Jacking-Off Log

[Queen Bee]

Hm, I get hornier in hot weather, but my temper flares too.

Last night in the bathtub, buoyant in the tepid water, sounds muffled to dull clanks. This was the setting for my first spelunking expeditions, the only place I could be alone. Sometimes it still is.

I was preoccupied and it was a halfhearted orgasm, purely maintenance. Sometimes I'm not really in the mood, but rub one off anyway just as a soothing habit.

 

[rosco rathbone]

I'm not horny lately.
No clit-toggling no rabid fucks.

Q:

Does the mercury go up and your sex drive go down?

Have I become Nordic-by-injection enough to want to fuck away the winter and do nothing all summer but drink fruity white wines and wax philosophical????

In the summer I have Henry Miller's loose, lucid, murderous semi-hard as I walk the streets turning to eye the ass of every passing girl-but no inclination to carry things to conclusion at all.

 

[MrBates]

Hot or Not....

I pulled two off last night.

Once here in my office; all alone. A certain Litster offering inspiration through email.

Then, a second one when I got home. The first one was good; but got me so worked up, I wanted more.

I'd say the first one was a 7; the second probably a 5.5 (which I still consider good for a follow-up jack)

 

[rosco rathbone]

I am two jacks behind--sorry, jack fans. I was so tired this week that I simply could not face my logging responsibilities.

Jack One, from about two days ago, was very uninteresting; except in one regard. I was home from work and felt the need to relieve my body of the stress of excess substance J-7 . My mental thoughts were totally generic and I thought that it was going to be another pipecleaning type of jack-the kind of jack that has me despairing of ever making a living at the jacker's trade these days. The kind of jack that makes me want to just give up jacking. I keep rehashing the same mental images; squeesing the juice out of them, grinding them to stardust. To tell the truth, I can't even remember which one it was. Might as well call it Mental Image j-9 or GFU-987345. But when it came time to baste the ejaculation basin, and I was exhaustedly going through the motions, a powerful organism suddenly stirred in the base of my balls and I came like a champion. Completely unexpected. I even hit the far side of the basin. I had jacked the night before (described below), so it wasn't a case of excess pressure in the pipes. One for science to study. Who will ever understand the mysterious ways of the cock and balls?

 

[rosco rathbone]

Man, this is like running up the down escalator. No sooner do I start catching up on jacks unlogged then I fall behind again.

I must report Jack 2: the David Koresh Compound
I must report Jack 3: the "muscle which lifts and firms" forcible exercise jack (no nut)
I must report Jack 4: the young Russian girlfriend/exposed thong/aged Garey Busey-jewjack

I shall report these jacks. I am sorry for slacking. I have notes and will write them up. It's just that i have been living the rock and roll lifestyle lately and am low on mental prowess and creative seed.

 

[~*Angel_Brat*~]

*waits*

i'm especially curious about the david koresh one

 

[AngelicAssassin]

"Prohibitions against ejaculations are not based on science."

Professor Graham Giles, of Australia's Cancer Council Victoria, on his study that found frequent masturbation may protect against prostate cancer.

Newsweek, July 28, 2003

Sounds like an excellent reason to go surfin' and call her name.

 

[Queen Bee]

Friday night: a quiet, furtive one tucked up in bed (we had houseguests). Mostly thinking of male cumshots and splatter patterns, trails of semen oozing down a meaty fist. It was quick and efficient, but quite pleasant.

Saturday: Have you seen this BBC show called "What Not to Wear?" The two female hosts find someone who dresses badly, give them advice and take them shopping for new clothes. Anyway, during the opening credits they start tearing each others' clothes off, criticizing them as "Tacky," "Too big," "No style," etc. and they actually slap each others' tits. So that's what got me started.

It evolved into a long, dreamy, fiddly rub, brain drifting, no specific fantasy. I came with reasonable strength, and the path of the orgasm was down the backs of my legs, as though traveling the sciatic nerves.

 

[rosco rathbone]

I came with reasonable strength, and the path of the orgasm was down the backs of my legs, as though traveling the sciatic nerves.

Now listen up and listen good , jackers. This is a case of close jacking attention. Everyone jacks. Everyone fantasizes. Everyone nuts. Pay attention to the details of your jacks and report consequently. I don't give a fuck that you talked to Litster member 3a and then came hard. PAY ATTENTION to the jack. Report.

 

[rosco rathbone]

Unreported jack. Last night, drunk, dominate-master, forced-impregnation, chained-and-beaten shit. Weird non-orgasm. These are notes, will log. Mea culpa.

