tagToys & MasturbationSex Writer Symposium: 06

Sex Writer Symposium: 06

byPenningFreer©

Author's Note:

Starting with "Sex and the Writer's Symposium: Day 1," Heidi, an unlikely star among a very unique group of carefully screened erotica writers (and more), unabashedly describes the boundary-altering, lusty sexual encounters within the group and reveals their shocking underlying missions. To fully realize how far these sexually charged fledgling erotica writers have come, a review of Days 1 through 5 of "Sex and the Writer's Symposium" will help put this journal entry into perspective while the "Porn Next Door" series (see Penning Freer's other stories) sheds light on how some members of this sexually charged group were recruited. The "Born To" series provides glimpses into the lusty, driven mind of Zhay, the group's founder and leader, and how she dreamed up this eccentric sex-driven cohort.

Mainly, of course, as always, heartfelt thanks to very generous readers and commenters, and I hope you find Heidi's adventures refreshing - in an extreme sort of way.

- Penning Freer


* * *

Day something or other of Zhay's Sex Writer's Symposium. A couple, maybe three days, after a very disturbed day Five with people pirates in the Pacific.

I Heidi, am writing this morning in my cottage and I am masturbating this morning, and I, Heidi, am taking my sweet time.

I'm thickening. I'm wet and getting wetter. I'm plumbing into my cunt to see just how...oh, who cares.

It, my wet, hormone wafting pussy, feels...SO...GOOD. I'll just go with it for awhile. Ellipsis...

Lie here still and quiet and breathe and finger my cunt. Pounding head still, but shifting it to pounding pussy.

Push fingers deep inside. Yes, indeed. That smell. The smell of me, on my fingers, wafting to my face. Feeding me comfort with something entirely mine.

Mine to use. Mine to share. Mine to give me. Mine to give somebody else. Mine, mine, mine all mine -- except yours when I want to share it with you. If I know my cunt so well, I can share something really swell with somebody.

Jack likes my pussy. Knowing Jack loves my pussy, and how Jack loves my pussy, makes my pussy feel particularly fantastic right now.

I get paid to write. I'll write with my free hand, and I'll do the best I can.

Jesus. Keyboard (sticky), pussy (sticky), ass (interested), remote control. Well, remote control. A girl has only so many fucking hands.

I watch nasty people (us) on the television doing nasty things, but I am thinking about playing with my cunt.

Because. I. Am.

I said cunt. My cunt. Cunt, cunt, cunt. Pussy. Nasty, nasty words for a deliciously nasty...me.

Speaking (writing) of nasty, why does Beth taste so good? Why do I love tasting Beth? Something about Beth tastes like something about Jack, tastes like something about me.

On the screen, I Heidi the whore for that scene, am on my knees dancing my tits and face into Beth's pussy. Elle catches something really interesting with the camera. It's the way my body, except for my tits and my face, just sort of goes to sleep and sits there resting while the rest of me works, leaving my devouring parts, that is my mouth and hands and tits, to get my fill of Beth.

And back sort of to the point, Elle interestingly splices back and forth to show Jack masturbating, watching his Heidi eat out Elle's Beth.

Nothing fancy about this scene. Nothing porn about this porn. It's just me involved in the mundane act of putting my mouth over and over and over into a girl's bottom and even putting my tongue into her holes while she lays there and says things like, "Fuck me, Heidi. Fuck me. Suck me. Eat me out, baby, please. That is it right there. Yes. Heidi. Tongue my ass. Yes. Deep."

That's what Beth says. I just heard it on the television.

Remote control, rewind. Stop. Hit play.

Yep. There it is again. Beth tells me, a girl, a straight girl with a boyfriend, to please put my tongue inside her pussy, then in her other hole.

Weird. Yeah. But sort of fun in a weird sort of way, don't you think?

Cut to Jack. Jack's dick is huge and Elle focuses close on how wet it is when his dick head slips up through his fingers all messy and slick with appreciation wannabe cum.

I taste that a lot. I taste what Jack jacks.

Right now, I taste what I frig while I watch me naked on my knees suck on my friend Beth's pussy while her girlfriend Elle films us.

Elle is filming wearing a short white cotton cropped top. That's it. Naked, naked, naked Elle.

I smell her. She's exhaling herself into the air we are playing in - in which we are playing.

- - -

I think maybe this is it, the reason. This is why we do all the fucking and filming and, well, keeping it all archived on film, so we can do this with it -- watch it and masturbate.

