Call for Submissions: Dancing with Myself – Stories of Self-Love Erotica

Surprise! I’m editing a new anthology for Sexy Little Pages!


Editor: Jillian Boyd
Submission Deadline: Midnight (UTC+1), 31 August 2017
Heat Level: from romantic to filthy
Word Count: 4000-6000
Payment: 50% royalties split equally among participating authors

For this anthology, I am on the look-out for your sexiest and most creative masturbation erotica. Flying solo or playing with a partner (or partners)? Fingers, hands, toys, whatever else is suitable? A quick fumble under the sheets? A private show for a willing watcher? It’s all welcome. Use your imagination, and inspire some friction with your fiction.

A HEA is welcome but not a hard requirement. I’m looking for a range of heat levels, with a word count between 4000 and 6000 words. Bring me diverse characters, sexualities, genders and abilities across the spectrum – I’m especially welcoming submissions from/about POC, LGBTQI and non-binary peeps.

Genre of the book will be contemporary, so for this one no historical, futuristic or paranormal stories.

Usual Sexy Little Pages restrictions apply – no paedophilia, no necrophilia, no incest or pseudo-incest, gratuitous violence, bestiality or fan fiction. More details on this are available on the submissions page or in the FAQs.

Email your story to , putting ‘SUBMISSION:” followed by your story title in the subject line. The body of the email should include the story’s title, a brief synopsis or blurb, word count, and your pen name.

Story should be an attachment in doc, docx, or rtf format. Please use standard manuscript format or something closely resembling it, but no headers or footers.

Times New Roman, 12pt, double spaced, first line of paragraph indented.

We want the focus to be original content, though we may include one or two previously published stories that are no longer available elsewhere. If that’s the case, please note it in your cover email.

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Blithe and becoming and frequently humming

When I started out blogging, it was partly due to a bit of an obsession with Beautiful Agony. You probably know the site. A multimedia experiment, testing a hypothesis that eroticism in human imagery rests not in naked flesh and sexual illustration, but engagement with the face.

It was, and remains (and will probably always be) a spellbinding erotic website. It was one of the pieces in the puzzle of me, the puzzle I laid out when this blog started, six years ago this week.

I wasn’t celebrating that anniversary though. I’m not sure I like doing that anymore. It pokes open old wounds (and reminds me of lingering ones). Besides, I rather like the idea of just carrying on like always. Re-puzzling that puzzle.

My libido’s still low. But I’ve kind of learned to sit with it. Ask myself questions, give myself room to breathe and rest as a lot of this is tiredness and depression. Room to breathe is what I seem to keep forgetting.

And giving myself room to breathe was how I got to watching some videos Dr. Lindsay Doe’s Sexplanations channel on YouTube the other night. Indulging my never-tiring curiosity is one of the ways I’ve been sitting with myself. Learning. I subscribe to Dr. Doe’s channel but haven’t really taken the time to delve into her videos.  So, when one popped up on my “What To Watch Next [hint: maybe lay off binge-watching The Nekci Menij Show for an hour or so, maybe, possibly]” list, I watched.

It was a video of masturbation tips. And up came the subject of Beautiful Agony.

I’d already kind of been futzing around with bits of porn, willing something to materialize that would help take the stress off from the past week. Hoo, fuckety-boy, it has been a stressful week. But the internet was not being a wonderful thing for porn, alas. Which made Lindsay’s mention of Beautiful Agony all the more timely – sat on the bed, wearing his shirt and nothing else, I clicked the thumbnail for one of the free sample videos.

A woman, on the floor of her flat. Lying back on cushions and a throw, lazily surrendering to pleasure. Outside, you can hear the traffic, the general hubbub of the world continuing. And inside her own four walls, she makes the world pause with her fingers and her pleasure.

And I went right there with her. The first orgasm came quicker than I hoped it would – probably a sign that my body needed that, a lot. But it was good. It was good and it was satisfying and the warmth of my netbook was pleasing on my naked thighs as I watched the woman on my screen come.

