Jacking-Off Log
- Thread starter rosco rathbone
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stirbird
toussled, bird-mad
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rosco rathbone said:
Aww, sorry to hear it! But not to worry, you're still the
http://images6.theimagehosting.com/darkart01685.jpg
(dark priest of jacking off) to us.
MechaBlade
irrumatio king
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Off the wagon?Marquis said:
Know where to look.Hester said:
I just had a great dream, and I kinda want to jack to it, but it's lost a lot of the emotional intensity since I've woke.
naughtygirl69s
Returned from beyond
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I had a medium strength O earlier, started out remembering my dream buy my brain was all over the place, in the end it was the peeing lil girl that got me off
MechaBlade
irrumatio king
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*ahem*details.naughtygirl69s said:I had a medium strength O earlier, started out remembering my dream buy my brain was all over the place, in the end it was the peeing lil girl that got me off
naughtygirl69s
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naughtygirl69s
Returned from beyond
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MechaBlade said:
today's O, brought to me by a childhood memory.
This totally hit me, just now.
I remember being very young and humping a pillow or the couch or something and knowing it felt good but not really getting to orgasm or even understanding what was supposed to happen. Then it finally happened one day and I remember thinking in my head it kinda felt like "peeing" so that's what I equated it with, I don't even think I knew the word "orgasm" so in my head, I would say "yeah, pee, make it pee" of course I didn't actually pee, it just felt like I was going to, or wanted to.
MechaBlade
irrumatio king
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yowza.
Olivia_Yearns
funny
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Wow. Yeah, I vaguely remember a couple of orgasms associated with peeing, in the dim memories of childhood. I knew how to cum when I was quite young -maybe 7, but I didn't know what it was, and I guess I lost the ability for a few years.naughtygirl69s said:
rosco rathbone
1. f3e5 2. g4??
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There's a jacking renaissance and beating off seems about as exciting to me as conjugating chinese verbs. Where were all you jackers 6 mos ago when I was masturbating like a mad monkey who'd got caught with his paws in the Spanish Fly jar?
MechaBlade
irrumatio king
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missed it. I know it's weird, this thread has been almost a sticky for the last week or so. Thx Hester, Olivia and naughty.rosco rathbone said:
naughtygirl69s
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rosco rathbone said:
I've always been a fan of your jacking since I found this thread, quit yer bitchin' and commence some hand to dick action
rosco rathbone
1. f3e5 2. g4??
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MechaBlade said:
I just figured it out. All you jackers are sucking out the jacking power from the noosphere. Like when they drill a new oil well in Olklahoma and it makes the wells in Texas run dry faster. There's only so much masturbation to go around!
rosco rathbone
1. f3e5 2. g4??
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Hester said:
heh
It's bone deep, man.
Marquis
Jack Dawkins
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A few hours ago I jacked in this very position and ejaculated so hard that a small portion of semen fell upon the right side of my jaw. Frozen in terror, I screamed until my woman came in and licked it off, restoring my notions of masculinity.
MechaBlade
irrumatio king
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LOL. I wanna draw, like, a adult comic strip of this.Marquis said:
MechaBlade
irrumatio king
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Just got a quick one in watching a dirty anal Asian vid.
Despite the fact that we just talked about cum's tendency to fly anywhere, I mistakenly thought I could aim my cum on a yogurt lid. I mostly failed.
Despite the fact that we just talked about cum's tendency to fly anywhere, I mistakenly thought I could aim my cum on a yogurt lid. I mostly failed.
snowy ciara
Nerdalicious!
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To Mr. Rosco Rathbone Esq, et al
Greetings JOL Persons...
This winter was a long dry spell for me, but about a month or so ago, I started getting back into the swing of things, so to speak. Mr. Rathbone and I had spoken briefly of a jack inspired by the classic Jane Eyre that really got the ball rolling for me. Since Mr. Mechablade has requested details, I will elaborate a bit.