We can go out and do incredibly hard, risky, terrifying work and take serious chances with our lives and then come back and ground ourselves in exactly the same magical potion that makes bad people do bad things to other people.

Good people drink the same elixir out of the same wellsprings from which bad people pull out poison.

Cops are just crooks with different uniforms doing the same things for different reasons, but doing very different things with different effects on people for good reasons -- but they all look the same if you don't play close attention.

Zhay understands something deep and rich and potent. She taught us and we joined her.

- - -

Who gets Zhay off, and when?

- - -

I Heidi masturbate. I choose to masturbate. It's not who I am. It's what I do. I do it a lot. More now. More as I get older. Why is that? Because I know myself better.

Stupid fucking people say shit like masturbating is for adolescents. Please. So is racing fucking Ferraris. Do it while you're young, by all means, once you've mastered that bitch and you can make her fly, then don't touch her again. Can you give me a break? Spend all that great time learning how that thing works, then knock it off and grow up. I think I'm going to throw the hell...

So. I masturbate a lot. So does Jack. So does Beth. So does Elle. So must Zhay.

After nights like the other night killing the person-selling pirates in the Pacific, we feel very disconnected from our bodies. We want badly to, need badly to, feel real again, feel connected again.

I jack off. Jack jacks off. I jack Jack off. Jack jacks me off. I must like jacking off. I do it a lot.

So, whose business is it? Who's to know? Who's to care? Richard Dawkins, a smart guy, says we all should be free to do with our sex what we choose so long as we don't hurt other people. So do a lot of other smart people.

I love my body. I love living in my body. It's my body. My body is me, Heidi.

* *

I am writing in rhythm to my frigging. Right now no one reads my journals. They are for an exercise. But if someone reads this journal sometime in the future, then you are reading what I am writing right now and now is then for me, and then is now for the reader. Right? Stay with me here.

Scary. Are...you...there? Yikes.

Well, if you are there, my point is, I am writing with one hand, frigging my pussy with my other hand, in a certain slow, pulsating rhythm, rhythm, rhythm.

My words form to the cadence of my ass lifting into my pussy probing. Pussy gives birth yet again, this time to words, the logos, the child that gives meaning to life just as the womb gives birth to the child. Which, pray tell, is the metaphor?

It sounds deep. It sounds almost sexy. It feels really, really, really good.

And my finger rhythm and my word cadence are blending with my body lunging in slow motion into my friend Beth's cunt on the television. Me fucking me watching me fuck Beth on TV.

And my lover Jack, on the screen, is slowing his rhythm down in proportion to our rhythm to keep pace with us so we all sort of explode at the same time.

And my point now is, strangely, you, a stranger in some future, are reading this (or how would you know?) and you are scrolling the page with one hand, and with your other hand are doing what I am doing -- playing with your pussy to that same rhythm, or stroking your dick to that same rhythm.

See why I repeat it like a mantra? Rhythm, rhythm...rhythm. The rhythm of the universe. A universe we all find right here square between our legs, easy to find, so easy to get to, fun to touch, yummy to taste, just. Well. Good.

Whose idea was this? Good idea.

Hide all the meaning in the universe, all the real medicine, all the peaceful self-healing, all the forgiveness and inspiration, all the bonding hormones and pheromones, all the delicious nastiness, all the secret, non-dangerous simple pleasures right...between...your...legs. In front. Right beneath your chin. Right where you can reach it. A parachute ripcord. Can't miss it.

So don't miss it. Get it out. Play.

I am advocating masturbating as a way to indulge direct excitement of the sensual nature. I am writing this simply to incite your desire to satisfy your prurient interest, to pretty instantly gratify your carnal appetite without much other redeeming social outcome -- except, well, a deeper connection to the real meaning in the universe, self-grown internal medicine, peaceful self-healing, forgiveness, inspiration, self-esteem, stuff like that. That's about it.

I, Heidi, believe jerking off is good for you, good for me, good for us to set us free. Daily. Whenever. Now.

So, these magical joysticks and teacups at the apex of our thighs, why do we cover these triangle vortices up with cloth?

So we can keep them ours. And maybe share them when we want.

Sharing naked pussy with someone is deliriously delicious. Pulling it out from under the covers to share it is sublime. And not a little fun.

