The Finger Factor

(author’s note : “Fingering” in this context is translated from the Dutch slang “vingeren”, which, for a long time, was the word teens used for masturbation. At least in my days. Carry on.)

Do you remember when you first started masturbating?

You do? Good. Now, do you remember what you thought about masturbation before you actually bit the bullet and had a fondle? Were your thoughts clouded by the opinions of your peers? Were you curious? Or were you resisting at all costs? Maybe you were too young to remember it now, even.

The reason I bring this up is because I was recently reminded of something that happened when I was 11 years old. I’m sure I was vaguely aware of masturbation before that (at least, I think I was) but this experience engrained my opinion of it in my mind for many years to come. And it did it quite unconsciously so.

When I was 11, I was in hospital for observation. It’s a long story, but it basically boiled down to me being a bit “different” in school, and you know how people like to analyse things wot are different. Anyway.

I was in the youth observation group, together with several bordering-on-the-edge-of-teens who had been through way worse than I had in their lives. One of the girls I shared my room with had been smoking since she was 9. I think. None of them really liked me, which was excellent news because I really didn’t like them either.

Two things happened around the same time. One of which I will gladly elaborate on in a future post. The second thing that happened was that I got a first-hand explanation on the concept of “fingering”.

“You know the girl who was here before you?” said Smokey one day.


“She fingered on that bed, y’know.”


“Yeah, she fingered on that bed. And now you’re lying on that bed. Hehe. Gross.”

Of course, this isn’t verbatim because fuck knows if I remember any conversation from eleven years ago. But yeah. Fingering. I had no idea what it was, but apparently it was Not Done. It was gross and unclean, and even though she didn’t say as much as that, it was all she needed to say for me to be ruined for a good couple of years.

As long-time readers of this blog might know, I only started masturbating at age 18. The aforementioned incident was just one of many things that lead to me being such a late-bloomer, including friends telling me I was a pussy for not masturbating. I wanted to tell them that I just wasn’t that interested in it, that I wasn’t comfortable with it and, most of all, I had no fucking clue how to do it.

(Because, at the end of the day, no-one really tells you how to…)

But time passes, experience happens and here I sit, typing this post, an experienced and devoted masturbatrix. Yes, it’s totally a word. It means being fucking excellent at masturbating. Masturbating LIKE A BOSS.

Having a partner has only enriched my masturbatory experiences. I’m sure you’ve read me preaching to the choir about how I love mutual masturbation, and I bloody well do. But sometimes, a little solo time doesn’t hurt. And if you have a partner who feels the same way about it, then huzzah to you!

Masturbation is not icky. “Fingering” is… well, it’s not really a proper word for it, really. Call it what it is. A Good Fucking Time.

Sleeping in the Wet Spot

It was late last night.

After a marathon reading session, I turned off the lights and turned into bed, contented. Or, not quite. It felt like there was something missing. My cunt felt empty and yearned to be filled.

Sighing, I untangled myself from the comfort of my duvet to get out Gigi. It was a different kind of comfort altogether when I nestled her between my pussy lips. She purred and purred and left me contented.

Again, not quite true.

I decided to luxuriate and explore myself. Because one can never get enough about fondling her own junk, right?

Letting my fingers twist and turn between my lips, I felt my nectar drip dropping out on to my fingers. I imagined not being alone. One set of lips gorging on the wet folds of my cunt, feasting. I slithered between the sheets.

I knew I needed another kind of release tonight.

Hence, Ella came out.

And I thrusted that bitch into me like my life depended on it.

It was worth every exhausting inch.


So, with a massive wet spot on my sheets, I soldiered on and managed two or three orgasms. Needless to say, I`m still bloody knackered.

I slept with my throw covering the spot. Still didn`t stop the wetness from seeping through and nuzzling against my thigh. But that`s okay.

I`ve mentioned before that I always get unusually proud of my wet spots. And I`m definitely proud of this one. So I had no qualms with sleeping in it.

Because it felt bad.

In a good way.

