DTs - Britslut's Slutty Stories

Britslut’s

Slutty Stories

DTs

I suppose the whole thing was my fault really.

I normally get home at about 2.30 in the afternoon, following my early shift at the factory. That gives me about 2 hours to myself before my son gets home from school. I call it my DT, or Dildo Time.

Today was no exception. The house was quiet; Robert, bless him, had washed up and put away the breakfast things. When he goes to university next year I’ll feel very lonely. I hurried upstairs to my bedroom, where I carelessly stripped off my clothes. I reached under the bed and got out the holdall wherein I keep my toys. I had been feeling horny all day – not an unusual occurrence – and only the largest one would do. It was black, veined and shaped in a life-like manner, but at least twice as large as any living cock had ever been. The head was as big as an orange and the shaft as thick as my upper arm. It was about fifteen inches long, but length is not so much of a factor with me. Width is what counts.

Hurriedly I slathered it with lube and lay on the bed. My pussy – kept shaven for convenience – was already wet so I didn’t need more lube. I spread my thighs and placed the head of the dildo against my labia, feeling them swelling with excitement. I grabbed the base of the dildo with both hands, took a deep breath and pushed, hard. I couldn’t stifle a moan of half-pleasure/half-discomfort as the huge mass pushed my lips wide apart and stretched my inner muscles. It felt as though my insides were being invaded by some alien monster. The head slid right up into my cavity and pressed against my cervix. My pelvic floor muscles quivered around the shaft.

I shuffled my hips to the right angle, adjusted my grip on the base of the dildo and started to pump – slowly and gently at first, gradually increasing as the passion took me until I was plunging most of the length of the thing in and out of me with a driving rhythm. Loud squishing noises were mixed with my own grunts and wails.

The fat head of the thing was rubbing across my G-spot, faster and faster. I could feel the orgasm building, like a slow explosion. With an agonised cry I climaxed, squeezing the hard shaft painfully. I felt a jet of hot fluid squirt out of my urethra, onto my hands. My body convulsed again and again …

You see, I’m addicted to dildos – not ordinary cock-size dildos, but big ones, very big ones, specifically massive, humungous objects that stretch me further than you would believe anatomically possible and leave me gaping like a railway tunnel. I tried a reasonably large dildo in the dark months after my husband walked out, and found the aching fullness comforted me strangely. I got to using it every day, and gradually my body got used to it and started demanding something more, well, challenging. So I went online and bought a larger one, and found it good.

That was 5 years ago. Now I can only get satisfaction from the very largest bruisers that I can find. At first I worried that I was doing some harm to my body, and that I would never be satisfied with a penis again – that it wouldn’t even touch the sides, as the saying goes. But I wasn’t interested in another relationship anyway, and my body didn’t seem to suffer any permanent damage, so I pressed on, filling my orifice with ever larger objects – and achieving ever more intense orgasms in the process. That’s why I do it, of course – not to get into the record books, but because the climaxes it gives me are almost literally mind-blowing. When my vagina clamps down on the unyielding mass filling my tunnel, I experience such overwhelming pleasure that I know I could never do without it. Rather like a drug addict, I suppose.

When the orgasm had run its course I pulled the dildo out and lay there panting, feeling the cool air flowing into my wide-open vagina. I rubbed my hand over my soaking wet crotch, enjoying the feel of my swollen, slippery labia between my fingers. The first session had been so fast and intense that I had not even had time to build a good fantasy. In any case, what could I fantasise about except being fucked by ever bigger dildos?

Gradually my breathing and heart-rate slowed to normal. I was still horny, and my gaping hole demanded further attention. I rubbed the head of the dildo across my clit and down over my lips. It wanted very much to get inside again, and I let it have its way. This time I took it slower, massaging my vaginal walls with the huge lump, stirring it around inside me, pulling the fattest bit through my tightest part again and again, building another massive climax in infinitesimal steps …

It was bigger, longer and more draining than before. I squirted again, hotly, almost painfully, and afterwards lay dozing while the juices ran out of me onto the sheets.

The alarm buzzed – I set it to give me time to make myself decent before Robert gets home, although some days he has sport or other commitments and I have another hour or so to do a few household tasks. First of all, though, I have a shower to wash away the grime of work, the sweat of my sexual exertions and the juices that cover my loins. I usually masturbate again in the shower to help my vagina close up. I’ve tried walking around with a gaping hole between my legs, fluids oozing down my thighs, but it’s just too distracting.

Cleansed, I wash the dildo and put it away carefully, almost lovingly, change the sheets and get dressed – soft silken panties which don’t chafe my sensitive labia. By the time Robert comes in and gives me a kiss on the cheek I could pass for a respectable mother. If only he knew …

Of course, school holidays are a problem. Fortunately Robert is often out with friends, playing football, even, occasionally, going out with girls, and then I can take advantage of his absence to console myself with an impromptu DT. I sometimes worry about his seeming lack of interest in the opposite sex, however he assures me that he’s not gay but that most girls seem, well, a bit immature.

