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Posts Tagged ‘masturbation’

  1. Nurse Heather

    September 5, 2015 by Heather Cole

    Depositphotos_Nurse Heather_2

     

    When you hear the words ‘medical scene,’ what images come to mind? For me, I see a scene in grainy, black and white, with Germans in uniforms and lab coats looming over some hapless patient strapped to a metal examination table. The words send a shiver over me that is equal parts fear and excitement. I’ve never experienced a medical scene myself, but I’ve always been fascinated/afraid of them. Luckily for me, I got the chance to participate in one without being the victim… er, patient. I was invited to assist Dr. Dominant as her nurse, and I eagerly accepted–excited to finally experience some medical play.

    The patient had a medical fetish and would become aroused by both auditory and physical sensations related to medical procedures. Meaning that he found the physical sensation of a medical exam (being poked and prodded) erotic, as well as the noises of the exam (the clink of metal instruments) and the medical terms we spoke. He particularly enjoyed proper, anatomically correct words, and to be observed and objectified.

    Dr. D was dressed professionally in a black pencil skirt and black, platform heels, with a white doctor’s coat and a pair of glasses perched on her nose. Her demeanor never strayed from that of a stern, slightly aloof professional, and she was specific with her instructions and expectations of the patient. I tried not to giggle with eagerness, because it would have blown my cover as an experienced nurse.

    The patient lay on the examination table after having stripped off all his clothes. He was a man in his sixties, with a thick shock of graying hair and piercing eyes. His large cock stood at attention in anticipation of the exam. I looked him over with a friendly smile and an appreciative eye, admiring his nude body.

    Dr. D ignored my titters and immediately began discussing the patient with me as if he were only a body on the table. We reviewed his chart and discussed how to conduct his exam.

    My job as nurse was to assist the doctor, but also to be a supportive presence and to offer comfort when needed. (When I played with Dr. D, I liked to think of myself as the “good” cop to her “bad” cop.) Even though the patient eagerly submitted to the exam and had, in fact, requested specific aspects of it, I was there to stroke his arm in support and reassure him.

    We began with the basics: tested his reflexes, listened to his heartbeat and pulses, inspected his mouth and ears, then examined his rectum with well-lubed fingers, his prostate, and gave him an enema for cleansing. He moaned with arousal when I said, “Dr. D, the patient has taken the entire enema.” And when she replied, “The patient’s rectum is thirsty,” he squirmed with excitement. But that was also a sign that he needed to expel the enema. *wink wink*

    Dr. D adjusted the height of the medical stand to slow the flow of water from the rubber bag hanging from it. “Nurse Heather,” she said, “we need to test the patient’s eyesight. Please lift your scrubs, and we’ll see if he can see your vagina.”

    I obeyed, and the patient’s eyes grew wide as I slowly lifted the skirt of my uniform. I only permitted him to see the juncture of my thighs, thoroughly enjoying the tease.

    “May I touch?” he whispered.

    “First of all, you must ask my permission before you ask for Heather’s,” Dr. D said in a cold voice. “And no, you may not touch Nurse Heather there. Nurse Heather, however, may touch herself.”

    I grinned and let two of my fingers make gentle circles over my clit.

    “You’re masturbating!” the patient exclaimed.

    “Our medical practice believes in fostering a healthy sexual life,” Dr. D replied.

    I couldn’t help myself. The playful nature of the scene had caused my own arousal to build, and I slipped two fingers between my folds. Hearing the patient express his appreciation of my body, made me wet. I was having so much fun that an orgasm already shimmered just below my skin.

    “I can hear how wet she is,” the patient said with awe. “This is the most erotic experience I’ve ever had.”

    “Nurse Heather,” Dr. D said, a small smile on her lips, “you may orgasm when you wish.”

    It didn’t take much to push me into that golden release, and the orgasm rushed through me in moments. I laughed and gasped at the force of the pleasure.

    “I can’t believe you came that fast,” the patient said.

    I smiled as I cleaned my hands. “The fact that you were so pleased by our scene made me want to come with happiness.” And that was the truth.

