Wednesday, March 31, 2004
Emily & Kate & Laura: Homework for Hetro and Bi Men (chat)
I'm publishing this link on behalf of the three of us - think of it as a public service announcement. Women a mystery to you? Well there's good stuff here, so just do your homework and study women and sexuality and also see the extensive archives 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10.
Trust us, it's jammed packed full of important things YOU SHOULD KNOW, like ... Why do men love lesbians?, Does Penis Size Matter to Women? or Does Your Woman Hate Porn? as a sample.
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Emily: Ideal Homes (chat)
Thanks Kate for holding the blogging fort, even if no one can read it till poor ASSTR get their firewall fixed. What I neglected to mention was I'd gone down to London last weekend to the Ideal Homes exhibition.
I mixed feelings about it, a bit like an eating disorder. I love it. I gorge myself on it. The colours, the fabrics, the gadgets, the designs, the possibilities for creating bold new living spaces. And it disgusts me: the trivality of interior decorating, the pretension, the appalling kitsch. I want to machine gun everyone there while screaming, "go worry about World poverty", but then I see an innovative curtain rail solution, and out pops the credit card.
Sunday, March 28, 2004
Kate: Man Hunt (chat)
Women tend to go into the sex business for very practical reasons: they need the money. They need it for their kids who they look after alone, or for their education, or for their drugs, or for their debts, or whatever. But they need it.
Men are different. Ha! Like that's any surprise. Men do it because of their status. They are either very low status, confused about their sexuality, rejected by their bastard family's, struggling to make sense of themselves, frightened and alone, often runaways. Or they are high status, Alpha-males, very literally cocky bastards who can fuck anything that moves and do whatever they like, with anyone.
The trouble with the first lot is that they are pathetic victims with questionable health after years of drugs and unprotected sex (because they don't have the self-respect to protect themselves). The trouble with he second lot is that they are cocky bastards who won't be told with questionable health after years of drugs and unprotected sex (because they think they can get away from it). Indeed, for some of the poofy Alpha-males, being HIV positive is a badge of honour - proving that they are not willing to compromise their homosexuality for anything.
There is a third lot of male prostitute, the partners of working girls who fancy making extra money and showing off their tart in front of other men. They're usually good workers in a stable relationship. But they usually only want to do it with their partner - and a lot of women who'd like a male escort wouldn't fancy sharing with another woman. And they aren't usually bisexual, so they only want to do it in front of other men, not with them. Besides, in partnerships like that, the bloke usually wants to set up as their own boss, as independent escorts ... and good luck to them.
So anyhow, I have to decide who is fit enough, who is reliable enough, who is right. I have my battery of questions:
Why do you want to be an Escort?
Have you ever do it before?
Are you hetro, homo or bi?
What do you think a woman is looking for in an escort?
What do you do? OWO or covered? A level? Dom/sub? Dressing-up? Role-play? Watersports?
Please disrobe so I can check that everything is where it should be.
So, the lads
First was Alan. He had the job as soon as I opened my front door. I even revised my "no casting couch" policy. May be if he'd been last in, rather than first. But the next one was due in half an hour. Anyhow, this fit young bisexual dance teacher tilted towards the victim end of the spectrum, but not cripplingly so. And he was so fit ... have I mentioned his whole fitness thing ... woof! Anyhow, he got the job.
I was literally flushed after Alan, so Andy was a disappointment. A youngish hetro student with a rather plain face and the early signs of balding - not that that's necessarily a problem, not all male escorts have to be Mr Apollo. But he announced himself as a swinger, which got my alarm bells ringing. If he was in it to get off on his own perverted jollies, he wouldn't be thinking about what our client wanted, and possibly even force them to do things they weren't comfortable with. So I put him down as a doubtful.
Carlos was Mr Apollo, or a hetro Financial Advisor seeking ego-strokes to feed his muscular vanity. He started putting the moves on me straightaway, and I had to be quite assertive in insisting that this was a business meeting and not for personal pleasure. Honestly, he was so arrogant, I could hardly bare him. But of course, what made it worse, was he had good reason to be cocky. If you like your beefcake served up in thick hunky slices (and very few women wouldn't mind at least a nipple), then Carlos was the meal for you. So OK, he enjoyed stripping off and posing with thick hung cock growing up and up into eye-popping erection. So of course he got the job.
After a man so totally in love with himself, it was nice to met Stuart a hetro barman with a cheeky-chappy glint and a feeling that he actually liked you and that he was out to please you. He made me laugh and glow. I knew straight away that he'd be a natural, and safe pair of hands for any vulnerable feeling first-timer.
Dave was a bi masseur. A quite and calm man, thoughtful and gentle. Not a bloke you'd want to party with, maybe. But after a murderous business day and the prospect of being alone in a strange hotel room, I could see Dave working a certain relaxation magic. So of aromatherapy with a cock and gentle hands. Since the whole interview thing was actually quite stressful for me - letting strange men into your house, even if my husband was only up in the study working on the accounts - I'd have felt comfortable doing the casting couch with him too. Shame there was one more to see. Dave wouldn't be right for all our clients, but for some, he'd be perfect.
So finally Khan appeared, an asian businessman, with dreamy dark eyes and karma sutra pretensions of being the most attentive lover which he'd be only too happy to show a beautiful blonde lady like me. Well, he could certainly flatter for Britain, if that were an Olympic sport. I have to admit, I couldn't think of any reason why we couldn't use him, but something didn't sit quite right.
So it was a good session: Alan for the athletic women. Carlos for the women who fancied a male-barbie doll. Stuart for the nervous and shy first timers. Dave for the stressed-out executive or fraught housewife. Khan for a touch of something exotic. While stringing along Andy in case one of the others didn't work out, and he turned out to be not so immature as I first thought when I talked to him again.
So at the end of an afternoon looking at a lot of fit male flesh, I needed, of course, a bloody great big vodka martini.
Saturday, March 27, 2004
Kate: Job Descriptions: The Recruiter (chat)
In polite society (where our punters come from) people always ask, "So what do you do?" And I'm not going to lie and say "Homemaker" because it's so lame and I do work, and work bloody hard. By "Pimp" is so loaded, and I'd have to wear felt hats and probably convert to being Black. And "Madam" is such a no-no: it would make me sound either 19th Century or like some hard-nosed bitch with a chest the size of a small aircraft carrier. "Runner" is a bit better, but sounds exhausting.
So I like to call myself either a "Businesswoman" or better, a "Recruiter", which given the staff retention problems of running a Parlour and an Escort service, is very close to the truth. This afternoon, for example, I have six interviews to conduct with blokes coming round for the new male line Robert and I want to start. And no, they won't be horizontal interviews. Women want their Escorts to make them feel special first, and have a good fuck second (usually).
Friday, March 26, 2004
Emily: Dogging & Doggers (FM+ exhib mast)
I don't know, perhaps we were being a bit sniffy about it because the whole Dogging craze had passed us by without us noticing. Like it's for amateur sluts - not the hardcore like us. But then Cheryl said she'd gone up to Leeds and done it in a car park near an old Abbey. So, not wanting to be the last one to jump into the pool, I twisted Kate's arm. But strangely, the attractions of coming with me to a dodgey car park to have sex with total strangers didn't appeal to my sister's sense of exhibitionist daring. And hubby has his own cottaging haunts he likes to visit, and so wasn't excited by the novelty of it. So in the end, I said I go myself, and Kate said that was mad, so she made Robert take me.
