The anatomy of a wank
What went on in my head during a typical wank one day. Inspired by having been reading Anaïs's diaries and her descriptions of her own desire and her affairs and her fantasies and her experiences. I just had to get it out, because if she can write about it, there's no reason I shouldn't. So, here we go. TMI, kinks and Connies happen, as you were expecting. But hope reading it will give something to someone at least--whether it's a resonance or a laugh or an 'unf' at a particular image, or encouragement to write about her own desire, or whatever.
21.4.2015
Always, always, this:
I lie upon my bed with my legs open, masturbating, Jaffar and the Princess setting sail on the wall facing me. I have already come once at least, and only now I am soft and moist enough for a realistic dildo, my favourite one.
I have had to use hard, rough, violently pornographic fantasies to climb that difficult path to the first orgasm. The visions I can guarantee to bring me to orgasm: a woman's round arse, bare pussy facing towards me, a man squatting on either side of her hips, his giant, shining, mucus-marbled cock sinking into her arse. Many, many women bending over, gapeshots, my mind fixed on gleaming, squirting pussies, a wet cock slipping from one girl's arse into another's mouth, Torsten crooning, hissing slithering, scatological filth into their ears.
Medications, metabolical troubles and poor sleep all conspire to numb the clitoris, to make the mind so porous and restless it cannot focus properly on the mental narrative of erotic scenes I need in order to bring my body to pleasure.
Therefore, on certain days, passing that first threshold, even with the compulsory aid of arginine and toys is a great, miraculous triumph, a small elite troop bringing down a seemingly insurmountable enemy while outnumbered ten to one. I always need a clit buzzer, often also a penetrative, hard, cruelly ridged and curving vibrator sitting inside of me (no deep thrusting; movements of only a few centimetres and the toy's own thrusting movements) when it seems impossible to reach orgasm just through the clitoris.
And a clitoral orgasm, while pleasurable, is only ever foreplay, a surface orgasm only: it leaves a terrible, aching need at the back of the vagina, a womb full of packed blood, muscles hurting in their need of complete, internal release.
But there, there, now I am ready: oh, that moment of pure joy as I can slide the jelly dildo (the cheapest, plainest of toys, yet the best) inside without too much pain and begin to thrust properly--bliss.
This is the part where imagination truly starts to flow, the love begins to pour in: it's as if love-hormones are secreted the moment the cervix and the ends of my vagina before and behind it are massaged. The pressure, the impact of proper, long thrusts hitting the womb, my internal organs--now, my body truly begins to sing with joy. I am in love, so enwrapped in love that sometimes I burst into tears. I can see Yassamin's body from outside and from within; close my eyes and see not my own body, but hers, a perfect shamanic possession as I feel what she feels, and the joy of the incubus as he--Jaffar--witnesses the scene, sobbing at how good she feels around me. I can see his thin, brown body, stare at the tiny waist and the broad hips and the shaven groin, the full, thick, long and gleaming cock moving in and out of her. I mimic the sensations of kissing; place my fingers sideways over my mouth and tug on my lower lip, then the upper, as if it was his mouth tugging on my lips. It's not just pretending: the physical sensation of having one's lips pressed, tugged, pinched like this is astonishingly stimulating, doubling the pleasure in my pussy. Yassamin is delirious from joy, crying "I love the way you kiss me when you take me," he smiling and laughing in his joy, his greatest joy: seeing what his love, his actions do to her, what his body does to her. It's a profound magic, that of love, feeling her cunny fluttering around him when he stays still; the hopeless cry of abandon he captures into his mouth from Yassamin's as he rolls his hips. He is going mad, mad from joy of having his dream fulfilled, the dream he thought he'd never attain, having this woman he loves so much undone from pleasure underneath him. "Yassamin, Yassamin, Yassamin," he keens her name like a prayer, shaking his head, on the verge of tears, and from her throat, from my lungs, from the bottom of my hot, honeyed, shimmering pelvis I cry "Jaffar," and I don't care one whit whether the neighbours hear.