A very wordy Sinful Sunday presentation…

Sinful Sunday

Good Morning, Eejit

This morning (or rather, an hour ago) I woke up feeling quite playful. Tired, but in the mood for a fiddle, with something extra. The “something extra” in this case was an entirely new toy for me. At the LFF, I got my hands on a little Wartenberg Wheel. It`s plastic, black and I am oddly fascinated by it.

I think I quite like sensation play. The pinwheel was oddly arousing. So arousing, in fact, that I immediately made a bolt for my Ladyfinger vibrator. It was going to be an excellent orgasm.

Until I fucked it up.

I have NO idea how I did it, but I suddenly felt a sharp sting in my finger. It wasn`t wank cramp. It wasn`t a spasm. I had, effectively, sliced my finger open with the pinwheel.

It is not a good way to start your day.

Believe me, I tried to soldier on. I tried to forget about the little hue of crimson appearing in the cut, as I let Ladyfinger buzz away on my clit, but fuck me if it didn`t hurt like fucking fuck.

I got dressed, decent and flew into the kitchen, plastering up the gash.

Good morning, eejit, indeed.

Still, I`m having a wonderful morning so far.

Good Morning, My Vagina

I`ve been making plans. Big plans, huge plans, plans that I am dying to get started. They involve a list, a day routine and a hell of a lot of writing.

I found myself unable to sleep from the sheer excitement of this list. Yes, that`s how awesome my plans are.

This morning, I woke up too early. Six bloody AM is not made for getting up to. I turned around and lay on my stomach, wriggling. Almost… grinding into the mattress. Blame the excess amounts of horn I`ve been coping with. Blame the simmering undertone of this summer. I was aroused.

And so I figured. What would be a better way to start a day than with a wank?

I lay on my belly and reached down my shorts. Stroking my clit felt incredibly good, but my arm was in danger of going absolutely numb. So, I turned around and got Grey out of the closet.

Again, Grey saved the day. The vibrations felt like a wake-up call to my vagina (as if she needed to be any more awake), and soon, Grey was inside me. Fingers on clit, stroking myself to bliss, I truly enjoyed my wake up call.

I decided something at that point. Why not wank every morning? And every night before sleep? It`s good to wake up to and good to fall asleep to.

And I like a fondle in the morning.

I mean, who doesn`t?

Expat V. Wanking Round Two

There was something about yesterday that had me feeling horny. Well, not exactly horny. More of a mix of horn and melancholic woe. I`m happy, don`t get me wrong. But there are still bits missing in my life. Like an incomplete and never-ending puzzle.

Last night, dazed by fatigue, aspirin and an overdose of Black Books, I stumbled towards my closet (where the naughty bits are hidden) and got out Grey. Fanning myself out on my bed, I let it buzz against my clit.

There was no noise coming from me, which was weird. But not entirely a bad thing, seeing as my flatmate was already off to the Land of Nod and I didn`t want to wake him.

I slipped Grey inside me, and fingered my clit for what seemed like ages. It still felt like my body was off-kilter, but it felt so good to just close my eyes and drift off into that space. There were no fantasies in my head, just sheer concentration.

The release was some sort of divine wave, sweeping over me.

I needed that. I need more. I need so much more.

But this would do for now, I thought. I drifted off to Nod myself, thinking nothing but happiness.

Expat V. Wanking

It says a lot that the only wank I`ve had since arriving in Essex happened over a week ago. And I sorta forgot about it. Yeah.

Not that it wasn`t any good, mind. It was just an odd one. I think my body hasn`t adjusted to the UK systems of horny yet.

Or maybe it has. I`ve been mentally horny for two weeks now, and I know just who to blame…

It`s the one who was on my mind when I lay down on my bed, Grey in hand. It felt odd to have that buzzy sensation back on my clit after a few weeks of… well, not having it there. I closed my eyes and let myself fall under the spell of my fantasies.

But it wasn`t that easy. I wasn`t used to this bed, to these sheets and to this new environment. Which raises the question : do new surroundings throw you off your game?

Fortunately, I had my perfect fantasy to guide me. Warm, big hands. Deft fingers. Delectable tongue. Yeah… you know. That.

