't see you. He's seen enough photos to be able to recognise you unless you spend the whole time skulking in corners!

So I called him back. I was standing by a fire exit looking out of the glass to the rain lashing down outside. I told him where I was. I could see him in the distance. His reflection in the glass showed that he was walking towards me, phone in his hand as he talked. And then the line went dead and I was aware of his presence next to me. Standing just a few feet away, tall and slim. I looked up at him shyly and he held out his arms and gathered me to him. Lifting me off the floor in his excitement and holding me so tightly I thought I would break. The intensity of that moment. Of our two bodies actually touching each other after all the intimacy we had shared and yet not shared was so immense. We both became aware of the fact that I was trembling violently and trying desperately not to cry. He put me down and examined me closely as I tried to wipe my eyes and he smiled approvingly, before tutting mildly as he realised that I had lost some weight with the worry over the previous few weeks of how this meeting would pan out. He exhorted me not to start slipping into bad eating habits.

We had a lovely day together, watching the exhibits. He would circle me with his arm to pull me in to see what we wanted to see and stand millimetres behind me so I could feel the heat from his body against my back. How can I communicate to you the sensation of the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end and the shiver that ran through me just from noticing the hairs on the lower part of his arm as he pulled me towards him? How can I describe the pleasure of glancing sidelong at his strong profile and knowing that the view lived up to all my expectations?

Finally, we kissed each other on the cheek to say goodbye before starting the long journeys home in opposite directions. There was a flurry of exchanged text messages on the way back and, thankfully, everything was as it should be. The attraction was still there and in the next few weeks, he sent me more stories and there was more mutual wanking.

The end came suddenly out of the blue. We were messing about online and I made a joke about him performing poorly sexually. His reply? 'That's not what my Mrs said last night'. I was pretty sure that he was joking but the sudden thought that he might be sleeping with her hit me with the same force as if he had kicked me in the stomach. The pain completely took my breath away and I was gasping for air with tears streaming down my cheeks. I replied with the single word 'Ouch'. I think he realised suddenly how much that had hurt me, whether there was any truth to it or not. But I sort of assumed, from his behaviour, that we had reached a stage where we could discuss our current physical relationship with our significant other without it affecting our own feelings. Even though I was sure he knew that I had not slept with my own Husband for some time, certainly not since the beginning of our liaison. To be honest, I never could understand why he was interested in me in the first place when he had a young, beautiful wife at home. I guess they were going through a bad patch and my interest made him feel alive again.

That night, I instigated relations with my Husband and involved the toothbrush for the first time. I wanted to get back at The Catalyst for his callousness. I wanted to be able to hurt him back. But all I could see was his face. I was soaking wet because I wanted to make love with him. My Husband loved this new moist welcome. He loved having me initiate. He enjoyed seeing me masturbate with my toothbrush. He joined in. But still I couldn't come for him. We had lost our connection, both mentally and physically. I didn't want him this way any more. I did my duty and satisfied his needs and then I cried myself to sleep. Silent, fat tears that rolled unchecked down the cheeks of a face that was turned away from him.

A few days later, The Catalyst called me to chat. He was buoyant. Christmas was coming. His footie team had just won a big grudge match. I had ordered a new toy to play with and was describing what it was supposed to be like to him. And then the demons did their work. Without thinking of the possible consequences, I started to tell him about how my Husband hadn't succeeded in making me come the previous night. Suddenly the line went dead. I tried to call him back and it went straight to ansafone. I tried to text with no response. With no contact from him for the rest of the afternoon, that night or the following morning, it started to dawn on me that this was going to be far more serious than a dead battery and I had to begin to address the possibility that he might actually have put the phone down on me. In the end I called him from my home phone on his office number which wouldn't recognise the incoming number. He said he was sorry he hadn't replied. He'd had a lot of thinking to do but he was really caught up in something at work and couldn't talk then. He promised me he would call that afternoon. Plaintively, I asked him to reassure me that everything was ok. 'No', he said, 'it isn't and it never can be again'.

I spent the next few hours sobbing and grizzling. Why is it that when you're in that state, the radio does nothing but play the songs that have become important to you as a couple. 'Wake me up Inside' or 'My Immortal' by Evanescence seemed to be on every station, along with Keane's 'This is the Last Time'.

Finally, he called me. He was gentle and kind as ever. When I had started talking about fucking my Husband, he had realised how jealous he was. He was in agonies over the activities of a woman who did not belong to him when he had his own waiting at home. He had gone back to his house in a foul mood when he should have been jubilant over the football and his wife had noticed, initiating a long heart to heart about what was going wrong with their relationship. He had come to understand that, although he loved me, he loved her more and had kids with her and responsibilities. What we were doing was wrong. He couldn't keep spreading himself so thin. Someone was always going to get hurt and he couldn't let it be his children. So he had to hurt me and stop doing what we were doing before it was too late. Even though it wasn't 'real', it was still wrong. He would always love me, always be my friend but we couldn't keep doing this. I begged and pleaded and grovelled. I abased myself shamefully but to no effect. He had to stand firm. They were talking about renewing their vows and making another baby so that was that.

