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 20th, 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

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.

Woman-at-Bar-w-Wine-DSC02971Well, 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?

Joanne: Testing

Time to talk about men, again. That’s the pattern of this, by the way. Masturbation, men, and my life as it was last year.

When I go out with a guy, I like to test them out. I partly do it to see if they can defend themselves. But there’s also a few things about sex that I really need to know before I will consider going out with someone.

I went out on a single date with this guy Bill, a barman, earlier on in the year, because he’d asked me out while I was in his pub. We went to another place, a gastro-pub, one of those ones with booths around the edges, and he’d made sure we got one. He was decent looking and confident and quite funny, and I thought I might be interested in him, so I got down to the testing pretty much straight away, as soon as we’d ordered.

‘Can I ask you some questions?’ I asked.

Shoot.’

‘Do you find me attractive?’

He laughed. ‘Yep. You could say that.’

‘Do you want to go to bed with me?’

He laughed again. ‘Wow. You’re pretty direct. Yes, I definitely want to go to bed with you, Joanne.’

‘OK. Do you masturbate? I know that’s direct as well, but I’m just interested.’

‘Um. Yes, I masturbate. Do you normally do this on dates?’

‘Yes, I do. What do you think about when you masturbate?’ I asked.

Now he stopped laughing and lowered his voice. ‘Wow, you really give a guy the third degree, don’t you? Why do you want to know that?’

‘I’m just really curious. You don’t have to answer.’

He puffed out his chest a bit. ‘No. OK, I’ll answer. To be honest I usually think about women, and being in bed with them.’

‘What’s happening in the bed?’

‘This is the most intense first date I have ever had!’ he said. ‘What’s happening in the bed is that, um, the girl I am with is having a really great time. And before you ask, yes, I have thought about giving you a good time.’

‘I wasn’t going to ask that. Do you think about the girl giving you a good time?’

‘Um…no, not as often. Hold on a second. What do you think about? Do you masturbate?’

‘Yes,’ I said, poker faced.  ‘I do it all the time. I did it before you picked me up actually. And I usually think about how good my vagina feels.’

(That last part wasn’t actually true. I think about men all the time. I just don’t think about them giving me a good time.)

eng008779 - Copy

‘Hmmm. That’s hot,’ he said. You’re wild, you know that?’

‘Thanks, I guess. Anyway, do you still want to go to bed with me later?’

‘Definitely,’ he said.

‘I want to give you a blow job,’ I said. His eyed widened for about the fourth time in the conversation.

‘Wow. Great. I’d like to return the favour.’

‘Hmmm. That won’t be necessary. Like I said I already sorted myself out before you came to get me. But thanks.’

His face fell, and I knew I couldn’t be with him. That was confirmed afterwards. I gave him the blow job, and then he started asking me if I wanted to come.

‘No, I already said. Thanks, but no thanks.’

‘You’re sure? You might find that if you tried for a while, you’ll get horny again.’

And there it is. The attempt to take my vagina away from me, and use it to give me “a good time.”

I am definitely not interested in this guy.

First Into Bed

yazmina-melendez

She was always first into bed; her shoes kicked off with an easy flick, her sundress and underwear gracefully removed, then tossed carelessly onto the floor, her eyes barely leaving me all the while.

By then I would have removed shoes socks and belt, and no more. Pants, shirt, tie, all remained.

I asked her if she would mind if I did not dress formally on all our dates.

‘Of course I would not mind,’ she said. ‘I just wouldn’t have sex with you. But you can still buy me dinner.’

Joanne: The Ox and the Fox

At the time of this story, I was working designing graphics and layouts for a large publishing company that specialises in travel and adventure books, and also has an imprint of pseudo-factual kids’ books about Pirates and Zombies and Mummies and so on.

You know when people talk about their career and they say “I know it sounds glamorous, but…”? And then they play it down and tell you about all the bad things about it? You end up thinking, “you actually want us to think it’s glamorous, don’t you,” or, “actually I never thought it sounded glamorous in the first place.”

Well, illustration actually is really glamorous. Even if you didn’t think it was. It is.

To start with, the books we do are pretty cool. The thing I’d been working on that week was a series of maps illustrating Scott’s exploration of the Antarctic, and the main editor Mr Peterson said I could totally go for it with the whales’ tails and other cartouches, which I still love to do. I even did a squid with a beady eye, which made him laugh.

In between working up drafts of those, Mike the Ox would come and show me his layouts for the Werewolf volume we were doing, which had a series of very neat drawings showing exactly how the man’s body got ripped apart by the inevitable full moon transformation. I’d told him they needed to be more colorful and flamboyant and less like something out of an anatomy textbook, and he’d made a rumbling noise, and wandered off back into the fields to eat grass, um, back to his desk to keep working.

I made a mental note to replay the little rumbling noise a few times in my head, when I got home.

I kinda like Mike in that way, you see. I haven’t slept with him. But I do like him.