    It turned out that this medical scene wasn’t at all like I’d imagined. Of course, that’s because it wasn’t my scene, with me on the examination table. I was only in a supporting role. But it’s reassuring to know that I don’t have to go plunging into the terrifying/exhilarating medical scene that I’ve seen in German porn in order to experience medical play. There are baby steps, fun steps, that I can experience as I familiarize myself with the new (to me) medical frontier of BDSM. Also, my next nurse’s uniform is going to be latex, or like Daryl Hannah’s in Kill Bill. 


  2. The Masturbation Monologue

    February 13, 2015 by Nikki Blue

    masturbation-sex-positive-parenting-sex-blog-vagina-antics

     

    Photo via Depositphotos

    I must have been only seven or eight years old when my mother slid open the frosted glass shower door, catching me as I explored my clitoris in the privacy of the tub. Her eyes flew open wide and she gasped as if it were the most horrific thing she had ever happened upon. She snatched me by my arm until I stood naked on the blue bath mat, my heart thumping wildly in my chest. I’m certain it must have stung at least a little when the palm of her hand connected with my wet thigh two, maybe three times, but what I remember from that moment were her words; the judgement on her brow. She scolded me, pointing her manicured finger at my face while saying I was to never EVER touch my privates again, that doing so was a sin and God would know if I did. The ‘God card’ is funny when I think about it now, because my mother is and always has been about as religious as my shoe.

    My mother never spoke of that incident again, and it was her reaction that sparked the feeling that something was wrong with me for my sexual urges. It didn’t stop me from evolving into a very sexual creature, but the feeling of defectiveness plagued me for thirty-something years. I don’t ever want either of my children to feel the sex or self-pleasure they choose is shameful and dirty. So the Saturday morning my teenage daughter sat cross-legged on the center of the kitchen island while I made coffee, I let out a breath and went for it.

    “If you haven’t looked at yourself with a mirror, you need to,” I said as I leaned against the counter across from her, drinking coffee from my pink ‘Queen of Everything’ mug. “And don’t think it’s weird to do so, because it’s not.”

    She nodded, surprisingly not mortified that her mother had just suggested she examine the reflection of her most intimate parts, so I took that as a green light to continue the conversation. From there, I slid gracefully into masturbation, making sure she understood it’s perfectly natural and something she should never let anyone make her feel ashamed of.

    “Look at it this way, if you don’t know what you like or don’t like, how are you going to tell someone else when that time comes?”

    “True. Do we have waffles?”

    And just like that, she took control, closing the topic without so much as a pregnant pause. I smiled inwardly, proud of the girl who is like me in ways she has yet to realize.

    My daughter is sixteen and the relationship I have with her is the polar opposite of the one I had with my mother when I was her age. Hell, the one I still have. I’ve worked hard to make sure she knows she can come to me with ANYTHING without fear of judgement. I don’t break a sweat or dance awkwardly around topics that make most parents, I assume, terribly uncomfortable. I talk openly with her about sex and safety, pubic hair options and the pros and cons of it, slut-shaming, BDSM, and the newest feather to my sex-positive parenting cap, masturbation. Some of my friends are horrified by the words that pass between mother and child, saying they would never talk with their children about such things. They judge me a little, but that’s okay because I know my kids will be equipped with the knowledge they need, and I’m pretty sure that makes me the best mom ever.


  3. Masturbation Monday: The Cucumber

    October 13, 2014 by Heather Cole

    Cucumber Pic

     

    It’s an old cliche:  the bored housewife decides to use a cucumber as a masturbation device. I had joked about surveying the produce aisle for sex toys, but in all my years as a sexually active woman, I had never placed food in my vagina. In fact, Nikki and I have preached, “NO FOOD IN THE VAG” for as long as we’ve had this blog. Because let’s face it, the vagina is a delicate ladygarden. A cucumber, though, with it’s protective peel and generous girth… I mean, it really gets one’s imagination spinning. Right?!

    Last Wednesday found me seated in a plush chair facing the flatscreen of my computer, my thighs spread wide for sir to see. I was nude and carefully positioned so that I was completely exposed. He stared at me from beneath heavy lidded eyes and gave me instructions in a voice that made goosebumps ripple over my flesh. It didn’t matter to me that half the world separated us physically. He was my Dominant regardless of distance, and despite the prickly feeling of vulnerability, I responded in the same way that I did when he was directly next to me. The man owned me, body and heart. And my responses were partially the product of habit and training, and partly devotion.