Eventually we said goodbye and he put the phone down. The sound of the dialling tone cut into me like a knife. I cannot even begin to describe the physical pain as he ripped and wrenched to drag his virtual heart away from mine. And I know it was equally as unpleasant for him to try to do it.

Half an hour later he sent an email. When walking back through the canteen to his desk the radio was playing Michael Jackson's 'She's Out of My Life'. He had had to detour to the toilets until he could compose himself.

Our relationship lasted four erotic, emotionally exhausting months but it took another five months before I could finally start to disentwine the invisible links that held me to him and almost a year before I realised that I had actually started to want someone else more.

Sunday, 29 July 2007


Well, Im off on my hols and I just cant decide which post I should leave with you. So, I thought Id ask.

Do you want to hear about the breakup with MrUD? Or would you like to read my smutty sex toy review that won me a prize?

Just what do you want?

The decision, as they say, is yours...

Wednesday, 25 July 2007

What you want...

I know what you want.

I know how much you want to hold the woman who wants you to make love to her. To take her in your arms knowing that it is just the start of the journey and the eventual destination is wet and wanton and wicked.

You want to feel her press her breasts into your chest, run her hands over your body, demonstrate her desire for you. Her lips soft and warm against your face. Her tongue wrapping around yours and burying itself deep inside your mouth. Hear her breathing quicken as your fingers find her nipples and squeeze. You want to rip her clothes off and have her return the favour. Feel her naked flesh against yours, her arms around your neck, hard nipples thrusting into your chest, thighs gripped around your waist, cunt opening for you, soft and slick against your belly. Wanting, lusting, begging for you.

You want to push her back onto the bed and look down at her as she smiles invitingly up at you. Watch the flush of excitement in her cheeks, her lips demanding 'I want you. I want you to fuck my cunt right now' and experience the warm, wetness against the tip of your cock as you penetrate her. The tight, lush moistness enveloping you as she opens her pelvis wider so you can drive deeper. The muscles tightening around you as you plunge into her, plundering her silky depths and then withdraw, over and over again. Be aware of the blood pounding in your ears, your throat tightening around the shout of relief as you shoot inside her to the moans and squeals and giggles as she climaxes, your bodies taut with the tension of release and then relaxing back into a sweaty embrace.

Feel her breath in your ear as she whispers endearments and strokes your face, your shoulders, the small of your back, your butt as you drift into the sleep of satisfied fulfilment.

I know what you want.

Monday, 23 July 2007

10,000 miles

As I drove back today, the mileometer passed 62,000 and made me think about the number of times I have pounded backwards and forwards along three of the worst, most road-works riven, coned off motorways in the UK over the past 18 months in order to see you. It must be 10,000 miles worth by now. Over 100 hours wedged into a sitting position with my hands fixed on the wheel in the proverbial ten-to-two of the less confident driver and emerging stuck into that shape, like one of those little brown toy tractor drivers my kids used to play with.

Arriving exhausted in the middle of the night, lugging my bag of tricks across the car park in the rain and falling into your embrace ready to have all my cares washed away by hours and hours of stroking and caressing and general mutual admiration and approbation.

The tiredness and the sadness melting away under the strength of your kisses as you cleanse my soul with the intensity of your love. Knowing that the best is yet to come as you pound the demons out of me, exorcising my ghosts and making me whole again. Ready to accept anything that the future has to offer in the knowledge that you will always be with me - be it as my lover or my best friend.

What's 10,000 miles compared to the bliss I have enjoyed lying wrapped in your arms?

What's 10,000 miles in recompense for the sexy, beautiful, confident woman you have helped me to discover?

What's 10,000 miles when you have taken me to heaven x

Wednesday, 18 July 2007


Infidelity. It's a strange word. When I was a teenager, learning about sex and romance through the medium of the Jean Plaidy historical novel, there was a noun - Infidel. It meant someone who didn't believe in the true faith and was normally used by the Moors to describe the Crusaders... and sometimes the other way around. But with so many tales of infidelity playing out under my avidly page-turning fingers, I would often wonder why it wasn't used to describe someone who was having it off outside the sanctity of their marriage.