Noises, yes, the noises: essential for the orgasm, the ripples of sound making the tissues vibrate, echoing the ripples of pleasure spreading from my womb with each perfect thrust. But it's nearly impossible for me to reach orgasm this way; especially after my surgeries, it requires far more pressure to reach the posterior fornix, where God lives. While the much-vaunted G-spot does exist as a fairly sensitive area at the front wall of my vagina beyond the pubic bone, my greatest, truest pleasure-spot lies further back. Every time I penetrate myself, no matter which position I am in, I turn my toys so that they curve towards the back, as if I am being taken from behind. I don't enjoy them curving towards the front; the nerves there give me sharp discomfort when pressed for too long, the pressure on my bladder feeling like needles.
Yet I need the entire weight of my body on my clitoris and my back fornix if I am to come right. Therefore, I turn to my belly so that my head, shoulders and the upper part of my chest are supported by two pillows, my hands clasped together underneath me, my fingertips clasping the end of the toy. It takes a while to find just the right position, to spread my folds so that just the right part of my clitoris is pressed against the ball of my thumb and that the toy is hitting the right spot as I undulate upon it. And when I do find it, orgasm overtakes me in under a minute: the weight, the pressure on all the right parts making me scream and howl into the pillows. When I am PMSing or bleeding, each undulation is a little orgasm in and of itself, the pleasure so overwhelming my eyes roll back in my head, my entire body spasming as I ride my hands and throw myself frantically upon the dildo's glorious, perfectly shaped head. It seems as if I could never stop; incredulous, I sob, one huge wave swallowing me after another, sometimes so huge I squirt each time I hit the back of my vagina.
Yet, this is but the first true, deep orgasm; only now am I open enough for the glans to touch me at the very back as I turn onto my back and continue to make love. Now, that God-spot, Venus-spot is exposed and Jaffar devours Yassamin's mouth once more. Not in a rush to orgasm now, my mind sinks into visions of love-play, my mouth laughs out loud and in my vision, it is Jaffar who laughs with his crooked teeth and his wild, wide, zenith-pale eyes. More visions emerge, all so varied and beautiful I have to pause to type some of them down on my phone for fic purposes, then resume the play with renewed vigour.
He grows fatigued at times, asking her to ride him, she pale, heavy-breasted, soft-bellied, beautiful; sometimes she sucks him, sometimes his mouth and his eyes glimmer from between her legs. Whenever she, he hurtles towards orgasm, I turn onto my belly once again and ride my hands in order to come, coming more fully, more thoroughly each time. As I pant for breath after each orgasm, Jaffar spoons her, mouths and play-bites the soft flesh of her upper arms (I mouth and suck my own inner arm, marvel at the shocking softness of it, and I can swear I can feel his moustache, my pussy clenching tight around his still-hard cock.)
Often, I have to (reluctantly) stop at the third deep vaginal orgasm so as not to rub myself raw; sometimes, I have to add lubricant because even if I hurt, I am burning too much, too consumed by the passion three deep orgasms could never be enough. On those days, only utter physical exhaustion, muscle cramp and knifelike pain despite lubrication are what force me to stop (and even as I lie there, a shaking, trembling mess, the back of my pussy screams "More! More!" and just looking at his picture behind my bedside table makes all the muscles in my pelvis suck, clutch, convulse with such need my entire body jerks with its force).
And there are indeed times when I sob from exhaustion, yet pick up another dildo and the lubricant and take my arse instead. This dildo, almost identical to the one I use for my pussy is black--I only ever use this toy for my arse so as not to get fecal bacteria on anything that will go up my vagina, knowing even the fiercest scrubs with disinfectant can never do the job a hundred per cent (so many times, I think I have washed and disinfected a toy thoroughly after use, and go to my bathroom cabinet to pick it up and somehow there's still a tiny, dried flake of pussy juice or anal mucus on some ridge *somewhere*). This is the eight-incher, the cruel, sodomitic lover.