The way she bathed in her afterglow, silent and still… it was spellbinding. Ecstasy in the agony, as is BA’s remit.

It was a good orgasm, that first one.

The second one, I had to work for. It was a couple of minutes later, and I was back on Twitter but still needing something. Another climax, another release. So, I took what I needed. Worked for it, felt it building and building in intensity until finally, FINALLY, it blew me the fuck away.

It was that kind of orgasm. The kind that leaves you fuzzy and head-spinny and unable to remember things like words and how pants work. My own beautiful agony. I settled into bed feeling like a toasty, comfortable little cinnamon bun, content because once again I had managed to sit with myself and ask myself questions and give myself room to breathe.


[ PS – in regards to my six year blogiversary. Although I’m not really celebrating in any way, I do want to thank you for reading. Whether from the early days or more recently, thank you, thank you, thank you. Here’s to whatever comes next. Hope you’re there with me.]

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He lays me down in his lap, and the world melts away.

I amaze myself with how quiet my brain is. The constant raging firestorm of depressive thoughts has temporarily retreated – much like the rain of the past few days. Like this, it feels so easy to slip into kisses with him, after slipping out of our clothes.  Easy too, is answering his question: what would you like to do?

I want to make out with him. Taste his lips and lose myself in something I seemed to have forgotten about. I want to remember the simple goodness of a long, languid kiss. And I want to touch, not to mention be touched. Feel the sting of a good spanking and the thrill of his fingers working my cunt.

What I didn’t know I wanted to feel is the comfort of lying in his lap. With my entire body a tableau for him to do with as he and I wished.

His fingers are like magic. They seem to reach something deep in my core. Going beyond just pleasuring me. Working whatever tensions I’ve been building in my body in the past few (hectic, tiring) weeks loose. First lying on his lap, then spread out in front of him. He fingerfucks me to the brink of ecstasy. I can’t remember ever hovering on the edge so deliciously, for so long.

“You okay? How are you feeling?”

And I want to say something sexy. I want to revel in my libido fighting back. I want to tell him how great he’s made me feel.  Want to tell him how much I love him for showing me that my sex drive isn’t a lost cause. But I can’t. Literally,  I can’t. I am too far gone in my bliss to actually make sense. It’s the point when the saucy turns into the silly.

I want to say something sexy.

What I end up saying – nay, practically slurring – is “SOFT!”



From the saucy to the silly, I tell my boyfriend (while naked and wrapped up in a cool duvet) that I’m feeling soft. Loved. Glowing. Calm.

And in hindsight, that one word did end up saying so much more than any string of dirty talk could have done in that moment.

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Doxytus Interuptus

I think about wanking a lot. Hell, I dream about wanking pretty constantly, when I’m not either having vivid sex dreams or utterly terrifying nightmares. Funnily enough though, I never quite get around to actually doing it.

The inner monologue goes verily thus –

Libido Brain : You should totally have a wank.

Me: But nah though. 

LB: That’s not an argument, mate. Come on. Indulge yourself. It’ll relax you. It’ll make you feel good. 

Me: So will a nap. 

LB: Naps do not lead to orgasms. Wanks do. Go on! No-one around, you can be as loud as you want. You can even get the Doxy out. 



It’s a very, very tiring interior monologue. It happens pretty much every time I have a day off, in that blissfully quiet time where the house is (almost) empty and the morning is full of unknown wonder/a to do list the length of my arm. Unlike my boyfriend, I have a pretty fluctuating schedule. So at least once a week I find myself alone in the mornings, and in a prime position for a long, indulgent wank.

And the other day, miraculously, that interior monologue vanished in thin air. I wasn’t just thinking about wanking, I was actively getting the Doxy out (because a lot of my filthiest wank fantasies – by which I mean fantasies in which I am actually wanking, not ones I have during a wank –  the Doxy features quite prominently), fluffing cushions and settling in a prime frig position.

