My Story

Posted by Clizia Cockspur on January 02, 2004 at 02:56:14:

'My Story'
by Clizia Cockspur, copyright 2003

I’ve been doing this fantasy since the year dot. The physical side fizzled out when I started going out seriously, but I’d taken it up again by the time of my divorce. I am a single mother of two, an attractive 32 year old, slightly above average height. I work with animals in a shared practice in a provincial city.

What really got me started on these fantasies was seeing the film “Anne of the Thousand Days”, which was about Anne Boleyn, one of Henry VIII’s wives. She was beheaded in 1536, after being found guilty of several counts of adultery. The famous execution scene, which the film builds up to with her lovers being beheaded first, had my pulse rate soaring. That night I lay in bed for a long time, tossing and turning, unable to sleep, replaying the movie – the romantic bits and especially that scaffold scene - sweating like a pig. I had just recently learned the trick of masturbating to orgasm by clitoral manipulation (for a short while before this, I had been masturbating by squeezing soft material between my thighs, non-orgasmically). That night - after much time - I ended up masturbating, quick-like, just in order to get some sleep. I came very violently, with images of Anne Boleyn dominating mind. Into the clarity that comes between a really good orgasm and sleep, I saw myself getting into something rather wild and dangerous.

But I am not a wild or danger-seeking person, quite the reverse in fact. I’m bookish and shy. Having scary masturbation fantasies, then, suited my adventureless, stay-at-home personality. All the next day I was crimsoning every time I remembered what had happened. Yet, being a somewhat secretive and determined person, I didn’t try to repress my mind or my feelings. On the contrary, when I snook into the library, to see if they had any books on Henry VIII and his six wives, my palpitations were strong but, I knew well enough, quite invisible. I soon got what I wanted, three heavy, illustrated tomes on the Tudors, and took them home to devour. Surely no one could suspect my motives? I was just being interested in history - Kings and Queens - like anyone who had a romantic, dark-ages outlook – like watching ‘Camelot’ eleven times when we got out first VCR.

For the next few months, I would spend two or three evenings a week alone in ‘the snug’ - the study my Dad had set up (and was always too busy to use), listening to Early Music Consort records (from his collection), and getting the low-down on Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, Mary Queen of Scots, et al. Needless to say, I read certain chapters many times over. Then, at eight o’clock sharp, it was off upstairs. There were no screams out of me when it came to those bedtimes, unlike my brother and sister. I became good as gold – little did Mum and Dad know what was really going on in my room, but on masturbation nights I didn’t get much sleep before the others, who usually begged – and got - to watch all the mid-evening soaps and adult sitcoms.

So what was going on up there, I hear you asking in an ironic tone of voice? What was so unusual about joining the Monkey-Spankers’ Sorority, eh? Weren’t we all there, at some point? Well now of course, in the privacy of my own Internet space (sitting here in the nude with a glass of red wine and a remote-controlled little penis-look-alike whirring gently away at my G-spot) I can freely admit to masturbating - frequently, enthusiastically and with scant regard to my hymen. What’s more, I can tell you I did just about everything a frisky, imaginative person can do to her vagina, clitoris, nipples - even those tiny wisps of hair on my crotch got their share of treatment – and my sweet, puckering little anus, too, if you’re ready to know how far I went even in the early days. Yes, I had recently been granted a room my own, and was able to enjoy myself with less fear of making a noise or being disturbed. Believe me, I did the works: stripping and prancing nude across the floor, trussing my wrists and ankles with roll-bandage and garment cord, acting out weird scenes, stretching spreadeagled under the bed, posing on the chair in front of my dressing table mirror… I also collected and made various fetish implements, compiled secret scrapbooks of literature and pictures (I’ll go into that later)… yet all of this weird, solo activity was as nothing compared to what I got up to deep in my head – and my rapidly-warping imagination.

