I used to be like many of you. Going about my average day doing average things. Interviewing people and researching topics to fill the column of an online magazine; drinking at a filthy downtown bar for the aesthetics; and making frivolous conversation with frivolous people, whom I guess you could call my ‘friends, all in the hopes of making time go by a little faster. It wasn’t like I was unhappy, but my daytime activities certainly left me aching for a source of real joy. Luckily after having a few conversations and falling down a handful of risqué online rabbit holes, I knew I had stumbled upon something unique. A nook in a vast library of motivational activities. My very own combination of 11 herbs and spices to spruce up my writing. After a few weeks of going at it, I found myself drooling with anticipation during the day to indulge my newfound wicked night-time routine. It left me feeling like a sexually emancipated queen and I was eager to be crowned each night. The following is an account of one such night a couple of weeks back.
After an unusually gruelling day, I finally found myself home, and after a long refreshing shower and hot jasmine tea, I was practically itching to begin. In one smooth motion, I slipped off my silk robe and slung Mr Thriller out from my closet. Who is Mr Thriller you ask? There are many ways to describe him. To the untrained eye, he might seem like an ordinary dildo. But to me, the ruby red translucent schlong was my very own magic carpet, always on standby to ship me off to a whole new world.
He knew me so well; inside and out. From the moment I set eyes on him the very first time, his length, his girth, the way he curved up like a loyal warrior eager to service my desperate need to be plugged airtight, let me know instantaneously that he was bad. How bad exactly? Michael Jackson Bad!
I placed him on my desk chair where my computer was. He had a little suction cup on the opposite end which would stick to the chair that had him pointing his gorgeous head straight up towards heaven. After fastening him in place, I lubed him up. The excitement rendering me barely able to contain my giddiness for what came next. Having done a fine job, I slowly positioned myself and took a seat on the chair. Predictably, I got increasingly eager to write as each inch of Mr Thriller slipped and found his way deep inside of me. Once I was settled in I got to work, opening up a new word document. I was amped to enter that flow state of being I call writer’s oblivion, where hours become condensed into little more than sparse minutes and spare change.
Whilst Mr Thriller kept himself busy downstairs by making a place for himself within the core of my womanhood, my hands and sexed-up mind took care of the professional business upstairs with the help of my keyboard. It depends on the day, but either I start work on a new column for my editor to review, or I ended up filling some commissions for erotica I had received from couples looking to spice things up for their lover. Whatever the occasion was, with him inside me, I was unfazed by writer’s block and unbound by societal inhibitions and taboos. No matter how dirty, perverted or morally reprehensible any request from a couple or idea for a new column seemed, me and Mr Thriller were armed; dead set to tackle it head-on.
The more I write the wetter I get. That’s just a fact. Ben Shapiro can back me up on that. And believe me, somedays, if I find myself with pages on pages to write (as I did that night), my thighs would be left quivering.
Mr Thriller did not fuck around. As I rode him, pushing into him with wanton desperation, it was clear to see he had me all figured out. He met my needs before I knew I even had them. He was an absolute killer. A sexual clairvoyant. He was so hard that when I squeezed him there was no give. I realized quickly that this could turn into a bit of a problem. I had to come up with a rule to help me stay on top of the work and not get too distracted. I told myself unless I finished my work to a good enough standard, there would be no touching below the waist regardless of how badly I was aching for the release. Even if I needed that orgasm like I needed my next breath; I promised to be strict on myself. However, I would be lying if I didn’t admit that occasionally my hands did wander; distracted from the work by my perked-up nipples silently screaming for attention.
Given my Catholic upbringing, it thrills me to see how much of a sexual libertarian I’ve become. Once I’ve wrapped up writing a new column or spilling some sexually charged tea within the final lines of character dialogue in my hand-crafted erotica, I’ve made it a habit to pull my dildo out and collapse onto my bed. Around this time, my mind and body are in absolute overdrive and it’s become a dirty habit of mine to spread my legs wide whilst I lay back plush against the headboard and taste myself. As you can probably guess, this little exercise near the end pushes me over the edge every time without fail. Sending jolts of lightning up my spine towards my skull, I commence fingering myself without stop, bringing this excruciatingly slutty and hallucinatory, but albeit surprisingly productive ordeal to its conclusion.
A note to the boys and girls reading this: I’ve had sex plenty of times, and not the boring kind mind you. But (consider me unlucky) I’ve always found the person I’m with to be quite one dimensional after going at it a couple of times. However, in my room, scantily clad and dildo in hand the environment becomes a blank canvass of sorts. Each time I dive right into my pleasure palace, every stroke in and out feels like a different coat of paint being applied. And I am entrenched in delight to be the one being painted on. With no other person’s feelings or boundaries to consider other than my own, the sky truly becomes the limit. I could be selfish or selfless, a top or a bottom, an Amazonian that fucks fast and hard or a tainted virgin who wants the pleasure to wash over her in slow periodic waves.
By the time I’m writing this it’s been three months since I stumbled upon and polished this routine of mine. But much like catching sight of your partner’s breasts, every time I engage in it, it feels like the very first time. Not to mention, the fact that my writing partner and muse is a dildo makes me red hot between the legs, especially when someone mentions how titillating, thought-provoking or authentic my words felt whilst reading. I feel like a class A pervert in the best of ways.
These days my editor has somewhat sobered up to how earnest I’ve become with my deadlines. I simply told him the truth. I just made it a habit to sit on my chair and not go to bed until I was done writing all I had to write. Oh, how it thrills me to know that none of the recipients of my work (including my editor) has an inkling of how truly naughty and boundless my new writing process is.
As someone with a lot of time to think up a clever quote once said, “To be happy, we must not be too concerned with others”. I think that’s where I’m at now in my metamorphosis.
P.S – For those wondering. Yes. I wrote this little confession with the help of Mr Thriller as well ✌️✨.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/mpcwmn/my_cheeky_writing_habbit