By brother-in-law did query the sense of it. Dogging is for punters who are too cheap to punt, he sniffed. But I just teased him that he didn't approve because the guys in the car parks should be coming to his Parlour, not wanking around in the semi-dark.
Anyhow, the first issue is - do you go to one of the Dogging boards and try and arrange to meet someone. Good in theory, exhausting in practice. I put up an add and took out a hotmail account in the morning, but when I got back from school, the inbox was jammed packed full. Wading through hundreds of replies from mainly desperate men is somewhere between homework and social work. (Call me softie, but I don't have the heart to just mass delete, and feel I ought to reply, if only a cut and paste job).
So on to Plan B, just turn up at a popular spot - see what's happening, and if nothing, start something with Robert, and see if anything happens then.
So Rob drove to the Abbey where Cheryl had strutted her stuff ... becoming markedly more interested in the concept the closer we got. There is something spine tinglingly naughty about get closer to naughtiness.
Unfortunately, the car park was empty - except for parked cars. Robert was disappointed, after becoming converted. A snog and a fondle helped to distract and calm him - and pass time to see if we were going to be watched, or see anything worth watching.
I over achieved and had to push Robert off and insist we go to the alternate location we had marked out - a park between Leeds and a small town called Otley. We managed not to get lost, and when we arrived at dusk the place looked a lot more promising: several occupied cars parked up.
I admit, experienced slut or not, I nearly crapped myself.
We parked up a few car lengths away from some obvious action: a car with its interior lights on and a gaggle of men around it. Robert got out and bold as brass went over to have a look. I stayed, twitchy and excited in the car, sliding down the seat so that no one would notice.
Robert reported four blokes were stood round, wanking at this fat woman in the car, playing with her tits and flashing her pussy. He asked me what I wanted to do?
Leave, came to mind! But having made such a fuss to get there, it would be open season on Emily teasing if I chickened out now. So I allowed Robert to take off my top, turn on the interior light, wind my window down, and started to kiss and fondle and masturbate me.
After a minute a bloke came right up by my car door, and stared down at me. I couldn't see his face. But I could see his cock. He reached inside, and fondled my little tittie. It was tough keeping my cool. It felt so passive - being publicly interfered with by my brother-in-law, being interfered with by a stranger. Especially someone just reaching into your car. It was a real intrusion of personal space.
The cock outside Robert's car ejaculated down the door. Another job for the car wash. The disembodied hand reached in and offered a business card. A fucking business card, if you please! I took it, while my weirdness-o-meter hit max.
Two cocks appeared at my car open window. It was like they were queuing - how very British.
I stuck my head out the window to have a peek at my voyeuristic admirers. One was a silver haired bloke in 50s on a personal journey somewhere between orgasm and heart attack. The other was a fit looking thirty-something.
It was dark now. Robert suggested we get out and lean against the car. That way I'd feel more of a participant, less of an object. My two fans stepped respectfully back, and Robert, with his cock out, joined them in a little semi-circle.
In the distance, a darkened car was rocking. The 50s bloke looked over to where I was looking and remarked, "kids with nowhere else to go" by way of explanation of why they weren't being perverded at.
I reached into the car and fished out a condom from my purse and offered it to the thirty-something, and then turned around, braced my self against the car roof, and bend forward a little to present my rear-end. With a bit of fumbling in the dark to find my hole, the stranger entered me, and started to fuck me briskly.
Emboldened, the older chap stepped forward, and still wanking himself furiously, fondled my dangling jiggling boob, until he came with a huge cry of relief down the smooth expanse of my thigh. I was relieved he'd made it without needing oxygen, and I could relax into the fuck my diligent stranger was pumping into me.
It felt good to fucked by someone you didn't know about, didn't care about, didn't want to talk to, (or pay). Just being fucked. It brought me off in a dirty sneaky little cum, panting and gasping and gripping hold of the car tightly.
A rough Yorkshire accent whispered intrusively in my ear, "yar take it in the face?"
I straightened up, forcing my unknown shagger to drop out of me. I turned round, and kneeled down. He whipped off the condom and tossed it to the ground, and he and Robert stood each side of me and jerked themselves off. My brother-in-law blew his load first, managing to miss my pretty face, and mess down my chest instead. His cum felt warm - briefly - over my titties in the stillness of the spring night. I started rubbing his cum over my chest and round my breasts, until the cum was all creamy and started to soak into my skin, while all the time making big eyes up at my busily wanking stranger.
He didn't miss. A great dollop of cum shot right in the back of my mouth, and another splashed across my high cheek-bone. He leaned forward to offer his cock to my mouth to clean, but I grabbed it with my hand, and ran my fingers over his sensitive swollen cock head instead (well, he was a stranger).
Robert helped me up. My knees were covered in mud, my face and chest in cum. The thirty-something offered me his business card too.
Robert and I got back in the car. I'd packed some wet-wipes just in case, and so cleaned myself up a little before I put my top back on. Decent again, I got out, picked up the condom, and put them all into a nearby bin (well mum's would be bring their kids to the park in the morning).
We drove away, and as we got back on the road again, I realised how much my heart had been pounding. I asked Robert to check that we weren't being followed. He laughed at me, but checked anyway. Strangers can be strange.
And now, an afternoon later, as I sit and write about it, I feel all churned up: was it exciting or incredibly stupid? Intensely erotic or desperately sordid? I have plenty of casual sex before, but at least I'd usually get a drink out of them first, or know there name. But to just go out and get fucked like that. Wow, it was brilliant and totally naff at the same time.
Thursday, March 25, 2004
Emily: Willies under the Table (mmm mast)
It was going well. The bottom set Year 6 class (11-12 year olds) could be very childish and very naughty. But I try and steer a course between having a laugh together (peppering the lesson with quiz's and riddles) and being compassionately stern. Anyhow, all I did was turn around to got some OHP foils, and this huge commotion started at the back.
So I had to stop the lesson and go to the back and wearing my best ... What? ... face, quizzed the kids. The girls were only to happy to "dob in" the boys. Claiming that the boys had had their willies out underneath the table and were playing with them.
Now this is always a nightmare scenario: are we dealing with disturbed young boys exhibiting sexually inappropriate behaviour that should raise concerns, either because they are victims, or because their behaviour may escalate to become victimisers? Or, is it just a bunch of lads being wankers?
Well, you have to take some things with a pinch of salt in this job. The children try it on all the time, testing the boundaries. They like nothing more than to get a teacher to "loss it".
Normally, if it's just one boy touching his groin, I go all motherly, and say, "argh, dear ... are you alright? Do you need to go to the toilet?" Which usually embarrasses the hell out of them. If there's one thing a growing teenager doesn't need, it's another mother fussing over them.
You should have seen the blood drain from the boys faces when I told them I would have to discuss their behaviour with their Form Teacher and the Special Needs Coordinator (both women), not because it was that bad, but to capture whether the boy's behaviour was part of any pattern (and to protect me from any claim of negligence, if any serious did later arise).
Naturally the girl's who told on them smirked like mad. Girl's can be so nasty. And naturally, I had to summon up superhuman powers not to smirk myself, true professional that I am!
Of course, the idea of three young lads secretly masturbating in the back of one of my classes is an interesting one. I did intend at lunchtime to spend some quality time with my imagination and my fingers in the staff toilet. But as luck would have it, I had to meet with a Form Teacher and a Special Needs Coordinator instead.
