Dear Jocelyn Lily,
Do you masturbate to your own stories, like your own writing?
This is an easy answer: YES! Emphatically, absolutely, and totally yes. Some of most favorite self-diddles have been while reading my own words written a year ago. I’ll rub myself an orgasm fingers dripping deep into my holes, and rubbing my clit like I’m just a furiously attempting climax as my characters.
I’ve read “Take Her” a few times and cum from the scenario my past self contrived. Heck, like any good good book I’ve forgotten many of the smaller details, and even knowing what is going to happen next doesn’t diminish from the overall quality of the story and scene itself.
I’ve sometimes considered using the “would I bust out the dildo” metric for whether or not a particular scene enters a book. Usually the answer is absolutely yes. Yes I’ll lube up my ass and drive the plug in over the protestations of my surprised ass. Yes, I’ll spread that lube over my pussy and use my fingers to rise in orgasm. I like my writing; which is really a reason why I’m brave enough to share it with all of you. I enjoy reading what I’ve written because it feels good to both see the story play out, and to share in the vision of that moment.
You might not be surprised to realize that I frequently stop writing to rub one out, to shake my legs in passion, and to squeeze my nipples. When I’m thinking of a scene or what should happen when I’m outlining, one hand is frequently in my pants, panties shoved aside, and finger moving in constant swirls around my bean. Generally, I find my free hand pinching my nipples, playing with my breast, or fondling my honey nub.
I write smut, sex, and erotica. It turns me on to write it, and even read it later. What about you?
Poem of the Day:
My wrists are sore; from the awkwardly small keyboard and the carpel tunnel or from the constant tilt to shove past pantie, to press past elastic pajama pant’s waist, to curve across my abdomen, and dip, caress, and circle my protected holes.
A flare pleasures up my waist, my breasts heave, and my flushed out muse yanks, in irony, my hand slick with wetness back to a keyboard soaked by frequent dipping distractions.