Emily Masturbates with Style

A friend asked me what I did for sex because I am still single at twenty-seven. I told her I was very happy with myself, thank you very much. She pressed me to disclose more. I told her I did it myself. Regularly. Every day. Forever. She wanted more details but I do not really know her that intimately. I told her I would write it down and that she could read it later. So here are the notes made for her. I'll let you have a peek since you are so nice. My orgasm of choice. Please feel free to join in.

If I tell you how it feels for me, it might help. It will be difficult using only the limited medium of words. How can I begin to describe an indescribable feeling? How can you tell a blind person about the wind, or describe a Rembrandt painting using words? How can a deaf man understand the emotion engendered by music by Verdi or Beethoven, by reading the score? Well, all right, apart from Beethoven then.

You see, no-one can relate the two things. The grunting, struggling, disgusting noisy exhibition people call 'lovemaking' and my beautiful experience are simply not the same thing.

I can't tell you how old I was when I first did this but it was a few years ago! I do it in the same manner, at about the same time every day. I can't remember the first time as being a specific event. It wasn't in my life and then one day, a little later it became part of my life. I did not know what to call it; I knew I loved it and the way it made me feel. It began out of simple curiosity. I watched my parents doing those awful things for about an hour. I always associated them with a sense of guilt and disgust.

I realise now, it was my guilt. One evening, after my father had grunted and roared to his gruesome completion, my mother lay exhausted on the rug in front of the fire. She sweated a lot that night. The heat was on too. Her long legs splayed open as my father rolled off her and he slept for a while. His gruesome penis lay over his hip, dribbling as if it had a cold. My mother put her hand between her legs and began to rub herself. She held her breast with her left hand, gently, fondling it. Her fingers slipped between her wet lips. I could see the shine on her lips and fingers as she stroked up and down. Her middle finger slipped inside and she sort of pulled her arm up towards her body, applying pressure down there. She worked faster and faster until she shook and shuddered, her body going rigid for a few seconds. It lasted about three or four minutes. She let go of her breast and looked at her wet hand. She smiled and fell back on the rug and slept herself. She had a broad grin on her face for the first time that I could ever remember when they were doing these things together.

So curiosity got the better of me. I discovered that if I did what my mother had done for long enough I could get an intensely pleasant feeling down there. I did not discover for some time that if I continued long enough I could bring myself to orgasm. I even used to stop short because the feeling frightened me. I felt sure I would wet myself if I carried on. Of course I did not know the word orgasm until many years later.

So, back to my routine. I tend to get sidetracked, even when I write. I begin, as I do every day, by showering at around seven o'clock. My bathroom is a thing of beauty. I have an open shower at the far wall; the surrounding walls are pale yellow Italian tiles. The whole floor is a light biscuit colour of finely textured, slip-proof tiles. There is a full-length mirror on the wall opposite the shower. I spend far too much time in my bathroom but it is my 'morning room'. I do a lot of thinking and planning in here so I don't consider it all a waste of time. Some might think I do waste rather a lot of hot water!

Showering takes an age because of the amount of soap I use. I soap my breasts, squeezing them, pulling on my nipples until they are erect. I might wash them three or four times. I have the cleanest breasts. These are the first actions in what has become part of the ritual of self-gratification that I now know as masturbating. What an ugly word for such a beautiful experience.

Masturbate; Manual stimulation of the genital organs for sexual pleasure.

To wank, to toss off, beat your meat, pull your plonker, shag the five-fingered widow, shake hands with a stranger, choke your chicken. William explained that all these terms and more refer to masturbation. To me, they are disgusting expressions of male masturbation. It is a word invented by men. It has a distasteful sound to it. It sounds all slippery and sordid. Master; manly, dominant. Stir; to move rhythmically, back and forth, round and round. Bate; angry, to beat, to pound.

If women could invent words it would be something different when referring to that which I do for myself. Something soft, feminine, ladylike, clean and wholesome. Perhaps something like Sylpha-rhythm. Or Carresema, whatever, I don't know. But certainly never 'masturbate'. For simplicities sake, I suppose I have to use it here though. I've since learned a few new expressions when it comes to female masturbation. Some are quite nice. Tipping the velvet, polishing the pearl and flicking the bean comes to mind.