It’s the position he likes me in when he’s going down on me. He kneels at the side of the bed, I lie in front of him with my legs open and resting on his shoulders. It’s this image I hold onto in my head (the actual wank fantasy) as I crank up the power on the beastly toy. The freedom of doing a Spinal Tap and cranking to eleven, quite frankly, is intoxicating. The roar, the buzz, the mild freaking out when I remember that the Doxy can go really fucking hard and maybe I should turn it down a notch anyway lest I get a whole new type of wankers cramp.

But I manage to take it to a reasonable speed. And I try to ride the wave for as long as I can, riding the soft head of the toy and losing myself in the fantasy of his tongue working its magic.

The arousal builds at triple speed. I can’t ever last long with the Doxy. It is just not physically possible – it’s so maddeningly intense that I am grabbed by the collar and pulled towards my climax. It doesn’t take me that long to get to the very edge of pleasure, and I am prepared to fall hard.

But then I don’t. My orgasm fizzes out, like a firework that changes its mind as it’s going off. It takes me seconds too long to figure out why – as I snap out of the haze and back to reality, I have to keep myself from facepalming.

It’s me. I’m why. Because I have somehow managed to grab on to the Doxy so hard that my fingers slid straight onto the OFF button. I am my own coitus interuptus. Doxytus Interuptus, if you will.

Grumbling, I sit up, pull my trousers back up and go to unplug the toy. In the end, it does turn out to be a nap that makes me feel good.

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World’s Least Satisfying

It’s hard to remember the last time – or any time – I had such an unsatisfying wank as the one I did the other day.

Himself had gone off to the North for the weekend, on an adventure with a few mates. We were house sitting at the time, so my only company for those two days was a cluster of cats. Now, I spent most of that weekend either at my day job or in front of the telly doing my other job, with one eye on the Olympics. The rest of the time, I was seemingly permanently clouded in a haze of tired and achy.

Maybe, in hindsight, a wank wasn’t the right solution after all. My brain managed to convince me it was, though, because my brain can quite often be a great big dickweed.

Go on, it said to me. It’s late, you’re mildly comfortable… 

And? “It’s late” and “I’m mildly comfortable” are not reasons I should be masturbating. In fact, considering I’d dragged the duvet downstairs and had my netbook perched on my lap and a cat precariously close to my face, comfortable wasn’t so much a thing I was as a lie in general.

I wasn’t at all comfortable because I was bone-tired and walking through the endless, boring as fuck mists of a depressive episode. The kind where Nothing has a capital N and you’re existing in a constant state of low-key fed up with your horrid mind.

I also wasn’t comfortable because there was another cat, perched in front of the TV, glaring at me rather openly. As if to say I know what you’re contemplating and I don’t like it one bit, you weird human.

But still, I gave in to my brain and slipped my fingers down the waistband of my pants. And to be honest, I wish I hadn’t. I wish I’d have just gotten on with what I was doing. It felt forced. It felt like I was doing it for the sake of reminding myself that yeah, I do still have a wank, thank you very much. It wasn’t a bad wank, but it was a wank that, if it were a film, I would have seen it through to the end but gotten up at the start of the credits and grumbled about it being a waste of my bloody time.

That’s not the wanks I want to be having. And I hope to fuck I find out what’s going on there, because I do not want masturbation to become another task on an endless tick list.

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Night Night

Masturbation is awesome. You don’t need me to tell you that, most likely. But I enjoy preaching its virtues because it really does help with lots of things – for one, it relaxes you. For two, as I re-discovered last night, it’s a rather good sleeping aide. And god knows, I needed a good, solid night of restful sleep because I’ve been losing so much over the last few weeks. More than anything, I wanted my brain to shut the hell up for a few hours so I could let my body catch up on the recovery it needed.

