Mental

By Lisabet Sarai

I’ve been fascinated by sex pretty much all my life—from before the time I even knew what sex was. At the same time, I have to admit that from a physical perspective I have never been a very sexual person. What do I mean by that apparent paradox?

Well, even back when I was in my teens and twenties, swamped by hormones, my horniness didn’t express itself primarily through my body. I was not the kind of woman who was crazed for orgasms and would do anything, with anyone, to get them. I certainly experienced physical pleasure during my (pretty numerous) sexual adventures, but that wasn’t my primary focus.

What was my focus? It’s actually pretty difficult to describe. I loved being an object of desire. I sought the sense of connection that distinguishes great sex, something very close to spiritual communion. Even when an encounter didn’t reach that level, I enjoyed the warmth of our shared pursuit of pleasure. I liked being taken over by my lover, feeling a bit helpless. And I definitely got a kick from surprising my lover with my lack of guilt and my willingness to experiment.

Because I was more influenced by the mental and emotional aspects of sex, it didn’t matter that much whether I came or not. I realize that sounds heretical, but it’s true. When I think back to the most intense and arousing of my sexual experiences, I don’t remember orgasms at all. I don’t even know if I did in fact climax. I remember the thoughts and feelings, not the sensations.

I think this is just the way I’m wired. Maybe it’s because I’m an Aquarian. (I definitely fit the classic description of that sign.) Whatever the reason, my lack of focus on physical pleasure (relatively speaking) means that I haven’t masturbated all that much.

I did discover masturbation very early—at the age of four—but I never had any sort of compulsion to pursue the activity. As an adult, I might go years without jilling off. (Of course, I’ve had at least one sexually active partner for most of my life, so I was never particularly frustrated.)

When I do masturbate, the mental component remains more important than the physical. Without a fantasy, it doesn’t really matter how, or how much, I play with myself. I can’t come from purely physical manipulation. In fact, it’s easier for me to climax from indirect stimulation than, for instance, with a vibe pressed against my clit. Without some scene running through my head, though, I can hump my pillow for an hour to no avail. In contrast, give me a nice, filthy BDSM scenario to contemplate and I’ll come in a matter of minutes.

My characters tend to be far more physical than I am. When you’re writing erotica, that’s more or less required. Still, they tend to fantasize when they’re playing with themselves, too. It’s probably not too surprising that their mental movies have something in common with my own.

As an example, here’s a masturbation scene from my erotic romance TheIngredients of Bliss:

My eyes still shut tight, I summoned memories of Harry’s caresses. He’d go from gentle to intense in a breath, and so did I, seizing both nipples and pinching as hard as I could manage. Like turning the knob on a stove, this raised the heat level. My gluts tensed and my hips bucked. Meanwhile, my erect nipples throbbed, aching but craving more. I clamped down on them with even greater force, digging my fingernails into the swollen flesh. The first quivers of an orgasm stirred in my depths.

‘You love it when it hurts.’ I could hear Harry’s warm, teasing voice in my mind. ‘You’re a natural sub. The more I torture you, the more you want.’

But of course, Harry’s ministrations weren’t torture, they were bliss. Every slap or spank he inflicted upon me, every kiss of the whip, every brutal thrust of his cock, was edged with delight.

In my mind, he knelt between my spread legs, gloriously naked, stroking his substantial erection and grinning down at me with a heady mixture of lust and love. My pussy clenched around emptiness at the image, so vivid I could see the black hair that furred his powerful thighs and the pre-cum beading on the head of his cock. I needed him—needed him with me, on top of me, inside me.

I interrupted my fantasy just long enough to strip off the shirt and jeans. I was nude underneath. Pulling open the drawer of the bedside table, I retrieved a black velvet drawstring bag and extracted its contents. Harry had hidden it somewhere in his luggage and handed it to me with a triumphant grin the first night in Paris.

Though I was alone, I couldn’t help blushing at the sight of the massive dildo. Fashioned of jet black silicon, it was nine inches long and a full two inches in diameter. Harry had insisted I buy it. He’d stood laughing in the background at the adult store while I’d stuttered and fumbled with my credit card, unable to meet the clerk’s eyes.

“It will never fit,” I’d protested, after I’d obeyed his order.

We’d strolled arm in arm down Market Street, my cheeks still hot with embarrassment. I’d felt as though every passerby knew what I carried in the plain brown paper bag.

“Oh, you’re wrong, love. It will fit perfectly—not just in your pussy, but in your ass too.”

He was right of course. If I was sufficiently aroused—and I was always that way, around Harry—it slid right in. The first time he’d commanded me to fuck myself with the obscene object, I’d had one of the most intense orgasms in my life. He hadn’t inserted it into my anus yet—nor forced me to bugger myself—but I knew he would eventually.

How would that feel? My rear hole tightened at the mere thought of such an invasion.

Stretched out on the bed again, I feathered my hands over my bare breasts, across my belly and down to my cunt. The lips were slick and swollen under my fingertips. Spreading them with my left hand, I rubbed the toy over my inner folds, gathering wetness. My clit screamed for attention, but I held off, as I knew Harry would, building the tension. Instead, I eased the first inch or so of the artificial cock into my channel, pretending it was Harry’s cock.

As always, going farther felt impossible. The silicone rod was too big, too hard. My poor, tight pussy could never accommodate such a bulk. Pain flickered through the haze of my arousal as my flesh protested. “I can’t,” I moaned out load.

‘Of course you can. You will. For me.’

For Harry, I’d do anything. I released my labia, grabbed the dildo in both hands and pushed. A few more inches disappeared into my cleft. My thumb grazed my clit, triggering a bolt of pleasure that spiraled deep into my core. The pain faded, replaced by extreme sensations of fullness, sensations that pumped energy into my gathering climax.

‘Fuck yourself. Ram it in.’

I drew my knees up that I could tilt my pelvis to a better angle. With all the force I possessed, I drove the phallus into my cunt. The tip hit my cervix. I gasped in sudden agony. Then pleasure welled up, drenching me and spilling over, washing away even the memory of discomfort.

I pulled the toy part way out then slammed it back in, using the same sort of rough, fast strokes Harry favored. Incredible! Of course, the lifeless hunk of silicone couldn’t begin to match my lover’s hot supple flesh, melding with my own.

But the sense of transgression was thrilling—the knowledge that I was fucking myself with a huge toy at the orders of my Master.

‘Good girl.’

Eyes closed, I summoned my lover. I wanted the dildo to be Harry’s cock, but stubbornly, I could only picture him watching, a delighted grin lighting his face.

‘That’s right, love. You keep working on your pussy. Meanwhile, I’m going to bury my cock in your ass.’

I’d never actually play with myself like this. I probably wouldn't enjoy it. But I love thinking about it. I love writing about it. In fact, simply reviewing the scene while incorporating into this blog post has me wet. Really. Which just goes to show that for someone like me, writing is perhaps the most effective sort of masturbation. Even if it is entirely mental.