Anyway, back to my shower. I feel a warm sensation spread from my breasts as I soap and fondle them. It goes down over my belly and then between my legs. It's almost the same feeling you get when you see a sad or emotional film. You're about to cry, but not quite, if you know what I mean. Describing this is almost impossible. Nothing is quite like an orgasm except an orgasm! I expect giving birth is something else you could never explain, at least to men anyway.

They wouldn't understand what a woman means when she explains what it feels like. The whole universe is struggling to get out through your vagina. They pop a few squillion seeds inside you, delivered from their 'enormous' penis's, job done. Pain for them is watching their favourite football team lose in a cup final. I'm sorry, I'm drifting off again.

Anyway, my soapy hands roam free all over my body. I soap every square inch and rub it clean. Then it's back to my breasts. I do it again and again until the tingling between my legs takes over as the dominant sensation. I bend my knees a little and begin to rub the palm of my right hand over the outside of my vagina. Not too hard nor too quickly. I do it enough to make the tingling sensation rush back up my body, reversing its earlier course, back to my breasts.

Using words like vagina and breast are strange to me in a way. I mean I never use them in everyday conversation for goodness sake. I write books for children so they are hardly likely to feature much there, are they? I have to use them here though to enable me to better describe exactly what I do. I suppose I have to get used to the idea. There are some words that you find you never use. I don't mean the dirty ones, but others you read in newspapers or books but never hear in conversation. Words like; volatile, diametric, eruption, apposite, mobility, cordial, and hundreds of others. Words that you know the meaning of but never use. Strange isn't it?

I could go on for several minutes longer and give myself that shuddering sensation I so love. That would deny me the elements of anticipation, of restraint, of discipline. I need those feelings to make the eventual event such a rewarding experience. Without these elements, my orgasms would be so many dots on a page. As it is, they are the lines written under my diary entry of each day. That's why I take the whole day to masturbate, not a few minutes at the end of the day, but the whole day. That's why this is going to take some time to describe the whole thing. That is why I have to keep stopping to explain what I'm doing. You see it's not a continuous series of strokes bringing me to orgasm; it's so much more than that. It is almost a way of life. You should try it if you haven't already!

Drying myself with huge expensive towels is as much a part of the whole process as anything else. Have you ever taken the time to dry yourself properly? I mean slowly from head to foot, pausing to get in every nook and cranny of your body. I stand in front of my full-length mirror. I watch a pair of intimate hands, travelling to and fro, absorbing the moisture from my smooth, pale skin. Of course, I spend a lot more time on my breasts and between my legs than I do anywhere else. I love my soft towels.

Bach's Suite number three, Air, is a typical piece on my music system. It plays in every room when I'm home. The music is as important an ingredient as any other. It invades the senses. Perfume helps too. I know my body is in good shape because I see what other people admire in a woman. I study my body in the full-length mirror. Not for a moment, but for a long while. Using Johnson's baby oil, I caress it with my hands and my eyes follow where the fingers travel. I suppose while I'm here I should describe to you what I see in the mirror. This is a cheap literary trick used by writers who have no imagination but I'm not a writer, not in that sense. Lizzie recently asked me to write things down. So you get the easy alternative version, the unedited musing type version. Real writing I save for my children's books.

I am tall, two inches short of six feet, and slender but well proportioned. My hair is thick and wavy. It's light brown, not quite blonde, and hangs far enough to caress the top slope of my breasts. My face is oval and ordinary, well, I think so anyway. Sarah told me a few years ago that I am beautiful but I don't trust Sarah any more. I have brown eyes with thick eyelashes that arch away from my nose. I have a look of perpetual surprise on my face but others say this is not so. My nose is straight and a little too long. My lips are somewhat too full for my taste.