I woke from a deep sleep, where apparently I was REM ing along because I actually remember the dream. I was attending the same dreary school as our heroine, and I was there on the day the Directors came to visit. The Directors, if you will cast your memory back, Dear Reader, were a group of gentlemen in cravats and top hats with walking sticks and chaise carriages who came to see the school. They observed the lessons, and the girls and walked around making all sorts of suggestions to better the lives of their young charges. Some few of them were helpful; but most were pointless. Most of the girls were the daughters of fairly rich merchants, the lower (impoverished) echelons of Society and a great many well to do orphans. The last group was the most put upon; even though some of them had small inheritances, most of them could only look forward to a cold life of Governess hood.
So on The Day The Directors came, it was observed that many of the Senior Girls had very long hair, gracefully caught up in ornate chignons that modestly covered the back of the neck. It was observed that the washing of these luxuriant tresses once a week was an incredible waste of time. In addition, precious moments were wasted each morning as the girls brushed and pinned up their hair, and more time was wasted each evening as they brushed and braided it. This time could be better be spent contemplating their lessons, contemplating the Scriptures, praying or otherwise improving themselves. Moreover, the girls may become vain about the length and glory of their tresses, thereby endangering their very souls. There was but one way to remedy the situation. The hair must be cut off!
It was at this point I woke, and I found myself very upset. Gentle Reader, I personally have very long hair. My braids are long enough to sit on. I know it's silly; it was only a dream. No-one is going to cut off my braids. (I have promised Mr. Rathbone that should I ever wish to cut off my hair, I will endeavor to do it in a manner that he can watch, as he appears to relish punitive hair cutting.) I thought to myself, "I won't do it, they can't make me!" From this I slid into a totally non-consent fantasy.
I imagined myself back as the Girl Who Would Not. I find myself called into the Headmistress's office, and a Director is there, explaining to me that there's no way around it. He is a round little man, with muttonchops and a high collared shirt. He reminds me of a little round bantam rooster, crowing because once again, he has escaped the pot. My hair must go, he tells me, and he is going to do it himself. I toss my head and tell him no. He never yells, he just gets frustrated and impatient, and keeps calling me "dear girl" and trying to be reasonable. Finally, he directs me to come over there directly like a good girl and submit or face the birch rod across the palms of my hands. I refused.
He calls me cheeky and stubborn and now starts to raise his voice and finally winds up with "you stupid stupid girl! Now I shall have to beat you!" and he does. I am absolutely mortified as he pulls me across the desk and briskly applies a birch rod across my shoulders and buttocks. Under my school tunic and over my knickers of course. The Headmistress eventually pulls him off and they march me out to the assembly where the girls are waiting after their evening meal and stand me in front of them and cut off my braids so short that my hair is now short short SHORT like the pixie cuts that were popularized during the 60's. The Director actually had an erection by this time (he was watching from the back of the assembly hall for the actual hair cutting.) so as I was passing him on my way to the dormitories (evening recreation had been forbidden to me due to my disobedience.) he summoned me back to the Headmistress's office and demanded that I service him orally. It is, after all, my fault that he is in this overheated and choleric state. I do so, hating every moment of it, hating the feeling of his hands in my short hair. Eventually he comes, but his orgasm is not the thing of the romance novels we have surreptitiously been reading. It is a small bitter orgasm; his semen is bitter on my tongue and the amount is small, as if he is too petty to give generously of his sperm. At the end of it, he says "that'll do girl, now get out." I go to my narrow cot in the dormitory and he dons his greatcoat and top hat and boards his chaise to go back into town, where he will have a fine dinner, with his proper wife and clean, shining faced children.
There are several things about this fantasy that stick in my head. Though he asks my name several time, he never addresses me as such. He calls me "girl". Also, I didn't O during the sex part or the beating part. I O'd during the hair cutting and when I was imagining his dinner with his family.
This was the fantasy that ended my dry spell; more JOL reports will follow.
I remain, your obedient servant,
S.C.
Greetings JOL Persons...
This winter was a long dry spell for me, but about a month or so ago, I started getting back into the swing of things, so to speak. Mr. Rathbone and I had spoken briefly of a jack inspired by the classic Jane Eyre that really got the ball rolling for me. Since Mr. Mechablade has requested details, I will elaborate a bit.
