The Masturbatrix

The Masturbatory Itch

I hate all the euphemisms for masturbation: jilling, wanking, and so on. They all seem so tawdry and perverted. Even the word masturbation seems so far removed from the wonderful feelings and sensations that the activity creates. An act of masturbation – how depraved does that phrase sound?

Any writer should be able to identify with the process of erotic story creation: a trickle of ideas that swirl around like slowly falling snow; ideas that coalesce, merging into a more compelling form, driving the writer to take note and possibly jot down the ideas; and finally, fingers delicately grasp a pen and a pad, or perhaps  manicured nails pull a keyboard up close, the writer reveling in the creativity as the story is told. There is a frantic rush to get it all down, to capture its essence, scribble out a mind blowing climax before the inspiration is spent.

I found my masturbatory act often seems to go just like that! The beginning of a masturbatory itch is easy to sense. Like any irritation, it can start with a physical discomfort: irritated skin that needs to be massaged or perhaps an itch in an area down below.

More often though, it starts at a much higher place in the body; way up  in the brain, where the ideas and images form, in the same place that a writer loves to dream.

The Search for Pleasure

It was the blogosphere that did it to me that Monday morning. Those wonderful erotic writings that initiate the itch, stimulating the mind, massaging the brain. As everyone knows, where the mind goes, the body soon follows; the memes that are designed to bring the writers’ creative juices to flow, the inevitable consequences as their readers’ procreative juices flow in response.

It was a wonderful way to start that day, as I read through the erotic blogs that I followed, and clicked through a number of the links on the blogrolls displayed. It was a most pleasant feeling that I am sure most browsers of erotica blogs experience: a slight quickening of the pulse, a tightening of the chest. Perhaps a slight flush, a delicious pleasure below.

There comes a time where the itch becomes very apparent. Its a time when you know that you either have to walk away or make the effort to prepare. It was a morning that I was happy to be working from home; my partner at work, myself all alone. My schedule was light; no meetings to cancel, no calls to put on hold, no deadlines in sight.  It was one of those mornings where the erotica draws you in, and you realize that the itch will just have to be scratched.

I went back to my bedroom and changed my clothes for the day; something more appropriate even though it was just me in the house. It is not what you might have imagined, nothing outlandish at all. I have long since discovered that when the itch is at hand, that clothes providing access are the  most practical to have on.

A short skirt that could roll up gave easy access below, a spaghetti strapped tee shirt from which my breasts could pop out. My high heeled courts which turn me right on whenever worn, a gold chain for my ankle because I am just kinky that way.

My preparations didn’t stop with the purely practical clothing I wore; anyone who has satisfied the itch knows the mess that ensues. I covered my desk chair with a soft hand towel; leather sticking to my butt cheeks and snail trails on chair seats are distractions I have learned to avoid.

With the blinds drawn and the door closed, I once again settled down to read the erotica on tap. Much fun is made of one hand typing these days, but when reading the sites, there is not much typing to be done. There is a wonderful position that I adopt when reading like this, one that enhances the delicious sensations that flow: thighs together, squeezing in rhythm, ankles splayed to the sides of the chair. The high heels caused a delightful tenseness in the calves, a glance down from the screen showed the gold anklet circling my skin in a sensual way.

With my fingers squeezed inside my clenching thighs, I could feel the arousal building, my labia engorged. A subtle change of angle, and my clit came in to play, the juices flowing freely, the slickness enhancing my sensitivity and my pleasure down there. A gentle rocking in my chair, increasing the pressures, changing the sensations I have come to love.

In need of a climax

Like the sensations it causes, erotica is sublime; words that conjure up beautiful images that delight, phrases in poems and script that are crafted to please. There is little harmful, its usually about pleasure, conjuring up scenes for the imagination to nuzzle, in a magical ride to transport the reader elsewhere. Bodies and organs that glide and slide in harmony, fragrances and scents that arouse and inflame. The poetry I read was lovely, the stories pleasing, yet there comes a time when pure pleasure is simply not enough.

It is the time when the mind needs porn and not erotica, when the gears change and gentle caresses need to be replaced by pain. It is the time when the masturbatory itch needs to be scratched with a fury, when you sit on the cusp and your body demands its release. Your thighs tense and relax, your rubbing on the towel becomes more urgent, your state of arousal seems to be there just to taunt and to tease.

On that day, as on many others before, I knew that I would need more than erotica to achieve my relief. It’s without shame, because I am in my own space, that I fired up my browser and entered the search terms that I knew would take me there.

“Xhamster F/F caning brunette” <enter>

As I sit here typing, it all comes back to me again. I close my eyes and dream it again.

The Dream

The scene is familiar, the actors are now my partners; I put myself into the place of the girl to be caned. The skirt stays bunched and  twisted up tight around my waist and my chair is pushed back out the way to give me the room that I need. From past experience, I know exactly which sandal to use, one that will sting like the blazes but leave no tell-tale bruises or marks. It’s my bum-smacker I call it when no-one is around, it’s a shoe I will cherish for the rest of my days.

I bend over, mimicking the girl on my screen, trying to feel her tension, the turmoil in her mind. I feel the cool air on my own bare bum, feel my strained calves and thighs as I bend over in sympathy with her. I watch the cool, calm woman who is going to cane her backside, wishing that it was me in the room, that it was me who was at fault and about to be punished.

I watch riveted, joining the movie, playing out my own part; with each crack of the cane on the girls bottom, I slap on my bum-smacker down on my bottom’s right cheek. I know the pain is just a hint of what that poor girl must have felt, but I empathize with her and wish it was me bent over in that office taking her place.

The rhythm picks up and she is caned with a few more, and with each stroke I add to the heat on my own rear. My left hand works the space between my thighs, my fingers plunging and stroking, rubbing myself on, desperately scratching the dreaded, masturbatory itch.  I can feel my own breathing rushing on in deeper gasps and I find myself getting reluctant to hit myself again because it hurts so damn much.

When my climax comes, the video clip still has many minutes to run, but I hurriedly click it off in case anyone should walk in. The house is still quiet, but my body is alive; it feels like a million dollars after a workout in the gym. My thighs are sticky, I feel like a slut, but the masturbatory itch is gone and replaced by a much more primal need.

I know that tonight, my partner really  has no chance. I will be bathed and smelling fragrant when she walks into the house at the end of her day. There will be no doubt in her mind about what will happen when we head to bed, but the fact that my  masturbatory itch set me off, is a secret of mine.

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