I don’t remember how I came to think about it – maybe it was because we’d just finished watching Emmanuelle The Private Collection: The Sex Lives of Ghosts and there was a residual twinge of arousal still holding on to me. Or maybe because I couldn’t for the life of me think of any other way to calm my brain down. It was a swarm of thoughts clouding the corners of my mind – and from that swarm came the tiniest notion that maybe, just maybe, masturbating was the answer to making the swarm disperse. Masturbating for pleasure, yes, but more than that, masturbating to make myself feel better. Healing through my own orgasm.

“I feel like having a wank.”

I said it into the dark of our bedroom, a while after we’d turned off the lights. Both of us were still awake, restless and insomniac as we are, in the midst of a conversation about something I can’t quite remember but was probably incredibly geeky.

“Okay. Any reason?”

“No. Just feel like it. Fidgety.”


I didn’t need to elaborate on it. I didn’t need to explain why. I just rolled onto my back, continuing our chat. He did the same, pushing the duvet aside.

“Are you wanking too?”

“Yeah. Might as well.”

So we lay there. Side by side, the silent sounds of our mutually shared pleasure and healing filling the room.

I ended up sleeping until midday. I can’t say it was a particularily restful night’s sleep but I slept. And for now that’s fine by me because in this hellish new landscape of the world, rest is what helps us heal.


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Self-love with a side of awkward…

For someone who’s so evangelical about masturbation, I have a slightly alarming confession to make. One that I seriously need to rectify in the future (watch this space, I guess, probably…) because I don’t see why not, actually. I, Jillian Boyd, erotica writer of five years, haven’t really written a lot of straight-up masturbation stories. Sure, I’ve done the odd scene featuring a bit of self loving, and I’ve made reference to characters privately giving in to their lust for the one they can’t yet say the words to.

But man… oh man. Masturbation is bloody great. So great, they’ve dedicated the entire of May to celebrating it. It was the start of my sexuality blossoming outwards – a start which I wrote about a while back, for Girl on the Net – and it remains an important way of connecting to both my own body and my partner’s body.

So, why not take what I love in real life and let it bleed into my fictional scapes? Why not take masturbation, the catalyst of so many people’s sexual lives, and just let it star on its own? Be the headline act? It’s something I’d like to make an effort to do – heck, maybe I’ll even compile an anthology full of the stories I come up with. But for now, I wanted to share with you one of the instances where those references to characters first giving in to their lust in private come in to play.

The story? Sign Your Name, from the anthology Inked: Sexy Tales of Tattoo EroticaThe situation? Shira, a student on adult learner art course, is compiling her final portfolio on the subject of dancing and its ecstatic beauty. She’s kind of become the artist-in-residence at her friend Heather’s dance studio, where she sits and sketches the instructors – all the while engaging in a blossoming flirtmance with Latin dance instructor Oscar…

 “Yeah, it’s an adult learner’s degree. I’m taking it at that big new place near the Seagram building.”

The statuesque older blonde – Rosalind, teaching Tuesday ballet – let out a low whistle as she leafed through Shira’s sketchpad.

“Christ, is that me?” she said, stopping at something she’d drawn earlier on. “Wow, you’re making me look good here!”

“I wanted to capture the lines you were making when you were doing barre work, specifically.”

“I’m very impressed – mind you, I can’t draw for crap but I can see when something’s pleasing on the eye… like this drawing…”

Shira felt her cheeks warm, as Rosalind bent down to look at a not-even-remotely-subtle doodle of a very topless Oscar, mid-shirt switch.

“Oh, don’t pay attention to that one. ’S just a bit of playing around.”

“What is? Hi, Rosalind. And, hello, our artist in residence.”

On cue, Mr. Just a Bit of Playing Around walked into the bar area, dumping his backpack next to a chair and taking a seat in between the two women. Shira could have died a thousand happy deaths just looking at him up close – those bedroom eyes were even more like an invitation when they were looking directly into hers.

“Shira Caplan,” she said, taking up the invitation and meeting his gaze head-on. “Heather’s an old friend of mine from college.”