My shoulders are a bit broad, but square. I hold myself tall and erect so my almost globular breasts are a prominent feature, even when I'm dressed. My nipples are large, almost flat and not much darker than the surrounding skin. Only the centres are dark and firm, the nubs like resilient rubber. I don't feel I need to hide them in any way. Even though they are such a source of constant curiosity and attention to the various men I meet. William told me once at school many years ago that I have 'magnificent tits'. He's such a prat. I wouldn't listen to anything he tells you. They don't droop more than is reasonable considering their size, in fact, they stand quite firm and proud. I'm happy with them.

My belly is flat and firm, I don't eat too much and I'm careful with carbs and sugar and so on. I cycle everywhere around Henley, to school, to the shops, back to my house in Greys. That keeps me in good shape. Also, I travel miles along the river at least twice a week. As the road from Henley to Greys is up a great long hill I get more than my fair share of exercise. This has helped my long legs which are my best features. The muscles have what is known as, definition. The smooth lines seem to impress those that know about such things. For some inexplicable reason, my sparse pubic hair is almost black. I keep it quite short and trim it around my lips, all the better to observe, on occasions, what my fingers are up to

.

My bicycle is another source of pleasure, another ingredient in the day-long process. The saddle is broad and flat. The sensation when I'm pedalling is completely different from the one I give myself with my hands and fingers. I ignore the feelings if I have to watch out for the traffic. Otherwise, I concentrate my mind's eye on the delicate spot at the front of my vagina. I know it's my clitoris, another clinical male word. It's almost as if I can see myself from the point of view of the saddle. I look at the folds of flesh as they slide to and fro as my legs circulate on the pedals. I can see the little nub of firm flesh pushed between the pink skin. It is gentle, soft and often moist as I keep up the steady pace of my cycling. I don't fantasize about anything as William explained to me that he did when he does it. I concentrate on myself, on my own feelings. I can't believe he does it and even if he does it can't be the same as mine, surely. I'll have to stop saying that. I'm beginning to repeat myself and that's never a good habit. He insists it's the same for him so I suppose I have to believe it but I can't!

He tried to tell me that he has fantasies at 'doing it' and that we should 'do it' because he wanted to come on my fabulous tits. That can't have been what he meant, can it? He got quite drunk that afternoon. He suggested I try it, conjure up a picture of Brad Pitt or Prince Harry or someone like that. What would I want to do that for? I concentrate on the sensation, the feeling. It's not meant to be 'like' anything else so why should I try to imagine a man having anything to do with it for goodness sake?

Did I tell you that I write for a living? Children's books; then you can better understand what I mean about innocence. I have produced a series called 'Adventures with Amelia and Thomas'. I'm on number seventeen already and they seem to sell well. They keep me in bread and water so to speak. Well, quite a bit more than bread and water actually. I've been writing since I left school and it's made me more money than I know what to do with. I've invested in properties around Henley. I have five now, all rented out and making a good income. My big three-bedroom house is more than enough for me but I love the solitary living. Thank God, I don't have to live with my awful brute of a father any more.

I cycle to school every weekday. I have a car in the garage, a Mini Cooper S. I use that only when the weather is really bad. The journey is about four miles each way. I stay there for three hours each day. I teach the young darlings at Meadowview reading, writing and good manners. Although good manners aren't on the syllabus and I don't get paid for it. The storybook writing I do every afternoon in my study, which is the second bedroom upstairs. I have a lovely old wooden desk set next to the large, west-facing window, looking off down the garden. My laptop sits in front of a large, plasma screen. My music collection is on permanent shuffle with all my favourite music. It's classical with some jazz and even country included. I sit writing and editing for three hours a day. I produce a new book around every four to six months.

I'm glad I could afford to leave my parent's home when I did. I had reached my twentieth birthday when I bought this house. I bought it before the prices went crazy a few years ago. I had only written three books. The first two only sold a few but the third one sold like hotcakes. Then people began to buy the first two and I got heaps of money in no time at all.