I say 'cruel,' because that's what happens. As my vagina tells my brain to produce love hormones, the stretch of my anus invariably results in darker, harder, more violent fantasies even if I might go in gentle, in the mood for tender love. Oh, no: now, the jackboots, the uniforms, the beardy Masters show up. Now, Torsten and a Laura dressed in frills and his mouth gleaming from piss, now, von Kolb's boot upon Ursula's sternum, now Renault hurting and humiliating Strasser, or taking a refugee girl together by force; and if Jaffar appears at all, he is the masked, fully robed tyrant brutally sampling a slave girl as other girls hold her down. I don't know why this always happens--so often, I have wanted to continue the warm lovemaking from my vaginal session and have tried to force my mind to come back to sweeter visions, but like a rubber band, my mind snaps into the darkness again. So I have come to accept this, to expect it from anal sex; it is hormonally, neurotransmitterly inevitable.
I need my clit buzzer again, the one I had set aside after the warm-up orgasm. Anal orgasms are like lightning, so fast and so intense and so easy. Whereas it can take me 45 minutes to reach a clitoral orgasm on my back, I can come from a well-slicked cock up my arse in under two minutes without any foreplay whatsoever, and it's a lifesaver when I am too tired and too scatterbrained to concentrate on fantasies at all. If I desperately need a bedtime wank to get me to sleep, this is what I will do (albeit with a smaller, more cruelly ridged toy, so less preparation is needed). And if it's after a long wank such as the one described above, oh--it is no secret that once Connie's demons entered my heart, I have been able to take even this eight-incher with just the pussy juice that's dripped over my hole and fingered in a little, with just a few wads of spit smeared over the toy.
It's fast, sharp, furious; upon my lips flutters the breathless mantra of "I'm going to come," because I feel like it immediately even if it might take fifteen minutes; I am pushed to the edge immediately and hover there, only needing a little nudge, just the right image to push me over the edge. Sometimes it's Strasser's despicable, smug, awful smile, exactly because I hate him so much and the disgust creates just the right sort of dissonance to trip my mind up, sending it tumbling over the edge.
There; the first gate has been passed. For I have only given myself the outer anal orgasm, the one that results from the stretching and pounding of the sphincter muscles. Now, I can reach deeper, my arse looser as I push the dildo in to its root, against the second gate: the same pleasure-spot I had reached through my vagina, only far more intense here, touching the nerve clusters where rectum, colon, womb and vagina meet. The Fossa Douglas, they call it, the female prostate, call it what you will--I call this spot God.
I hit it; a white, blinding lightning-flash and my eyes roll back in my head; all hair on my body stands on end. Now, my entire body is covered in stinking cold sweat, the same sort one gets in extreme pain, as these autonomous muscles are forced open. This awful sweat is why I rarely go this deep, knowing it necessitates a shower soon afterwards, but on a day like this I can't stop. My incubus demands it; Strasser spreads my legs and Jaffar's tongue peeks through his bent teeth and he disgusts me. The dildo is inside of me, its glans pointing towards my spine just like with my vagina--I will not be able to push it past this curve in my guts otherwise.
This is where I completely, totally and utterly lose it, screaming louder than ever and definitely waking up the neighbours, definitely squirting with each thrust as I hurtle towards orgasm, out of control. From the corner of my eye, the swastika on Strasser's uniform catches the light as he smears my face with his arse and I hate him; I am a little boy crying as Uncle Torsten's cock makes his virgin arse bleed; von Kolb undoes his fly and pisses on Ursula's face, she screaming in her horror. I hate myself, ask myself why, but the demons just laugh and I can smell the shit, taste the piss, and I am shrieking, gushing, coming.
For a long while, I lie there, unable to feel sorry for myself, feeling that now I have exorcised those demons. I am floating, stinking of cold sweat; I can't move my limbs and even turning off the clit buzzer hurts. The buzzer falls from my hand, the dildo slides out of me with an excretory spasm and I feel lighter than air. Floating. Floating in utter contentment, happiness, again sucked into Yassamin's body, Jaffar crooning in ecstasy as he spreads her buttocks to admire the gape, licking it, feasting upon it.
Staggering, fumbling. The bathroom light stings my eyes. My hands shake too much to wash the toys properly, to hold the bidet shower in my hand as I wash myself. I wonder if I will pass out on the bathroom floor.
