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

‘Probably heard you in Norway…’

Hi, it’s me, Caprice. I wanted to tell you my side of the story. I see my ex-boyfriend John has been on here talking all kinds of shit about me, and how I treated him unfairly and used him for money. Well, some of that’s true but a lot of it is bullshit, and I wanted to say why.

Here’s the thing: I knew John was a cheater. I knew he had cheated on a previous girlfriend, and I knew he always had eyes for other women too. He was the kind of guy who always had eyes for the prettiest girl in the room. A lot of the time, it was me. But if it wasn’t, he’d ignore me like I was a grandmother. He was just like that. So, I didn’t feel bad about cheating on him so much because I knew that he was a cheater at heart, even if he never actually cheated on me.

OK, so I am admitting I cheated on John, but it’s not actually what you might think. Basically, every month or so when I had money, I used to slip away to this place in Soho where they did erotic massage and lesbian escorts and BDSM and all sorts of things, and I would let Jay, the lady who ran the place, do this to me.

Jay was about thirty-five and calm and confident and mature and had amazing arms and hands and a lovely, husky East End accent. I never asked if she was a lesbian but the place catered mostly for women, so I guess she was.

She’d start by totally coating me in oil, and gently working the tension out of all the big muscles, before moving up to my shoulders, and then starting to gently tease my breasts, which makes the nipples puff up.

Then she’d focus on them more intently, and while she was doing that she’d start talking me through some stuff that was almost like hypnosis. She’d tell me to block out thoughts about past, future, or any other people, and just focus on breathing good energy all through my body, which became the centre of the world. After a few minutes of this, I was totally under the spell.

The first time she did this I thought an erotic full body massage would probably not include my pussy, but when I felt her fingers drift down and start brushing my clitoris, I realised that indeed, it really was going to be the full body. I did wonder if this was going to cost more, but it felt so good I didn’t say anything.

‘You are lovely,’ said Jay, calmly playing with my vagina. ‘I’d like to make to come now.’

I moaned my compliance and she asked me to spread my legs. She began slowly massaging my clitoris and labia. I felt dizzy, completely relaxed, and waves of tingling pleasure began rushing up into all the places where I had had just breathed the good energy.

After a few more minutes her fingers delved deeper into my pussy and began to play around the opening, the first inch. The back of my cunt now glowed with pleasure and yearned to be filled, and sensations like minor orgasms began to sweep through me in time with my breathing.

‘Lift your legs,’ she said, and my body obeyed without knowing too much about it and she held them in place with one strong arm.

For a moment her thumb played teasingly in the opening of my cunt, and I squealed and was about to start begging her to put something inside me when she plunged her middle finger in deep and I wailed.

She didn’t move her finger in and out, but pulled her hand up and down rapidly, so the tip of her finger rubbed into the top wall of my pussy over and over, and I felt an absolutely huge orgasm building inside me, and I began to moan uncontrollably.

Then after a minute of that, she withdrew, but was soon back inside me with two fingers, and this time she went at it hard and fast on the top wall of my pussy and within about fifteen seconds, I had the largest orgasm I had ever had, bigger than I even used to think was possible. (I’ve had plenty bigger, since then. Most of them from Jay, and for a hundred pounds. Total bargain.)

‘Good girl,’ she said. ‘Next time we better gag you, though.’

‘Was I noisy?’ I said, worried.

She laughed. ‘They probably heard you in Norway, love. You’ve got to let go more, that’s my advice.’

I wanted to tell her about John, about boys in general, about how I constantly worry, that I will be rejected, that I will be a loser, that I will have to work at some crappy job the rest of my life. But she was just a masseuse, not a therapist.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Um, that was totally amazing.’

‘Spread the word, girl. Tell your girlfriends I’m the best in London,’ she said.

‘I don’t really have girlfriends,’ I said. ‘I’m not actually a lesbian.’

She laughed again, the self assured tone. ‘Right. But you don’t have to justify yourself to me, darling. Not in here.’

So that’s the story of my first massage, and how I went home feeling amazing, and dimly wondering if I was in fact, a lesbian.

And, that is what I used to think about when I was with John, and when I was masturbating.

Incidentally, he is wrong about all that. I did have orgasms with him, usually because I was thinking about Jay’s fingers. But he was right about me faking the second one in the bath, that time he came in to perv on me.

I am not sure why I did that, really. Just to be mean, I suppose.

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.