    His first command was that I fellate the cucumber. I blinked at him and felt ridiculous, but I did as I was told. I awkwardly placed the wide vegetable in my mouth, the taste of green peel coating my tongue. As sir coached me with encouraging words, I moved the cucumber in and out, pushing it further and further into the back of my throat. It was much wider than my esophagus and could only go so far. With watering eyes, I pulled it out and gasped for air.

    “It’s too big, Daddy,” I said and wiped my eyes.

    “You’re such a good girl to try. I miss your mouth, whore.”

    I blushed and squirmed beneath his gaze, unbidden lust rising inside me. I had been so careful to keep my desires leashed. Shoved inside a steel trunk and wrapped in chains, they had sunk to a shadowy place inside me while I dealt with the sadness of sir’s departure. I had spent weeks mourning the distance that now separated us, and more than one of our calls had consisted of me weeping in front of the computer. My body missed him with a physical ache, but I refused to acknowledge how deeply that sexual need was rooted. Dealing with the day-to-day challenges of missing him filled my time. I wasn’t ready to open the trunk and feel all of that captive sexual energy pour forth.

    A towel stretched beneath me to protect the fabric of the chair from lube and my own juices. A second cucumber and the bottle of lube sat on the table next to the computer, and I had two extra-large condoms nearby as well. Sir’s low voice demanded that I lube up the American cucumber. (The English cucumber was saved for my ass and a later date). I adjusted the angle of my hips so that they were raised slightly and squeezed more lube on to my fingers. My fingers worked the cool liquid around the lips of my pussy and then into the wet heat. I was physically ready, my body responding eagerly to the stimulus and my master’s presence.

    Nervousness made my hand tremble as I placed the cold cucumber at the entrance to my vagina, and in slow increments, I pushed it inside. It felt smooth and alien, stretching me wide. I glanced up at the computer screen to see sir’s eyes widen and a slow grin cross his face.

    “That is so fucking hot,” he said. “Now fuck yourself faster.”

    I complied, my eyes falling to the side as I felt another blush start. Spreading myself open for another person wasn’t exactly new territory for me, but there was something extra dirty about being on camera. Maybe it was the anonymity of it even though I knew the man on the other side intimately. And then there was the foreign object that I used to impale myself. I felt wicked which lent an illicit quality to my masturbation. All these elements combined into a whirlwind that fueled my desire.

    Every thought left my head, though, when I changed the cucumber’s angle to stroke along my G-spot. Suddenly my entire physical awareness snapped to attention, every synapse and nerve focused on the building pressure of an orgasm. My gaze met sir’s in an unspoken question.

    “I want you to get close, but I’m not going to let you come. You’re not permitted to come,” he said sternly.

    I nodded, too engrossed in the pleasure that rolled through my body. I was almost there.

    “Please may I come, Daddy?” I panted.

    “Beg.”

    “Please please please may this girl come, Daddy? Please let this girl come for you.”

    The words slurred in the rush to expel them. My hand slipped along the cucumber that was now slippery with my arousal. I could feel my inner muscles tightening in anticipation of orgasm, and the vibrations, both and internal, almost pushed me over the edge. The fantasy in my head imagined that I could feel

    “Come for me, baby.”

    The orgasm exploded, golden sparks of ecstasy sparking through me. My eyes squeezed shut, and I cried out, the cucumber falling from my hand. Sir murmured his appreciation as I fell back, my legs sprawled like a rag doll.

    “You’re such a dirty girl barebacking a cucumber like that,” he said with a smile.

    I giggled. “I probably should have bought organic.”

    “Thank you, Daddy. This girl is happy to please you.” I made a motion to sit up, but he stopped me.

    “Let yourself relax and enjoy this moment. There’s nothing but me and you. No rush. No responsibilities.”

    Two months ago I would have placed my head on his lap so he could stroke my hair as I basked in the afterglow. That was impossible at the moment, so I smiled and let my eyes drift shut. Sir was right. For this brief space, it was only the two of us again. I loved being there with him, and at the same time, I acknowledged that it was fleeting. We couldn’t remain on Skype forever.

    “Pick up the cucumber, babygirl. I want you to go again.”

