NaMaMo: Day 3

Kitty Licker — Image by Mat Twassel


Did you just join us? Welcome! It’s never too late to start playing along in our bloggy masturbate-a-thon!

If you’ve been reading, but not posting, don’t be shy. Today’s the day. Pen names are fine, as are your real identity. It’s up to you.

If you’ve been posting along the way, hurray, hurray! It’s awesomesauce!

TODAY’S OPTIONAL PROMPT: What do you call your (and other people’s) body parts? Pussy? Kitty? Yoni? Va-ja-ja? Princess? Mary? Cock? Penis? Dick? Dork? Pogo stick? Do the names add or detract for your arousal and sense of pleasure?



“Don’t knock masturbation – it’s sex with someone I love.” ~Woody Allen


About Shanna Germain

Writer. Editor. Game Designer. Leximaven. Geek.
This entry was posted in Dailies, NaMaMo and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

7 Responses to NaMaMo: Day 3

  1. Mat Twassel says:

    Cammy and the White Cat

    Cammy doesn’t really like to masturbate—it’s the control—too much of it—and the Other—the missing other—but sometimes she just has to have the release. Like now.

    That’s where her white cat comes in. Puss gives fantastic head. Her nose and tongue know just where to go, just how long to lick and nuzzle and lap. Cammy can sit back in her comfy green armchair, the fabric soft and bristly as baby yew, and spread her legs, and close her eyes, and oh my! Sometimes, if she’s really in need, really on edge, her orgasm is almost instant. Sharp, thrilling, and deeply satisfying. Sometimes, when her want is more amorphous, the slow but relentless tease of Puss’s tender ministrations can take hours to turn her sex into a hot little lake. Waiting for that last tongue-flick is exquisite torture.

    Right now, though, Cammy is sort of in the middle. She wants to come. Her tummy has that molten churn. Her nipples feel jittery. Her clitoris tingles. But she doesn’t want to rush it. At the same time she doesn’t want to draw it out forever.

    One thing about Puss, when she’s done, when Cammy is nothing but a puddle of girl-cum, Puss goes away, leaving Cammy in lovely peace. Guys are different. After they’ve made her come, they want to fuck her. The fact is, sometimes Cammy likes that. She likes being man-handled. She likes when while fucking her they kiss her with their cunt-scented lips, their cunt-soaked tongue. She takes it in, the delicious indolence of the one-sided fuck, and she doesn’t mind when they wheel about and push their pricks, the very pricks that have been fucking her, have been soaking in her cunt juices, between her lips, into her mouth, and she can suck softly, dreamily, sleepily, feeding on their rampant urgency, until her own want grows again, and she’s ready for more, more, more! Cats, not even a cat as talented as Puss, can’t do that.

    But right now, Cammy doesn’t want the mess a guy makes. She doesn’t want the bother of the Other. She just wants to come. She rests back in her comfy green arm chair, one leg indolently over the side. She takes a deep breath. Closes her eyes.

    Here kitty, kitty, kitty.

  2. sophie says:


    The rear triangle and
    the front drop-out are painted red

    is black and glue

    Cable-stop strains under her pressure
    He quick releases the tires
    she spins
    thrust her hips
    her belly
    his seat post is stroked
    her saddles widens
    he holds on to his derailer
    lubed with the best european oils
    she squeezes the cantilever brake
    he tightens her spoke nipple
    she pushes on the rear rack and cranks
    the arms
    the head set
    the V-break
    the rear drops out
    the wheel goes nuts
    she straddles the saddle
    he fronts the derailer
    they oil the head tube
    the down tube
    the seat tube
    stripped down
    she ten speeds down the street
    Kryptonite in back pocket.

  3. Gina Marie says:

    What is it about bicycles? Damn! Love that! Words like cantilever, cable-stop and european oils. Whew!

  4. Cheryl S. says:

    Drink me up, buttercup.
    Shine me like a spittoon.
    Bend me like a spoon.
    Break me like a love

  5. Doug Michaelson says:

    Am Bare Assed

    I am too big (what I mean is utterly average) to fail so
    My collapse equals the entire heart of your denial about love
    But mostly sex, I mean kissing

    I dream of kissing you so deeply that the imprint
    Of teeth adorns my face as I lie to those who
    Present me with recognition

    An award for the seeming sincerity of my tongue

    “On many occasions,” says the woman with the tits
    Stroking my statue
    “He has avoided requesting we fuck his mouth
    When it was the only thought drifting like cloud-work
    Through his gentleman’s mind”

    She searches the audience for those few who did not wait
    For a request and simply sat hard on my face
    Even in public on exquisite occasions

    They always know each other upon sight somehow
    As if their clits formed a club with a secret handshake

    “Duty-bound,” she says, and glances into the wings where I wait
    Masturbating like a zoo monkey
    And then she suddenly says nothing more

    I walk onto the stage with my pants slipping past my knees
    To bring about applause providing the perfect blend of
    Adoration and humiliation

    “Your cunt,” I say, into a microphone and to no one in particular
    “kisses me back like your mouth does”
    But everyone knows I am avoiding the crux

    The lights are blinding, I mean they are polygraphical
    So I concede, “I need to feel the flow of desperation
    Have it fed to me I need the threat of drowning in it
    I need everything to be so wet it threatens to slip away
    If I cannot grasp it and devour a portion”

    Catching the eye of a cello player in the orchestra, I add

    “If my cock rests attentive against your soft cheek while your tongue forces
    A wide flat indelicate path under my balls well
    That is a sweet circumstance on top of the sweet taste of your need”

    Except for the sound of my belt buckle slapping the floor
    As I walk off stage, there is a surrounding silence

    I was invited, I say, I mean I whisper
    I was invited, was I not?

  6. Ruby says:

    When I was a kid, I had private parts, down there. I never gave them a name, never went with a guy who gave his cock a name. The closest I came was “thingie.” A guy had a “thingie.”

    Now I love to say pussy. My lover doesn’t like the word, although she’ll use it because she knows it turns me on. I like the feel of the word in my mouth, pussy, the lips, the teeth, the tip of the tongue, pussy, pussy, the lips, the teeth, the tip of the tongue – it’s all there in that one word, and it’s what I want to do – the “p” a gentle kiss, the “s” my tongue licking her swollen clit, spreading out into a long “e” and I’ve crashed and gone missing, face buried deep in her sweet Bermuda triangle.

    Cunt is a different kind of word – the sound starts in the back of the throat, and it reminds me of the way my husband’s cock presses against it when I’m giving him head. Also quite delightful, but in a most decidedly different way.

    Once my husband and I were at a swinger’s party out in the country, and a guy there called his “thingie” Stanley. This guy’s cock was huge – probably one of the biggest I’ve seen on a white guy, so Stanley seemed like a strange name for something that big and hard and intimidating. I’ve only met one Stanley before in my life (you have to know children’s literature to get this), and that Stanley was flat.

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