- - -

We've talked about this, all of us, in Zhay's seminars. Masturbation that is. We all have come to - hmm, arrived at - jerking off in the morning, even when we could otherwise fuck. We all seem to do it. What's this about?

And furthermore, we often, most often, proceed, if we are going to fuck each other, to fuck some time during the day after we have all jerked off already, for some other reason, maybe? What's this about?

Centering, we decided - grounding. Connecting with our deeper selves, higher selves.

Zhay told us that every one she ever selected to fight with her has published poignant, smart stuff on masturbation, on the spiritual grounding power of sexing the self. Not that she selected only those of us who published on the power of jerking off and frigging, integrating, sexing the sole self as a preparation for fucking others - not that so much.

Zhay did not pick us because we were primarily masturbation writers, but every one of she chose has written, and written well, on masturbation.

Zhay wanted women and men skilled in, and appreciative of, self comfort; now we understand that some days, simple self comfort may be the only reliable body comfort we get. And our simplest comfort may be what provides us strength to get us through some really discomforting things.

My Ph.D. brain says success in this unique, grueling livelihood is associated with -- not necessarily caused by -- masturbation.

Jerking off regularly and loving it enough to write about it is associated with a more potent, poignant, dare I say...socially rich life.

The ultimate intimacy, some suggest, is not oral fucking, or anal fucking, or threesomes, or swapping, or whatever fetish. It is self fucking unabashedly as a gift to another.

Think about it. Jerk off for someone special in your life. Or jerk off for a stranger, and maybe they'll become important.

The ultimate turn on is the preparing and presenting your thoroughly self-known, self-fucked, self-aroused body to someone else to fuck.

What fun is someone who requires everything to be done to them by another?

What a scary idea that one would wait and neglect their privates expecting others to bring them their will to be enforced or to be enacted. Here, come show me what to do with my cunt. I don't think so.

Not to say we can't take gifts. Just to say we ought, maybe, as a starting place, to know what we want and what we like BEFORE -- or instead of -- letting others dictate to us what we want, or what we like.

Hmmm. Write that. Just did.

Rub, rub, rub, rub, rub, circle my clit. Yes.

- - -

But masturbating is something to do, not to just talk about. I want to get off big time.

Watch this:

I walk to Jack, Jack all covered with clothes, and I lift up my skirt and, there are panties there.

Well, Jack, Jack is not stupid. Jack knows what is inside there. No fooling him.

So, I just let him look at these clean, whitest, cotton panties pulled tight up against my (shhhh) pussy. I just stand there in front of Jack. Pussy (inside cotton panties). Cotton panties. Me, serious look on my face. Jack looking from my face, to my cotton panties, several decisions to make.

One, what is my point? White cotton panties? No. It's most likely my pussy, pussy, pussy inside there that's the point. Why inside white cotton panties? Well, to do this to Jack. To give him this Christmas like thing. Something to unwrap. Something to tease him with. Here Jack. Here is me. Want it? Want it big boy? Got cunt? Look behind the white Heidi cover, Jack. There is pussy there.

Two, what does he do with this? What does he think I want to do? What does he think I want him to do? Here's a girl standing in front of you with her pussy barely concealed wondering what you want to do with it. So think about that. What would one do? A nasty girl tempting you square into your animal carnal appetite. She's going to let you fuck her if you want. Or taste her, lick her, put your mouth on her -- there -- if you like. What are you going to do? Think masturb...

I don't care. I just want to stand here in front of Jack, holding my skirt up, showing him my white cotton panties with the cunt inside, and think about this while I watch what he does.

He does pretty much what I thought he would do. He does what anyone would think to do. He puts his face close there and smells through the cotton. So busted I am. What could that be inside there?

That's me. That's me, Heidi temptress, inside there. Inside there is that same smell I am inhaling now as I masturbate, getting wetter and wetter as I imagine this imagination and rhythmically fuck myself with my fingers.

Well, in this image, from this point, my mind camera revs up and zips in high-speed fast-forward.

Standing there in front of Jack, I get tired of the thinking and I pull off those panties, those whitest, now moistest cotton panties, and I hang them on Jack's head and almost break his neck pulling his face right smack dab into my cunt, curving my ass forward and tilting it to try to get myself open to get his mouth in there somehow.

Not working so well. I pull Jack off his chair and push him onto his back and then I sit on top of his face and aim my ass at his mouth and get comfy.

I don't ruin this with any words.

Well, with four words (not counting his name): "Jack, hold your tongue stiff."