“Good to finally be able to talk to you. I’ve been… well, yeah, kinda curious ever since I first saw you.”

Right at that point, a throng of young ballet girls and boys manifested through the doors, chattering away, to the amusement of their teacher.

“Ha. Timely.”

Rosalind rose from her chair and nodded to the pair, before rolling her shoulders back and taking in a deep breath. Shira had watched Rosalind teach this particular class before – she’d almost fallen onto the floor laughing from the sight of the statuesque Brit in leotard and pointes chasing one of the more rowdy  boys around the room in an ultimately successful attempt to get him to hand over the remote to the stereo. It was amazing to her how the different teachers not only had their own style of movement, but their own style of making their classes get the hell on with it.

“Can I have a look? I’m amazed how much you seem to get done during your time sitting here.”

She contemplated just putting her sketchbook back in her bag, thereby sparing her the blushes of having Oscar see a few of the more… explicit sketches. She contemplated it for about three seconds, before twatting the little Yiddish angel of consciousness off her shoulder and shifting the sketchpad towards him. Something told Shira that Oscar knew full well what to expect – and that he kinda liked it, too.

“Very cool. So, are these the final product, or are you planning something else with them?”

“Some of these will be in the final portfolio, yeah. As a sort of look-at-my-process kind of thing. I’m gonna use most of them as the basis for other pieces. And I’ve been going around town, seeing shows and getting some basic sketches done. I’ve been toying with the idea of getting a few live models to pose for me, but I’m not too confident about asking.”

He’d stopped leafing through the sketchbook as she was explaining herself, his eyes resting on a quick sketch she’d done of him, surrounded by all kinds of doodles that would, at first sight, seem completely random and out of place.

Only Shira knew what they were meant to be. And the fact that he was looking at them, biting his bottom lip as he appraised what he saw and not even knowing what most of it was, made her wet.

To mark your body with my design.

To sign my name across your heart.

I will it to be so.

I will to make it so.

The words just popped up in her head, like an incantation out of a book of spells. Was it bad that she wanted him to ask? Would he – this stranger who she’d only spent time observing – run for the hills if he found out what was on her mind? There were many, many things she was expecting to happen, bracing herself for, even. But then Oscar leaned forward, close enough for her to catch a hint of the scent of leather and woodsmoke, making her light headed.

“Heck, I’ll model for you. Name a place and a time and I’ll be more than happy to help you out.”


That… she wasn’t quite expecting.

“Oh. Oh, it’s okay. Really, it’s just an idea for now. I’m still ironing out the kinks in the project as I go along,” she said, waving her hands around in dismissal. “It’s fine. You’re all doing enough for me as it is. I can’t really ask more of you.”

Shira suddenly felt fidgety. She rummaged through her big bag, producing a hair elastic and setting to work on fixing her dark brown mane into a braid. He watched her fingers go through practised motions, and took a deep breath.

“Alright. Let me know if you change your mind, Shira,” he said, standing up and slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Shira… I like that.”

“You like… what, my name?”

“Yeah. The sh sound. The rah at the end. It feels good rolling off my tongue…”

She felt her cheeks flush, her clit aching with the desire to feel what that tongue of his could do to it. Shifting, she was painfully aware of just how wet she’d gotten.

“It’s of Hebrew origin. Means poetry. Or singing. I’m no good at either, though.”

He chuckled. “I don’t know what my name means. Now I’m sorta hoping it’s is good at dancing. Right. Artist in residence, it was lovely to finally hear your voice. I’m going to go home and have a cold shower while thinking about it.”

He turned to leave, but not before fixing her with a grin that reduced her to a puddle of melted former woman.

“Good night, Shira.”

The way he let her name dance in his mouth lingered on in her mind long after she’d left the studio for the evening, long after she’d lain in the dark of her bedroom basking in the sticky-fingered afterglow of God-knows-how-many orgasms.

To mark your body with my design.

To sign my name across your heart.

I will it to be so.