Emily: Awake? (chat)
Totally screwed up my email this morning. That'll teach me to look through it before I've even put my make-up on! Please email me again and I'll try to be more awake, or less stupid.
Of course, being awake has its issues after sharing a bottle of red wine with your sister the evening before. It was nice to hear Katie talking so positively about the Parlour. Emma, main receptionist and my Laura's sometime girlfriend, is better again, and Kate's trying out a couple of new women to help out at reception so that she or Laura don't have to keep on stepping in all the time. She also seems have a pretty steady stable of girls working there now. And she and Robert are trying to start up a little male escort business as well. You could see the stress lift from her face.
Or perhaps it is just spring thing.
Wednesday, March 24, 2004
Emily: Joanna (Crush)
Jo (as in Joanne, not to be confused with Joanna) keeps on teasing me, and with good reason. I have this total massive schoolgirl crush on Joanna, which is a bit ridiculous, given I'm 37 (and holding) and she's 26. I should know better, but I just can't help myself mooning over her loveliness.
She's got short dark chestnut brown hair with just a hint of henna red. Her eyes are like great bright ponds, all gleaming and smiling. High cheekbones and rose bud mouth, long neck and small shoulders - her fine features are almost porcelain in their perfection. Her slim frame is like a gangly pubescent boy's gauche body - except for the hollow back and the delightfully wobbly little breasts parked improbably high on her small chest, like a couple of poached eggs: delicate, tender, more-ish. Narrow hipped, small bummed, with a tiny waist, and a prominent pubic bone - there is something almost malnourished about her.
She brings out the nurturing mother in me.
She brings out the love-struck girl in me.
She brings out the predator sex monster in me.
She's like an effete tomboy - part girlish girl, part effeminate boy. She is androgynous sex-on-a-stick.
Of course Joanna oblivious to me. I am just that nice and helpful Emily. I am so much older it would never occur to her that we could have a thing together. So I have to suffer the love sick blues of an infatuated crush - and the sharpe elbows of my teasing friends.
Tuesday, March 23, 2004
Kate: Wiffy Wifey (scat chat)
You'll be pleased to know I'm not going to relate what it's like to be under a stream of diarrhoea (or sad, depending on what floats your boat). Partly because I'd rather forget it, and mainly because I don't have enough gross words. The image of dutiful husband scrubbing his wiffy wifey down in the shower will stay for a while - when you're covered in shit and need serious cleaning up, that's when you know someone loves you. So moving right along ...
Since spring is here and it's time to think about wearing less, but prettier clothes, I'm off up to Harrogate and then maybe York to see what they've got in their posh shops, once I'm dumped the boyz in school.
Monday, March 22, 2004
Emily: Not all Pooh smells as bad as a really Pooy Poo-Pooh (FFFMMM scat)
After we put the boys to bed (see Messy Tummies earlier) - and to allow time for bladders to refil and boys' prostates and seminal vesicles to secret their new secretions - out came the enema bulb.
Now I don't have time to write up the full ballet de merde (don't things sound more graceful in French - oh you know they do). But we did make a discovery.
Well all know that diarrhea is a good league division up in the gross disgusting steaks, especially if peppered up by fragrantly spicy food. And you Mums and Dads out there will know that baby pooh is an extraordinarily rich concoction, given how bland the input is. But mother's milk doesn't just gross out the baby's pooh. The mother herself can dump a pretty foul load of crap on to your sister's belly - if your parties go like mine.
To Lindsey's embarrassment and Katie's nose pinching distress, Lindsey's hot steaming light brown runny diarrhea splodge was a real room clearer.
Some things air freshners can cope with, but for everything else, there's high pressure showers and open window's in March.
Sunday, March 21, 2004
Emily: Looking in the wrong places (chat)
I was looking for a good rendition of the Ferrari logo so I can make a stencil to use in redecorating my boy's bedroom. But instead found this handy public service site: 18+ Pornographic Blog. Must of been looking in the wrong places!
Saturday, March 20, 2004
Emily: Messy Tummies (FFFMMMmm ws anal lac)
Jack got so over excited with Lindsey and her boys being over. He ate too much. Way too much. Usually his skinny adolescent frame is a bottomless pit. Usually he gazes in between snacks, which he has between his meals. He is always hungry. But excitement and too much food led to his poor tummy to revolt, and he reverted to being three, not thirteen.
I gave him cups of hot water as he sat cuddled up against Lindsey's motherly chest, holding a hot water bottle across his tummy, watching Lindsey's baby daughter suckle from her mother's full bosom.
Now normally milky tits would have had Jack harder than a policeman's riot baton. Normally he'd be angling ways to get the baby off Lindsey's weeping nipple, and his own greedy mouth on to it.
So in the end, we had to put my poor baby boy to bed at the same time Lindsey put down her little girl. Lindsey snapped at her two boys to be kind, and not call Jack names.
At least Dylan and Finbar were in good spirits. But we waited till Kate and Robert arrived before we got down and dirty. So the boys were already changed into their jim-jams by the time my sister rolled up.
With Jack being off colour, the maths were a bit upset: three women, three men, but now only two fit young teenage boys. And we had to have that barter session: my brother-in-law Robert wanted to go with Lindsey, and Lindsey didn't mind, since Jack wasn't available. My sister Kate and I each wanted one of the boys, it didn't matter which. But my hubby wanted one of the boys too, and Lindsey's hubby Patrick wanted me or Kate.
So after a bit of tooing and froing, Lindsey and Robert coupled off. Kate took little Finbar, I took his big brother Dylan, Patrick waited until his son's had had their turn, and my hubby would take any arsehole he could find, before finishing with whoever was free at time (hosts always get a poor deal if there is a shortage).
Yes, these orgies do take planning if everyone is too get their fair share.
But first, Lindsey, Kate and I got naked and kneeled together, arm in arm, in the centre of the living room floor, waiting for the five males in our lives to piss on us. The boys found it easiest to pee - all that cola they'd been drinking. And they both started spraying over their mother - who was in the middle - before quickly turning their sprinkling cocks over Kate and me.
Robert belted out his bladder to join the boys quickly, and half a minute later hubby and Patrick were bathing us three women as well. It was intense. Totally intense. Five cocks urinating on us simultaneously for a minute or more (seemed a lot longer).
Hubby and I sat down next to each other on our sofa. Hubby slicked up his cock with KY, and then slicked up my sister's bottom, which she was bending back for him. She then slowly sat down on his lap - much in the same exaggerated care that spaceships take to dock. So that my husband's slimy erection mated with my sister's slimy arsehole, and the two became one. Into this gentle slo-mo ballet, twelve year old Finbar clambered up between Kate's thighs, and trust his hard-on into my sister's pussy.
Boy's don't do slo-mo. As I found as I lifted my bare legs up in the air, and Finbar's big brother penetrated me with his bigness.
"Oooof" I panted, "Dylan! Gently!" The boy-man eagerly stabbing me with his penis grunted at me, but continued to stare down between my legs, at his manly erection disappearing and reappearing into the moist hugging lips of my bald pussy.
"Oooof! Anthony! Careful!" my sister pleaded, as she tried to accommodate my husband's penis up her bum and not be toppled backwards by young Finbar fucking her tight cunt with his rapier thin cock.