The cat, woken up by the noise, glares at me, as if asking "Finished yet?"
"Yes," I tell her as I crash into bed, "Yes, my darling, yes."
And if that's not enough TMI to last you guys for a month, I don't know what is. But hope it made the world a better place for a little moment at least.
21.4.2015
Always, always, this:
I lie upon my bed with my legs open, masturbating, Jaffar and the Princess setting sail on the wall facing me. I have already come once at least, and only now I am soft and moist enough for a realistic dildo, my favourite one.
I have had to use hard, rough, violently pornographic fantasies to climb that difficult path to the first orgasm. The visions I can guarantee to bring me to orgasm: a woman's round arse, bare pussy facing towards me, a man squatting on either side of her hips, his giant, shining, mucus-marbled cock sinking into her arse. Many, many women bending over, gapeshots, my mind fixed on gleaming, squirting pussies, a wet cock slipping from one girl's arse into another's mouth, Torsten crooning, hissing slithering, scatological filth into their ears.
Medications, metabolical troubles and poor sleep all conspire to numb the clitoris, to make the mind so porous and restless it cannot focus properly on the mental narrative of erotic scenes I need in order to bring my body to pleasure.
Therefore, on certain days, passing that first threshold, even with the compulsory aid of arginine and toys is a great, miraculous triumph, a small elite troop bringing down a seemingly insurmountable enemy while outnumbered ten to one. I always need a clit buzzer, often also a penetrative, hard, cruelly ridged and curving vibrator sitting inside of me (no deep thrusting; movements of only a few centimetres and the toy's own thrusting movements) when it seems impossible to reach orgasm just through the clitoris.
And a clitoral orgasm, while pleasurable, is only ever foreplay, a surface orgasm only: it leaves a terrible, aching need at the back of the vagina, a womb full of packed blood, muscles hurting in their need of complete, internal release.
But there, there, now I am ready: oh, that moment of pure joy as I can slide the jelly dildo (the cheapest, plainest of toys, yet the best) inside without too much pain and begin to thrust properly--bliss.
This is the part where imagination truly starts to flow, the love begins to pour in: it's as if love-hormones are secreted the moment the cervix and the ends of my vagina before and behind it are massaged. The pressure, the impact of proper, long thrusts hitting the womb, my internal organs--now, my body truly begins to sing with joy. I am in love, so enwrapped in love that sometimes I burst into tears. I can see Yassamin's body from outside and from within; close my eyes and see not my own body, but hers, a perfect shamanic possession as I feel what she feels, and the joy of the incubus as he--Jaffar--witnesses the scene, sobbing at how good she feels around me. I can see his thin, brown body, stare at the tiny waist and the broad hips and the shaven groin, the full, thick, long and gleaming cock moving in and out of her. I mimic the sensations of kissing; place my fingers sideways over my mouth and tug on my lower lip, then the upper, as if it was his mouth tugging on my lips. It's not just pretending: the physical sensation of having one's lips pressed, tugged, pinched like this is astonishingly stimulating, doubling the pleasure in my pussy. Yassamin is delirious from joy, crying "I love the way you kiss me when you take me," he smiling and laughing in his joy, his greatest joy: seeing what his love, his actions do to her, what his body does to her. It's a profound magic, that of love, feeling her cunny fluttering around him when he stays still; the hopeless cry of abandon he captures into his mouth from Yassamin's as he rolls his hips. He is going mad, mad from joy of having his dream fulfilled, the dream he thought he'd never attain, having this woman he loves so much undone from pleasure underneath him. "Yassamin, Yassamin, Yassamin," he keens her name like a prayer, shaking his head, on the verge of tears, and from her throat, from my lungs, from the bottom of my hot, honeyed, shimmering pelvis I cry "Jaffar," and I don't care one whit whether the neighbours hear.
