An image to cartoon programme made this for me. I can’t draw to save myself, but I do like to play around with images.
(First episode is here).
When I was really young, I used to have a dream that my body was caught in a net. I think it was the first sign of my true nature.
As I lay in my bed, I could feel my arms up above my head, held there firmly but gently, and my legs were fastened to the foot of the bed, so that I could move about, but not get free.
I had a lot of flying dreams as a girl, too. My skirt would catch on something as I walked along, and then I’d trip, and somehow I’d fall upward, and find myself floating up over the forested mountains near my home, well away from the world below.
One night when I was about ten, the dreams came together.
I lay suspended above the bed in the net, but this time, it moved upward above my house, and took me helpless into the air, where I floated for what seemed like hours, with my arms pinned fast above me, writhing about in joy.
It was like being tied to a magic carpet.
I lay down in it and instantly had that sense of being on the bed-net again, spread out and floating in the horizontal.
Then my friend came in with me and we lay there together, giggling, idly swinging.
That night, I dreamed of being tied up on the flying carpet again.
This time there was a man on it, controlling it. He was very good at it. He steered us out past the desert and towards some islands over the bay, where we landed, but I remained tied.
I woke up from the dream and it was very early.
I crept out of my room to the hammock on the porch, and I climbed in and lay there with one hand above my head, pretending it was tied. I masturbated with the other hand.
I had never had more than a few orgasms at a time before.
That morning on their back porch, with the sun just rising, I had nine.
I don’t own a hammock right now, but, sometimes, when I lie in bed with my arms up, I can feel myself gently rocking, and the old magic feeling returns.
As soon as my husband left for work, I got all dolled up and went to bed.
Pretty soon I was in heaven, and floated along until mid-morning having one long, searing orgasm after another. Everything else just faded away. It was wonderful.
Then the phone rang.
I answered after five rings, still gently attending to my sopping pussy, because I really didn’t want to stop.
‘Hello, is this Janet Marsh?’ said a woman’s voice.
‘Who?’ I said irritably. I didn’t know who she was talking about.
I really wished she’d go away so I could send another wave of pleasure cascading through my body. Then I remembered.
That’s my name.
Non-device chastity at the 19-day mark. This period has included her birthday which was a sex fest weekend.
Somewhat surprisingly, I am not feeling mega-horny. This is partly because Michelle is sick, but that only accounts for the last four days. Before that it has just been kinda normal, business as usual, chastity.
I have, on one occasion, asked Michelle if she was going to make me come that evening when we were having sex. Her response was simply that if I liked being denied for long periods, then that was what was going to happen so I’d better get used to it. Apart from that, we haven’t mentioned it much.
While she has been sick, I don’t think she has been particularly focused on anything sexual (which is not surprising). Before that, I think she has (mostly) been aware of my lack of orgasms. But because I haven’t been overtly horny around her, she hasn’t been making a big deal out of denying me.
Somehow, not coming for 3 weeks has become low key and normalised.
In terms of mood I am periodically a bit irritable, but I am also more sunny and positive than usual, so I suspect the hormone boost is amplifying some of my normal mood states, although not to extreme levels.
All this seems OK to me. If I am to make long-tem chastity a realistic part of my life, it can’t be on my mind all the time, and it can’t be a “special” thing all the time either. It’s a bit like dieting, maybe. If you spend the whole time thinking about food, the weight isn’t going to stay off. It only works if you change your basic relationship with food.
In this case, I don’t think our relationship can sustain an obsessive focus on my orgasm or lack thereof – it has to become something normalised. It will only work if I change my whole way of thinking about orgasms. They are something I don’t get to have much, and that’s just the deal. In the meantime, it’s my job to make use of the energy for other things.
This cold be heading down a kind of tantric path, maybe, although I have never previously had the focus or concentration for that to any serious degree. We will see what happens.
Steve when masturbating. He’s horny in that particular way. He fancies being married to a sex-crazed blonde with giant tits. Like Wifey, here.
She’s orally fixated. She’s proud of it. She loves it all over her. Oh baby.
She’s enormous. She used to go in wet t-shirt competitions and win, before Steve forbade her when they were engaged. Oh yeah.