I will to make it so.

For Tabitha Rayne – gorgeous, intelligent, wonderful, extremely stylish, extremely Scottish – and her Self-Love Is In The Air blog hop. Did you know she invented a sex toy? Like, the very one in the picture below? And you can, like, win one and stuff? Click the banner to see how you can do this, to read the other posts in the hop and to generally have a blimmin’ good afternoon reading.


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F***ing Ridiculous – for Masturbation Monday

Based sort of on a scene in one of the few episodes of HBO’s Girls I’ve seen, in which the character of Marnie goes to an art party and gets to know an artist who states, point-blank, that they will have sex at some future point. Not then, but at some point…

By the time the bathroom door falls shut behind her, she’s a trembling wreck. A raw nerve of arousal, skin prickling with sweat and need. He’s a prick – a self-absorbed, artistically up himself prick who she wouldn’t have even given a first glance, let alone a second one had they not been introduced to each other by a friend of a friend about an hour earlier.

Or was it two hours? Five hours, five minutes, five seconds… prick as he might be, he’d made her into a babbling, spaced-out mess, switching out her perception of the passing time – and just about everything else that made sense on Earth – for nothing but the feeling of her aching clit and the wetness dampening the knickers that had done nothing but aided the friction in her jeans along.

“Well, this is fucking ridiculous,”  she thinks, her chest heaving with the inability to just catch her breath, catch her breath so she could go splash some water in her face or whatever, and rejoin this gallery launch looking at least partly normal.

But he’s in her head now. One dangerous step away from being in her veins, his voice echoes as she gives into instinct, undoing the buttons and flies of her jeans.

Fucking. Ridiculous.

Her fingers slip under the waistband of her messed-up knickers, down to her needing clit. She leans back against the locked door, silently moaning as the excrutiating ache of him and his way with words is washed away by immediate, hard waves of ecstasy. She frigs herself like she’s a teenager again, a walking and talking mass of libido with no patience for playing a masturbatory long-game. In her mind, she’s back in the dark of her old bedroom, under the cool and comforting softness of her sheets. She can almost taste how wanton the thrill of having discovered her pussy had felt, past just exploring and right into indulging as much as she could, whenever she could.

She’s 31 now, and not under the comfort of her old sheets. She’s in the women’s bathroom of a gallery, jerking off to the mere idea of this delicious fuckstick dickhead of a man and his way with words. Words that had made her think he, deep down underneath the swaggering bravado of an up-and-coming artist who’s doing the rounds at the launch of his first exhibit, he wasn’t such a fuckstick after all.


So. Bloody. Ridiculous.

As her hips bucked against her fingers and her body gave in to the mounting pleasure, the thoughts in her head fell still for a moment. In that wonderful way everything seemed to fall aside, leaving her deep in her body for the first time in however long.


But how could it have been when it felt so, so…

Not so?



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Five thoughts I have had about mutual masturbation

If you’ve been reading my blog for a while, you will probably know my stance on mutual masturbation. It’s something I absolutely love, whether we’re getting each other off or getting ourselves off in synch. If you’re a regular reader, you’ll also know that I come with a tonne of really random thoughts. Like, the entire foundation of this blog is random thoughts and questions about sex.

So, I figured I’d share five of the random thoughts I’ve had about mutual masturbation, as it’s one of my favourite things to do in sex. These are either thoughts I’ve had about the topic, or during the act itself.

1) Who discovered the concept of mutual masturbation? And how the heck did that particular night go? Seriously, did one person just start it off and then the other one just thought “Yes, this is a thing I want to also be doing while watching you do it.”

I’d like to know who that person was and give them a freaking medal, because it’s both one of my major turn-ons and a continued learning opportunity when it comes to my boyfriend and the way his body works.