Noises, yes, the noises: essential for the orgasm, the ripples of sound making the tissues vibrate, echoing the ripples of pleasure spreading from my womb with each perfect thrust. But it's nearly impossible for me to reach orgasm this way; especially after my surgeries, it requires far more pressure to reach the posterior fornix, where God lives. While the much-vaunted G-spot does exist as a fairly sensitive area at the front wall of my vagina beyond the pubic bone, my greatest, truest pleasure-spot lies further back. Every time I penetrate myself, no matter which position I am in, I turn my toys so that they curve towards the back, as if I am being taken from behind. I don't enjoy them curving towards the front; the nerves there give me sharp discomfort when pressed for too long, the pressure on my bladder feeling like needles.
Yet I need the entire weight of my body on my clitoris and my back fornix if I am to come right. Therefore, I turn to my belly so that my head, shoulders and the upper part of my chest are supported by two pillows, my hands clasped together underneath me, my fingertips clasping the end of the toy. It takes a while to find just the right position, to spread my folds so that just the right part of my clitoris is pressed against the ball of my thumb and that the toy is hitting the right spot as I undulate upon it. And when I do find it, orgasm overtakes me in under a minute: the weight, the pressure on all the right parts making me scream and howl into the pillows. When I am PMSing or bleeding, each undulation is a little orgasm in and of itself, the pleasure so overwhelming my eyes roll back in my head, my entire body spasming as I ride my hands and throw myself frantically upon the dildo's glorious, perfectly shaped head. It seems as if I could never stop; incredulous, I sob, one huge wave swallowing me after another, sometimes so huge I squirt each time I hit the back of my vagina.
Yet, this is but the first true, deep orgasm; only now am I open enough for the glans to touch me at the very back as I turn onto my back and continue to make love. Now, that God-spot, Venus-spot is exposed and Jaffar devours Yassamin's mouth once more. Not in a rush to orgasm now, my mind sinks into visions of love-play, my mouth laughs out loud and in my vision, it is Jaffar who laughs with his crooked teeth and his wild, wide, zenith-pale eyes. More visions emerge, all so varied and beautiful I have to pause to type some of them down on my phone for fic purposes, then resume the play with renewed vigour.
He grows fatigued at times, asking her to ride him, she pale, heavy-breasted, soft-bellied, beautiful; sometimes she sucks him, sometimes his mouth and his eyes glimmer from between her legs. Whenever she, he hurtles towards orgasm, I turn onto my belly once again and ride my hands in order to come, coming more fully, more thoroughly each time. As I pant for breath after each orgasm, Jaffar spoons her, mouths and play-bites the soft flesh of her upper arms (I mouth and suck my own inner arm, marvel at the shocking softness of it, and I can swear I can feel his moustache, my pussy clenching tight around his still-hard cock.)
Often, I have to (reluctantly) stop at the third deep vaginal orgasm so as not to rub myself raw; sometimes, I have to add lubricant because even if I hurt, I am burning too much, too consumed by the passion three deep orgasms could never be enough. On those days, only utter physical exhaustion, muscle cramp and knifelike pain despite lubrication are what force me to stop (and even as I lie there, a shaking, trembling mess, the back of my pussy screams "More! More!" and just looking at his picture behind my bedside table makes all the muscles in my pelvis suck, clutch, convulse with such need my entire body jerks with its force).
And there are indeed times when I sob from exhaustion, yet pick up another dildo and the lubricant and take my arse instead. This dildo, almost identical to the one I use for my pussy is black--I only ever use this toy for my arse so as not to get fecal bacteria on anything that will go up my vagina, knowing even the fiercest scrubs with disinfectant can never do the job a hundred per cent (so many times, I think I have washed and disinfected a toy thoroughly after use, and go to my bathroom cabinet to pick it up and somehow there's still a tiny, dried flake of pussy juice or anal mucus on some ridge *somewhere*). This is the eight-incher, the cruel, sodomitic lover.
I say 'cruel,' because that's what happens. As my vagina tells my brain to produce love hormones, the stretch of my anus invariably results in darker, harder, more violent fantasies even if I might go in gentle, in the mood for tender love. Oh, no: now, the jackboots, the uniforms, the beardy Masters show up. Now, Torsten and a Laura dressed in frills and his mouth gleaming from piss, now, von Kolb's boot upon Ursula's sternum, now Renault hurting and humiliating Strasser, or taking a refugee girl together by force; and if Jaffar appears at all, he is the masked, fully robed tyrant brutally sampling a slave girl as other girls hold her down. I don't know why this always happens--so often, I have wanted to continue the warm lovemaking from my vaginal session and have tried to force my mind to come back to sweeter visions, but like a rubber band, my mind snaps into the darkness again. So I have come to accept this, to expect it from anal sex; it is hormonally, neurotransmitterly inevitable.