    I pushed away the bittersweet thoughts to grab the vegetable. Later I would peel and slice the still-warm cucumber for my salad. Dinner would be eaten alone with the erotic thoughts of my faraway lover and the echoing sensations of our electronic date. First, though, I had to orgasm again.

     

    Want more #masturbationmonday? Check out Kayla Lords’s post and the other steamy, sexy participants!

     

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  4. Orgasm Evolution

    August 8, 2013 by Nikki Blue

    I discovered orgasms at a very young age. I had no idea what the delicious sensation was, but I knew I liked it. A lot. I eventually experimented, figuring out different ways to evoke the powerful waves of pleasure. Some were creative and the orgasms were exciting. Others were just weird and embarrassing to admit. I was fifteen before I was able to orgasm during sex, though. I realize that’s young, but I’d been sexually active for a year by then. Very active to be honest. But no one before the Bad Boy had the skill required or the time to invest in my orgasms. Okay, let’s be realistic for a minute. ‘Time’ is a luxury most teenage dudes don’t have when they’re inside a vagina. And since we’re being honest, the same goes for some dudes well into their twenties. AMIRIGHT, ladies?

    In my twenties, I toyed with most of the men I encountered. I took great pleasure in teasing them to the edge of orgasm until they begged me or fucked me. It was a win/win as far as I was concerned. The control I took from them made me feel powerful. I found it incredibly arousing and their orgasms were confirmation that I had played the game well. That strength was an illusion, though. It wasn’t real. The truth was I was full of invisible cracks. I was still reeling from years of manipulation and unwanted pain at the hands of the Bad Boy. Like a vampire, he fed on the power I gave him over me, eventually draining me dry. He took pleasure in hurting me knowing orgasmic euphoria would make me forget. And it did. Down the road, I found myself searching for that same control induced high, and if an orgasm didn’t happen, I shattered.

    I ignored the demons of my past and moved into a marriage that was destined for failure. Like my persona, my orgasms underwent a complete make-over. They were no longer multiple. They were no longer powerful, and they were no longer important to anyone but me. Give and take wasn’t a concept my ex husband understood in life or sex, and it quickly became a chore. The event was nothing more than an obligation to meet. It was boring and it was painfully predictable. I learned to fake my orgasms, poorly I might add. The sooner it was over, though, the sooner I could pull down my t-shirt and straighten my ponytail. I could turn the lights on again, clean up the wet mess between my legs, and resume watching whatever show I’d paused on TV.

    My demons eventually reminded me of their existence, and when they did, my marriage collapsed. I grew tired of suppressing them and called them out one by one. I faced them all, taking back the power I’d given them. That renewed strength helped me discover myself and my orgasms again.

    I say that I wasn’t looking for Mr. K when he found me, but then again, maybe I was and just didn’t realize it. He stimulated me, he captivated me, and he released a sexual freedom inside that I never knew I was capable of. I confess, though, the first time he pulled me off of him sans orgasm, I freaked out a little as whispers of past insecurities began to materialize. It didn’t matter that we’d fucked for hours and he’d already had two orgasms to my <checks spreadsheet> twenty-one. In my mind, I’d failed to get him off. He did his best to reassure me that nothing was wrong, that he loved making me orgasm and he didn’t always need to. According to him, just being inside me felt fucking amazing.

    I still wasn’t buying it.

    “It’s not about the destination,” he countered. “It’s about the journey.”

    What does that even mean?

    It took more than a few swallows to choke down my pride, but when I finally did, I was able to see what he meant by “journey.” For us, the journey is all of it. It’s fucking one minute and making love the next. It’s kissing and talking and laughing. It’s everything that makes the sex we have so fucking fantastic. The amazing orgasms are just a bonus along the way.

    I won’t lie and say my demons don’t try to trick me into giving them power from time to time. They totally do. But I’m stronger than they are now and I’ve learned how to manage them, mostly. My life and my orgasms are my own again. They’re no longer used to manipulate me and I no longer use them to gain control. The orgasms I have with Mr. K are unlike any I’ve experienced before. They’re intense, but they’re also honest, if that makes any sense outside of my head. There’s no confusion attached to them and there’s no hiding who I am holding them back. There is complete acceptance, flaws and all. And that’s pretty fucking awesome.