After that encounter with the Ox, I went into see my boss, Mr. Peterson, the old Fox.

morenas_011 - Copy (3)Mr. Peterson is about fifty five, but very well preserved and quite attractive. He is a talented artist too, but he barely gets to do much of it. He’s too busy looking after the business. I admire that, and I’m grateful. I’m not sure that I’d want to be in his position, though.

‘Ah, Joanna’, he always says, in an avuncular tone. ‘What’s happening?’

I walk into his office and instead of sitting opposite him, I sit down sideways to him with my legs crossed, and drink a glass of water.

His gaze is not drawn to my thighs.

‘Mr Peterson, this isn’t about my work. It’s about Mike’s,’ I said, shuffling forward on the chair a little further. My work attire is pretty respectable up top, but down below, the skirt is short indeed . How is he not looking at me?

‘Ah, indeed. Tell me?’ He sounds intrigued.

I lean forward. ‘Well, John, I just wanted to say that his work has really been great lately. He’s reliable and he’s creative and he’s hardworking. Best on my team, for sure. So…’

‘Yes?’  Mr. Peterson raises his eyebrows and seems almost amused. I have managed to take him by surprise, at least. It’s just not with my legs.

‘So, I’d like to support his application for a promotion to senior illustrator. I know he’s been working on one.  And we used to have two here. We get on very well, I’m sure it won’t be a problem if we are both on the same level.’

‘I agree, that is a good idea,’ said my boss. ‘But, I’m afraid that Michael has not made any such application to me. If he does, it will be favorably received. But it may be the case that whatever he has been working on, it isn’t that. Now, is that all?’

I left his office.

Is that all?

No one ever says that to me!

Mr. Peterson and I have been playing this game ever since I started working here a few years ago.  I’m pretty sure he wants me. And sooner or later, he’s going to slip up. An invitation to work on something with him, alone. A gaping stare at my chest. A moment of hesitation as I raise my arms before I get something from a shelf.

And then I will know.

(Joanne archive is here)

Wish she hadn’t been so sexy

This is my ex-girlfriend Caprice, settling in for a bath. Last time, I told you about how she basically got me to invite her to move in, by letting me take candid pictures of her on a train. I hope that gave you some idea of what she was like.

After she moved in, the games continued. She kept working as a temp and made a little money, although she spent most of it on herself. She hated her job, and moaned about it constantly. She said her main passion was to be a masseuse and she was going to train to be one, some day. But I had a few massages from her and they were ordinary. She just pinched my shoulder muscles for a while, to no real purpose. It seemed to me that she had no passion for it at all. She always seemed to like getting them, though. Went to some place in the city once a month or so.

In fact I don’t think Caprice ever really had much passion for most things – especially me. No matter what I did, I never really got very far with her. She liked being able to say she was going out with a successful sound engineer, and she loved my apartment, but I never made her smile (on purpose), and in bed, I doubt that gave her a single real orgasm in the whole two years I was with her. She was so good at faking things, it was impossible to tell.

On this particular occasion I came in when she was having a bath – her second of the day, in fact – and I found her masturbating. She quickly covered herself, as though her pussy was something I wasn’t supposed to see, even though we’d had sex the night before.

‘What do want?’ she asked.

‘I just wanted to see what you were doing,’ I replied.

‘You saw what I was doing. Happy?’

‘Caprice…maybe I could stay. Maybe I could just watch, to see what you do.’

I said this because I wanted to see what she was like, masturbating. Maybe if I watched her give herself an orgasm, I would know what it looked like. That’s how desperate I was.

‘So you’re just going to stand there?’ she said.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Go for it. Just pretend I’m not here.’

‘Okay,’ she said. (I realised later that that this was what she did most of the time, anyway.)

So she ignored me and got down to it. She pulled out a glass dildo that I did not know that she owned, and moved it in and out of herself, very slowly, with her eyes closed. I was surprised by how gentle the motions were. She hardly seemed to be moving at all, but her body started to stiffen and sway in time with some rhythm she was keeping in her head.

After about five minutes of this she lifted a leg and came in from a slightly different angle, and she started making a soft, sighing noise that I had never heard before. Her eyes were still closed, and I suspected she was fantasizing about something, probably not me.

I had no erection as I watched this. In fact I was dismayed by how little it looked like what we did together, and how little I seemed to know about my girlfriend.

After a few minutes with her leg up, she went quiet and held her breath, and I think that was when she actually came, her face calm with concentration.

But then she opened her eyes just for a moment and looked at me, and then I saw her give a faint smile as she looked away. She still had the dildo inside her, and she moved it in and out a few times, and made a sound, a little gasp, exactly the noise that she makes when she comes with me.

I’m pretty sure it was fake.

Who fakes an orgasm while masturbating? Especially if they have just had one? I can never be sure that this is what Caprice actually did that day, but my instinct is pretty strong. It just fits with everything else about her.

Afterwards I asked her what she had been fantasizing about.

‘Nothing,’ she said. I knew she was lying.

I wish she hadn’t been so sexy, honestly. I wish that cold, manipulative people were all ugly, and warm-hearted generous girls were gorgeous. Then, I’d never have gone out with her. And I’d never gotten into that total mess when her sister Tiffany came to stay.