Category Archives: Filthy ones
Watching my boyfriend masturbate to porn: hottest moments
Watching my boyfriend masturbate is one of my favourite treats. If you offered me the choice between it, or a trip to Thorpe Park, I’d tell you to crack out the lube because the Saw rollercoaster is disappointing in comparison. I’ve already told you about watching him wank in the shower, so for those who enjoyed that (and there are, apparently, plenty of you), here’s a more recent iteration: watching my boyfriend masturbate to porn. Let’s break down some of the hottest moments in a kind of highlight reel.
Fuckstick adventures: I got fucked with a dildo on a stick
The fuckstick makes him feel powerful, he tells me. A fuckstick, in case you were wondering, is quite literally a dildo on a stick – a fat blue silicone cock moulded, in this case, onto just over a metre of solid wooden handle, with a leather grip at the other end. Thanks to my site sponsors Godemiche for sending me this wand of wonder. It’s a sex toy that invites dominance. It oozes power. The very act of holding it makes his lip curl upwards in a dominant sneer, and allows him the confidence to issue me strict instructions: “Bend over.”
Masturbation Monday: Self-love affair
This is a post written for Masturbation Monday, inspired by the lovely image above from Floss Does Life. I am terrible at taking part in blogging memes, but I’ve wanted to do Masturbation Monday for a while because I really enjoy reading the hot entries people contribute each week. This week I spotted this photo and it gave me an instant idea for this woman, and this quick story.
“Let’s swap clothes”: Watching my boyfriend strip for me
I like it when he wears my knickers. I like it when he wears short silk shorts, too – the kind he’s bought for me but that look too good on him for us not to share the pleasure. Given my love of seeing him wearing my clothes, it’s inevitable that one night I suggest to him: “Let’s swap clothes.”
Make up sex: I’d forgotten what kisses taste like
When the fuck is done, he doesn’t ask why I’m crying. Even though this is make up sex, and this weeping is more intense than any that’s come before. He doesn’t ask why, he just holds me. Kneeling on the floor, with my arms wrapped round his neck, and his spunk rapidly cooling on the inside of my thighs, I sob and sob and sob. And he doesn’t ask me why.