You see, it’s like this – after a while I passed on Anne Boleyn as a role model. True enough, at first her character and fate was a great turn-on for me. I replayed scenes from the movie to great delight, kneeling upright at the Critical Moment, twanging at my clit and turning my head to face the swordsman. As my reading improved, and I learned to discriminate between the story-telling styles of Lady Antonia Fraser and Sir Edward German, it was Kathryn Howard (beheaded 1542) that really got my heart plucking. Lady Antonia, extolling Boleyn as the happiest and truest of Henry’s six wives, painted Howard, by contrast, as the archetypal femme-fatale. Did you know – those of you who take an interest in these crucial affairs - that Howard was brought up in the same house as Boleyn? That she knew all about her much older cousin’s marriage, the truth about her supposed affairs, and the stoicism of her ultimate fate? And that, contrary to what I had seen in the film, that she had knelt for the swordsman blindfolded, and, devout soul that she was, met her end believing Jesus would save her?

There were no such illusions for Howard. Even though she knew her cousin had walked to into that courtyard at the Tower, convicted of adultery – which was a capital offence because her husband was King (shades of Princess Diana, what?) - yet when she got the chance, she pushed herself forward, caught old Henry’s eye and married him – only to cuckold him with a string of much younger, vigorous lovers! Of course, that landed her in the same dire straits. Kathryn Howard fascinated me because I was sure she was a woman with a death-wish. Somehow, deep down in her psyche, she knew the only man who could truly satisfy her lust - was the burly executioner who would chop off her head; and not with the gilded French sword of Boleyn, but with a common English axe.

I suppose these dark thoughts are not really so shocking? Actually, I find them devastating, as being no hero or chancer on my own account, I’ve never been able to see myself doing anything dangerous in real life, (apart from the mostly dirty jobs I do with the larger animals). Yet, deep down in my psyche there is a streak of Kathryn Howard. Maybe she’s my alter ego? Maybe I’m just a reincarnation of her Lady’s Maid? I don’t know…

Wow, this is all getting a bit intense and psychological! Have I lost the plot? I am such a bluestocking, I know, but bear with me if you’re still curious about the scenarios. Believe me, if you share the same kink, they’re worth waiting for. Also, I’ve written about them several times now, and I’m getting better at describing all those important little details.

OK. So here’s how I started out masturbating to the tune of Anne Boleyn – and what happened to her thereafter.

At bedtime I would go into the bathroom first and take a quick shower. I would tease my tits and vagina, flicking a soapy sponge over them, which made them swell and pucker. I would get dried in my room, sitting naked at the dressing table and admiring myself in the mirror. I had scented talcum powder, which I doused my armpits and crotch with. I would rub some oil on the soles of my feet and loosely plait my long hair, which would still be damp.

Next I would ‘dress’ – chatting to a pretend Lady’s Maid as she helped me put my execution things on. First I donned a pair of lace briefs that I’d grown out of and which really stretched across my crotch. I stuffed the material at the back into the crack of my bottom to give it a G-string look and feel. Then I slipped my feet into a pair of elasticised velveteen slippers. Next I put on a string vest – my shift – a which I found in the locker room at the sports club. Yes, it was an old basketball vest I had scrubbed the stencilled logo and number off! The vest was way too big for me and even though I’d taken up the shoulders, the hem came down to my thighs. I threaded a length of garment cord through the lower loops, which I then tied tight under the cheeks of my little bottom. This meant I had to walk in baby steps with my thighs pressed together. Over all this I put on my purple terry-towel bathrobe, which I had carefully kept dry. Now I was a Queen decked in ermine. I dimmed the lights to a sombre shade and got onto the bed, kneeling, head down, and my heavyweight, King-size duvet pulled right over me.

My heart is beating strongly. After dressing for my morning audience, I have been thrown into a dungeon cell, accused of I know not what. My mind races to comprehend why. I little suspect my infidelities had been discovered as they are so trifling, so innocent. Much time passes, spent trying to calm myself, before I hear the echo of footsteps descending. The door opens and I am taken up to the vaulted examination room and placed before the judges. This scene is enacted by me rising from the bed and creeping to the chair. As a member of the Royal household, I am permitted to sit before the Star Chamber. They enquire of my identity – which I confirm with trembling voice, hardly befitting the dignity of a great Queen – and then I am accused of count after count of adultery. I burst into tears. No, this is too much! I could confess there and then to the trivial crimes I know I am guilty of, but the catalogue of male courtiers I am supposed to have entertained is beyond reason. Then comes more charges, outrageous libels against my morale fibre. I dry my tears and become defiant in my innocence. The judges deliberate for some time, then announce I will be put to the ordeal of torture in order to extract the truth from me. I faint.