 

[MrBates]

Gotta Add...

Two more from the weekend.

Saturday Afternoon. An office jack.
Utilitarian; but much needed stress relief.
A good solid 6.
Inspired by some stories here.

Sunday Night...a bedtime jack.
Instant cure for insomnia. A 5.5 though.
Just me and my imagination.

 

[Image]

Now listen up and listen good , jackers. This is a case of close jacking attention. Everyone jacks. Everyone fantasizes. Everyone nuts. Pay attention to the details of your jacks and report consequently. I don't give a fuck that you talked to Litster member 3a and then came hard. PAY ATTENTION to the jack. Report.

She is good, isn't she?

Uh...uh... uh... not sure what to report anymore. Have I not measured up to thread standards? I need the pictures in my mind, man!

The sterility may lose me

 

[rosco rathbone]

She is good, isn't she?

Uh...uh... uh... not sure what to report anymore. Have I not measured up to thread standards? I need the pictures in my mind, man!

The sterility may lose me

I was being cranky. You are doing a fine job. Keep jackin!

 

[rosco rathbone]

Four days off the happy pills and the effects are starting to make themselves known: vivid, heartwrenching all-night nightmares, sudden fits of existential horror and deep sadness, return of sex drive.


Today's jack featured a rock-hard woody and constant, high, pre-orgasmic excitement level. The fantasy was that of forcing someone to dress and make themselves up to please me, as i lolled at my ease indulging in cruel commentary. Then taking them out in public for little humiliations-interupting them as they talk to waiters or cashiers or what have you with "shut up", etc.

When I couldn't hold it any longer and went to nut, I found that I had already been having my orgasm for at least ten minutes. There was nowhere else to go. It was just a case of letting the seed flow, with no "climax" or boo-yah at all. Frustrating. I am always greedy for greater ejaculatory intensity.

 

[Queen Bee]

I am not slacking; I am not jacking. Currently in a phase of fuckmania.

I did have a quickie a few nights ago, the bedtime equivalent of a hot toddy. Used my vibe, read from "More Eveline," which has one of my favorite pieces of awful dialogue:

"In...In...In...Inspector, AAAH! Oh my goodness, it is in! You are stretching me! No more, Oh I beg you!"

 

[Image]

This afternoon...
Had a day off from work and didn't have time for the usual quickie in the morning. Errands run and groceries put up by 4:00.

It was (is) raining... thunder and lightning, so the satellite went out...

Bored, hubby wouldn't be home for another couple of hours, so...

Laying on my back on the bed... One pillow under my head, two others on either side of my opened thighs. Just my fingers, rubbing my clit...

The fantasy: My lover in black lace panties and stockings I bought for him the other day. I have him kneeling and on his elbows on the bed, ass in the air. I scratch him hard, up and down his back leaving welts and drawing blood in a few spots.

I pull his panties down over his white ass, telling him to not let his cock get hard. Leaning over him, grabbing him by the waist... as the flat side of a wooden hairbrush smacks his right cheek... he yells "Oh Fuck!" "Do you want more?", I ask...
He hesitates but responds "Whatever my mistress wants".

Another... and he screams again
"Do you want more"?
Again he says "Whatever my mistress wants"
Another smack... and this scream has real pain in it's sound
"Do you want more?"
Trembling and weak sounding this time, on the verge of tears...
"Whatever my mistress wants"

I then start to kiss and lick that burning welt, blowing gently on the wetness to cool the stinging sensation... I can hear him sighing and moaning..

No quickie, I took my time, drawing out the fantasy. Rubbed very slowly, even though I wanted to go quicker I didn't let myself... gradually building up, never went fast, pinching my nipples... When I came it was still slow rubbing. I came fully aware of each second of orgasm. Very hard, very good... I'd say an 8.5

A first time fantasy that I will use again

 

[rosco rathbone]

This afternoon...
Had a day off from work and didn't have time for the usual quickie in the morning. Errands run and groceries put up by 4:00.

It was (is) raining... thunder and lightning, so the satellite went out...

Bored, hubby wouldn't be home for another couple of hours, so...

Laying on my back on the bed... One pillow under my head, two others on either side of my opened thighs. Just my fingers, rubbing my clit...

The fantasy: My lover in black lace panties and stockings I bought for him the other day. I have him kneeling and on his elbows on the bed, ass in the air. I scratch him hard, up and down his back leaving welts and drawing blood in a few spots.