Joanne Goes Out on Friday Night (part 1)

So, my story of masturbation has been going on for a long time, really. Men come into the story a bit later, but there’s been plenty of them, too. But things have come to a head lately and I want to tell you about it. Let’s start one Friday night, late last year, in 2012.

It was an important time for me. I was waiting for a call to see if I got a design fellowship offer in the United States, and it hadn’t come in yet. So I went out to make my mind off things. I did not get to the bar until just after ten, and when I got in my work crew were already well into it. Some of the men would already be starting to calculate how many more drinks they could squeeze in before the bell was rung at eleven.  Some sounded like they had been there since just after five.

bday03I wasn’t in a very good mood when i arrived but I cheered pretty quickly when James, one of the more sober contestants, came over to say hello

I like James. He’s an accounts manger, not an artist, but he is polite and well mannered, and makes decent conversation, and when he’s cocky he usually gets it right. I know he likes to look at my armpits and his eyes went immediately toward them, but he found them covered, and he settled for a good look at my breasts. Then he was back in the room.

‘Um, hi, Joanne. You’re here pretty late. Do you want a drink?’

‘Thanks. VAT.’

He smiled and disappeared into the throng at the bar. That was when Mike from my office came up.

I like Mike too. He’s an artist like me, at a junior level, and technically I’m his boss. I like him because he works hard and never lets me down, and then when he goes out, he always gets very drunk and doesn’t say anything. He just stands there grinning like a big drunk Ox.

While I waited on my drink I poked him gently in the stomach and offered him some chocolate.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘You OK?’

I could smell the beer and the cologne and the day’s sweat on him, and I didn’t mind it at all, because that is exactly what I would expect my big drunk work Ox to smell like.

‘Yep, I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Good night?’

‘Oh, the usual.’ He grinned again and sort of faded into the background when James came back.

The VAT was not a double and James did not say “get that into you” when he handed it to me. More points for James. His eyes were quickly back on my chest again.

‘Looking for someone?’ I said.

‘You’re going to do a lot of exercise or you’ll get back problems,’ he replied with a cheeky smile.

‘I should,’ I admitted. ‘But I still feel fine so there’s not much incentive.’

He laughed, and nodded. Still more kudos for James. I thought about asking him to go dancing with me, when everyone else had gone home.

But then, Gareth came over.

Fucking Gareth.

Gareth is my ex-boyfriend and I do not like that fact.

Actually, I dislike it so much that I wish there was such a thing as an ex-ex boyfriend because then he could be in that category; formerly my ex-boyfriend, but now no longer, because of time travel.

That’s right. Gareth is not my ex-boyfriend. I never started sleeping with Gareth. I was never taken in by his charm, and do not have the misfortune of knowing how charmless he is when he is alone with a woman. I have never been on the receiving end of one of his eleven minute power fucks. I do not have that fading memory of the seven rushed, panicky orgasms he gave me. I did not have to go to the bathroom afterwards and hastily finish the job while I pretended to pee. And, I did not have to put up with him questioning me afterwards, about whether I was satisfied.

All thanks to the wonders of time travel.

I do not like Gareth, obviously.

Actually, I don’t really like many of my ex-boyfriends. And I don’t really ‘date’ men any more.  I just pick them up sometimes.

Joanne: Hammock

(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.

JJ_GC_sp_ps_24When I was a little older, at the age of thirteen – about a year after I had found out what my clitoris was for –  I went to my friend’s beach house, and they had a hammock.

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.


The Long Haul (An Erotic Story)

In It For the Long Haul

Free Download word doc, or read it here…

(John and Sue Mobray, mid twenties, newlyweds.)

John and I didn’t end up fucking for the first three days of our week-long honeymoon in Paris.

It wasn’t because we were jetlagged, or arguing, or tired from all that time in the Louvre. It was something much, much better.

Let me tell you what happened.


JFK has a restaurant, La Vie, and when we got off our domestic flight from Boston we had a bite there, which turned into a full meal once we saw the menu. ‘Hang the expense,’ said John. ‘Let’s start this right now.’

We drank some Bordeaux (that actually turned out to be better than anything we had the whole time we were away) and John had the slow cooked lamb, me the fish. By the time we transferred to international terminal and found our gate, we were both a little sleepy, and well contented.

The plane that night was not very full, and we had a three-seat row to ourselves by the wing, with no one behind us and a single older lady in the seats in front. Across the aisle in the middle row, a bald businessman sat entranced by his Blackberry. We could see a few others, scattered further across the aisle and on the other side.