Then I move around trying to aim that stiff tongue into one of my two holes now right above his face.

"There, Jack. YES. Yes! Yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes."

So far, so good.

"Now, Jack, THERE. Oh, yes. YES. Yes. Yes. Right FUCKING there. Wow, I remember that. Still stiff there. Wait. Waiiiiit. Let me shift a little to the...oh fucking yes. There."

Well, no surprise where this goes.

And I follow this to a horribly delightful thing to do to Jack's face down there, and a thing for which Jack is surely going to show me his own clean white cotton underwear at some unexpected time, like maybe breakfast tomorrow perhaps - perhaps, please God let it be breakfast - tomorrow.

Wet, wet face Jack. Wet facial for you. Wear me on your lips. Taste me like I taste me.

Jack fades back into my masturbation reverie - for now.

-

Surprise. It's me Heidi, still home alone, plunging deep inside my treasure trove of misty moisture and rich imagination, and sweet, sweet, healing and release.

The television screen blurs and sort of loses my attention.

I drop the remote control into the dark carpet down there.

I have an orgasm. Wait, I had one already, I am now having three or the fourth or some other number. Come, get off, rip one, go over the edge, orgasm. Come.

The moisture on my fingers now, and on the chair, is richer and deeper in aroma now that I've come. It's richer because it springs from deeper in my body. I smell the difference. It's strange, a little ominous, a little religious, but very, very, very sexy, sexual, erotic to smell deeper body and know what I smell.

I hope a reader is nodding in twenty years, or two (or now) with cum messy fingers.

It's okay. I won't tell. I think masturbation is a good thing. I think jacking off is really, really fun and really healthy and just okay.

I say this because of something I read yesterday that disturbed me.

People who are older than adolescents and who still whack off or jack off or jerk off or girl off (whatever that is) are missing out on something or not attaching well to significant others and not being socially responsible, and may need to do something about it to get healthy again. Please.

I, Heidi, disagree. Not very respectfully, but I disagree.

I say put down your magazine or book. Turn that sex addict shit off of your television and disenroll from that channel. It's such bullshit. Listen to me. I know better.

Take out your cock, or uncover your cunt -- or if you have them out already, just leave them out.

Now. Do the nasty thing. Make yourself come. Get stupid. Frig like an adolescent until your ears cave in.

Really mess yourself up. It's easy. It's fun. It's yours. It's...okay.

Just do it. Do it now. Do it with me.

- - -

I'm still okay. I didn't die.

There is no hair on my...nope. No hair on my palm, maybe one loose hair that stuck in the wetness. Not growing from the palm. Yes. I'm sure.

No plans whatsoever to belittle, abuse, denigrate, degrade, or otherwise undermine or piss off women. Jesus. I am a 'women.' And I just did the nasty thing to my own self.

No rumbling sound of civilization, or social structure crumbling around me.

Just peace and quiet and a very wet vagina, and messy fingers, and remnants of words like 'fuck,' and 'suck,' and 'cock,' and 'cunt' whispering around my lips. And 'Jack.'

Thanks Jack for lending me your image. You will be compensated soon. And since you are making your way home to me right now though the sky in your curvy little powder-black attack helicopter, zooming toward me above the heads of non-innocents and angry bad people, wishing for my attention, hoping for my girl smell, hoping for my excitement for you, needing my crotch, wanting inside my pants, smiling at the chance I might be here (I am), so you can fuck me -- well, hey. You might just get lucky.

A few chirping birds, crisper now, through my cottage window, blending with my chimes.

A gentle heaving in Heidi's chest, giving my tits a nice lift, and a rhythmic (did I say rhythmic?) undulation with my peaceful breaths.

A feeling that all is well, and all is well, and all manner of thing is well.

A sense that all good things are flowing my way. Continue my way, Jack. Please, God, continue my way Jack.

A burden lifting off my heart, off my chest, off my shoulders.

A forgiving spirit to people in general (most people).

A tangy, sweet, salty taste on my tongue and lips.

But, now, a sweet gentle potion of peaceful rest closing over my eyes, making my head heavy, making me suddenly too tired to write anymore.

Maybe sleep through the day and into the late afternoon, and thereby, bring a healing, restorative curative sleep to wash away the horrors of war and death and conflict and treachery and restore a vision of joy and excitement. Maybe start again getting wet for Jack.

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byPenningFreer© 1 comments/ 10216 views/ 1 favorites

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