I pull his panties down over his white ass, telling him to not let his cock get hard. Leaning over him, grabbing him by the waist... as the flat side of a wooden hairbrush smacks his right cheek... he yells "Oh Fuck!" "Do you want more?", I ask...
He hesitates but responds "Whatever my mistress wants".

Another... and he screams again
"Do you want more"?
Again he says "Whatever my mistress wants"
Another smack... and this scream has real pain in it's sound
"Do you want more?"
Trembling and weak sounding this time, on the verge of tears...
"Whatever my mistress wants"

I then start to kiss and lick that burning welt, blowing gently on the wetness to cool the stinging sensation... I can hear him sighing and moaning..

No quickie, I took my time, drawing out the fantasy. Rubbed very slowly, even though I wanted to go quicker I didn't let myself... gradually building up, never went fast, pinching my nipples... When I came it was still slow rubbing. I came fully aware of each second of orgasm. Very hard, very good... I'd say an 8.5

A first time fantasy that I will use again

Aww, that is actually really sweet. I got a tingle. Maybe there is something to this dominatrix business after all. I have blinkers on-past humiliations force one type of interpretation.

 

[rosco rathbone]

Got off another nut yesterday; very similar to the last one I reported. I had been jacking like a maniac while fantasizing about extreme humiliations. I had a dream on the train of holding someone by the hair and forcing them to watch me take a long, leisurely, animalistic piss, then ordering them to their knees in front of the bowl, reading them the Riot Act and driving their heads underwater, Third-World police interrogation-style. Yanking the gasping face out. I took this image home and started jacking while thinking about actually fucking from behind while holding their head under. I had a boner you could have hit a home-run with, courtesy of my new post-Celexa libido. The problem was, when I went to nut, I'd already been orgasming for like ten minutes and it was just a matter of opening the valves and letting the seed shoot out.

nut: not really satisfactory. strong sensations but too deferred.
load: not half bad. left a curious fan-shaped spray pattern in the ejaculation basin.

 

[rosco rathbone]

Aged Gary-Busey Jewjack

was the name of this one.

I was in the window of a vegetarian restaurant, commentating on all of the passing women and waiting for my steamed weeds, stems and seeds to arrive. There was a couple at a corner table directly in my line of vision; but I didn't notice anything about them until the woman's exposed thong caught my eye. This is probably my number-one fashion fetish and I stared openly.

The man was a bit of an oldster; and so, though I couldn't see her face, I assumed that she was age-proportional to him. She had dyed-looking reddish blonde hair pulled back with a tacky scrunchie and something about its dull, frayed, split-endy look made me think "post-menopausal". With this imagined age in mind I looked her up and down. She was wearing tightish faded fashion-jeans with a low waist and one of those tightly-fitted button-down mens-style shirts with the 3/4 sleeves, in a stripey pattern with reds, golds and greens. (I don't know what to call those shirts but they are very popular). The shirt was far too short and the waist too low. When she leaned across the table she was exposing her back from a third of the way down the asscheek to a palms-breadth from the bottom of her shoulder-blades. The centrepiece of the scenario was an utterly tacky baby-blue butterfly-style thong; which looked as if it had seed-pearls sewn to it-and little bows. Like something worn by someone in some horrid, perverse Big Baby scenario. There must have been close to four fingers of skin between the side-pieces of the thong and the tops of her jeans.

Her body was shapely, but in a pasty, unhealthy, bulgy way. Full, round thighs stretching the jeans, roll over the waistband of softness, bulges whereever flesh was constricted and trying to break free; such as, especially maddeningly, in the four-finger gap described above. I post a picture below to give a general idea of the gathering of flesh around the hips and waist when a chunky woman sits with back arched. Altogether an air of rotten, slack fecundity which went straight to my balls. In addition, I was picturing her as late-40s to early 50s and something about this was maddening as well.

I took in the rest of her style: thick wedge sandals with red straps embossed with sparkly designs, bright red toenails that looked sloppily painted. Skin dead clammy white all over. She had gold-rimmed glasses and something very European about a combination of hint of double-chin, round cheeks over high cheekbones, and just the end of a pointy nose. Her handbag was a horror: red fake-patent leather looking with a big gold locking mechanism that had some kind of red jewels inset in it, much gold hardware. It was like a cheap copy of something the Czar's daughter might carry if the Russian aristocracy was still in place and sending its daughters to Soho to shop. Or, even worse, the real item: something very expensive and utterly cheap looking.

I found her unbearably hot.