2) Is he going to come before me? What if I come first? What do I do? Do I just… go again? Do I caress him or give him a hand? Or do I just let him do his thing? Or ask him if he wants me to do something? Or…

3) Have I written a mutual masturbation scene into one of my stories before? I really should. Look at him. Look at the way his lust-heavy eyes pinch closed as he arches his back, letting his arousal rush over him like a wave. Look at the way his teeth bite into his bottom lip, soft moans of my name escaping as his hand works his shaft to a well-honed rhythm. Feel how watching him makes my clit twitch as I frig it, wetness pooling and those little electric shivers coursing through me…

Yep, I really should.

4) I must have seen porn with mutual masturbation in it – fuck that though. I want to see it in mainstream TV and films. I want to see it as a part of shedding that tip-toeing around explicit sexual acts on screen, portrayed in a positive, real way. Goddamnit, I just want to see some red-hot mutual frigging.

5) I don’t want to know what he’s thinking about, if anything. I want – no – crave to know what he’s feeling. How it feels to be him touching himself. I want to gaze deep into his eyes as I fuck me with my own fingers and somehow discern how it feels for him to fuck himself. I want to somehow feel what he’s feeling, and not through the filter of my own masturbation. I adore learning things and knowing things, and this one thing that I can’t possibly learn in anything other than his words and what I’m seeing as I watch him watch me… it’s both intensely frustrating and immensely arousing.

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The flat was dark. It was late in the evening – a very hot evening at that – and the open balcony window provided me with a soundtrack of blissful silence from the world below me. The only light on was, apart from the actual little light next to me, coming from the glare of the TV. I had in one hand a copy of the July edition of Elle Belgium. The other was tucked under the elastic of my knickers, fingers finding an outlet for their fidgeting on my willing clit.

I’ve been masturbating a lot more as of late. It’s become one of my go-to’s when I’m not sure how to get a release. Any kind of release, really. Stress, low humming anxiety, tiredness, boredom, you name it. I’ve even taken to masturbating when I’ve turned myself on from writing hot scenes. Which – yeah, fellating my own skills a bit here, but I do occasionally crank them out.


ILB knows I masturbate. The other week, I announced I was feeling the twitch as he was playing on his DS. He just nodded and went on playing. He knows, and I’m willing to venture a bet that he doesn’t really mind at all. After all, he knows me. He’s seen me in my darker moments, and he knows that anything that gets me a release is good.

So I reckon that he wouldn’t have even blinkered if I told him that I lay on the couch in my mother’s flat last night, getting myself off because the last few days had been some of the most stressful, agonizing and confusing days of my life.

Most of you will have caught my Tweets about my mother and her being in hospital. And if you don’t mind, I would rather not retread the path of What The Fuck Happened? again, because it would be like finding a fresh bruise and poking at it a bit. Needless to say, I’ve been on edge for about a week now. The kind of edge where everything serves to make you more confused, even the smallest things. I’ve had little sleep due to the heat and the stress, I’ve been commuting back and forth between my mum’s new flat and the hospital pretty much every day, and the bleeps and ticks from the big make-you-better machines surrounding my mum are enough to grind my nerves into a fine paste. Jamie Oliver could probably make pesto out of my nerves right now.

Half of the time, I’m at a loss for what to do or how to feel. Deep down, I know that things are looking up – the docs told me as much. So, it wouldn’t be logical for me to sit and wonder and agonize all day. Still, whenever I do let myself go and try to make the best of things, there’s a niggling doubt over whether I should really be -gasp- having a bit of amusement right now. The should you really feelings come thick and fast: should you really be laughing? Should you really be reading that book? Should you really be writing/knitting/walking/trying to take your mind away from the intense feelings of anxiety that have been consuming you?

I don’t know what to do to please myself. I can’t physically be in a constant state of worry because it wears you down until there’s nothing left of you. And nothing is not a lot to function with. I don’t know where to go with my energy, with my intense feelings, raging through me.

So, I masturbated last night. And I’ll probably do so again and again, until ILB comes back from his summer work gig and he can grab me and take me and fuck me until I find my release.

And then we’ll probably do so again and again.


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