Coming to in the cell once more I await the torture with exquisite terror. Eventually I am removed from the cell, stripped of my ermine robe, have the cord of my shift pulled out, the shift rolled up to my armpits, and the waist of my briefs tugged down to just under my buttocks. I stretch out, face down on the floor and give my back and bottom a few lashes with the cord. As I lash I squeeze my thighs together and rub my nipples into the carpet. I resist huge urges to reach my free hand under my belly and tweak my clitoris. This would be confession of my sins. After a few dozen lashes I am dressed again and led back to the cell.

Of course, the torturers will get there sooner or later. They will stretch me on the rack – which won’t work because with my hands and feet tied I can’t get to my clitoris. Or they will truss me up and whip the soles of my feet. Or else they will place a burning iron up my anus. This is a thick red marker pen I keep ready greased under the bed. After inserting it only a little way, my free hand may reach for my clit and with two fingers begin jiggling it vigorously from side to side. On the very edge of orgasm, I will desist and cry out for mercy. The rod is removed from my anus and, panting, I will confess all my supposed sins – and more!

From the torture chamber I will be returned to the examination room, fully clothed again, but deeply wounded and too sore to sit down (I may have knelt on the chair at this point). The judges re-read the charges. This time I weep and give a full and graphic account of the courtiers I have slept with and the wicked practises performed with them. The judges confer, then announce their verdict. I stand to be told I am guilty of High Treason. My heart thuds delightfully at the words, my palms sweat and I tremble at the knees. I am stripped permanently of my ermine, the coolness of the vaulted chamber bringing goose-bumps to my pure white skin. The chief judge puts on his black cap to pronounce sentence.

“By confessing to gross and vile acts adultery, you have been found guilty of High Treason. For this crime you will be taken to the place of execution where, God have mercy on your soul, your head will be struck from your body. God Save the King! Take the prisoner down to await her punishment.” Trembling with excitement I thank their Lordships’ for showing such mercy and beg their pardon.

There now commences a long period of uncertainty. I am back in the cell, recovering from my wounds. For all I know fresh charges may be brought and more torture to follow. On a physical level, the rough shift (transformed in my mind) into the hair-shirt of the penitent, is beginning to chaff my delicate young skin. I still wear the tight briefs and slippers, but my feet and crotch are longing to be released and stroked. I make up prayers like, “Oh God, please help me to die with faith and conviction. Guide my trembling little body to perform its final tasks with dignity and in good order. Send me a strong headsman who will dispatch me cleanly when the time is nigh. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, etc… etc…”

The fateful day comes and I listen at the grill while, in the courtyard above, one by one my lovers are led to the block. All this while I am crouching on my knees, head down with the duvet tucked around and under me. This way my ‘cell’ has become a cramped hothouse of pungent sweat and much breathed air. I resolutely resist the urge to diddle my clitoris, just squeezing it between my thighs and the lace briefs. As my heart races, I muse how cruel it is that the male courtiers have all been executed before me. I pray for their souls and try to picture them meeting their fates bravely – not thinking too badly of me, who by confession has brought their lives to such abrupt ends.

Then comes my turn. The cell door is opened, and I stand up expectantly. With the gaoler is my pretty Lady’s Maid, who bows to me and brushes away a tear. I smile bravely and walk out. The place of execution is marked by the duvet (I have folded it in four and laid it on the floor between the bed and the window). Now the light is turned completely down, to avoid all distractions. I wait till my eyes adjust to the dark. After a minute or two I can easily make out the square of fluffy duvet where I am to kneel down.

