Where’s the Milk?

Burning the midnight oil and then *knock knock* –
Kana : I brought senpai some cookies and milk.
Senpai : Thank you Kana-chan , but where’s the milk?

 

From Magion02, deviantart. There’s many more.

Goldilocks

You’ve woken up and realised the porridge on the table must have been drugged.

You look up and find the three of them just standing over you. Not talking. Not smiling. You’re still in their house. Have they called the cops? Why was there drugged porridge on the table?

You could have sworn the advertisement said three bears, but maybe it actually said something else.

Joanne: The Discovery

So, you will see from the previous episode that I can get a bit dark and controlling when talking about men. Better get back to the masturbation.

I had no boyfriends to speak of before the age of sixteen. This is partly because my mother sent me to an all girls’ school, and also I think it was because I was so pretty that none of the boys I knew had the courage to come near me. So, before that time, it was all solo action.

When I hit sixteen, I stopped being a tomboy. The journals I was keeping were longer filled with fantasy islands made for exploration, and drawings of the strange creatures that lived there. Instead, I began to be interested in fashion, and also, in my body, even more than before.

I kept one drawing journal that was about all the clothes that I thought I would design one day. Mostly these were copies of things I had seen in magazines. One, from the year 2000, has lots denim and leather, and the women all have long straight hair, and when I look back, I realise they were all a kind of new age bikie chick, who would probably have to change in order to actually ride a real motorcycle.

Then suddenly, it all changes to vintage dresses. I was sixteen. I was into femininity.

The other kind of ‘diary’ was all online, and in my head, really. I looked on the net, on sexual health sites for teenage girls, I and found a lot of information on what masturbation was about, and how other girls did it, and I checked out what worked and what didn’t. Systematically.

For the record: pillow humping doesn’t work for me. Nor does lying with my pussy under the bath spout. Putting things in my ass doesn’t do anything for me. Rolling my clit hood back and directly touching my clit just makes it feel sore. And, the thing with the hairdryer? What was that about?  Etc. Etc.

In fact, most of the newfangled methods I came across didn’t work out and after twenty minutes of frustration I would end the session as normal, on my back with a home-made dildo inside me and my middle finger on the hood of my clitoris, writhing and straining to come, and thoroughly enjoying it. I thought I was in ecstasy.

Then, around the time I turned sixteen, I came across something else.

I read this post on a website (called The Clit dot com, incidentally), by an older woman, saying that if she just left the tip of her vibrator on her clitoris, and relaxed, she could come over and over again. The first few times, she said she had to push through a little discomfort right after she came, a kind of electric feeling, but after that, she could go straight onto the next one. Once she had gotten used to it, the orgasms just kept coming, like waves. She said she could have as many as forty.

Forty? Christ. I didn’t believe her, of course. Up to that time, I could only have about ten, and that was really unusual. Most of the time I would have two or three, and then my clitoris would get sore. And, I always had to wait a few moments before I could start again. I knew the electric sensation she was talking about, where my clit retracted and just didn’t want to be touched.

But I wanted to check out if what the woman said was possible, so, I got my first vibrator, a thin purple thing, which cost ten dollars, ran on two small cell batteries and had a simple dial to turn it up. (It stopped working after two sessions. I guess the connections must have corroded.)

And that night – in fact it was Tuesday, June the 20^th, 2000 – I tried it out, doing just what she said.

And it worked.

It really, really worked.

I can still remember the sense of amazement. It was like waking up. I don’t know how many times I came, because that wasn’t really the point. It was the sense of rolling along effortlessly, from one to the next.

I still sometimes go back to that post and read it, it’s still there. I even sent a reply, years later, thanking her, but she never replied, I guess she had just logged in and posted, and forgotten about it. But it made a huge impact on me. And I wonder how many other girls read it and tried it, and made the discovery.

Older girls at school taught me how to have a few. The older woman online taught me how to have many.

Joanne archive is here

Super Trophy Wifey

I am Super Wifey’s husband. I visit the sports store to buy her a trophy.

It is about six inches high, made of tin on a base of plastic wood.

I takes it home and show it to her.

‘What is this one for?’ she says. (She already has a tiara and a ‘best housewife’ apron and a magic dick-hardening wand.)

‘You are best wife evarrrr,’ I say.

‘Yes, I am pretty awesome aren’t I?’ she says, still not taking the trophy. She is wondering if I can resist making the joke about her being a trophy wife. If I resist, that would be points for taste and restraint. But if I do make it, she’d probably give me points for sheer cheek and immaturity. I can’t lose – but she doesn’t want me to know that.

‘You are so lovely,’ I say. ‘You made me feel so good last night. Take it.’

‘Oh, so this is just a sex trophy? You just like me for the sex?’

‘What else would it be for?’ I say, my face a mask of innocence.

‘Bastard,’ she says.

‘Hmmmm?‘

Now she takes the trophy.

‘Now you are my trophy wife,’ I say.

Now she groans and pretends to hand it back, but I refuse.

‘No, Super Wifey,’ he says. ‘You keep it. You have earned it.’

What would Susie Singleton do?

Susie Singleton is your wife, only single.

She never married you, or anyone else. And she never had kids. You know her, as a friend. You fancy her a little. OK, quite a lot.

What does she do? Is she getting any? You’d like to know.