Her consort was about 65 or 70. he looked exactly like a withered, aged version of big-toothed actor Gary Busey, if that worthy's facial collapse was several decades advanced-chin and gums heading north and nose and forehead south, towards a confrontation at the Mason-Dixon line defined by upper lip. The same big boofy blonde/red hair going greyish. Furthermore, there was something deeply Larry King about him. I knew in a second that he was a pervy old Jew man. Think Busey for the looks but Larry for the thick glasses, the hunched leer. He was ordering a selection of pale wines for the woman. I imagined that they were there for his health.

I had to get up and look at her from the front; so on a pretext of stepping out into the street to synchronise my chronometer with the sun I did so. She was much younger than I had thought and almost certainly Russian. That long pointy nose, close-set eyes, high, round puppet cheeks and air of utter spoilt petulance are the province of that people exclusively. (Not the nation of Russia but of Northern East Europe, to include the Poles.) What I had thought to be old-ladyish spectacles most charmingly at odds with the rest of her ensemble were, in fact, oversized fashion sunglasses. Bug goggles with the name of pimp inlaid in rhinestones.

Now I simply had to jack. Staring at the thong had been causing my stomach to churn for nearly half an hour; as I lingered over my weeds half-uneaten, pining for this vulgarian vegetarian who I had been picturing as a sort of trashy Susan Sarandon. As soon as I sussed the true picture of the relationship between these two, the urge to release took on an imperative nature. I excused myself and retired to the gents; where I did ensconce myself in an empty stall.

It all seemed so maddeningly perverse. This nasty, grinning old fuck was publically squiring someone so cheap, so bulgy, so young and so obviously fitted for nothing but rough usage. A whore to pacify with tacky baubles.

I was far too upset and de-centred by the thong to attempt any kind of fantasy. The jack was fast and lacking much mental content beyond inchoate yearning and anger that this couple had somehow released in me. I just yanked my mostly floppy cock as fast as I could, trying for some minor spasm that would make me feel better. I "came" in about thirty seconds, shades of similar furtive, quick and unhappy mastubations in my high-school library bathroom. A few specks of seed blotted my fist.

 

[rosco rathbone]

I jacked in the afternoon. A straightforward, healthy highschool-boyjack. A strong boner, a few minutes. I can't even remember what I was thinking about. I came nicely. Celexa had robbed me of my youth! Given me perversity without physical force. The dirty old mandrug they should name it.

The problem of not being on it is dreams. Layers of dreams like dead undergrowth dragged over a tiger trap of deeper dreams, with pungi-spikes in the bottom of still deeper dreams.

 

[Queen Bee]

All week I've had a pair of sensation fantasies darting like minnows through the shallows of my idle mind.

First, biting into a toothsome, resilient shoulder or thigh, worrying the flesh like a terrier, leaving a perfect dashed circle of dents, then rubbing my face against the hard muscle and dense hair of a man's chest, rooting open-mouthed like a newborn.

The second recurring thought I've had is of vaginal fisting. Occasionally I'm the fistee, but mostly I'm the fister, one arm stretched across her hipbones, holding her down, gripping the satiny flesh there. The other hand is folded inside, feeling her warm pulse and the drag of wet silk; my movements are infinitely gentle and restrained. I've never actually done this, so why do I feel it like a muscle memory, as certain as steering a car? If I ever do fist a woman, I will tell you if my feeling was true.

A third fantasy, one that I've had since my earliest bathtub masturbation days, surfaced today. Rosco reminded me of it by fucking the girl with her head in the toilet. I am in a swimming pool with a man. He is holding me under the water and I am sucking his cock. [When I first imagined this, I had never smelled or tasted semen, but once I did I was stricken by the coincidence of its chlorinated odor.] He holds me under for a long time, and my sucking grows more frantic and staccato as my lungs begin to burn. Just as I begin to drown, he pulls me by the hair to the surface for a long, desperate gulp of air, then plunges me underwater again. This goes on until he spurts like a cloud of octopus ink inside the warm tidepool of my mouth, and outside my cheeks are aching from the shocking cold of the water.

These thoughts simmered until they overcame my onanistic inertia of the past several days. I threw myself face down on the couch, both hands clenched between my thighs and rubbing away at my slick labia. I tried to bite the seat cushions, but couldn't get enough purchase; they only forced my lip into a snarl.

Humping away, I looked down my left shoulder and saw my foot braced on the floor, the muscles working in my calf and thigh, and that made me really need to bite something, so I brought my left arm up and sank my teeth into the wrist. By now my clit was like a trolley clanging back and forth along the track between two fingers of my right hand, hips rotating, sliding off the edge of the couch.

When the orgasm hit me, it was so strong it felt almost like an ejaculation, except that it backfired. I don't know what it was, but something intangible definitely exited through the dimples at the base of my spine. I hope it was nothing important.