So, what constitutes being unfaithful? Well, having a physical relationship with someone who is not your husband definitely. This is not an attempt to excuse what I have done and it took a lot of soul searching to take that final huge step off Ruf's computer screen and into his bed. But where do we draw the line? Is it just a physical thing or is there a mental aspect to it too - especially in this age of the Internet where we find ourselves with access to and temptation from all sorts of unusual opportunities.

At what point was I actually being unfaithful to my Husband? Was it before Ruf with The Catalyst by reading and wanking to his stories? Or my initial brush with masturbation because I was so affected by the eyes of the Man? If no party physically intended to consummate our relationship, does that make it ok? I don't recall reciting any marriage vow involving computer screens or webcams... or am I just splitting hairs here? And am I deceiving Ruf by reading some of the fantasies that the guys put on here and touching myself to the stimulation from those?

What about unseemly eye contact with a guy you see regularly in the street but don't know by name? What about virtual flirtation by msn or email? Does sending someone risque photos mean you've tarnished your reputation and turned yourself into a faithless Jezebel? Or abomination upon abomination, having a fantasy about someone who is neither your husband nor your lover? Or is it ok, so long as you don't tell the person concerned? And then there's the whole Bill Clinton defence where he seemed to consider that a blowjob didn't count as sex?

Personally, I don't think it's wrong to get pleasure from the admiring glance of a passerby or the encouraging words of a virtual buddy. But should one hold back flattering pics from a friend needing a certain stimulus? Are these not just caring, sharing gestures? Ways of making someone else's world a better place using words and deeds with no physical strings attached?

Having lived in the chill of an emotional vacuum for a long time, I think I can appreciate more than most how pleasurable it is to both give and receive assurances of attractiveness. Does that make me care any less for the Significant Others in my life? Is there a finite amount of admiration that we are able to give out so that by being nice to someone else, there is somehow a lesser amount available to the people to whom we are closest? Well, maybe not in terms of admiration but I can vouch for the fact that there is a limit to the amount of affection that you can pour out if the jug remains unfilled with affection for you from that source. And when the jug is empty, you start to use other emotions to fill it until finally even your own self-respect has gone. It's also true that to love someone else, you have to be able to love yourself and that self-esteem in so many people is pretty dependent on external validation.

OK, I can hear you shouting, it's a question of trust. But if your Significant Other is not paying you the attention that you need, why should you not accept it from elsewhere? It doesn't necessarily follow that it's going to turn into a full bodied physical liaison. Sometimes it's just two people in a bad place giving comfort and reassurance to each other through some form of cybersex - often because they don't actually know how to say 'I care about you and you are an important part of my life' without expressing it in terms of sex. Everyone loves the excitement of an affair. Cybersex gives all that emotional intensity without all the contingent shite of logistics and deception that a real life one produces. We spend so much time getting bogged down in the minutiae and drudgery of our lives that many of us have forgotten how good it feels to say something nice about someone else or receive the compliment back in return.

At the end of the day, cybersex is only words on a screen that make two sad people feel good about themselves again.

But can that intensity of feeling be maintained and contained within the medium of a computer screen. What if you feel compelled to make it physical? Just to see if the reality lives up to the amazingly powerful emotions that you have played out on a keyboard? Does heavy petting count as infidelity? Is oral sex permissible? Or is it morally wrong to even permit the touching of lips?

And once you have gone the whole hog and committed the ultimate physical betrayal, does it then become easier the next time around? Do you lose that innate sense of right and wrong in pursuit of an emotion that could prove eventually to be unattainable? Will you find yourself swimming like a shark in a sea of distrust?

Could you ever be truly faithful again?...

Monday, 16 July 2007

Rufly Anal

I was introduced to blog sites about a year after I had taken my first tentative physical steps away from vanilladom. After six months of reading through, what has struck me most is the way that most people seem so experienced in their sexuality. How situations and positions which I had never even heard of come so easily to them. I often compare myself to Fille - we are of a similar age and background but, whereas she seems to glide through her encounters with huge amounts of French Canadian style, panache and charm, I seem to flounder - the white stiletto symbol of my Essexness wedged firmly into whichever orifice seems appropriate to emphasise my chavishness when it comes to the new sexual peccadilloes to which I am being introduced.

However, having said that, one of the things I love most about my relationship with Ruf is the way that when we get it right, it is amazing but how easily we can laugh about everything when it is all going spectacularly wrong. This particular story illustrates this point to perfection...

In the early days, we talked a lot about what we liked and didn't like. What fantasies we had fulfilled and which ones we would love to try. One of Ruf's favourites was the idea of being taken from behind by a woman. So, with his birthday approaching fast, I did some research and found myself a non-latex strap-on, consisting of a sort of loincloth with two attachments - one vibrating and one plain dildo. It was an ambitious project, being as I had never actually been anally penetrated, other than by his fingers and that only once, so I really was having to be guided by things I could find on the internet. But I was undeterred. I was sure I could make it work. After all, surely there isn't much more to it than gaining entry and then thrusting... I ordered the set plus a big bottle of 'Backdoor please' anal lubricant. Subtle! I arranged to have them sent to Ruf's flat with strict instructions that he was not to open the box without risking my extreme displeasure.