Patrick, observing the cunning way my husband got in on the fun early, gently pulled his youngest son out of me with a, "hang on son". Then lowered my legs and took my hand and pulled me up off the sofa. He sat down in my place. While he applied a long finger of KY from the tube, I watched my brother-in-law seeming fuck the carpet. Of course, I knew Lindsey was under him somewhere, as I could see her little arms and legs sticking out from underneath, but otherwise, her pixie cuteness was totally hidden under Robert's trusting muscular form.
I felt my arse being probed. I smiled at Patrick, bent forward, placed my hands on my arse cheeks, and tried to relax my anal sphincter so that he could poke plenty of lubrication up into my arse. I'm not like Kate, who likes it with the minimum of gel she can take. I like almost frictionless anal sex, but deep, fast and hard.
Patrick put his hands on my hips and guided me down. I put my hands behind me on his chest to support myself while he roamed his cock along my arse crack until it found its dirty nest. I sank down on to Patrick's cock, feeling it force open my arsehole.
Dylan took this as the green flag to barge his way back between my legs and plunge his penis back down my pussy - stretching the perineum between my vagina and anus in a most challenging way! Dylan's spunk heavy balls dangled on his father's cock, as he and his father stuffed me with their combined cock meat.
I jiggled up and down to the rhythm of their fucking. I looked round at my sister, who was jiggling up and down as my hubby and little Finbar fucked her. It was quite comical: when Kate went up, I went down. We were like those figures you see on a steam organ: up and down, up and down. Flushed faced, our small boobs bouncing, propelled by our very own double penetration fuck organ.
My sister, clearly uncomfortable with two cocks up her, closed her eyes and started having an orgasm - becoming rigid, least losing control of her body would cause her to fall over her men. She shouted "Ouch! Ouch! Owwwwwww" into the room repeatedly. She was so turning me on, and I would have reached over and kissed her if I wasn't afraid of over balancing too.
She stopped my hubby and Finbar, and with an obviously sore bottom, pulled herself off them and sat on the sofa beside me, lazily stroking my husband's anus soiled cock, and occasionally sucking on my boob between catching her breath. I came too, but without Kate's discipline and grim determination to make it last. I came and started thrashing about, clutching at flesh in order to stay on my two bucking boys. But we lost our rhythm and I feel off Patrick, and slid on top of my sister, panting.
The two of us cuddled up on the sofa, and started tonguing each other, as Patrick and his two sons and my husband formed a semi-circle around us, and jacked themselves off as we lezzed it up for them. Little Finbar spunked first, sprinkling a rain of cum droplets all over Kate's chest and tummy.
I bent down to lick the cum off my sister's body, only to take Dylan's thicker, creamier load down the side of my face, in my hair and right in my ear. Hubby joined him, ejaculating his long spurts of stringy cum over the top of my sister's head, over her forehead, and long her long blonde hair.
Patrick was the last to make it, and his eldest son joined his father's pumping hand to help bring him off into Kate and my face - as we sat in front of him, like a pair of begging puppy dogs. We sat grinning at each other for a minute, watching the cum run down our chins, our necks, our breasts, and gather in the belly buttons of our messy tummies. Lindsey popped up off the floor, carpet burns on her elbows (quite a trick on a laminated floor), accidentally expressed milk over her boobs and tummy, and piss down her back and in her hair.
Lindsey folded her boys under her arms and guided them upstairs. I followed to check on Jack. He was clearly feeling a lot better. He asked me if we had played and I said yes. He was obviously disappointed to have missed out, so a sneaked a hand under his duvet and fumbled with his jim-jams until I felt the hole for his groin, and his plump manhood underneath it.
Slowly I began to tell him what had happened as I stroked his cock: the pissing, his Dad fucking Auntie Kate up the bum - just like he so likes to do. Patrick fucking my bum. The guys wanking themselve off over Kate and me lezzing it up. Lindsey being humped on the floor by Uncle Robert.
Lindsey came in after checking on her baby daugther. She sat herself down next to Jack, dangling her heaby D-cups above his small face, and kneaded her breasts slowly so that a fine rain of milk squirted out into a mist of mother's milk over my boy's face. That pushed him over the edge, and he jerked his whole body as sperm burst out of the top of his cock, covering my hand in a thick mucus, and giving him a messy tummy too.
Emily: Hi Honey! I'm Home (FMM ws MM)
The tidy white blouse. The pinstripe neat knee-length skirt. Prim jacket. If it weren't for the Doc Marten booties and the four earrings in each lobe, you'd barely recognise it was me. Or maybe that's wrong, maybe it's me I'd barely recognise as I peered into the hall mirror: who is that trim and tidy school teacher woman?
So it wasn't with humility that I knelt down in the hallway and waited patiently for my husband and brother-in-law to reach into their bladders and piss over me. It was wanting to disrespect that anal teacher with her head stuck up curriculum delivery and Key Stage 3 planning and all that work shit, and welcome to the weekend that whore bitch I knew is the real me.
Hubby started hosing me down with his best beer urine first. The boys had been watching some big horse race on the telly, and were celebrating their horse coming in first. My blouse became yellow, translucent, hot, and drenched in my husband's pee. (I'd taken the jacket off, there's a limit to how many times you can take a urine soaked item of clothing to the dry cleaners.)
I worked my husband's piss across my little titties with my hands, pinching my nipples higher, harder, through the wet material of my blouse and bra. My brother-in-law took a step closer, and gently pissed a slow steady piss on top of my forehead and along the centre parting of my long blonde hair. I shut my eyes and opened my mouth to collect Robert's piss in a hot lake of urine over my tongue, feeling the pee dribble out of the corners of my mouth and down my chin.
I knelt there, two men pissing over me, thinking to myself, "Fuck! My real life starts NOW!". And then they were done, and I could wipe the piss from my eyes and swallow the last of the pee in my mouth.
Robert guided me down to lay on my tummy in the lake of now cold piss on the wooden hallway floor. I slurped at the cold piss, using my hands as paddles to wash the pee towards my mouth, while behind and above me, Robert rode up my skirt and pulled aside my knickers so that he could spear me with his cock.
Hubby watched from above, impassive, stroking himself, half gazing at our brother-in-law fucking me, half not. He enjoyed watching me be filthy. I enjoyed the filth.
Robert came. A happy simple quickie fuck cum. He got up and Hubby took his place.
I was getting cold on the hard floor. Cold urine having soaked through every fibre of my work-a-day sensible clothes. Robert started a second dribbled pee over me - down my back and over the top of my head, while Hubby humped me. The fresh piss felt so hot. The smell, the heat, the pumping hardness of my husband in my already used cunt - I came. A dirty filthy whoring cum, grunting into the floor.
Hubby pulled out of my and knelt in front of my face, and stroked himself fast. Robert knelt beside Hubby, and took his cock from him, and started to brutally jerk my husband's cock for him. Hubby blew his load quickly - a thin wild cum that had streaks shooting out all over the top of my head and straight into my face.
They both looked down and smiled at me, then without ceremony (or offering to help me up off the floor), they returned to their beer and sports channel. Leaving me to get up, strip off, mop up, and put my work clothes into the washing machine. The weekend had begun.
Friday, March 19, 2004
Emily: How to please a woman (chat)
Thank fuck it's Friday. I'm pretty much on my knees, but not in a good way. Still a bottom of wine and an unwatched episodes of 24 and Cold Case on the ole digital recorder are something to look forward to. Also Lindsey and family is coming for tea tomorrow, so I'm hoping the sparks will fly them - if I can get re-energized.