I woke from a deep sleep, where apparently I was REM ing along because I actually remember the dream. I was attending the same dreary school as our heroine, and I was there on the day the Directors came to visit. The Directors, if you will cast your memory back, Dear Reader, were a group of gentlemen in cravats and top hats with walking sticks and chaise carriages who came to see the school. They observed the lessons, and the girls and walked around making all sorts of suggestions to better the lives of their young charges. Some few of them were helpful; but most were pointless. Most of the girls were the daughters of fairly rich merchants, the lower (impoverished) echelons of Society and a great many well to do orphans. The last group was the most put upon; even though some of them had small inheritances, most of them could only look forward to a cold life of Governess hood.
So on The Day The Directors came, it was observed that many of the Senior Girls had very long hair, gracefully caught up in ornate chignons that modestly covered the back of the neck. It was observed that the washing of these luxuriant tresses once a week was an incredible waste of time. In addition, precious moments were wasted each morning as the girls brushed and pinned up their hair, and more time was wasted each evening as they brushed and braided it. This time could be better be spent contemplating their lessons, contemplating the Scriptures, praying or otherwise improving themselves. Moreover, the girls may become vain about the length and glory of their tresses, thereby endangering their very souls. There was but one way to remedy the situation. The hair must be cut off!
It was at this point I woke, and I found myself very upset. Gentle Reader, I personally have very long hair. My braids are long enough to sit on. I know it's silly; it was only a dream. No-one is going to cut off my braids. (I have promised Mr. Rathbone that should I ever wish to cut off my hair, I will endeavor to do it in a manner that he can watch, as he appears to relish punitive hair cutting.) I thought to myself, "I won't do it, they can't make me!" From this I slid into a totally non-consent fantasy.
I imagined myself back as the Girl Who Would Not. I find myself called into the Headmistress's office, and a Director is there, explaining to me that there's no way around it. He is a round little man, with muttonchops and a high collared shirt. He reminds me of a little round bantam rooster, crowing because once again, he has escaped the pot. My hair must go, he tells me, and he is going to do it himself. I toss my head and tell him no. He never yells, he just gets frustrated and impatient, and keeps calling me "dear girl" and trying to be reasonable. Finally, he directs me to come over there directly like a good girl and submit or face the birch rod across the palms of my hands. I refused.
He calls me cheeky and stubborn and now starts to raise his voice and finally winds up with "you stupid stupid girl! Now I shall have to beat you!" and he does. I am absolutely mortified as he pulls me across the desk and briskly applies a birch rod across my shoulders and buttocks. Under my school tunic and over my knickers of course. The Headmistress eventually pulls him off and they march me out to the assembly where the girls are waiting after their evening meal and stand me in front of them and cut off my braids so short that my hair is now short short SHORT like the pixie cuts that were popularized during the 60's. The Director actually had an erection by this time (he was watching from the back of the assembly hall for the actual hair cutting.) so as I was passing him on my way to the dormitories (evening recreation had been forbidden to me due to my disobedience.) he summoned me back to the Headmistress's office and demanded that I service him orally. It is, after all, my fault that he is in this overheated and choleric state. I do so, hating every moment of it, hating the feeling of his hands in my short hair. Eventually he comes, but his orgasm is not the thing of the romance novels we have surreptitiously been reading. It is a small bitter orgasm; his semen is bitter on my tongue and the amount is small, as if he is too petty to give generously of his sperm. At the end of it, he says "that'll do girl, now get out." I go to my narrow cot in the dormitory and he dons his greatcoat and top hat and boards his chaise to go back into town, where he will have a fine dinner, with his proper wife and clean, shining faced children.
There are several things about this fantasy that stick in my head. Though he asks my name several time, he never addresses me as such. He calls me "girl". Also, I didn't O during the sex part or the beating part. I O'd during the hair cutting and when I was imagining his dinner with his family.
This was the fantasy that ended my dry spell; more JOL reports will follow.
I remain, your obedient servant,
S.C.
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apastromance
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dust~~~
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