I arrived on Friday evening ready to spend the weekend. This was probably only our second weekend together so we were still quite nervous with each other to start with but once the strain of the long drive had passed, things progressed with enthusiasm. After we had both satisfied our respective lusts and had a short period of refraction, it was time to surprise Ruf with his present so I opened the box.

The first problem was actually putting the harness together. This meant putting the big light on and trying to follow the instructions - not one of my strongest suits - but I managed to insert the vibrating cock looky-likey into the hole in the pants so that the base rested against my groin. There was a bullet to go in the front of the pants so that I could get clit stimulation at the same time. Then there was another attachment that clipped onto the side of the loincloth that worked the vibrator. You have to remember here that I am a UK size 6 and so adjusting the loincloth to ensure that it actually stayed around my hips was an achievement in itself, especially with all that weight trying to force it downwards. It seemed like almost an hour since I had first opened the box. Ruf was tapping his fingers with impatience and neither of us was feeling particularly aroused.

Finally, suitably attired, I switched off the light, turned on the radio, pushed Ruf onto his knees in what I hoped was a suitably dominant fashion and, unceremoniously, set about lavishly lubing his arse with my fingers. Bearing in mind that this too was a first for me and I had to overcome the whole 'My fingers are up someone else's bottom and I hate to think what I'm going to find up there and what colour they're going to be when they come out' thing. Now I know why they equate obsessive/compulsive disorder with being anally retentive! Prodigiously lubed, I proceeded to switch on my bullet and suck his cock to get us both in the mood for what was to come and then, when the 'time was right', I slid out and round and onto my knees to attempt to gain entry.

Now, what I hadn't taken account of in all my calculations was the fact that Ruf is quite a bit taller than me. He's not a 6 footer by any means, but then I'm only just a 5 footer and with us both kneeling on the bed, my strapping hard-on was a good 2 or 3 inches lower than the hole I was attempting to penetrate. His bed is a futon so I discovered that it wasn't much good me standing up on the floor because then I was far too tall.

I knelt back on the bed and proceeded to crouch and prod at the same time. This was causing the strap-on to bend at a very precarious angle and I couldn't keep that position going for very long so I went down onto my knees again, resting on my tippy toes and started thrusting upwards. To say that Ruf didn't appear to be enjoying the whole experience was something of an understatement what with his ooh-ing and ow-ing and general wincing. I was unable to achieve more than just fractional penetration and the whole getting the angle of thrust right was beyond me. (OK, fellas, I will never say it's not rocket science again!)

Suddenly I became aware of the words on the radio:

You looked inside my fantasies and made each one come true,
something no one else had ever found a way to do.
I've kept the mem'ries one by one, since you took me in;
and I know I'll never love this way again.

One of my favourite songs, to which I know all the words. It was irresistible and, no matter how much I tried to bite my lip, they just came tumbling out.

My trembling-with-repressed-laughter squeaks, backed up by the dulcet tones of Dionne Warwick's warbling as we chorused together:

I know I'll never love this way again,
so I keep holdin' on before the good is gone.
I know I'll never love this way again,
hold on, hold on, hold on

It was at this point that I'm afraid I lost the plot completely and, despite Ruf's confused grumbling, collapsed in uncontrolled hysterics onto his back, promptly losing my erection as the shaft of the vibrator ripped itself away from the base wedged inside my loin cloth to hang uselessly down my thigh.

I tell you, you couldn't make it up!

Needless to say, neither of us can hear that song without cracking up at the vision it engenders in both our minds :)

Someone said to me recently that real stories seemed somehow more sexy than fantasies because of the very fact of their reality and it reminded me of this scene and the way that some superb fantasies just dont seem to work out quite the same when re-enacted for real.

Sorry honey x

Copyright: having my cake

Wednesday, 11 July 2007

Discombobulated Rabbits

Reading about Angela-la's DeRampanted Rabbit took me back to my own encounters with Rabbits.

After my first completely disastrous attempt to use my birthday present from Little Sis, it remained in its box inside the hatbox, under the clothes, buried deep within the cupboard under the eaves behind the chest of drawers for some time. However, after months of celibacy, I had discovered the delights of masturbation through the medium of my electric toothbrush but I was strictly limited to clitoral stimulation.

