Let me begin by saying that I am delighted to have the opportunity to share my particular fetish with you here. I do not believe anyone could consider it vile, horrid or in any way despicable, but then again nor do I intend to make any apologies for it. I shall tell you a little more about myself as we go along, evidently, but concerning this penchant of mine I am pleased to report that I have successfully explored a number of the possibilities it offers in the flesh, as it were, although unfortunately certain aspects of its extensive scope continue to elude me. I might add that in the meantime I do my level best to compensate for this by giving my imagination free rein in unbridled fantasy, until such time as I can actually realise these exploits.
I shall also recount these fantasies to you, esteemed reader, and I hope you shall enjoy reading and thinking about both them and my actual escapades at least half as much as I do. Please remember there can be no greater reward for me if my scribblings can assist in any way with your pleasuring of yourself or others. Indeed, should this be the case, I implore you to do me the honour of telling me so with as little or as much detail as you like, as I just know that kind of spicy news shall render me deliciously hot and bothered, and spur me on no end here at my desk!
You are all doubtless intelligent people out there, and thus I feel sure that the title of my narration is largely self-explanatory. I have already mentioned “my particular fetish”. Nevertheless, I suppose everyone does not restrict themselves to a single fetish, and I am no exception. I could in fact say that I may also become very aroused indeed by, say, the latex or leather community – as a mere example plucked at random, by contemplating a long juicy member complete with chunky, hardy balls poking out from a leather crotch pouch, pistoning relentlessly between heavily swollen blood-red labia insolently framed bursa escort by a jet-black ring of wet tousled bush, a pummelled and pounded pussy jerked back and forth gloriously and helplessly, wantonly laid bare at the centre of a jagged hole torn roughly out of her thin white latex jumpsuit by the muscle-bound, masked man mounting this filly, riding her lovebox hard, riding it harder and riding it harder still as she brays at him to bring about her thundering orgasm (ooh – such a sexy little frisson came upon me just now as I finished that sentence …!). You get the idea. But it does not necessarily have to be so intricate. On a much simpler plane, the idea of a double or triple penetration, sweaty, slippery and slithery amid much loud plaintive moaning and primitive base grunting, will always get my dainty hands diving into sodden, sopping, soaking panties too.
These concepts, however, are as nothing compared to the utter ecstasy visited upon me by the sight of a quivering cock ejecting a welcome warm stream of man juice, and specifically when it is one of the aforementioned dainty hands that is triumphantly milking out a satisfyingly sticky load. Just to make things clear at the outset, I should point out I am well aware that ladies who indulge in this are occasionally dubbed – most needlessly and downright offensively, in my opinion – femdom sluts, hand-jobbers or tug-jobbers. To me, my fetish of coaxing a man’s throbbing staff to full-scale liquid lift-off all over my own hand and pinkies, my mouth and tongue or indeed any part of my face, my trembling thighs, the curly darkness of my own moist cave, my average-sized but firm breasts featuring large pink nipples – of which I am particularly proud, as they are easily caressed, licked or slurped to “chapel peg” levels of hardness – or simply sending those ropes high into the air, or gasping in delight at the sight of malatya escort my little velvet-gloved mitt delivering a powerful charge onto the grateful lips of a girlfriend or two of mine who have occasionally seen fit to share my come conquests, as I shall relate to you at some point, is like a piece of art, an infinitely beautiful sight to behold, and thus I cannot abide the above expressions to describe those of us who are mesmerised by the practice. Indeed, I shudder in distress when I hear or read them. Pray never associate me with such repulsive terms, I implore you.
So now you know. Happiness for me is purely and simply a spurting cock, and so much the better if my hands can be instrumental in the spurting. Perhaps you do not think it is a proper fetish, merely a fixation, and you may well be right; as I have just said, I am keen on other sundry practices too – again, I shall describe these to you when the time is right – but sperm-watching and sperm-milking are definitely what I like best. It is, in any case, immaterial, as this is not, of course, a competition of categories.
In the next chapter I shall be taking my thoughts back to when I first discovered the joys of spunk. Oh, spunk, yes, I hasten to point out that I have a genuine weakness for the word! Goodness me, I do use it quite frequently, to be sure. Perhaps that surprises you, does it, because you may already fancy I have a tendency to be excessively prim and proper in my terminology? Well, no, no, I use it simply because it is a word that thoroughly excites me! It is true that earlier I voiced my abhorrence of certain expressions, but that is not through prudishness, and rather because they are simply distasteful, demeaning and insulting to me. I do so enjoy this wonderful word, though. It is so thoroughly apt, so bold, so brashly monosyllabic and no-nonsense, and so in-one’s-face, if you can see your çanakkale escort way to permitting me a little pun! A mere soft breathing of the word to myself or thinking it gives me such a thrill. I am positive a large swathe of readers shall feel the same way.
And men, even men who are not into other men, get excited by the very word “spunk” too, oh yes they do, gentle reader, although most of them would never openly admit it to their own kind because it seems a little, well, a little too gay to confess any pleasure derived from thinking about, observing or even naming it. But, just like myself, I know that, given privacy, all men shall willingly watch enthralled as one of their own sex masturbates, perhaps a man smirking deviously and stroking himself down and up and down and up and down and up most violently and purposefully for a lucky lady to lick her lips with a long lustful look at the stiff stake of glistening meat about to fill one of her dripping holes, and men are also fascinated by their own and other men’s spendings too, of course, so take it from me also that every last man jack of them shall also look on open-mouthed as other men generously spill their seed, even if they are not homosexual. Thus, if even non-gay men are turned on by watching vigorous cocks being stroked and spunk flying around right, left and centre, just think how much of a turn-on it is for this horny girlie, my dears!
Oh, most certainly, the word “spunk” sends my tongue scurrying around my own lips at the drop of a hat. Not to mention the thought, say, of softly kissing the inside of a panting man’s ear and, as one does so, using the word in situ in a gentle whisper of encouragement to the subject, such as: “Don’t look now, my boy, but here comes the milkmaid to milk all that hot white spunk up and out through this big bad spunk-splasher of yours”, with my ruby red-nailed fingers oh-so-firmly wrapped around a pulsating pole about to pump. I know from experience that this never fails to send a gentleman over the edge, and to send myself into raptures as his gorgeous mess pours out uncontrollably. But – no pun intended this time! – we shall come to that shortly in more detail. Much more detail, I assure you. I thrive on the details. Until next time, dear readers.