She does her best at the housework, which is her main job other than pleasing Steve with her body. She’s not the brightest. But with everything else she’s got going for her, it doesn’t really matter…
She’ll age well. She spends a lot of time at the gym. She keeps herself nice for Steve. Like a good wifey should.
And best of all. she loves being pumped, any time, any place. She’s aching for it during the day when Steve’s at work. But she’s faithful. She’ll wait for him, and then present herself for his pleasure, like a good wifey should. Oh yeah…
Then Steve comes.
Wait, what the FUCK was he thinking just five seconds ago? He would HATE to be married to a woman like that.
What he actually wants is this woman…she runs a successful bakery, knows Arabic and Karate, and only wants it twice a week…
An ongoing series about the life of Joanne Marsh, with illustrations from Giovanna Casotto.
Hello. My name is Joanne. I’m twenty-eight. And I’m going to talk about masturbation. And men.
Men are fascinated by a self-satisfied woman, and intimated too, in almost equal measure. It draws them in, but it bothers them too.
I know this because I am a self-satisfied woman. I have been satisfying myself, most profoundly, since I was a teenager.
I think it must be the look on my face, or something to do with the set of my shoulders, or the tone of my voice. Or it might be pheromones, or some other subliminal signal I give off, that says:
Good things happen to me, boys. Very good things.
Whatever it is, it is powerful.
I started masturbating when I was pretty young (about twelve) and I got good, fast. But even up until the age of about fifteen, I remember thinking that there must have been some kind of mistake. I honestly did not think it was possible that I could find so much pleasure in something that was a normal part of me, something that was always there.
It wasn’t a self-esteem issue – I was always a confident girl. But I suppose when you grow up, you are surrounded by parents and teachers and people who are supposed to know more than you do, and you think that they are in control, and they can tell you what is going on.
So when I found out that there was something very wonderful and important that I could do whenever I wanted, I assumed that someone was supposed to talk to me about it, and make some kind of assessment.
At first I thought it would be my mother. I remember her talking to me when I was really young, maybe still only eleven, and saying something very vague, like:
‘Jo-Jo, you are at an age when you are starting to change. There are parts of you that will start to feel different in the next few years, like your nipples and your vagina. They are yours, and they are private and special. You will know what I mean soon. And if you ever want to come and talk to me about them, you can.’
About six months later, I started to work out what she was talking about, after eavesdropping on some older girls at school. And indeed, it was very special.
I kept expecting my mother would say more, or ask me how things were going. Wasn’t she going to ask about how I was getting on? I was getting on great, thanks. But she never asked.
After that, I remember thinking that a doctor, a man, was going to find out what I was doing. I even imagined some kind of examination, after which he would tell my parents that somehow my vagina was set “too high”. Then he would use some sort of knob in the back, to turn it down again to the normal level.
Then the next year we had sex education class and I worked out, officially, that all those things I’d been having for the past year were definitely orgasms, and there wasn’t some other even bigger thing waiting for me. I was not disappointed.
I still remember those classes, with all the boys saying ‘gross’ when they saw their first pussy, except for the few ones who had already seen one, and then everyone knew what type of boy was what. The girls just laughed when they saw the pictures of the penis, even the ones who had already seen one, and the boys just looked embarrassed. Like most of us, I had not seen one yet, and didn’t much want to.
After that, I started talking with some of the other girls at school, all giggled whispers in the yard or behind the sports shed. I remember one girl told me that if I got myself close, and then waited, in the end the orgasm would be much bigger.
This didn’t seem to fit with my experience at all.
Nor did I understand it when someone told me that you couldn’t put anything inside your vagina, because it would hurt and you would bleed. That’s what the girl’s mother had said.
But I already knew very well that this was far from true.
But then, I was always a bit different. I didn’t understand the appeal of boys, or jump rope, or horses.
I was into books about nature, and the history of exploration. I wanted to be an adventurer, and I was only just growing out of the habit of making up detailed fantasy islands in the Atlantic, which I would one day be the first to discover. I had whole exercise books filed with them.
I still have those books, and when I read them, I wonder how I could have been so boyish, without ever having been called a tomboy.
I’m certainly not a tomboy, now…
To Be Coninued