Thoughts On Breasts

I can’t abide the term “Tit-Man“. Quite apart from sounding like a really crap superhero, it implies that you don’t appreciate everything about a woman, seeing her instead as merely the transport for her breasts.

I’m not a “Tit-Man“, or an “Arse-Man“, “Leg-Man” or anything else except a man who loves women, and everything about them. Primarily their minds.

But that doesn’t stop me appreciating a woman’s breasts. Yes, if you have nice breasts I am going to look at them, admire them. I’m a heterosexual man, what do you expect? We are, frankly obsessed with them. We don’t have them, you see. We like to see them dressed in beautiful lingerie, we like to reveal them, caress them, maul them, nibble and bite them. Take a shower with a man and I guarantee you very clean breasts by the end of it.

I understand why women get self conscious about them. Big or small, if men had to go around with our cocks presented for all to see, we’d be self conscious, too (though not on twitter it seems!) While the comments we make tend to be about size, that’s not the half of it. There’s firmness, pertness, direction, shape…

We don’t have to fancy a girl to look at her breasts. Admire the shape though her clothes, imagine how her breasts look uncovered. That’s just normal. A lot of the time we’re comparing the them to the ones owned by the girl(s) we do fancy, just as we compare everything else: face, hair, legs, bottom (sometimes in that order). But if I fancy you, too, I’m going to be imagining far more that just their shape. I’m going to imagine their feel in my hands, the texture of the skin, your nipples, how they’d respond to my breath after I’ve wetted them with my lips, how my cock would feel between them, how they’d look with my come dripping from them. Or onto them from your chin.

Given a chance, I’m going to find all those things out.

Despite all this, I urge all men to observe the first rule of cool: When you’re talking to a woman, only smile at her face.


© Charles Rochester 2015

Thoughts On Edging

I get this sensation when I’ve been aroused for a long time. It’s very specific. I don’t get it at any other time.

It’s an irregular twitch just behind my balls. An echo of the onset you feel as you cross the point of no return. I just keep gently, silently, invisibly keep twitching away, needing the release more and more. At least, I think it’s invisible. I hope it is!

The longer I edge, the stronger it gets. Twitch, twitch, need, need. And the more I leak. Each time I get hard and don’t finish I leak as the hardness leaves. But as the edging goes on longer, the leaking happens when I’m hard, too. And the hardness diminishes less and less, so I end up with a permanent state of arousal, the sensitivity of it maintaining me as I walk, sit, move.

The longer that goes on, the less I can think coherently, the more distracted I become. And the more I ache. The ache, oh the ache! It’s a physical ache that begins to perfuse my whole body, all my thoughts, my need and my whole being yearns for the person I’m edging for. The same ache you get just before you come, the stronger it gets, the more imminent the coming, the more everything becomes focussed on it.

When finally I decide it’s been long enough and I finish, the release is that much stronger, more powerful, more productive, more consuming… Better.

The more times I’ve been brought to the edge, whether it’s by myself, or by the hand of another (or indeed any other soft, caressing part of another)… The quicker I’m ready, the greater the sensation of arousal.

I like to be in control. I think that’s been established. Orgasm is the only time I’m out of control, the only time I’m lost in the moment, thought and reason chased away, replaced by sensation, emotion. The world gone, just that time, that girl. Powerful orgasm, such as the ones I get after edging are something I can only fully appreciate when I’m with someone I know I can trust completely. So to find someone for whom I know I can edge before I see them, or who I can instruct to edge me is a rare delight. A girl who can be that moment, that sensation, that emotion, that everything.

I started trying to describe edging ages ago. It’s taken me a long time, now I can’t work out the best way of finish. Which is appropriate, because when I’ve edged, my mind is so consumed by the need to come, I can never decide how I want to.

© Charles Rochester 2015

Thoughts On Hair

Hair is a beautiful expression of how a girl sees herself. It’s the most adaptable part of the body, so the range of expression is endless. Length, colour, style. All can be changed, all can show others what is inside.

Do you have long hair, short, shoulder length. Are you growing it out, recently had it cut short? Is it regularly pampered, or do you just wash it and blow dry, then go about your day?

Length says a great deal about how you see yourself over time; colour, less time; style, that day. Like a man’s shoes, the condition of your hair says everything about how much you respect yourself as a woman. You can’t change it in a day. You either look after your hair or you don’t.

But the best thing about hair is what I can do with it. I can stroke it, if we’re in a gentle mood, lightly hold a few strands between my fingertips and place it behind your ear. I can brush it from your face. I can weave my fingers through it, into it. I can close my hand around it and pull it. I can hold it firmly, control your head, guide you to where I want your head, your face, your lips.

If I’m inside you, I can take a handful and pull you onto me, arching your back, twisting your body to its limits of movement. I can hold your head back, keeping it in place so I can kiss your neck, bite you, or push my cock deeper into your throat, prevent you from drawing away even when you can’t breath or you’re choking.

I can hold you against the wall while I make you come with my other hand, your nervousness about whether your legs will take your weight when you come or if I’ll be holding you up by the hair. Or bring you to your knees, or hold you down.

I can even weave a bond into it to restrain you, tie you to a headboard with it.

Why can I do these things? Because no one resists the guiding hand in their hair.

But if you don’t look after your hair, if you don’t take care of it as I take care of you, why would I want to hold it, to stroke it, to pull it, to guide you? That’s the most important thing about hair: By taking care of it, I know you’re someone I can take care of in turn. Because it shows me you respect yourself.

© Charles Rochester 2015