Standing just next to the square, I remove my slippers, carefully putting them to one side. Next my shift is loosened and removed completely. Again, this is carefully folded and laid next to the slippers. Then my briefs come down – and are similarly stowed. My feet luxuriate in their sudden freedom, while from my crotch rises the warm and pungent smell of lubrication. I step into the middle of the square, hand a pouch of silver coins to the headsman, then compose myself to make my final speech. I mouth the text silently.

“I am brought here without regret or bitterness. Though my short young life will soon be sundered, I have no fear of death; indeed, as a Believer I embrace oblivion with all my heart and vigour. May Almighty God bless and keep you all. God Save The King!”

With that I kneel down on the duvet, my full weight resting on my knees and in-curled toes. My thighs are spread wide, at right angles to each other, and the cheeks of my bare bottom are resting nicely on my bare heels. Straightening my back and shoulders, I bow my head so that my chin is almost touching my chest. The signal for the swordsman to do his work will be my head resolutely moving upright. The swordsman, standing to my right and far enough back to be out of sight until that moment, will quickly step forward and swing the sword to sever my head at the throat. The head will fly off and my lifeless body will fall in a heap. So much for the technicalities of death.

Now I am finally at liberty to masturbate, which is a situation delightfully indulgent to one anyone facing death. Also, since an hour or more of real time has passed since I started the fantasy, a certain exhaustion has set in. The heart does falter when racked as long and as strongly as the play I have so far enacted. So when my fingers begin running over my vaginal lips, my clitoris, my nipples, the cheeks of my bottom, the soles of my feet, and anywhere else I felt like stroking, there is a quality of numbness. I suppose I am hyperventilating, I certainly feel light headed. In this state, it is like I have started over to masturbate from the beginning.

I masturbate with alternating long and short, fast and lingering finger strokes, teasing my clitoris, vagina, arse and nipples. My position is not too comfortable at first, but as waves of pleasure begin to well up inside me, the tension in my feet and legs fades into the background. Then I touch every sensitive part of me, stroking the stretched soles of my feet, my waist and the small of my back, the nape of my neck and the folds of skin at my throat. I masturbate with one hand running over my body and the other teasing the area around my clitoris. I may alternate hands, but I am not allowed to stop stimulating my clitoris. After three or four minutes (I guess), I reach that plateau of masturbation when the heart thuds steadily - though not too fast - and sweat pours out of the pores, making the skin wet and slippery. I love this part of the fantasy and try to draw it out for as long as possible. In this state I review all that has happened so far – like I am reviewing my short life - enjoying each of the images with a thrill.

After spending as long as I possible could luxuriating on the plateau, my thoughts and my actions begin to speed up. I now no longer concentrate so much on my body and the feelings it is generating. I become more aware of the executioner looming behind me. I can sense him shifting his feet, cool headed and ready to strike at any given moment, yet growing slightly impatient. The unacknowledged agreement is for the condemned, as if fulfilling a last wish, to masturbate to orgasm before giving him the signal to strike. The worst thing on earth would be to abuse this agreement.

I can only describe my relationship to the executioner as a love of his brute, sure-footed force. In my fantasy he is in fact barefoot, bare legged - a studded leather jerkin and hood being all he was wearing. At this age I am still too uninformed about sex to imagine his penis, erect or not. As I embrace this vague, menacing monster of manhood, my masturbating hands speed up and my heart begins to thud in double time. I have now passed the point of no return, and my pelvis, held rigid until now, starts to thrust forward to meet each stroke of my hand. Then the feeling of squirting, almost like peeing, and the spasming of my hips begins. Instinctively I throw my head back. My whole body shakes for several seconds… before I collapse on the duvet.

My heart continues to thud like a steam hammer for long seconds after I fall. I do not move, but lie panting, my head spinning, my eyelids heavy and my clitoris throbbing, too tender now to be touched. Anyone that ever came into the room at the point that would have found me unable to move or speak, I felt that weak and heavy. Luckily no one ever did come in. After a few minutes my feet and legs begin to hurt – they are still wedged under me, though I have fallen to one side. At this point, I want nothing more than to curl up and sleep, but my position on the floor is not good. When the pain turns to cramp I rise unsteadily to my feet, pick up the quilt, kick my costume under the bed, and then drop onto the mattress.