Believe it or not, I went to see William; the only solicitor I knew back then. William advised me to buy this house. It's about the only sensible thing he ever told me. I also have a little villa in Corfu where I take my holidays. Two months every year, one in May and the next in September, to avoid the school holidays. It is let out with an agent and makes a few extra euros for me to spend when I stay there. It's such a blessing to get away from the rat race. I have a different procedure when I'm in Corfu but that's another story.

At four, I go down and indulge in my one real luxury, a swim in the indoor pool. I had it built after I bought the house. It sits to the right side of the house in a copy of the garage on the opposite side. It took some getting through the planners but they relented. My solicitor, not William, later told me that I should have turned up to the enquiry in my buttoned white shirt. He said I needed the top two buttons undone and a tight dark navy blue skirt. We might have got the permission at the first meeting, he said.

I swim for forty minutes or so. Steady, churning out the lengths using my crawl stroke. I swim around a mile and a half every day. Swimming naked is such a pleasure. I concentrate on the feeling between my legs as they scissor to and fro in the warm water. Then it's tea and a cake or crumpet time, my one naughty weakness each day. If I have shopping or chores to do then now is the time, otherwise, I move into the living room and read for an hour or two. Around six I prepare dinner.

In the evenings, two or three nights a week I attend the theatre, concerts or opera. Sometimes in Henley or else, I take the train into London. My life is busy. I rarely have time to socialize and even if I did I wouldn't care to so much. I go to the odd party now and then but I always come home alone. Always my choice I should explain. I have never invited a man into any other room than the kitchen of my house and then they are tradesmen. A man has not even kissed me but I can't say that I mind. So yes, I am an ignorant innocent, a virgin. A rarity in these days of sexual promiscuousness and loose morals, but I am happy with myself.

Am I getting side-tracked again? I'm sorry. It's the way I am. I can't rush on and tell you the end result without giving you some sense of the anticipation. The delay, the waiting for the right time to begin the finale, is an important aspect. I told you these things take time to prepare. The constant interruptions of the day make the waiting all the more gratifying.

Anyway, I ate this satisfying meal, loaded up the dishwasher and sat reading for a while. I love Daphne Du Maurier, Meave Binchey and others of that genre. I have read Stephen King and John Grisham but that's not something I would admit to my friends, such as they are. So now you know why I am not familiar with 'coming'. These writers are about other subjects. I know I keep slipping from the past to the present tense. That's because it's difficult to describe a single event without referring to other events in the past. I'm afraid you'll have to put up with that as well.

Last night, I chose Bizet for company. I relaxed in front of the fire. I read a few pages of a delightful book I have read before called; 'A Week in Winter'. I sipped at a cold Australian Chardonnay.

Now I suppose I begin the real thing. The main event. I lay the book aside and stand to undress. I throw my clothes over the end of the sofa and spread one of my huge soft bath towel on the cushions. The room is warm and private. I have drawn the heavy lined curtains. The lighting is set to perfection. I lie down and reach for the bottle of scented massage oil, which I buy from the Body Shop. They do have some nice scented oils for all sorts of purposes. I find that Chamomile is the most pleasant for me. I begin by reclining almost fully; my head rests on the arm of the sofa so that I can watch myself. I pour a small amount of oil over my breasts and set the bottle aside on the small mahogany table by the sofa. Now with both hands, I begin to spread the oil around and over my breasts. I take as long as is necessary to make my nipples stand up. I keep my eyes open and watch as my fingers glide over my skin.

I can feel every touch, every stroke, every pause, every turn of my fingers. I begin by circling around the whole breast. I avoid touching my nipples until the time is right. I move oh-so-slowly so that the journey from the bottom of my breast to the nipple might take a whole minute. My nipples ache but I move even slower, slower until I can't bear to wait any longer. Then I pause and make myself wait. They are hard, hard enough that I can pinch them, quite hard. I pull them until they are like small buttons standing proud of my breasts.

How do I feel now? Well, I am glowing from head to toe. I can feel an ache between my legs. I know I am becoming moist down there. It's as if a fire has been lit deep inside me. I don't know quite where, but it has been smouldering all day. Now I have given it oxygen and fanned the flames into life.