At least hubby's back and promised to clean the bath and toilet, hoover round, wash the kitchen floor and whizz the duster around ... argh, now that's how to please a woman! Especially as we are so different from men, as shown by this easy to understand instruction picture. Hey, it's funny because it's true (credit to Scipio).
Hubby's taking the day off as we're having a burglar alarm fitted (my Mum got done, so Robert negiotated a group deal for her, he and Kate, and us). So I might have something nice to come home to.
Thursday, March 18, 2004
Emily: Sleepy Sons (Fm ws)
It's amazing how a weekend hangover can put you back for the whole week. Hubby's been away on a course the last couple of nights. Laura's been staying round at her girlfriend's (Emma, Katie's receptionist). So I've been taking the boy over to Kate's to babysit her lads. Which is more disruption, but I quite liked the company.
So naturally I got into a three boy orgy with Jack and Kate's boys. Oh no, that's wrong! I got into marking practice exam papers for my Year 9 kids (13-14) - designed to frighten them into working hard because they'll be starting their GCSE courses next year. And the boys played on their computer, until it was time to put them to bed. Jack came down and sat quietly with me, head resting on the side of my boob, my arm round his shoulder, watching a bit of telly together (Footballers' Wives - trash TV, I know).
Robert got back from his visit to London just after 10pm, but I was knackered, so I went straight home, helped undress my sleepy Jack for bed, and then got in with him. I didn't fancy sleeping on my own with hubby and Laura both out, and there is nothing as restful as sleeping with your sleepy son.
Of course, this morning, I had that most intimate of personal alarm calls - my son's erection poking - more in hope than in expectation - into the rounds of my buttocks. Still, it got me awake, and I led him and his big little chappy into the shower. In the gush of hot water, he gave me an eager soapy wash - especially of my clearly very dirty breasts, which needed repeated cleaning. I gave him a steady handjob, pissing away my morning bladder over his erection in a long hard piss.
I knew I had him when he gave up all pretence of cleaning me, and instead just ran his small soapy hand up and down my cunt, fingers poking in and out of my vagina, palm snuggling against my pubic bone. In the steamy heat, it was heaven being interfered with, glorious to have your world simplified down to my cock pounding arm and my tingling mushy pussy.
Jack, his head pressed tight against my wet chest, came in my hand and down the inside of my thighs. The pressure from his balls spent, he could relax his own bladder, and hose my legs in his hot piss. He pointed his penis up, to bath my tummy in his urine. He continued to do me, like a well trained boy, but once he'd stopped peeing, I pushed him away. I was close, but we'd both be late for school if I made him carry on until I came. I kissed the top of head and guided him out of the shower, so that he could dry himself off while washed his seamen off me.
A bacon sandwich latter, we were springing out into the spring air - he to walk round the corner to his school, me to drive off to mine. He with a rye smile and a wave. Me with happy pop blaring out of the CD player.
Kate: Opening Hours (chat)
So Emma, our usual receptionist is still off – one of her kids is ill. We'll have to recruit a second receptionist, I can't be rushing in to cover the gaps at the drop of a hat. Especially once Laura goes to college in the autumn and isn't available for emergency babysitting of my two boys. Either that, or we'll have to think about shortening the opening hours - 11am till 11pm is a long time to keep the place manned, especially if a girl works one shift all through the day.
You tend to get the best punters around lunchtime and early afternoon, and again in the early evening, between 7pm and 9pm. After 9pm you tend to get the guys who've had to have a drink to get up the courage to come in and see one of our girls - with all the trouble that that can potentially bring. Or a get a whole bunch of lads coming in together as a jokey group, which causes problems when you've only got up to six girls working (traffic jam), and can change the atmosphere of the place (we try and keep it relaxed). The regular punters are the best clients, though the after-the-pub lot can boost a weeks earnings, and certainly turn an average day into an excellent one. We'll have to talk to the girls about it, and see if we can find someone as dependable as Emma to help out on the reception desk.
At least Tuesday night and Wednesday night (Emma still is doing the day shift, as her mum looks after her kids then - and she can't afford getting no money) were busier than Monday. You want it to be busy. Not just for the money, but the girls are happier too - they need to know it's worth there while coming in. Over sixty punters on Wednesday. And I like having a chat to the blokes if they have to wait, get them a drink, ask them how their day's been. You meet all sorts.
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
Kate: Not Waking Up in Your Own Bed (chat)
You know it's been a good night when you don't wake up in your own bed. You know it's been a better night when you're surprised to find yourself waking up at all, not having remembered going to sleep. Of course, strange beds are still strange - even my sister's - so you don't really sleep right.
I have to say, I can't remember a blind thing from Saturday night's party. Sunday wasn't a great day either. And Monday - working the reception desk with only one girl on and only half a dozen punters, quite possibly the slowest evening yet. So she was busy most of the time, and I had no one to talk too, except when a punter had to wait when our girl, Amber, was busy with another punter. He propositioned me. It was tempting just for something to do, and if Amber had been busy and two or more had been waiting, I would have put up the closed sign and serviced them to get rid of the log jam. But just with one, they can wait twenty minutes.
Besides, I meant to glace at the CCTV of the car park once in a while. And, I had a pile of male model portfolios to peer through, as we're thinking of setting up an outcall service for women. Yeap, male prostitution is a big growth area. Now, usually, this would be a highly motivating task for me! But somehow, I could get into it. Perhaps tomorrow.
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
Emily: Lezzie Dinner Party (chat)
Well if a two day hangover is your measure of a successful night, then my dinner party on Saturday was storm. I haven't felt this grotty since ... well, since the last time I drank too much red wine. All the girls behaved themselves, even after Rachel left for her late shift .Pity being a police woman, and the shadow it must cast over your social life - I try to be natural with her, and she appreciates that, but you could see the other walk on egg-shells around her, my sister, for example, only bringing out the coke and dope after Rachel had gone.
So Katie, Penny, Annie, Cheryl and I got suitably loaded up on the booze, or Katie's coke, or Annie's dupe, turned the dial of the stereo up to 11, and funked the night away. Yes, I said funked. As your responsible host, I just stuck to the booze - though I'm not sure it did me any favours in the long run.
I'm afriad I can't report any great orgy highjinks. Partly because no one wiped their kit off, and partly because after 3am I was too pissed to hold a rational conversation. And I don't think anyone else was in a much better position. I have no idea who put me to bed, and nor does my sister, though I ended up in bed with Kate in the morning ... and how attractive did we look, first thing!
Saturday, March 13, 2004
Emily: Mobile Vaginas (chat)
Honey, to teenage boys, all females are just walking vaginas! Speaking of which, I've just put the ice cream maker on for tonight's dessert. Lesbian dinner parties can be so tricky to cook for: nothing high fat, no red meat, no GM, all organic. I hope the evening goes well: lipstick lesbian meets working class hero lezbo. So I hoping no one will provoke Rachel to go on about the Gay Police Association, nor get Annie talking about Lesbian Bed Death, nor Penny talking about whole boring why aren't bisexuals brave enough to be proper lesbians ... and you, my darling sister, just behave!
Do you think a hot chocolate sauce with butterscotch ice cream is too much?