Well, there’s story going round that she turned up at a bar called the Universal one Friday night, still wearing her work clothes. She picked up a guy called Brad, and took him back to her apartment. (She lives in the city, close to her work.)

Brad described the encounter to one of his work colleagues and that’s how the story got out:

‘She was intense. She hardly said anything, she just jumped on me. I really enjoyed it at first but she got really carried away when she started coming, and she bit me. Really hard. Right here.’

There was still a big purple bruise on Brad’s cheek when he told the story. He sounded believable.

A few weeks later, you get talking to Jane, a mutual friend, about the biting incident.

‘Susie is super embarrassed about that. She hasn’t called him back. Actually I don’t think she would have called him back anyway. But still, the poor guy.’

So why did she do it?’ you ask. ‘Was he threatening her?’ You feel an urge to protect Susie.

Jane laughs. ‘Hell no. He’s a decent guy. She says she just gets these urges sometimes. But she hasn’t done it in ages.’

‘So, she’s done that before?’

Again the laugh. ‘Yep. Back in her twenties she used to do it a fair bit. She’d have a big week at work, and then a few drinks, and she’d be right in there. One guy even had to go to hospital, thought he was going to need stitches, He didn’t, though.’

‘Jesus. I had no idea. I always thought she was kinda stright-laced.’

‘She is, mostly.’

You meet Susie in a bar the following Friday night. You know her by her back, her poise, her neck.

She’s beautiful, but seems on edge. You lose your nerve. You do not ask her about Brad. You go home early before she has her second drink.

Breakfast is Nearly Ready

An erotic story, originally posted on my Lust Illustrated Site. I’m doing all that stuff over here now. Not Femdom, just a bit of fun.)

AMY: Breakfast is Nearly Ready

This was my first glimpse of Amy.

…sir…?

I know, right?

Sir?’ she said. ‘Your breakfast is nearly ready.’ I think this may have been the only time she has ever called me sir, so far. The fantasy that she was serving me lasted about twenty seconds.

I stared into her eyes then I sat up blearily, wondering where the hell I was. A vague memory came back to me, of being moved into Business Class in the early morning, when they worked out I was an infection risk. I’d been sent to Malawi, working on an AIDS project and somehow thought I’d be immune to malaria because I was only there a few weeks. Guess which dumbass got malaria anyway? Yeah. You got it.

I looked around the cabin and realised there really isn’t anyone else in this section. The flight is to JoBurg. We should be there by now. What time is it?

‘Uuuuhhhh.’ I say. She may never let me forget this is the first thing I said to her.

what is it, sweaty?

‘What is it, sweaty?’ she says.

Sweaty? Did she say sweaty or sweetie? Either would be annoying. I want to be angry with her but she smells like jasmine.

‘Uhhhh.’ This is my second vocal effort to her. A bit shorter, but still pretty pathetic.

‘Do you need anything?’ she says. ‘Breakfast will be here shortly’. She is still smiling.

‘Water.’ This is my first proper word.

‘No, silly. No water on planes. It’s not allowed.’

‘Whuh’?’ I said.

‘Because it could be an explosive. I don’t want you to get all blowed up.’

‘But I have malaria,’ I said. Finally, a sentence. Subject, verb, the whole thing. Maybe she will be impressed.

‘Malaria! Really? I must the only person on the entire plane who didn’t know that!’ she says, rolling her eyes.

Do you want something from your cabin luggage?

Christ, have they deliberately given me the single most annoying hostess in the entire world? Feels like it at the moment. I am sweaty, it’s true, and delirious and starting to wonder if this is a dream.

‘Did you want something from your cabin luggage?’ she says, reaching for it. ‘I saw a big butt plug when I was looking in there earlier.’

‘Whuh?’ Yes, that’s right. After one complete sentence, I’m back to the caveman stuff again.

‘That’s right. After you asked me to show you my tits and then passed out, I looked in your cabin luggage to see if you were a pervert. And I found your NJoy. You want it with breakfast?’

you were quite awful

‘What? Hang on. I said what to you?’

‘You asked if you could see my tits.’ she grins. ‘Very rudely. You were quite awful.’

‘Really?’

It’s on the cabin video log if you want me to get the other cabin crew to check for you’, she says.

‘Uhhhhh. Look, I’m really sorry. I must have been in a fever or something. I have malaria.’

‘How nice for you.’ she says. ‘Anyway, I showed them to you, and you passed out.’

‘Whuh?’ Yep, Í said it again. There wasn’t much else to say.

‘Man, conversation with you is hard work,’ she says. ‘I said, I showed you my tits, and you passed out….’

and you passed out

After that, she just stood there smiling like I am mouse, and she is holding me by the tail.

The moment was not brief. I sat there with mouth open, until the sweat from my forehead dripped onto my nose. She was fresh as a daisy.

Did she really flash me? I can dimly recall it actually happening. But maybe I am imagining it and she is just messing with me. Her smile is impossible to read.

Finally, a call bell rings in Economy, and she starts to move away.

‘Wait!’ I say. ‘Ummm…’ Great job. I wish I didn’t feel so terrible or I might have been able to at least say something.

‘I like you more when you are delirious,’ she says loudly. ‘You’re kinda more direct. Anyway, enjoy your buttplug!’

Then she walks off and one of the other staff brings me my breakfast, and water, and head towels, and apologizes for the delay, and tells me I will be in Cairo in half an hour.

Cairo? Why the fuck did I check on to plane to Cairo?