The final minutes, before a deep and dreamless sleep bear me away from everything, are moments of wonderful calm and total clarity, though a tear would sometimes come to my eye. At this moment I always assure myself (as to this day I continue to assure myself) that I am not mad, that I do not wish to die (especially by being executed!) even though I am so eager to fantasise it is so. It is as though some great, eternal truth has been acted out by my peculiar way of masturbating. It may not be very pretty to look at, and it certainly isn’t easy to understand, maybe impossible? It is just a great mystery… as surely everything ultimately is. And with such cosmic thoughts as those, I lose myself in sleep…

In way I feel as though I should round off my account here. I’ve just read through what I’ve written so far, and this seems like a reasonable point to stop. But the story goes on, as they say, and I also think it’s my duty to report what happened subsequently, what has happened most recently, and how I came to complete this questionnaire.

I continued developing these powerful, thrilling fantasies for several years. In addition to my using own imagination, I was moved and inspired by several other works of film, TV and literature to explore the arcane world of execution. I remained pretty to the theme of female beheadings, collecting in my scrap book lurid accounts of Madame Guillotine in the French Revolution, or the scimitar wielding headmen of Islam (as portrayed in unexpurgated editions of the Arabian Nights)… until I saw the movie “Hang ’em High” with Clint Eastwood. This film, which builds up to a row of cowboys being hung all at once, had a wonderful effect on me. It got me into the idea of ropes and nooses (as fetish objects) and for a while I experimented with various scenarios. Though never quite as dramatic as the axe or guillotine, I enjoyed many a masturbation session which ended with me swinging from the gallows. Acting the capture, trial and hanging of a Salem witch was the best of these parts I truly got into.

When I started having sex with boys I became less impressionable and imaginative, and I cease all forms of masturbation. I commenced on the usual string of affairs - some good, others bad - until after finishing veterinary school and starting work, I met my husband, was married and settled down. Thereafter I enjoyed a fairly lively, if somewhat erratic, sex-life with my man.

Seven years into the marriage, however, many small things that had never been quite right about our relationship got on top of us. Divorce wasn’t an easy option, especially for me, but my husband had become very pig-headed. He stuck out for a separation, hoping (he sobbed to me later) that it would somehow shock me into seeing his point of view. When I was handed my freedom, it was he who got the shock. There was no way, after all he’d put me and the boys through, that I was going to take him back. I got a good solicitor, who saddled him with paying us a packet, and an access package that suited me far better than him.

Whereas my ex eventually went on to acquire a steady girlfriend, I remained resolutely solo. Only on alternate weekends, when he had the boys stay over at his place, did I even go to a dance bar with some of my girlfriends. Plenty of men tried to pick me up, and I wasn’t above indulging in one-night-stands, as long as nobody got upset or hurt because of it. But boy, I was too choosy! All I wanted was a little sex and a night’s companionship, which wasn’t usually hard to find, but four times out of five something held me back. I’d get scared and would drive home alone. After two years of this, I was becoming resigned to a kind of spinsterhood.

One day around this time, I was having a clearout of the attic, when I came upon a box of old books, videos and porno mags which my ex had left behind. Alone in the house (it was a Sunday morning and the boys were at his place) I decided to sit down and read what I’d been missing out on for so long. I figured something needed doing, and the collection seemed big enough to hold at least one answer… or two.

In those days I was masturbating again, quick-like, wringing strings of mini-orgasms from myself, using a commercial massager. The vibes were so strong I didn’t need to conjure any kind of image to get off, but I soon noticed how the sensation in my clitoris seemed to be fading. Often I felt quite numb down there, despite the need to come. At first I just turned the speed level up, and that seemed to do the trick. Only trouble was, the speed dial could only go so far round. Either I got a more powerful device – or what?