Anyway, I digress. Recently two events happened on the same day – one good, one disturbing. The good thing was the arrival, by post, of a new dildo. I had pushed the boat out and ordered, from a US website, the largest device I could find – a blunt, cone-shaped mass of latex that flared out to a eye-popping diameter before ending in a sucker which could be attached to a tiled floor or wall. Just looking at the picture had made my vagina tingle and start to leak.

Of course, I couldn’t have it delivered to the house, for Robert might be there when the postman came. I collected it from the post office in town, a rectangular cardboard package which could have been anything. Walking through the busy high street carrying it gave me a thrill. What would people say if they could see inside? If they knew that my panties were soaked in anticipation?

Once in the house, it was a toss-up whether I first ripped off my clothes or ripped open the package. The package won. The object was revealed, swathed in tissue paper, heavy, black, shiny, huge. I could only just stretch my hands around its base. I wondered, belatedly, whether it would fit. Well, only one way to find out. I peeled off my clothes and my sopping wet knickers in the bathroom, stuck the dildo to the floor, covered it in lube and knelt over it. I could feel my labia engorging and my tunnel dilating. A deep breath, and I had sat onto the tip of the thing. It wasn’t too big, but as I slowly sank down the diameter increased until my hole was stretched wider than it had ever been. I realised I was making little crying sounds.

I lifted off and looked at the dildo. The smearing of the lube showed that I had got about two-thirds of it inside me. The last third was the fattest … well, I wasn’t going to send it back. I sat back onto it and bounced up and down a little, gently, getting my vagina used to the idea. It did get used to it, rather quickly. I bounced harder, stretching myself a little more each time, panting like a weight-lifter, relishing the almost-pain. With a final lunge my buttocks touched the cool tiles. I realised proudly that I had taken the whole dildo inside me! My orifice felt as if it was going to split; my thighs were cramping and my head span.

I leaned back – fortunately I was close to the wall – and slid my fingers across my juice-slick mound and onto my clitoris. It didn’t take long before the orgasm burst inside me and my vaginal muscles clamped fiercely onto the solid object. I shook and howled as the climax pumped through me, almost losing consciousness. When eventually it got too much I let myself fall sideways and the dildo popped out of me.

There was a puddle on the bathroom floor where I had squirted. My vagina felt as if it was on fire. My limbs trembled. It was a while before I could pick myself up and fetch a hand-mirror to check for injury. My lips were like clam shells, my vagina a great dark pink chasm. But no damage seemed to have been done; however, I decided to wait until the next day before using the monster again. Next time, I would fasten it to the wall and reverse onto it, rocking my body back and forth as it fucked me doggy-fashion …

Despite a shower and application of soothing cream, I could not bear panties. I cooked Robert’s tea naked under my skirt, with juice still trickling down my thighs. Later, he went round to a friend’s house and left me to nurse my aching hole …

Going upstairs for something, I heard music from his room. We have a rule that I don’t intrude on his space as long as he keeps it clean and tidy(ish), which he does. But knowing he was out, I went in to find that he had left his computer on some radio station. I moved the mouse and the screen came to life. Now I’m not a total computer moron and I could see that he had tabs of several websites at the foot of the screen. I found the one for the radio and closed it. Another caught my eye … ‘Brutal Dildos’. I maximised it. There on the screen was a girl – well, woman – lying on a sofa and plunging a huge pink dildo between her wide-open thighs. I was shocked, not so much at the image itself, for I knew that Robert, like every teenage boy, looked at porn, but by the exact match with what I was doing almost every day. My professional eye examined the dildo. Yes, I had one like it. It was a little on the long side for my body, but satisfyingly thick. The woman’s shaven lips were fat and swollen and clung to the shaft lovingly. She looked like she was genuinely enjoying it.

The other thing that shocked – well, surprised – me was that she was not young. I would have said 30-35, maybe a well-preserved 40. Not that much younger than me. I had assumed that teenage boys lusted after teenage girls …

I sat down at his desk, intrigued despite myself. I clicked back through the pages he had viewed – shot after shot of women, some young but most in their 30s, using dildos of a size and length that sometimes made my eyes water and my pussy grow moist. There were video clips too, proving that the pictures were not doctored to make the dildos bigger. Woman after woman plunging massive shafts into their holes, holding them deep inside, stretching their labia impossibly, sucking the juices off the latex …

I examined his History and Favourites. So many websites, all on the same themes: Dildo Force, Huge Dildos, Massive Dildos, Massive Insertions, MegaDildos; and some specialising in older women – women my age: Horny Gaping Matures, Older Dildo Sluts, Mature Holes Stretched. I had not realised that my addiction was so popular. And Gaping Assholes, Ass-Wrecking Dildos … I shuddered. I had never gone there.

So this was what my son liked to look at (for there were few other themes in his favourites, apart from mp3 downloads) – exactly what I liked to do. I found I was sweating. I wondered how he would feel if he knew what his mother did in her spare time.