 

[rosco rathbone]

The David Koresh Kompound

is how I think of this one.

I couldn't sleep and went out to lie on the sofa. For a while, I tried to practice the discipline of stopping thoughts, but finally lapsed into idle fantasy, hand in my drawers.

Where do ideas come from? I found myself picturing a very clear image. A cloister gardens under a grey sky, with arcaded walkway all around. The green had a bit of a Zen-garden appearance-more decorative than practical-but it was clear that various useful herbs, perhaps medical, magical or medicinal, were flowering there. The walkway (I don't know my monastery-architectural terms) covered with slate roof held up by beautiful archways. Regular dark doorways leading off.

A woman is mopping the flagstones, moving slowly, calmly and peacefully, almost as if entranced.She's young, with catlike Asian eyes, full cheeks and curly lips; a face meant to be full of vivacity and life. She wears a shapeless light grey sack dress with a large, starched, white collar. A white, Mother-Teresa style kerchief with a blue border covers her hair.

This was the extent of the image; but from nowhere a story assembled itself to explain as I watched her mop, and as the story assembled itself I found myself jacking; slowly at first
but with gradually increasing intensity. Too much time has past since this jack for me to reconstruct it accurately, so I can give only a gist.

I am the owner of the place. It is monastery, university, retreat, hidden get-away. A city of wives, a forbidden compound. I am the only male there; except for my boy children who must be turned out upon attaining the age of reason. (Perhaps to be raised by aunts or grandmothers in the city). Women come to this place, brought at my invitation, to learn calm, humility, service and peace. I am abbot, teacher, father, husband. They all wear the
simple garb. Like an abbot, I pick tasks for them which suit their spiritual level and which enable them best to contribute to the health of the community. The cat-eyed girl had been very unhappy, wilful, sad and angry in the real world. She had not been able to resist my invitation; but had sworn that she could never stand to live with a bunch of women and that she would hate performing wifely duties.Under my tutelage, she was becoming placid, calm, centered. Performing the humblest of
menial work about the place. Although she had been ordered to do her duties in complete silence and to make herself as tiny and quiet and invisible as a mouse , she carried my benevolent attention in her belly and had learned not to feel lonely when alone and not spoken to, like the last and least of monks, the halfwit stableboy who knows that the spiritual eye of the abbot is always upon him as it is upon all small and innocent things, regardless of the obscurity of their comings and goings. (This monk becomes a saint).

Although I did not "see" this with mental eye; I "knew" that at times I dandled my young babies on knee, surrounded by my acolyte wives, with long white beard. A oldish young man
full of patriarchal seed and sexual force, a youngish old man utterly wise and calm. The women would sit quietly with hands folded while I told them stories with or without moral, talked to them, made them peaceful at heart. A times I would sing a song to accompaniment of guitar or octarina and those able would join in supporting my deep, sweet voice with heavnly harmonies.

At some point I got up to ejaculate. I don't remember this part at all.

 

[rosco rathbone]

Another of those clean-limbed, healthy, sweaty, white-jockey-shorts high-school locker room jacks. Unremarkable run to orgasm. I was thinking about cool, solicitous, light-touched fingers fingering my stiff, tingly-haired nutsack as it contracted to a tense walnut.* Then I began to get off on the very phrase "cool, solicitous fingers", and carried that verbal rush through to the nut. Right as I popt off, I took a metaphysical step back and began to groove on the fact that I was nutting while thinking of words; rather than any image or touch-fantasy.





*The whole image was of a kneeling, hot-mouthed suck; but the cold nurse fingers took over.

 

[rosco rathbone]

bad news

I got a steel splinter the size of a small nail jammed halfway through my hand. I cannot jack. What am I to do?

Fortunately, I am going to have a (rare) interlude of bdsemme activity with an out-of-towner this weekend. Unfortunately, I cannot yank, grab, manhandle, slap, knead, clutch, insert digits, or even think about weilding an instrument of chastisement. She will have to relieve a lot of built-up stress in me.

Thinking of teaching her to jack me the way I like it. I like the idea of a regular jack, standing in the ejaculatorium, before the ejaculation basin, no thought for anyone but myself and my fantasy world: but the jacking hand actually belongs to someone else. I'd make her kneel down under the basin and reach up, like a stagehand behind a scrim manipulating the props; so as not to interfere with my solitary pleasure.

 

[Queen Bee]

A meatpuppet jack from your right-hand-woman.

Aren't you even a little ambidextrous?