I still felt that I needed some mental enticements to get me in the mood properly though. I had tried watching the porn that was available on Bravo but naked blokes with blurred-out genitals prancing around with silicon-enhanced bimbos didn't really do much for me and I certainly wasn't brave enough to look at porn on the internet in case it left clues that other people might find.

So the advent of The Catalyst into my world was timely. We had met through the internet and conversed by email and then im, exchanging photos and confidences, culminating after a few weeks in an evening of alcohol-fuelled cybersex. I didn't actually play with myself that evening - ok, ok, I told him I had but I was new to all this and I've promised myself that I will be brutally honest on here, if only to reassure some other poor vanilla girl and encourage her to start to experiment.

That night, I discovered that I really enjoyed writing about what I would like to do to a man and even more hearing what he would like to do to me. It made me incredibly excited, doing things to my nether regions that I had never imagined possible and I realised that I needed proper interaction with a real man, albeit virtually, to turn me on properly. Porn just couldn't cut it. It was really quite bizarre creeping into bed beside my snoring Husband at 4am and trying to determine in my head whether I had actually broken any marriage vows or not! Whatever, the exchanges of that long night gave me enough stimulation to fuel at least one toothbrush session over each of the next few days.

Then the first story arrived. It was his beautifully written account of how we would meet for the first time and what would happen next. It was amazing. He made me feel so beautiful and sexy and adventurous and completely turned on that it seemed churlish of me not to immediately go and pleasure myself with my toothbrush and tell him about it on im afterwards.

The following week, there was a story in three parts about our second meeting which left me completely beside myself. He had obviously been studying my photos and was describing my own body intimately. I knew the toothbrush just wasn't going to be enough to satisfy me totally this time. After so many months of abstinence, I longed for penetration! So I pulled out the chest of drawers, flung open the cupboard door, rifled through the clothes to find the hatbox and retrieved that rabbit.

Lying naked on the bed, revisiting his words in my head, I was so wet that, to my surprise, the cock part slid in without any difficulty at all, right to the hilt. So different to the previous occasion... It felt very decadent, lying there in broad daylight in such an unusual situation. I had to turn my teddy bear's face to the other wall, he made me feel most uncomfortable looking at me so quizzically! Still, nothing ventured nothing gained! I switched both buttons on to the first setting and squealed with delight at the first tickle as everything started to move gently. I could feel myself getting wetter still and so, becoming more adventurous, went through the various speeds until both parts were on maximum. The swivelling and whirling of the cock inside me permitting my first proper gspot orgasm. It was glorious. But I wasn't satisfied. Id been up the mountain and I wanted more so maybe a change of position was in order.

Flat on my back on the floor with my legs resting on the bed above me, I reinserted the rather sticky rabbit and let it do its work, building on the excitement of the first climax and swiftly taking me up a few more levels. I could hear myself moaning and gasping but there was something not right. Those ears just weren't doing it for my clit. They were... almost sharp! I reached out for my trusty electric toothbrush and, pushing the ears away with the other hand, I placed the head of the brush against my clit and depressed the 'on' button. The sensation was amazing. Straightaway, up at least three levels of pleasure as I felt the rabbit start to slip out of me without the obstacle of my retaining hand.

Letting go of the ears and allowing them to rest on the top of the tb, I wedged the base of the vibrator against the side of the bed and pressed myself down onto it. The two sets of furious buzzing were now working in tandem, hitting all the places that they needed to. My head was full of The Catalyst's words. How much he wanted me, what he wanted to do to me, how beautiful I was. The balm of all those positive feelings anointing my poor lonely, tormented soul. I could feel myself arching against the twin pleasure centres, pressing downwards and gyrating as every impulse in my body pushed upwards from the tips of my toes and into my head, trying to climb up to the very top of the precipice. It was too much, too much for me to hold on to. The pressure was building up inside me, so strongly I felt I would burst if I didn't let it out. And yet I was afraid. Afraid to relax and let go. Terrified of what might happen, of what could emerge from this Pandora's Box if I lifted the lid and peeped inside. I couldn't contain everything and found myself biting down hard on the base of the wardrobe to try to keep the scream within until, finally, I could hold it all back no longer and it erupted in a long, shrill shout of relief as I plunged over the edge and into the darkness with only the rasping of my breath for company.

And then, as everything subsided, the tears came. Tears of relief that I'd actually experienced what a woman should feel and tears of infinite sadness because I knew I'd never be able to achieve it with my Husband. Sobbing despairingly into the carpet, the instruments of my pleasure still buzzing away on the floor beside me, I was distraught. Part of me felt dirty and ashamed and yet another part was completely elated by the enormity of the sensations I had just lived through. I didn't want to never feel like that again. And, more to the point, I wanted to experience them with a man properly. It wasn't my Husband's fault, but I felt as if I'd been cheated for so many years. Yes, I had had orgasms with him that had made me cry out with delight but they paled into insignificance in comparison to what I had just done to myself (with the help of The Catalyst's mental encouragement) and I was determined that I wasn't going to let that state of affairs continue.