They served us light refreshments, including a glass of champagne for both of us, and then dimmed the cabin lights at about ten thirty.

There were a range of movies on the seat console but the one that caught our eye was Betty Blue, on the Frenchy-themed channel. When it came on, we looked across at each other and smiled because early in our dating, we’d rented this, and John had eaten my pussy while I watched the opening third, where it’s all nice and happy, before Beatrice Dahl starts to go bonkers.

‘Do you want to “watch” this again?’ I asked.

‘Is it good?’ he said innocently. ‘I haven’t actually seen it, only heard it.’

‘The beginning is excellent.’

‘Ah.’ He looked down at the tiny space between my legs and the seat in front, and shrugged. ‘We’d need a mini-me.’

We giggled, and then both put our headphones on and watched the pair of them, Betty and her boy, being so very young and French and sexy. But after the cunnilingus scene, I lost interest, and noticed that I was nodding off. I yawned and summoned the stewardess to ask for a blanket.

‘Sure, honey,’ she says, and I am almost disappointed by her Georgian accent. She might have been Parisian. This is Air France after all. She is dolled up enough to be Parisian. And there are a few other French staff in the cabin crew. Why couldn’t we have got one of those? The unfairness of it all!

Anyway, she brought me back two large blankets and some of those tiny pillows they give you, which is in addition to the larger one I have brought on in my hand luggage. John and I have decided that we don’t want to waste a day recovering, so we’ll make sure to get a good night’s sleep tonight, and then hit the sights tomorrow, soon after we arrive.

(Right. Sure.)

I arranged myself with the large pillow against the corner of the seat and the window, and snuggled into the dull roar of the engine. John set himself up with his eye-mask, because the businessman and a few others are sill reading and there are intermittent flickers from the others watching their in-seat movie players.

‘Oh, damn,’ I say. ‘I forgot my mask! Can I borrow yours?’

‘Hell no. You forget, that’s your lookout.’

‘Humph.’ My bottom lip went out in a feeble attempt to manipulate him. He grabbed it between thumb index and gives it a playful tug.

‘Hands off!’ I pulled away.

‘No chance,’ he says, and prods my belly, before reclining his own seat and lying back under his blanket.

And we go to sleep.

(Right. Sure.)


What actually happened was that I lay there for about twenty minutes and then I heard the gentle sound of John snoring. He always does when he sleeps on his back, no matter what.

The businessman looked over at me expectantly. Obviously the sound of my new husband’s snoring is going to distract him from his very important work, a disruption which will lead ultimately to the collapse of the world economy, so I better do something.

‘Darling?’ I say. ‘You’re snoring.’

‘Oh. Must be the red wine,’ he says.

‘Yeah, that must be it. Do you want the window seat?’

‘No. You have it.’ (He gets that look on his face, the one when he thinks he’s being all chivalrous. Hah.)

‘Well, do you want to lie down?’ I pulled up the seat arm so he can put his head in my lap, and pretty soon, he had his legs up on the spare seat and was lying in comfort across me, totally covered by both blankets.

We stayed like that for about another twenty minutes. The smell from his neck rose up, cologne and sweat and the gentle odour of his skin, and the weight of his head caused my thighs to part slightly, to give him a fuller lap to lie in. He grunted gently as he turned to face my stomach, so the breath from his nose was directed at the lowest part of my belly, and I imagined I could feel it though the blanket. His cheek was pressing slightly into my mons.

The hum of the engine was comforting but unrelenting against the left side of any body, and the warmth from his head and shoulders pressed into the right side of me. French voices drifted from the back of the cabin. The wine I drank was still working its magic and I began to feel dreamy, like I was a giantess, and my body was hurtling through space at many miles an hour; which I suppose, it was.

Long story short: I got horny.

Actually, very horny. So much that muscles in my stomach, legs and pussy had a few exploratory contractions, just to get the lie of the land.

‘You having fun?’ he says.

‘Yep,’ I am happy to report.

He settled back down again, but lifted his head up only a few minutes later and said, ‘You smell good.’

(He has quite the nose for me, it must be said. Sometimes he can smell when I am wet, just sitting next to me in the car.)

I smiled and reached my hand down underneath the blanket, lifting up his head, and I ran a finger along my labia.

Oh, yes. I am horny.

I placed the finger under his nose.