Friday, March 12, 2004
Kate: A Cup of Sugar (Fm menstrual)
The nice thing about living as an old fashioned extended family, only quarter of my mile from my sister, is you can always just pop in to borrow a cup of sugar, or whatever. OK, yesterday the "whatever" was asking Em if she or Laura could come round and put my boys to bed after a bath, as I had to go to the parlour and work the reception desk as Emma, my usual receptionist, had to go to a parent's evening at her kid's school.
Anyhow, even with our 'groovy' family thing, it's a bit surprising to bump into your nephew in the hall not wearing any trousers or underpants, but sporting a throbbing erection and a cheesy grin. I gave him a peck on the cheek and a slap on the botty and asked him where Emily was. He grunted and shrugged his shoulders, and just stood there, looking at me, masturbating.
I wasn't in the mood. Or maybe I was in the mood if anyone had bothered to ask me, but it's too weird just being masturbated at when you've only just come in off the street. I went to the loo. Jack followed me. He watched me take my jeans and panties down, heard me pee and then watched me pull out my tampon and borrow one of Emily's panty-liners - all the time stroking himself. I'd rather hoped that the display would send him over the edge.
I had to almost push past him, as he was blocking the bathroom doorway. "I want to fuck you, Auntie." he said in an almost sad pleading voice. I went to the kitchen to see if I could find Emily. "I want to fuck you, Auntie Kate," he repeated, plaintively, in case I hadn't heard the first time.
He was forcing me to decide: reject him or do him. Since no one seemed to be around, rejecting him would have seemed very pointed. So I pulled out a kitchen chair, sat down, grabbed hold of Jack's cock, and began to stroke him vigorously. But Jack insisted, he wanted to fuck me. So I thought, OK, OK, fine - let's get it over with and have some peace. So I dropped my jeans and panties, turned round, bent over the kitchen table and presented my rear end for him.
I did warn him that I would be a bit bloody. But that only seemed to make him more excited - strange boy that he is!
Well of course, as soon as we get comfortable - Jack stabbing my pussy with long easy jabs - Emily comes in. If she'd come five minutes earlier I wouldn't have been in this compromising position. I felt terribly cheap. But my sister just smiled and asked me how I was, as if I didn't have her son's cock stuffing my vagina.
Jack wanted his mum, of course, but you could see she was in full bustle-mode, and left us to it. So I just lay there, resting on the cold kitchen table, while Jack did his business behind me. It was a cold impersonal fuck. I was just a mobile vagina that had foolishly agreed to bend over for my rampant nephew. I could of been a blow-up doll for all he cared. He just needed somewhere soft to stick his hardness.
So it was a relief when I heard him blow off his spunk inside me. A relief when I felt him slip out of me. A relief when I felt his hands - that had been pressing down on my buttocks - lift off me. I stood up, stiff.
"Bring me those tissues". Jack obliged, and I caught a gob of bloody pink cum sliding down my inner thigh. Then I stuffed a wad into my pussy to catch the rest, while I took a tissue and gently cleaned off the pink mucus off Jack's plump penis.
Jack wrapped his arms around me and gave me a little hug. "Thanks Auntie Kate" he chirped, much as if I'd just given him an ice cream, and off he flitted upstairs, to play on his computer, no doubt. Leaving me to clean the mess he'd left inside me, and pull up my panties and jeans, and go and find Emily and ask for whatever it was I'd popped in for!
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
Emily: Attention Seeking (Fm)
Of course, wondering around the house with a raging erection is terribly attention seeking. I've learnt to ignore it if I'm busy. Soon Jack settles down in his room to watch a bit of porn and has a quite wank. But my sister Kate falls for it everytime. Not that I heard her coming in - the washer was on spin in the utility room. So it was a bit of a surprise to find her bent over the kitchen table, jeans round her ankles, panties round her knees, my boy behind her, pumping his cock into her quickly juiced-up cunt.
It is a bit uncomfortable walking in on a fucking couple. Do you ignore them and let them get on with it while I fill the kettle and make myself a brew? Do you try and have a chat, as they strain to hold a conversation between pants and puffs? I just said, "Hey Kate! How are you?" - yeah, OK, it's a bit lame, but what else do you do?
Kate turned her head - resting on the kitchen table - to face me, and smiled with a pink blushed smile. "I'm fucked" she punned, and flashed me her best cheeky girl grin.
"Mum ..." Jack started.
"No honey, I'm busy." I cut him off before he could ask me whatever dirty little thought he had.
I went to put my laundry into the airing cupboard, amused that my sister had been completely de-railed into doing what Jack wanted, not whatever it was she'd popped in for. She'll learn you just can't be ruled by your son's cock when her own boys are bigger (in all departments).
Emily: Morning Glory (Fm)
Why do boys get massive bludgeoning hard-ons first thing in the morning? Is sperm more potent before breakfast? Is it a peacock thing? Or just a handy hand-hold for dragging boys out of bed?
In pornoland, of course, it would be the trigger for some fast paced Mom n Son action. But in domestic-reality-land it's an erection that has to be pissed or wanked away before we can even think of getting ready for school. So options include letting Jack stay in bed a little longer so he can deal with it himself, but this can take up to half an hour - not good if I'm running late. Or drag Jack into the shower with me and get him to piss down my legs while I make sure he gets a good soaping. Or just shout at him to come on and get ready for school!
Tuesday, March 09, 2004
Emily: Fascist Bullies, they're not all bad (chat)
Well Kate, if it's any consolation, you sound less like a fascist bully, and more like a teacher! Of course, we can't be so blunt, and we don't have the carrot of actually giving our students money to do well in exams - so you're probably in a more influential position with more clout (and that's another thing we can do - clout). But don't get pregnant, don't do drugs, be a good little worker-bee so that you get your money/exams - it is oddly enough the same message. Who'd of thought it: the parlour's Madame and the classroom's Miss speaking from the same hymn sheet.
Still, some kids are such idiots, but think they're so smart. 'Look at me, I became a single mum and the council gave me my own place to live so I can move out of my grotty mum's place' (to set up a new home as a grotty mum). And naturally, a lot of your girls will be those brain-boxes who suddenly find they have no money or skills to get money.
Perhaps I should tell the school's Careers Advice to cut the crap and just send the pretty half of the Year 11 bottom set to work for you. They could do with a bit of bullying to make them wise-up. Perhaps a couple of weeks work experience would make them realise that passing exams was a preferable option.
Monday, March 08, 2004
Kate: Pregnancy (chat)
I've tried writing about discovering that my one of my working girls is pregnant, and therefore not fit for work in about six weeks time - depending on when it shows and how much morning sickness she has and when she'll get rid of it - and why not, I had two abortions when I worked as an Escort. But, I deleted it. It just sounded like I was this awful bullying bitch telling this poor stupid young woman that she had to get rid of it so that she could keep on whoring for me.
But of course, the silly little cow already has two kids by two Dads - both of who have fucked off, and a ex-drug habit (courtesy of one of the Dads). She is poor. She is stupid. And just about the only thing she has to sell in the globalised Labour Market is her body - which she is not taking the best care of (kids/diet/drugs) despite my advice.
So she either gets pretty good money working for me, or crap money working for some of the other parlours around here, or crap and dangerous money working on the streets, or totally crap money on the social. Which all may sound like a choice between totally black and dark gray. But those are the life decisions she and her background have handed out. At least I'd pay for her to go get a proper abortion at a private clinic - and yes, if you want to be cynical, it'll make sure she's back at work quicker.