I needed not only a man who knew how to play me like the most expensive violin but, to achieve the ultimate goal, he also had to be able to make me feel beautiful and cherished. I knew that my Husband would never be capable of the second caveat.

It seemed only fair that the Catalyst should be rewarded for his efforts. So I wrote my own version of the last section of his 3-parter. Telling what happened in that hotel room from my point of view rather than his. How it had scared me to be blindfolded and not know what was going to happen next. What it felt like to have him touch me and drip Baileys over my most secret, intimate parts and lick it all off. How I loved the feel of his hard body against mine and the way he lifted me and moved me from position to position as if I was a feather. I called him and I read some of it to him. He took me into the Gents with him and I listened to him wank over me, over my words and my desire for him.

We started sending detailed accounts of our masturbating, the thoughts that caused the arousal, mini-scenarios, the sensations of actually wanking. I would call him at work when he was at his desk and torment him by letting him listen as I climaxed. He seemed to enjoy being pinned to his desk by his erection, whilst his colleagues worked at their desks around him... apart from the time that his Boss arrived with some visitors who needed to be shown around the premises, just as he'd put the phone down from me and needed to get to the Gents to alleviate his state of excitement. All he could do was pick up a lever arch file and hold it casually in front of his groin to hide his predicament as he stood up, whilst announcing that he would have to '..take this file to central records on the way back'.

The story that caused the problem involved us meeting when he went on a business trip. It was the first time that he had actually told me how much he cared about me. It wasn't just sexual gratification this time, but about holding and stroking and loving and needing me. It made me cry but it also made me incredibly horny. I rushed upstairs and set about myself, lying on the floor and re-enacting the Rabbit/toothbrush combination and, fuelled by the declaration of his love, to try to achieve a really big one whilst he listened...

...but just as the crucial moment was imminent, as I twisted my pelvis down against the rampations of the Rabbit, forcing its base against the side of the bed and circling my hips, I became aware of the change - both in motor noise and the sensation inside me. I continued on and had a nice climax but not the riproaring screamer I had envisaged. When Id calmed down a bit, I removed the Rabbit and examined it through the sticky residue. It hadn't run out of Rampant, the motor was still buzzing and the ears were flapping furiously but the important bit was stationary! The thin metal rod that joined the motor in the base to the moving cock-part seemed to have become detached, resulting in a non-waggling cock! I was angry... and mortified! What on earth could I have done wrong to make that happen? And Id only used the thing three times and one of those unsuccessfully. £40 wasted! Grrrrrr...

The Catalyst was laughing down the end of the phone and called my bluff. 'Bet you won't take it back!' Now there was a challenge. A start of a whole new me. The following week, I was in Ann Summers with my defective rabbit cleaned, the business end wrapped in clingfilm. The girl looked at me curiously when I explained that my Rabbit had become discombobulated. You have to remember that I am tiny. About 5' and weighing in at that time at about 7 stone. However, I had the receipt that Little Sis had given me from the party and we were still just within date for it to be covered by the guarantee so they gave me a replacement.

The following day, The Catalyst treated me to another written scenario of our lovemaking and it had the desired effect. So there I was up in my room, lying on the floor with my legs in the air, twisting and grinding. Rabbit and tb working in glorious unison, climbing my way noisily to the climax of the century with the Catalyst listening avidly on the speaker phone when...

... yup, you guessed it, the bloody thing decoupled itself again leaving me totally frustrated and The Catalyst hysterical with laughter.

That's it! Me 'n' Rabbits are FINISHED! I need something a lot more reliable/robust. I know the last time I went for a smear, the gynae nurse said that I had the strongest pelvic muscles she had ever had to deal with and they didn't make her job very easy but, come on, I cant be that strong! I'm putting it down to the base being jammed against the side of the bed with me clenching it tightly and then gyrating causing the faulty design on the coupling to disconnect but I'm not wasting another £40!

And I'm certainly not brave enough to run the gauntlet of the salesdesk at Ann Summers and return a second one after a single use...

Copyright: having my cake

Friday, 6 July 2007

Tulip Time

So, me and my tulip... It was advertised as a gspot stimulator and recommended by The Times so, having decided that the ears on that damned Rabbit got on my nerves and they were so damned unreliable in terms of robustness (more on that in another post), I sent off for one. The tulip is pink or purple plastic, consisting of a straight handle ending in a sort of bulb at an angle and is operated by twisting the top of the handle. It's waterproof so you can use it in the shower or the bath as well.

