I have come here to tell you about how I touch myself, how I try to tame the passions I set raging in me, how I masturbate, how I pleasure myself with my little “tool”. This is hard to explain because I am innately modest and I had never done this until recently when my desire to have a man inside me became too great to bear. I had never really been in the habit of masturbating until I rekindled my love with with this one special lover. I want to share this site with him and through this I want him to know me, every facet of me, whatever he wants to know.
When I feel passions rising within me, I re-live times lovers and I have spent together. I can watch them undress. I love to watch them undress. Just the look on their faces is
enough to make me feel warm and wet. But oh when I see the shape of a man’s chest, the sculpture and stunning contours of pectorals, arms, and shoulders, I am smitten. Then I see him as he unbuckles his belt and as his jeans slide over his trim hips his glorious hard cock springs toward me, astonishing me each time I see its incredibly perfect shape, the color of the inside of seashells, of a stormy sunset.
Even as I am typing my thighs are tensing and my pussy
is contracting with the rhythm of my heartbeat.
Typically, as I surrender to the desire to masturbate, I am in bed. I have on a white nightshirt. I am wearing panties. This is how I sleep. I leave them on for awhile and stroke my fur through the fabric. As the warmth gathers, I reach under it and touch. I pull off my shirt and feel the cool sheets against my bare skin, my panties come off and imagine that my lover sees the petals that open to him like a flower in the sun. Heliotropic. My fingers, as he commanded, become his, combing my long fur up and out of the way. I am slippery and the slide of my fingers pretends to be his mouth and tongue. I remember how his eyes follow my face, watching my delight, his chin nestled in my mound.
Probing my pussy, I squeeze and tighten on one or two, even three fingers deep inside me. I recall the feel of his cock, wide and hard and there is nothing that feels that wonderful to me. With my other hand I caress my breasts and pull gently on my dark nipples. I can pull my outer labia apart and
stroke my fur, every part of me is craving his touch. I can gently ply my labia with my middle and ring fingers
while stroking and pressing against my pubic bone with
my thumb. When I am aroused by images of a lover, which of course is constantly, but when I give in to the arousal, I
become very aware of each nerve in my body. The fur
of my mound becomes incredibly sensitive, to the point
that if I comb it with my fingers, I become very warm. I like to put conditioner in it to make it softer. Stroking my
fingers or my tool against my mound through my cotton
panties sends streaks of seering heat into my core.
My hips are lifting, my back is arching, lifting the
petals closer to the sun.
I am distracted by the sensation of being touched and touching, so I find my smooth wooden handle and cover it with soft cloth. I push against this, rocking my hips and stroking my mound against it. Pushing the rounded end into me I can let it penetrate, not far, maybe an inch because it is does not have any give, no arch. I have to be gentle because it is not flesh and blood. When it’s inside me and I squeeze, I never have to put my knees together because I have enough internal muscle control to isolate without my large muscles!
With a man I can be gentle or strong and not be hurt.
Nothing can come close to imitating the way our bodies
fit together. The amazing shape of his cock which to
me is so beautiful. The caress of my labia down its
length as he plunges deep within me. I miss that. The tool is a poor substitute, but at least I can get a tiny bit of relief, but it is a similar shape and allows me to feel more like one half of a couple, rather than both at once.
The tool is smooth maple and was once the handle of a Barbeque tool. Carved into it are a few concentric rings, but they don't matter because the wood doesn't touch my skin. As I said, I cover it with soft fabric. It has a rounded end, very smooth. It is a perfect hand-held object and mainly provides resistance that has no sensors of its own. The "tool" provides more flexibility and is portable, you see.
My tool allows me to change positions more naturally - natural being how I behave (or misbehave) when I am in my lover’s arms. When I am with him, I love it when we change from me straddling him to some other way. I try to touch myself from other directions.
I find that sometimes having my hands attached to my arms, puts them at unuseful angles! They are designed to caress him. I find that sometimes my fingers are sending me so many messages that my brain goes off in too many directions. The tool allows me to imagine differently.
Mainly, it is the mixed signals to my mind when my fingers are sending messages about my touch, texture, warmth - that's when I switch to the "tool".
I find that the resistance is very pleasant lying down or kneeling, plus it leaves me a free hand. I find my hips lifting as I do. I can easily and comfortably balance on my shoulders, if I have no pillow under my head. (I see that this comes naturally, like a plant growing). When I lift my hips this way for him, his penis plunges deep into me and I love to feel him pounding against my core. With my tool, I can't do that, but nonetheless, I rise to meet it and have a rhythm of both tool and hips that plays together. I am filled
with longing for his touch. To hold him inside me,
to have my hands full of him. I want to ride him into
the sunset.