Honestly, I feel like a social worker to these girls, and sometimes that involves spelling out some harsh truths. But some of them just live in a friary tale world, where if you pretend it isn't happening, it won't ... until your belly swells and your boobs get sore and you have to run to the toilet every five mines, and then everyone can see that you're pregnant, whether you want to admit it or not.
Sunday, March 07, 2004
Emily: Sticky Chocolate Cake (chat)
My chum Rachel (officer of the law, New Zealander, cheeky imp, blonde babe, serious lesbian) was having a dinner party. Now she's a lovely person, and competent and capable in so many ways. She gets my vote for: best woman to be in a bar fight with. Luckily, of course, I've never been in a bar fight. But like a lot of women, when it comes to the kitchen, she is crap. Even making a sandwich can be an unpredictable affair.
Now of course, this is a deliberate studied incompetence. Rachel doesn't cook because she's an all action kind of a girl. My sister Kate doesn't cook because she's a glam princess kind of a girl. My Mum doesn't cook because she's a right-on 60s feminist who led the struggle out of the kitchen. However, I do.
Piss, Fuck, Wank, Arse and Cunt aren't the only great four letter words; there's also Pies, Cake, Meat, Stew, Iced and Melt. Hmmmmmmmmm, .... pies ...........
So I offered to bake Rachel a cake. Naturally this was a strange and alien suggestion for a go-go-grrl like Rachel. Baking is grandmothers. Cake is (an illegal substance for weight conscious women) bought from the supermarket.
I lifted out my effort: sticky triple-layer chocolate cake covered in a generous chocolate ganache (sort of chocolate icing made up of A LOT of chocolate and double (heavy) cream), and decorated with raspberries and chocolate curls - yeap, as I lifted out the labour of my afternoon, Rachel's sweet blue eyes popped with little girlish awe. Suddenly she was seven and desperate to lick to lick the bowel.
Sadly the dinner party was a bit boring. I realise that in many people's minds a gathering of half a dozen lesbians and bisexual women must, ipso facto, inevitably lead to a rug-muchin' orgy. Well sorry, but queers can be prudes too. And perhaps, more importantly, the shit Rachel had brought from the Police Station was some of the strongest skunk I've ever had. One spliff and I was totally zonked. Had I known, I'd of made mine a dope cake. That way you get a much softer hit.
So in a minute Laura is going to drive me back round so I can pick up my car, as some unremembered angel of mercy put me in a taxi last night.
Saturday, March 06, 2004
Emily: On top of things (chat)
Ha! On top of things, Kate, how very not right! Though the new appartment has been let, which is a big relief: bringing us in a little income rather than being a millstone.
I think you are wrong, by the way, the soap opera details of an English Madame and the runnings of her brothel (let's not mince words with "parlour") would be very interesting. At least, working on the assumption that many of our readers may well have been clients of such public spirited institutions. It's up to you, honey. But in my experience, you can't have too much detail when talking about sex - personally or commercially!
BTW, I'm sending Laura over to you in a minute to help with your Saturday night rush.
Anyhow, got to get back in the kitchen. Rachel is having a dinner party tonight and I said I'd help her out by making a chocolate cake for her.
Friday, March 05, 2004
Kate: Time for yourself (chat)
I'm glad you're blogging again, Emily. Always a sign that you're back on top of things. I can't say I can contribute as much as I used to.
Running a massage parlour is a lot more involved than I realised, even with my experience of having been an escort myself. I'll spare you the details, but enough to say I have to be a one woman Human Resources department, Finance, Anti-Drugs Enforcer, Police Liaison (thank God for your friend Rachel making that easier), and general purpose Social Worker for the girls. Not to mention having to work myself when one of the girls lets us down for whatever reason - on average nearly once a week. Thank God for our receptionist, Emma, she's a gem. And Laura has been a star helping around the place too.
Anyhow, I'm pleased that at least you have sometime for yourself now.
Thursday, March 04, 2004
Emily: Laundry (Mf anal)
I wasn't in a good mood. The washing machine broke. It went through its cycle but the soap didn't dissolve for some reason and so the clothes weren't clean, so I had to hand wash the load, re-spin it, and hang up to dry. So I was late taking the already dry stuff down and putting it away. Late and annoyed that my evening had been sabotaged.
So having to step over my husband and daughter rutting on her bedroom floor with a pile of Laura's knickers in my hands - if you can call two inch wide triangles of cloth linked with loops of thin elastic "knickers" - made me oddly cross. It wasn't because I was busy and flustered and they were having fun. Well, OK, it was that, but it wasn't just that. I guess I just don't get why hubby has been so close to Laura and to me these last six months or so. Having made such a big fuss about being gay and needing to explore his homosexual side, which, as you can imagine put a bit of strain on our relationship. Now I've hardly seen him with a man. None of the young men he would bring home. I've hardly seen any of his regular crowd since New Year. And he hasn't mention boffing any of the blokes at the warehouse when he's working nights.
Now he's up Laura's or my arse like a ferret down a hole. I must of had more husband nookie in the last year than I had in the previous ten put together. Of course, I've tried to talk to him about it, but you know articulate and emotionally literate men are when it comes to talking about their feelings, as opposed to which football team will win the Premiership.
So seeing my lovely Laura on her side, D cup chest bouncing up and down despite the best efforts of her big bra under her pink top, blue jeans and thong pulled down to her knees, bare bottom exposed to her spooning father. Seeing Anthony laying behind her, humping and grinding his cock in between Laura's fleshy buttocks - from the high angle, sliding up her anus, just as he likes best. Well, seeing them both in their inarticulate pleasure (Laura did gasp, "Mmmmmum" but couldn't complete a sentence between pants, her arm gripping the leg of her bed to stop her father from pumping her body across the carpet floor). It all seemed not quite the natural order of things: Laura really prefers women, hubby really prefers men.
But there they were, like coming across an unexpected couple at an orgy. Two people you independently know, but never expected to find them intertwined.
I step back over them. Hubby gave me that strained sex look he does when he's well gone. I just left them too it. Of course, I realised, it might just be petty jealousy - if hubby was going to dump his wad up Laura's pretty bottom, there probably wouldn't be anything for me later. But I like to think that I'm a mother who doesn't get that jealous of her daughter.
Wednesday, March 03, 2004
Emily: Piss Bath (Fm ws)
Bath time is a very private pleasure. The main light off, but with little candles dotted around the bath, I lie up to my neck in bubbly hot water, barely able to reach up for the tall glass of whisky on the rocks: clam, quiet, relaxed. It's my time. It's stare at the ceiling, defocused time. My thoughtless son strides in.
"Oh sorry, Mum!"
"It's OK, darling" What's done is done. It's less fuss just to let him do his business. He takes out his cock, barely visible inside his hand as he pulls back his foreskin, and starts to freely piss loudly into the toilet bowl. How much noise can going to the toilet create?
I watch him. He watches me, watching. I sit up in the bath. Islands of bubbles float slowly down my chest, and drip up my erect nipples. Jack closes his foreskin over the tip of his peeing cock, and takes the two steps from the toilet to the bath. His foreskin bloats into a ball of piss, until his fingers let go and a volley of piss blasts across my neck. He slowly waves his stiffening cock from side to side, chasing the bubbles down and off my small breasts. What a lovely feeling.