The first time I used it, I was kneeling up; the second, I was lying horizontally on my bed. On both occasions, I inserted it to find my gspot. It was pleasant, but not earth shattering. Nothing like the joyfully uplifting experience I could get with my electric toothbrush and a couple of fingers.

I'm still not quite sure how it occurred to me what to do, although I suspect that, possibly, the charge in my toothbrush had died and it was the only thing to hand. All I remember is the incredible sensation as I placed the buzzing bulb against my clit. My labia opened to envelope it and the warm glow started growing instantly, taking me higher and higher until the only thing on my mind was penetration. My fingers straining and reaching higher and higher so that the two stimuli met and joined in one glorious conflagration of delight.

Only a few days earlier, I had read a report stating that over-enthusiastic use of an electric toothbrush on the clitoris could cause the death of multiple nerve endings, resulting in the deadening of sensation in that area... Thankfully, I had found a replacement instrument of pleasure.

When Ruf and I started meeting each other, it was one of the core elements of our sex kit. He loves to watch me use it, taking myself through one or two gasping orgasms before begging for his fingers or his cock. The amazing sensation as he slides into me with my clit buzzing away on overdrive cannot be described, nor can the extent of the pleasure be over-estimated. It was great for every position, on my back, on all fours, on my stomach, sideways on. The long handle means that I don't have to stretch to reach my clit and I can just come and come, over and over, each wave building higher than the last. I used it after my first abortive attempt at anal and discovered that stimulating my clit meant that the rest of my muscles relax to allow easier penetration. I adore it when I'm lying on my stomach and he's pumping me from behind with himself or with a dildo, or even both, but my favourite experience of all is the one that happened most recently...

It was the Monday morning after a whole weekend where we hadn't left his flat. From Thursday night through to Monday morning had been one long glorious fuckfest. We got out of bed only to eat or watch dvds wrapped up in the duvet on his sofa. I had come over and over again and he had kept up with me, always ready with a stiff member to pleasure me. I should point out at this juncture that Ruf is a skilful and accomplished lover, with the most amazing stamina, who has taken the time to listen and learn how my body works, resulting in our come ratio being something like 20:1 - that's twenty of mine to one of his of course!

I had to leave at lunchtime so we had a long lazy morning in bed, wrapped up in each other, glorying in the feel of naked skin on naked skin. I stroked his chest over and over, feeling the crunch of the hair under my palm. I love that sound. Sometimes in the half-light of dawn, lying in bed, I reach out my hand slightly, palm down to stroke him and the pain in my chest at his absence is only matched by the sigh of delight that runs through me when my touch is rewarded by the reassuring presence of that warm, hard, crunchy resistance beneath my fingers and the realisation that we are together again. It's only as I've become more mature that I have learned to appreciate the delights of the hairy chest. I love this manifestation of his masculinity. And so, on this, as on many other days, we talk, we laugh, we doze, we fuck and we talk again, always with some part of our skin touching against the other. I have never spent so many consecutive hours naked in bed with a man before.

And on this day, I was still horny. He has the most incredible effect on my libido. I find it very hard to be in a room with him and not touch him. I reached under my pillow and found the tulip. He smiled at being brought back from his reverie by the familiar buzz as I placed it against my clit and fired it up. Leaving me lying on my back, he pulled the closest knee outwards towards him so it rested on his chest and scooted himself down the bed to be at right angles to me. He waited whilst I had my first orgasm, watched the flush creep up my chest and into my cheeks as my breathing quickened and then softened again.

He waited still and watched another, listening to the change in the tone of the vibration from the slickness of my excitement and then, as the third started to gather momentum, he slid his beautiful hard cock inside me. The clitoral orgasms had prepared the way easily for him and I opened my knees wide for optimum access. Sliding into my liquid centre, it's like he was made for my body, his cock rubs against my gspot and fills me, making me come hard, opening my legs wider and grinding down against him. The double whammy of clit and gspot orgasms and I can feel the spurting explosion of wetness trapped inside me by his cock. He fills me completely and it is only the thrust and withdrawal of his pumping that allows the flood to slowly escape, seeping from out of me and trickling onto the bed.

But the tulip waits for no man (or woman) and another one hits me and another, leaving me breathless and gasping. In a valley between the peaks, when things subside a little, I open my eyes and look down the bed at him. He's lying on his side with his elbow supporting his head and smiling up at me, whilst his hips move gently back and forth. I know he must be getting tired and, as another one starts to build, I'm trying to whisper 'Just one more, just one more'. My mouth is attempting to form the words but Ive lost the ability to engage my vocal chords in any coherent sounds so he simply nods encouragingly, smiles that smile and continues to pump. Not hard, not fast. Just rhythmically in and out and in out. He cannot know what I can feel. Time stands still and I have no idea how long the experience endures. All I am aware of is the incessant buzzing of the toy mixed with my own strange guttural groans, the rushing in my ears as the blood pounds there and the throbbing between my legs for the same reason. I know what will happen. I know it is waiting but not quite there yet. The more orgasms I have, the higher I go, the deeper the pressure builds, the closer it comes...