‘You’re lovely,’ he said quietly, and his arched his right hand over my thigh so that he can assess the situation for himself. I assisted this endeavour by pulling my g-string back out of the way, and soon, his fingers were gently probing the outside of my pussy.

John loves my pussy. If he touches it, he mostly wants to keep touching it until something happens. I know this. So, it was no great surprise or shame when he slowly worked his middle finger inside me, and then rested his thumb on my clitoris and gently nuzzled it. We do this all the time at home.

Just then, the Georgian stewardess passed by and had a cursory inspection of our row, and I wondered how obvious we were, under the blankets, John with his head in my lap, me with my hips slightly forward, and his right arm nowhere visible.

Can she see his hand in my cunt?

Apparently not. All she does is to check that his feet aren’t sticking out into the aisle too far. And then she moves on.

My hips relaxed slightly and my pussy opened. John put his mask back on, kissed me on the stomach through the blanket, and started slowly fingering me and stroking my clit with his thumb.


Sometimes my pussy has no off switch, and it was one of those nights.

John worked away slowly and steadily inside me, and after about ten minutes, I came, quietly. But he didn’t stop like he sometimes would, and after a few seconds of discomfort, the sensations turned to pleasure, and I realised I could go again. And then again.

Then, I have to get up to go to the toilet, and I gently move John’s hand and head so that I can get up. He does not say a word, just smiles at me and kisses me as I pass.

I cannot tell him what I am doing. It’s now after midnight and only the businessman is still awake nearby, but I don’t even want to whisper, which might break the perfect unspoken trust between us.

I get to the toilet and take off my g-string, which has become a genuine pain in my ass, scrunching against the join between my leg and my pussy every time John adjusts his angle. Being as wet as it is doesn’t help. I am slightly chaffed.

Then I go to the toilet. Coffee, water, wine and champagne have made this a necessity, and the last orgasm was spoiled by trying so hard not to pee. If I’d been at home, I might have…but not tonight.

After I pee, I wipe up some of the moisture that has found its way down to my thighs, and take the opportunity to explore my pussy, which is wet and open and still aching with gentle pleasure. I touching my clit and moan, and I can’t wait to get back to John.

But this is important: he can’t say anything. If he says something, it’s over.

Please don’t say anything, John. Please just put your hand back the way it was.

I come in past John, who is sitting upright, and he lies back down immediately I have the blanket in position, but this time, he steals his hand underneath my right thigh before I have a chance to put it down.

I am now sitting at an angle, with my left leg flat and my right one slightly raised. Two fingers find their way inside me quickly and wordlessly and his thumb is back on my clit, gentle but insistent.

I love you, John Mobray.

Blackberry man, still entranced in saving the economy. Lady in front, asleep. Stewardesses, all seated. Lights low. Engine loud.

We are go.


A further hour later, and I am engrossed in, dedicated to, the serious business of prolonged masturbation. The lovely, dirty man in my lap is giving me orgasm after orgasm. They just keep building, they are like waves in slow motion, breaking in the beach, and even as I’m having one, I could feel the next one, five minutes away, coming over the horizon.

I have elected to turn on the movie console to give myself some visible reason to be still awake, and making the occasional noise, and am now watching the beginning of Clooney’s Batman.

I did attempt to watch Amelie on the Frenchy channel but I found it stupid and incomprehensible. I wanted to pull Amelie’s hair. I also felt sorry for Amelie, because I knew that Amelie will never know the wanton thrill of being gently fingered to massive, shuddering climaxes in a cabin full of sleeping people. She is just too pretty. Poor Amelie.

I cannot actually follow Batman either in my current state, but I know it has something to do with trying to prevent an explosion. (Most of these films are, nowadays.)

George Clooney himself, I can comprehend. I know he is not Batman. He is George Clooney, pretending to be Batman by wearing a sexy mask, and getting paid lots of money to do it. Some of which he would surely like to spend on me.

Can he see me out of the corner of his eye? Does he notice as my faces creases up into yet another searing, delicious wave of pleasure? I bet he can. I bet he would be very interested in me, right now.

Let’s face it, any man would be interested in me right now. Feel how fucking wet I am! I am the superwoman of sex!

I grind down, and my husband responds. The fingers inside me build up the pace again.

I look at George. I look at his chin, and the lines around his eyes, and the lovely touches of grey in the sides of his…



And, now I gently tug the finger of the lovely man with his head in my lap.

We have a system. If I pull the finger, it means stop for a bit. Then when I pull it again and he keeps going.