I tilt my head forward, to place my mouth in the way of my son's streaming urine. But too late, his bladder empties. I likely suck on the tip of my boy's cock, but the reach forward is too far, too uncomfortable, and I sink slowly back down into my bath. I can smell my son's testosterone in the bath water.
"Suck me, Mum" my greedy boy commands, stroking his now full erection.
"No honey, Mummy needs to relax."
So my boy just stands there, mute, peering down at me and my soapy nakedness, masturbating, his stringy balls getting tighter. I look up at him with doe eyes, and slowly move my hand around, fondling my breasts, pinching my nipples, and stroking the bald mound of my vulva. His wide eyes follow my tantalising hand. His hand pumps his solid cock. I pull back the skin above my pussy, and trickle of pee arches up and back on to my tummy. The pee grows stronger, and it reaches my chest, rattling on my rib cage.
I crane my neck to see if I can't piss myself in the face, but I can't reach that far. But it doesn't matter, as great slugs of cum splatter across the side of my face, down in my hair, and over my earrings.
I lie back, my bladder empty, rubbing the sticky seamen into my skin. Jake spurts a little spray of piss from his deflating cock over my boob. Then pops the boyish organ back in his trousers, and licks the bridge of his hand - between his thumb and index finger - where a slim of cum has deposited itself. He turns to go.
"Wash your hands after going to bathroom" I chide, fondly.
Reluctantly, he touches soap, and then strides out safe from the need to ejaculate for another hour.
Tuesday, March 02, 2004
Emily: Chateaux Piss 2004 (FM ws)
In lieu of a proper sex life I was hoovering up some porn, and came across a long video of a bizarre piss competition. I didn't follow the narrative (well, it was porn!), but it seemed to consist of a bunch of Brzilian women in a circle taking it in turns to pee into the mouths of a couple of them.
So far, so pervertedly normal. But what took my interest was watching how the drinker's faces changed after they'd had enough. They became all puffy and bloated, until they just couldn't drink anymore. Now I quite like drinking a bit of pee, but really I enjoy being peed on (and peeing on others). So I never quite get into the litre drinking thing that these girls were doing, or that my friend Lindsey loves to do. But then Lindsey has almost a different fetish to me.
Lindsey is piss drinker, big time. She stores up her family's piss in old cola plastic bottles, labels them (whose piss, and whether it's an early morning piss), and pops them into a fridge in the garage. She then drinks the piss (usually warmed in the microwave, though apparently she does like cold piss on her morning cereal), and uses it in her beauty regimen as a skin treatment.
Now this is all a higher level of organisation and analness than I can sustain. I just like to be pissed up, especially in my clothes and in my face and hair, so that I get all wet and messy. But, in the interests of being vaguely interested, I asked hubby to feed me his piss so that I could see what that over saturated bloated piss drinking feeling was like.
So hubby and I went to the shower room, where I put a towel down for my knees and kneeled down so that hubby could piss slowly in my mouth. Well there was the first problem - blokes only have an On switch - stopping and then starting again and then stopping and then ... - so that I had a chance to swallow, all proved a bit difficult for hubby. Either that, or I've just got him well trained for drenching. Anyhow, so the choices were, hubby could hose me down with his piss, or not piss at all. He has no middle setting.
So I tipped out the dregs of a tonic water bottle, and got hubby to fill that up, and then drank from that instead. Now this was late evening beer piss - nearly clear - more camomile tea than early morning piss' stiff English Breakfast Tea. So it was pretty tasteless, and got cool pretty quickly. The first big mug full was pretty easy to drink. But after that it was like a trip-wire - I'm fine ... oh dear No! I'm not fine! Which I have to say, didn't seem that pleasant to me. Specially as I had to get up a couple of times in the night to piss away the piss that I'd drunk.
Which just goes to show ... something. You can share the same fetish but get completely different things out of it? Beer is better before it's been through someone else's kidneys? You can't fuck with homeostasis? Well, I like to think, I've just got better things to do than label bottles of piss ... though I'd be hard put to list them just now, but give me a chance!
Monday, March 01, 2004
Emily: Catchy-Uppy (chat)
Me | Emily
OK, well, I'm afraid to say (as I realise to some I am that slut role model) that my sex life has been fairly modest lately. Have a look at the last blog for some ideas why. You ever find your life has suddenly run down a rabbit hole, and you release you haven't seen daylight in ages - well that's me! But don't worry, I'm going to have a concerted effort to get into someone's knickers.
The daughter | Laura
Is studying for her A Levels this summer. I am impressed with how focused she is at the moment. Bad mock exams have that wake up call on some people! And I'm relieved she passed her driving test (at the third attempt). So I don't mind that see's got a regular girlfriend (if it isn't too silly to call a woman in her early thirties a girlfriend). It's nothing serious, and it means when she goes out on a Saturday night, she doesn't come back completely smashed at 6am and we not see her all Sunday.
The son | Jack
His voice has gone of croaky. His personality has gone neanderthal. His conversation is via grunts. And his bedsheets are very stained. Coming up to fourteen, he very clearly doesn't want his mum right now.
The hubby | Anthony
Has slimmed right down (Yah! Go slim guy!). Hmmmm, hunky. If only I could cure him of his telly napping habit, then it would be like having my frisky ole man back. I'm afraid my lack of life has been cramping his style too, as he's had to be at home more to cover for my absenses. Sorry about that darling.
The sister and bro-in-law | Katie and Robert
They're still working flat out with their massage parlour, though it is doing well - even though post-Christmas is a quiet time - one very much for the regulars. Robert's branching out, so Katie is keeping it ticking over. That manly seems to be about keeping the girls in check, making sure they are presentable, on time, drug free.
The bestest friend | Lindsey
Naturally I've been neglecting Lindsey, and I haven't seen her since the New Year. But from the weekly phone calls, she is at least getting her knickers off. She's having an affair with a junior in her team at work and then gloating to me about having a toyboy (grrrrrrrh, lucky cow!)
The neighbour | Cheryl
Cheryl has blossomed since her abusive husband got put away, and is currently dating one of the PE teachers at school (Cheryl works in the School Office at my school). So far I've resisted making any fascist jokes about PE teachers - but it can't be long before I bust!
My Mates | Rose, Lynn, Annie, Rachel
Rose is struggling with her stables business. The business is doing fine, but keeping stable-girls and boys to help run the place is a constant nightmare. (I had a very boring lunch with her an Katie, were they both moaned about the difficulty of finding good staff.) I haven't seen Lynn since the autumn, and giving her a ring is definately on my To Do list. Annie is going through a bit of dark patch - will she forever be alone, kind of thing, so I'm the phone quite a bit. And Rachel is off at a residental course, but the last time I saw her, and slept together, she was as funny and bonny and dirty as ever, bless.
My Colleagues | Rob, Jo (Joanne), Joanna
Rob is as ever trying to get into my knickers (or anybodies). I ought to let him, but I've been too distracted. Jo has been fantastic - I couldn't of handled my promotion half as well without her support and quite a bit of covering of my classes. And Joanna is the new babe on the block. She's come up from Primary School, so has that slight wide-eyed air about her, but is knuckling down to the different discipline of being a High School teacher. I'm afraid I have a bit of a crush on her, so steel yourself for hearing me witter on about her virtues in the new future. The big trouble is: Is she? And if she is, will she with me? She seems pretty gay to me, but Jo totally disagrees, and she has usually better gaydar than me.
OK, I think that's everyone who is anyone is my (erotic) life.