I lose count as they peak and trough, peak and trough. Grasping one nipple with my free hand and squeezing tightly, arching my back, the world goes black and I have to concentrate on trying to relax and breathe as they hit, each one harder than the one before, culminating in two ear-splitting, screaming, shrieking, bucking, shaking, spurting explosions in quick succession, leaving me limp and trembling as he envelopes me tightly in his arms.

'You had seven more,' he imparts. I look at him blankly. 'You wanted one, you took seven...' And he smiles and kisses the top of my head.

Was that really selfish of me? Of course, I made it up to him... as soon as Id got my breath back.

I asked Ruf about it afterwards and he said that for him it was as if they merged into one massive long, wet rollercoaster ride... and his quads knew all about it the next day :)

Copyright: having my cake

Wednesday, 4 July 2007


Until you address your own self worth issues internally you’ll continue to collect external methods of validations.

That's what a friend said to me today. Part of my anorexia stems, I'm sure, from the fact that I have never felt that I was entirely satisfactory in my Husband's eyes. He is nearly eight years older than me. So when I met him at the age of 18, he seemed like this god-like figure and I could never believe that he was interested in me. He said several times early on that he wasn't sure whether we should continue our relationship because I sometimes seemed so young to him. As in immature, I guess. However, on our first date, he told me he had been watching me for weeks and thought how pretty I was and had finally plucked up the courage to ask me out. So, once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, he did see me as a beautiful, desirable creature that he wanted to be with, even if his behaviour towards me in terms of the showing of emotion pretty much ever since has served to deny that fact.

And now I have this wonderful lover who tells me he loves me because he knows how I crave to hear him ennunciate it... but will I believe him? The hell I will. Those three little words just don't cut it. They're never enough to counter the voice in my head echoing what he said to me a year ago - that he really wants a proper girlfriend. Proper as in not someone who lives hundreds of miles away, is several years older and, probably the most salient point, is someone else's wife. But, on the other hand, when we're together and fucking and all those minor problems are blotted out, everything is perfect so why stop?

So, yet again, I feel like I'm somehow second best. Something to settle for until a proper girlfriend comes along. I know he's not actively looking for her. He hasn't got the time with his hectic bachelor lifestyle. I know he turns down invitations so he can spend time with me when I do visit and, when I'm with him, I know that he's not thinking about anyone or anything other than me. But when I'm not... all the doubts set in. As well as the guilt that maybe I'm the one being selfish and depriving him of the chance to meet someone more suitable, get married and have kids and a normal relationship, blah de blah...

But then my friend said, "First thing you need to accept is that no-one makes you feel anything. Phrases like “He made me feel like” is a total crock of shit. The only person who can make you feel something is yourself. Saying something like “He made me feel angry because he didn’t put the towels away” is still a total cop out, passing responsibility for your thoughts and feelings onto a third person. Saying “I felt angry because he didn’t put the towels away which meant that I had to do it” is getting more honest. But still no cigar. Now analyze that deeper. “I feel angry because he is taking me for granted, knowing that I’m going to pick the fucking towels up…so he doesn’t even bother!”. So no one makes you feel anything, you feel things because of something that happens. Now analyze that. Does him not picking up the towels really matter that much? Is it a symptom of a bigger problem? Does he know that it bothers me? Is it fair me getting angry at him, if I haven’t told him? What if I told him and he leaves me? Hold on, if he leaves me over a picking up a fucking towel is he really worth it? Wow….if he’s not worth it, why am I with him? Etc…etc….etc….etc

"It’s a technique the Zen people called “Pruning”. When you prune a plant you start off with the external layers of the bush first and then work inwards cutting away the stuff that doesn’t belong. It requires tremendous courage and total honesty which is why you start off with something small, the outer layer, cut back the branches to see the tree. Most people argue and get upset over bullshit that really has nothing to deal with the real issue."

So, the question is 'What is the real issue here?' and why am I busting a gut trying to get external validation when really all I want is a man who will put his arms around me and say he loves me and mean it...

... and do I really want to define myself on the basis of such a validation from someone else?

Copyright: having my cake

Monday, 2 July 2007


So what exactly should your feelings be when, on the Monday after she went to an all-night after-prom party, you find two empty packets of three durex in the waste paper bin in your 16 year old daughter's room...?

Relief, concern, horror...?

Thoughts anyone?

Copyright: having my cake