I need my clit buzzer again, the one I had set aside after the warm-up orgasm. Anal orgasms are like lightning, so fast and so intense and so easy. Whereas it can take me 45 minutes to reach a clitoral orgasm on my back, I can come from a well-slicked cock up my arse in under two minutes without any foreplay whatsoever, and it's a lifesaver when I am too tired and too scatterbrained to concentrate on fantasies at all. If I desperately need a bedtime wank to get me to sleep, this is what I will do (albeit with a smaller, more cruelly ridged toy, so less preparation is needed). And if it's after a long wank such as the one described above, oh--it is no secret that once Connie's demons entered my heart, I have been able to take even this eight-incher with just the pussy juice that's dripped over my hole and fingered in a little, with just a few wads of spit smeared over the toy.
It's fast, sharp, furious; upon my lips flutters the breathless mantra of "I'm going to come," because I feel like it immediately even if it might take fifteen minutes; I am pushed to the edge immediately and hover there, only needing a little nudge, just the right image to push me over the edge. Sometimes it's Strasser's despicable, smug, awful smile, exactly because I hate him so much and the disgust creates just the right sort of dissonance to trip my mind up, sending it tumbling over the edge.
There; the first gate has been passed. For I have only given myself the outer anal orgasm, the one that results from the stretching and pounding of the sphincter muscles. Now, I can reach deeper, my arse looser as I push the dildo in to its root, against the second gate: the same pleasure-spot I had reached through my vagina, only far more intense here, touching the nerve clusters where rectum, colon, womb and vagina meet. The Fossa Douglas, they call it, the female prostate, call it what you will--I call this spot God.
I hit it; a white, blinding lightning-flash and my eyes roll back in my head; all hair on my body stands on end. Now, my entire body is covered in stinking cold sweat, the same sort one gets in extreme pain, as these autonomous muscles are forced open. This awful sweat is why I rarely go this deep, knowing it necessitates a shower soon afterwards, but on a day like this I can't stop. My incubus demands it; Strasser spreads my legs and Jaffar's tongue peeks through his bent teeth and he disgusts me. The dildo is inside of me, its glans pointing towards my spine just like with my vagina--I will not be able to push it past this curve in my guts otherwise.
This is where I completely, totally and utterly lose it, screaming louder than ever and definitely waking up the neighbours, definitely squirting with each thrust as I hurtle towards orgasm, out of control. From the corner of my eye, the swastika on Strasser's uniform catches the light as he smears my face with his arse and I hate him; I am a little boy crying as Uncle Torsten's cock makes his virgin arse bleed; von Kolb undoes his fly and pisses on Ursula's face, she screaming in her horror. I hate myself, ask myself why, but the demons just laugh and I can smell the shit, taste the piss, and I am shrieking, gushing, coming.
For a long while, I lie there, unable to feel sorry for myself, feeling that now I have exorcised those demons. I am floating, stinking of cold sweat; I can't move my limbs and even turning off the clit buzzer hurts. The buzzer falls from my hand, the dildo slides out of me with an excretory spasm and I feel lighter than air. Floating. Floating in utter contentment, happiness, again sucked into Yassamin's body, Jaffar crooning in ecstasy as he spreads her buttocks to admire the gape, licking it, feasting upon it.
Staggering, fumbling. The bathroom light stings my eyes. My hands shake too much to wash the toys properly, to hold the bidet shower in my hand as I wash myself. I wonder if I will pass out on the bathroom floor.
The cat, woken up by the noise, glares at me, as if asking "Finished yet?"
"Yes," I tell her as I crash into bed, "Yes, my darling, yes."
And if that's not enough TMI to last you guys for a month, I don't know what is. But hope it made the world a better place for a little moment at least.