He has stamina, my husband. He will do this for as long as I need. He is in it for the long haul. In fact, it is highly possible that he has been specially trained in this task, and hired by George Clooney to make me feel good, for the rest of my life.


Somewhere over the Atlantic at an unknown hour, we are partly reclined, with my skirt hitched fully up around my waist. The lights are all out and there are gentle sounds of sleep all around. Even Blackberry has switched off. We are all still covered in the blankets.

I am watching (sic) a movie with a blonde actress in it who is very stupid, and a top lawyer, and this is fine by me. I am not in the mood for finding discrepancies in things.

My new husband now has three fingers inside me, or maybe it is four. He is not moving them at all. Instead, I am slowly grinding my hips so that my cunt makes circular motions around his hand. The middle finger of my right hand sits on my clitoris, which feels as though it is about the size of a wine cork and aches to touch, but I can’t keep off it. There’s just no end to its demands, this evening. In almost total silence, I am coming again, and again, and again.

But something tells me that soon, this is going to have to stop. They will put the cabin lights on. They will come around and check on us. Blackberry will wake up. George Clooney will pull the funding for the project. John’s wrist will break. Or maybe, I will have a climax so big that I will finally feel that enough is enough. Something is starting to give. Something is starting to hurt.

I decide to put my foot down. It must be two o’clock in New York by now, and we land in a few hours. I am going to have one, last, orgasm, and then that will be the end of it.

I grind down hard on the lovely husband-man’s fingers and hear him gasp in pain, but there’s no way I’m letting him out. I rock backwards and forwards on his hand, and feel the ends of his fingers deep inside me, and then I rub out an absolutely huge orgasm, long and joyful and painful and exquisite, and I hold my breath for far too long, and lose control of my body.

My legs start shaking and I stamp them all over the floor like an epileptic having a seizure.

Fuck, I really have put my foot down.

I come to, and notice there are more cabin lights on than there were a while ago. Blackberry is looking over at me, scowling, and John has his mask up and is staring at me anxiously.

‘You OK?’ he says, and the sound of his voice breaks the spell.

‘Uhh…yeah. I’m OK.’

I move his hand out and close up my legs, and that is when I start to become aware of how much pain I am in.

The next thing I know, the Georgian’s voice comes over the loudspeaker.

Good morning, ladies and gentleman. We will be arriving in Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris in approximately one and a half hours. The local time is just after eight am. We will shortly be coming through the cabin serving light refreshments.

So that’s…um…

My brain can’t work out the time difference. I find I have no idea how many hours John and I were at it, or, how many times I came.

But my cunt is starting to tell me it was too many.



‘That was a genius move, spilling the milk and apple juice on the seat,’ said John as we waited at the baggage carousel. I was leaning on the trolley so people would not see my saddlesore limp, and ask if I need assistance.

‘Thanks. Those stains needed some explaining.’

‘I know. You were like a fire hydrant for a while there! I was most impressed.’

I laugh, then wince slightly as I shift my weight. My whole vagina from labia to cervix feels slightly raw, and some spots are worse than others. My g-spot feels like someone punched it.

‘Are you OK?’ he asks again.

‘Yeah I’ll be all right. It wasn’t your fault.’ I say.

And then I realised he wasn’t being at all apologetic, and was smirking at me.

‘In fact, fuck it. No. I’m not all right. You’re a bad man. You should have known I couldn’t handle that.’

‘I thought a big girl like you could look after yourself,’ he says. ‘So, first stop the Muse Picasso?’

‘Oh, fuck off. First stop a nice flat bed and then possibly a trip to the vagina transplant ward. You’re a bastard.’

‘I know, but loveable,’ he says. ‘Of course I will be expecting a return of the favour when we get into this nice flat bed of yours.’

‘You want to feel like this?’

‘Oh hell no,’ he grinned. ‘Unlike you, I know when to stop.’

‘I thought I did too!’ I whine. ‘But it just felt soooo good. Seriously. Incredible.’

‘And to think, it was all because of my snoring!’ John said, and winked.

The penny drops. He wasn’t snoring. He’d done it deliberately, to get onto my lap, and into my pants.

He’s a very bad man, my husband.

We got to the hotel and I slept all day, and was sore for three.

Then, we finally “made love” on the Thursday and again on the Friday, and it was fine, but we both always knew that the real moment of honeymoon bliss had happened well before the City of Love.

It was high over the Atlantic, on the long haul flight to De Gaulle.