The weird thing about it all was the sheer strength it took for me to stand up after the orgasm. I took a long nap afterwards, because I`m apparently completely incapable of doing anything without wheezing myself to death.

I`ve been on period-related horn ever since. I`d like that to be over so I can just go about my business like a normal pervert.

In the battle of Expat V. Wanking, I`d say wanking won. Whatever that may mean.


And the quest for my Something More continues…

I’ve been reading Barbara Carrellas’s excellent book Urban Tantra. You may remember that I interviewed her a couple of months ago, and ever since then, I’ve been keen to delve into that world.

So when I finally got my greedy book nerd hands on a copy of her book, I delved in. Granted, with some distraction at first. I mean, who the fuck can concentrate when you’re staying in a dorm room with seventeen other people? But I digress.

Last night, I was in the middle of a marathon reading session, which included Urban Tantra. In the chapter I was reading, Barbara suggests some fun things to do to get sexual energy flowing through the body. Breathing is very important during this, and it’s something I really can not focus on during anything strenuous. But, weirdly, as I stood in the middle of my bedroom, shaking and gyrating, it felt okay.

And I actually felt… aroused.

I don’t know if it was the movements I was making, or the breaths I was taking, but it felt magnificent and weird.

The next part was a list of ideas for masturbation.

Let me tell ya… this woman has some good ideas. She suggested breathing and rocking, which involved rocking your pelvis as if you were having sex, and breathing deeply throughout. Again… surprisingly effective.

I ended up with my glass dildo inside me, and my Lady Finger on my clit. Barbara suggests that you try holding your vibrator against your dildo.

This worked. My God, did that work.

The weirdest thing happened. It was an entirely different sort of orgasm than the ones I’m used to. I could feel it floating through me, and I… I think I shook. My head spun and it felt like something lifted inside me.

All three of my orgasms were intense, and I couldn’t really move a muscle afterwards. Nor anything else. I mean it when I say that I couldn’t even speak.

I can’t put into words how good this experience felt. Even this post doesn’t do it justice. It’s definitely on a par with the out-of-body orgasm that made me cry from a few months ago, which I chose not to write about for personal reasons.

I hope I get to meet Barbara, just to tell her about all of this. I have this desire to learn more about Tantra, to delve deeper into what turns my switches. I just don’t really know what to do.

Keep breathing, I guess.

Glass Houses and Glass Toys

I am very proud of myself.

Which is a change from usually being very disappointed and slightly aggravated with myself, with a side of self-loathing. The reason for this sudden pride is the fact that I have successfully managed to bring two new toys home. One of which is a beautiful glass dildo. I fell in love with it on my last day in London and spent what few pounds I had left on it.

Considering that I came back from London in a fit of raging horn, it seemed natural that I… do the business with myself. Fuck, I just felt so aroused…

I scrambled the house for a spare battery for my new Ladyfinger vibe (which I won from the gorgeous Mz. Blacksilk) and, once located and installed, I settled in front of my portable DVD player and popped in Dylan Moran.

Not that Dylan Moran is especially arousing (although a very good comedian) but do understand that I needed some background noise.

The Ladyfinger was… well, effective. Either that, or I was just that fucking aroused. I’m guessing it’s a hefty combo of both.

I writhed happily under its vibrations, feeling myself sink into a state of serenity and bliss, as I pictured fingers and tongue and cock and warmth.

At some point, the new glass dildo came into play. It was a bit of a shock to the system (the system being MY VAGINA) because, oh Gawd, cold, but it felt nice. The texture would take some getting used to, but for now, it felt good just leaving it there.

Again, I have no clue how things progressed. Eventually, I ended up with Ladyfinger inside me and my fingers working my clit until… well, something happened and it happened three times and I’m sticking to that, yes I am.

Afterwards, I felt blissful. Silent and happy, thinking of things that made me smile.

And also listening to Dylan Moran talk about monkeys and Jason Statham. Which I’m presuming is the same thing.


We shall close on a random!

He wants your buttery biscuit base. Also your soul.


Dance Among The Stars


Late night, early morning.

I’ve cried about five times tonight, over the most trivial things. Convinced there’s something wrong with me.