I flicked through the pictures in the mags first, feeling a few mild twangs of pleasure. Then I popped one of the cassettes into the VCR, then another, and another. I kept fast-forwarding, trying to find something more interesting than the next triple anal-fellatio-handjob. Finally, I settled back in the armchair with a glass of wine and the books. They were erotic novels, translated from the French kind of deal. Again, I had difficulty concentrating. The only one that got me seriously aroused – I mean, that stimulated my brain as well as my crotch, was “The Story of O”. I could get into that part, I told myself. I could fantasise being her – to do what I was told, get into taxis wearing nothing but a fur coat and shoes, perform fellatio on strange men in hotel rooms, bend over a stool and spread the cheeks of my bottom for someone to spank me. Since all of this would take place only in my head though, I wondered what was I supposed to do with my hands? By then, my clitoris had grown so numb from the massager, I was considering sitting bare-bottomed on top of the washing machine, with the drum set to fast spin. Perhaps I could read erotic books like that, squatting nude in the utility room?

As I was mulling over these thoughts, one of the Penthouses I hadn’t yet looked at yet (they were stacked on a table next to the armchair) fell open at my feet. Uh? I got the shock of my life when I saw the picture that now presented itself to me. It was like meeting an old friend whom I had secretly loved but had shunned as being beneath me.

The picture, a glossy cartoon, showed a naked woman on her knees being penetrated from behind. One hand was tied round her lower back, and the other was furiously frigging her clitoris. Her face, showing one eye closed, teeth biting her lower lip as if at the point of orgasm, was turned towards the viewer. Her lover - a burly, brute of a man - was wearing a studded leather jerkin and mask. He was thrusting happily. It was impossible to say whether his penis was plunging into the woman’s vagina or anus - or both by turns. But what was most touching about this woman’s predicament – for me - was that she had her head through the hatch of a guillotine. The man had one of his hands gripping her buttocks, and the other holding the string that connected to the spring release of the blood-stained blade. I grabbed the magazine from the floor and flicked to where this cartoon – it was several pages back – had begun.

Reading and thoroughly enjoying this sublime piece of comic book art, I saw that it was a regular feature of the magazine. I found the other copies, and sure enough, every month a time travelling babe called Wanda was sent by scientists – nude - down a sex version of The Time Tunnel. They beamed her back to some point in history – for instance, the Roman Era or the Inquisition – where she had a series of adventures, resulting in her being sexually tortured. Needless to say, she was always rescued and brought back to her own time at the onset of orgasm. This was a girl after my own heart! After reading three or four of these tales, I was panting with delight.

I ran upstairs to the bedroom, stripped off and knelt down at the side of the bed. My heart was thudding, my brain frantically trying to assemble each move I would take. I would do the guillotine. I grabbed a pillow and placed it on the edge of the bed where my neck would lie. Then I closed the curtains (it was by now mid-afternoon and I still had several hours before the boys were due home). From the boxroom I found an old metal cigar tube and a length of string. From the bathroom I brought a towel and some Vaseline. That was it!

I wasn’t going to do a full scene, just the execution itself. First thing was to tie the string tightly round my waist, then tie my right wrist to this at the back. Now I had to do everything left handed! How I was rushing! No matter, I hadn’t felt this excited in years. I got the Vaseline tin open and smeared some over the end of the cigar tube. I decided it should go up my anus, so I squatted down and slowly pushed it in as deep as I could. It was cold. Never mind, it would soon warm up. I squeezed it with my sphincters, feeling like a dirty little girl again. God, that was good!

I folded the towel into a little platform for my knees and placed it on the floor at the side of the bed. There were no more preliminaries. I simply knelt down and leaned forward, placing my neck on the pillow. My breasts were hanging between my legs and the edge of the bed. With my free hand I tweaked my nipples till they became hard. I ran my fingers round my waist and thighs, then moved directly to my unkempt (i.e. hairy!) vulva. Wetness had already seeped out into my pubes. I parted my lips, slipped my index finger into and started jiggling my G-spot. This touched off my sphincters again and I felt the thin metal of the cigar tube beginning to crush under their pressure. Wow, this all felt so much better than that mechanical buzz of the massager.