All of my movements are an attempt to imitate him, how
he would react to the particular moment and circumstances. If it is daytime, I may kneel and plant the tool against the floor and rub against it with my fur side first. I am more sensitive when it is not a direct contact with my clitoris. In fact, the other tissues around pulling and the pressure against my pubic bone seem to trigger my orgasms. Then I will gently stroke myself along length of the tool with my labia, very much as if he were lying beneath me. I let the end of it slightly open my lips and I roll and circle my hips. I enjoy arching my back and feeling the strength in my legs. I let my hips rock and push, to echo his thrusts. I know my body and my energy and how I make love. I try to imitate that as much as possible, because the pleasure that I find masturbating is due to probably 90 percent imagination and memory.
I was in a masturbation frenzy last night. I stayed up late trying to sleep, I finally relaxed myself with soothing caresses and became quite aroused, even though I was exhausted. My mind was filled with the wonders of his face looking down into mine. I focused on remembering the rhythms of our bodies in motion. I began reading a bedtime story he had written. I had printed it to read in my bedroom in privacy. I found myself frantically kissing even the pages it was printed on and I was almost floating or dreaming while I reached a climax.
I lay in bed savoring the delicious glow, listening to the occasional nightbird, the crickets, and the breeze. It was late and the house was dark and silent. I let my hands sooth my skin, but as I thought of his hands, my skin became like an instrument to be strummed and tuned. I wondered if he could feel my skin begging for his fingers. My thighs were like silk and my fur like a velvety moss. Every nerve was firing in turn. My hands are a poor substitute for his and
I crave the weight and heat of his body against me,
the sounds of our shared passion, our mingled
heartbeats, his slightly open mouth, his eyes
smiling at mine. Memories of these are sweet and I
gently moved against my little tool, the slight
penetration raising my fires. I reach orgasm easily,
still craving to be filled to my soul with him, to
hold him in my arms for hours and then wake him up
with kisses.
It is very true that whenever I caress myself,
whenever I lie down to sleep, and countless other
times every day, it is he that I am trying to evoke.
It is as if I get it just right he will actually
appear. So my hands try to become his, my fingers,
my "little tool" only attempt to mimic the wonder of
his marvelous (glorious!) cock. I imagine him
standing before me naked, alabaster and rosy. When he
barely enters me and we're moving slowly, letting our
bodies explore and caress, it is indescribably lovely
and tender. And my insatiable hunger for him deepens
with each touch. Then I begin to feel this wave of
power gathering in his torso and hips and he moves
into me deeper and faster, beating a rhythm in the
depths of me and I become part of that rhythm. I am
full of him and part of him. My back and legs and
every muscle is timed to our shared passion. His face
is full of light and a serene focus. I am watching
his face and connecting it with the joy flowing
through me, the waves of power and heat that have
engulfed us. The feel of him inside me as we arch and
twist, knowing that for this time our bodies and
spirits are complete - is so utterly satisfying that
one night can last for years (if need be!)
I woke this morning and tried to read. My mind was on
him. I re-read his emails and went to take a shower. (My shower has glass on two sides so anyone walking in sees whatever there is to see.) Showering only stirred the passions, remembering many showers I have shared and the slide of our bodies, the close embrace with water streaming over us. I washed my hair, then my muff. My fingers slipped
inside and my hips were rocking. I stroked my mound against my soapy palm and squeezed my fingers rhythmically till I nearly collapsed in orgasm.
I dried off and spread a towel on the carpet in the sun. I resumed my lifting and spread Vitamin E on my labia to make them even more slippery and soft. I explored the inside of
my vagina pushing against the soft cushioned walls.
There is a skylight in that room and the morning sky
was like looking up into his blue eyes. I used my
little tool and had another orgasm and clasped it with
my muscles, holding on as long as I could. It feels so
good.
When I was finished, the ache remained. I wanted him in my arms. I wanted to feel our bodies like his hand in my glove,
tight, warm, wet. To feel him slip out and lay beside
me, smiling, exhausted, and content. To kiss him over
and over. To wake him up in the morning with new
surprises. To find 1000 more ways and reasons to love
him.
Tonight, I will drift away to images of him stradeling me in
bed, and the fire that rages through me as I watch him
moving against me, his cock deep inside me, caressing
my womb as I search out every place where our touch unleashes showers of immeasurable beauty. I'm seeing us this way now. This is an exact and perfect description of what happens. Nothing can duplicate that extraordinary caress between us, inside me, the surge of the power of beauty. I want so badly to caress him and take him into my mouth and into my pussy, to feel the thrust of his perfect hips and bottom pounding against me in the rhythm of a raging sea.
As I sit here thinking of all this, I feel ripples of
heat flowing over my breasts, up my thighs, and I am
tightening to a rhythm that has seized control. I
will now go to bed craving his touch.