I don’t want to go to sleep, but my body is urging me.

Hands roam for my i-Pod. I want music. Distraction.

I search for something that I don’t immediately find.

But I find it anyway.


Mz. Danger.

I listen as her sensuous and lyrical voice coaxed me into an unexpected calm.

She entrances me, tells me about being a good little girl.

And the arousal pools between my legs.

This is the point where I get less lyrical and more factual, by the way.

Picture this (as I’m sure you are). I’m in the dark, specs off, wildly grabbing for my vibrator, while trying to keep the cord attached to my i-Pod.

This works. Somehow.

I’m amazed at my arousal, which becomes clear when the vibrator hits my clit. Writhing and moaning, I listen to Daisy recount another story on her podcast.

Which involves a speculum and an arse.

Making a mental note (because I am one to take mental notes during times of extreme ecstasy) to try the Bootie again soon, I luxuriate in feeling my wet lips. It feels lovely. Just flesh and warmth and wetness. Bliss.

From there on, it gets blurry.

I just know that I need a different kind of release. Stumbling out of my bed, in a daze of ecstasy, I rummage my toy box for the one thing that is missing from this wank.


The perfection of the minutes that followed was unbearable. I lay on the bed, fucking myself with her, listening now to Kayar Silkenvoice telling a story about lesbian vampires.

My face felt flustered, and I was aglow with sweat and lust. I could hear my own moans through my headset and my God… that was something else.

I gushed.

And again.

And again.

And I don’t even know how many times. I don’t know how many orgasms. I can only remember my negligée and boob-tube bra hanging around the middle of my belly, and the sodden sheets sticky against my skin. I am lust and I am ecstasy.

I am fire.

I rage and burn bright.

I didn’t get enough sleep after that. Luckily, just enough to finish my work for this week.

A good wank can do wonders. A great wank can do even more.

But a fucking amazing wank?

Yeah… that can make you dance among the stars.




If Only

I don’t know what happened last night. After the whole EL James on Newsnight malarkey, I was trembling with weird feelings. Anger, frustration, sadness… was this all due to one woman?

Either way, I raged. Twitter tried to calm me down. A vigorous wank was suggested to me. But to be honest, I genuinely wasn’t in the mood for that. It was apparently one of those nights where I wanted to sucker punch someone in the balls.

And then…. things happened. Words happened. All said by one man, one friend, in one DM. 

I didn’t know whether to freak out, laugh, cry, run away. I opted for crying. And anxiously waiting for more words. You know that feeling when you need more words?

I got my words. Words that so unexpectedly struck a chord in me. I felt so broken, and it built me up again.

After trying to gather my senses, I went to bed. And I realized that, more than ever, I needed the release of tension I so badly craved.

I got out Grey. I put on a DVD, to calm me down. And I buried my hands down my pants and pressed Grey against my clit. Hard.

The sheer force of my arousal only hit me when that first buzz did. I was completely taken aback by it. But it worked. The knots in my body, all caused by the tension in my life, started to loosen. It felt like my clit, that tiny knot of nerves, was untangling before me.

I pressed Grey in too hard. The buzz felt uncomfortable, and I had to revert to my fingers, with Grey buried inside me. It was the height of tension, relieved only by thoughts of words. I wanted that climax so badly. Fuck. I NEEDED it.

(author’s note: I should point out that, in my enthusiasm for this particular wank, I very nearly pushed Grey in so deep that I couldn’t pull her out. Yes, try having a panic in the middle of a wank. It’s really not relaxing!)

I could feel myself teetering on the edge, constantly between falling off and remaining put. I cursed to myself. Cursed him, the fucking cunting twatting bastard, for his words and what he’d so unexpectedly done to me. 

And when I came, I cursed him louder than ever.

In the process of trying to come back to my senses, something amazing happened. Everything flowed out, and, for the second time in a short while, I cried.

I momentarily felt ridiculous. Here I was. Clothed but still naked. Paralyzed. Smelling of blood and cum and sorrow. And I was having a cry.

But it felt so good.

And in that moment, I cursed those two words. Those fucking words that I wished had never existed.

If only.