It was time to approach my clitoris. As I did so, my mind automatically conjured the woman in the guillotine. I recalled and savoured every detail of her and the executioner as I slid two fingers either side of the swollen nub. My throat was gulping on the pillow and I pictured her strong, smooth neck in the lunette of the guillotine. My right arm and hand were securely trussed and I delighted in the woman’s helplessness. My anus was penetrated, as was hers by the cruel, burly executioner. My face was contorting, as was hers by the approach of orgasm. My fingers were jiggling my clitoris, as were hers in exactly the same position.

Sweat began to run, my whole body shuddered, my lips felt thick, my breath came short and fast, my heart seemed to stop - then thudded like a steam hammer. I was rigid, like rigour mortis had set in. I stayed like that for half a minute perhaps, then just collapsed in a heap at the side of the bed. I was sobbing. Sobbing with joy, tears rolling down my face. Even minutes later, my heart hadn’t recovered its usual composure. I managed to pull my right hand out of the string, crawl onto the mattress and slip into bed. I fell asleep, happier than I’d been in years.

Why was it that a fantasy, with a little help from some simple everyday objects and a bit of physical pressure and posturing, could make such a difference? Those lousy, massager mini-orgasms - no matter how many of them I achieved – were like nothing compared to this.

Nowadays the fantasies come and go in waves. I’ll have a week or two when they’re happening night and day, then a month of nothing. Like when I was reading Truman Capote’s “In Cold Blood” – and I masturbated twice a day for a week; then not at all for a fortnight. I like that. I prefer sex with myself because of that. With a partner it’s such a lottery getting the sex drives to coincide. But on my own I’ve only myself to cater for. All I have to worry about is the privacy to move around a little, so I have a catch on my door. That gives me half a minute to get decent should one of my children knock. I’ve never liked to restrict myself to frigging in or on the bed, but recently I’ve begun rubbing myself against objects. Hands-off, lying hog-tied on the floor, pressing my clitoris against an old suede glove with a vibrator inside it. Or kneeling in front of the bedroom chair and rubbing myself against the armrest.

Nowadays I’m much more liberated in my subject matter. I can be captured by an African tribe, have them dance round me, submit to a bit of raping, then get beheaded with a stone axe. I’ve been crucified two or three times as a sort of female Christ. I’ve been an astronaut - weightless and guillotined in a special harness - and an Amazonian warrior captured and sacrificed to some Babylonian deity. I’ve been hung from the yardarm of a pirate ship, flung from the cliffs of a paradise island in the South Sea, pulverised in an Orgasm Death machine, and hung drawn and quartered alongside (my all time hero) Braveheart.

I use a bit more paraphernalia than I did in my youth, but most of it is disguised to look completely innocuous. For binding my wrists and ankles I have several old pairs of knickers made from stretchy terry-towelling. It’s amazing how easy they are to use! You just slip them over your wrists or ankles, twirl one hand (or foot) round five or six times and the gussets twist up surprisingly tight. The suede glove I’ve told you about. I have a pair of knee-length bed socks, which I wear only to take off. I knot them together, put a noose at one end and tie off to the bed head at the other. I’m not big fan of asphyxiation, but I love anticipating the “drop” of a trap-door hanging. I get right under the duvet to do this, regressing to a scene I first played out in my teens.

I always keep a small vibrating dildo to hand when I’m fantasising. I often put this on a low setting and stuff it down my tights. I stay dressed, with the vibrator on, and wander about the house, read a book, work on my art, or cruise the internet. Yes, my laptop has got to be the most important erotic toy I possess. I always have it in bed with me. I’ve also got some special carpets, blankets and a pair of leather-covered cushions to put down on the floor. The cushions often need cleaning up! Masturbation taught me one thing early in life: to be neat and tidy. I always fold everything up and put it away after use. That way I never got caught with anything suspicious. And it taught me to be creative, too.

Other stuff? Well, literature and artwork play a large part in fantasies these days. I write story scenarios of my own and have learned how draw. I also do private correspondence and cyber scenes when I have time.