I was careful to leave the screen back the way I had found it. I sat on the sofa sipping a drink and listening to the tingling in my vagina. In a way it was gratifying to know that my particular perversion was enjoyed by so many others – I had never discussed it with anyone and assumed that I was rather unusual. But my son’s fascination with the older woman was a little disturbing.

By the time he returned I had gone to bed. I wondered if he would detect that I had been looking on his computer, but he didn’t mention anything the next morning and neither did I. In fact, so pre-occupied was I with anticipating what I would do in my DT that afternoon, I almost forgot about him. I was unbelievably horny by the time I got home – my vagina had been demanding attention the way that a hungry fledgling demands food. I shed my clothes as usual, grabbed the new dildo from its hiding place and made for the bathroom.

I stuck it to the wall about 2 feet off the floor, lubed it up, and knelt on all fours with my bum facing it. I wriggled around until the tip slid between my labia. Then, moaning with frustration, I realised that in order to get full penetration I would have to spread my thighs wide, which meant that my pussy would be too low. I peeled the dildo off the tiles and stuck it on a bit lower down.

This time it was the right height. Carefully I backed onto the monster, relaxing my muscles, letting it dilate my tunnel. The pain was less than yesterday. I began to rock back and forth, my breasts swinging, the cone-shaped dildo rhythmically stretching my hole further and further. I increased my pace, letting the momentum of my body force it deeper and deeper, opening me up wider and wider, grunting and shouting. I was stretched to my limit once more … my buttocks touched the wall as the dildo went all the way in, and I gave a shout of triumph and started to slam my arse against the wall, revelling in the painful but beautiful hugeness of the penetration. They could video this for the website, I thought … and with the thought, my orgasm erupted and I squirted, once, two, three times onto the floor.

Deliberately I kept pressing back against the monstrous invader as my orgasm thudded through me, making me quiver and spasm. Already I was mastering the huge object, dominating it instead of letting it dominating me. As my climax slowly ebbed, internal muscles sore and aching as they tried to squeeze the solid lump, I wondered if I could get hold of anything bigger …

Eventually I pulled off and stood up, legs wide apart and shaking slightly, looking at myself in the full-length mirror. My hair was mussed and my body beaded with sweat. My swollen labia stood out proudly from my bare pubes. I went on all fours and looked backwards through my legs at my dark gaping hole. I could get four fingers in it without even touching the sides. Now there was a sight to please any connoisseur of Mature Dildo Sluts.

Feeling satisfied and relaxed, I showered, cleaned the dildo and the bathroom floor, and went to put the monster away in its nest. I looked into the holdall. I had been so horny earlier, so intent on penetration, that I had not noticed that something was different. I always wrap each toy in a square of velvet when I put it away; not sure why, partly to stop them rattling and partly, I suppose, in case anyone should take a peep in. Now two of the dildos were unwrapped, the velvet crumpled at one end of the bag. I put my head on one side, rationalising that I must have left it like that the day before. But deep down I knew I hadn’t …

I used the monster cone for the rest of the week until my body had come to accept it without any discomfort – only overwhelming, indescribable pleasure. I even managed to achieve two brain-fizzing orgasms in a row without moving from my position, which was squatting on the floor, feet wide apart, my knees in my armpits. That position, in case you didn’t know, gives very deep and uncontrolled penetration indeed.

The second time, just as the climax was building nicely inside, I had a sudden thought. What if Robert should come home early? He was about to start study leave for his A-levels. He would find his naked mother squatting in the bathroom with a traffic-cone-sized monster up her vagina, the tiles already wet with her juices. The thought sent me over the top and I came harder than I have ever come before.

After I had come down to earth, I tidied up the evidence, still wondering what his reaction would be. The thoughts filled me with an equal mixture of horror and excitement. I went to put away the black monster in its blanket. Yes, two of the other dildos were unwrapped. I was one hundred percent sure I had not done it. That left only one other person. I stood there going hot and cold. So Robert knew. My secret was out.

My heart was thumping, and then I heard a key turn in the front door downstairs. I closed the holdall and shoved it under the bed, checked in the mirror I was decent. My face was flushed and my lips red. To me, it seemed obvious that I had just had an orgasm and was still grossly aroused. Maybe Robert wasn’t so familiar with the signs.

He greeted me with a kiss, bless him. Between the ages of about 11 and 16, he had affected to find maternal kissing ‘yucky’, but recently he’d started giving me affectionate kisses quite often. I wondered if it had started when he discovered my secret hobby!

‘Hi, mum, you OK?’

‘Yes, I’m fine. Why?’

‘Nothing, you just looked a bit pink.’ He blushed slightly.

‘Oh, just a hot flush. You know.’ I had warned him what to expect when I started on the menopause, but as far as I knew it was years away yet. Still, it was a good excuse.

‘Yeah. What’s for tea?’

He disappeared upstairs ‘to do some revision’ and I heard music from his room. After tea he said he was going round to a friend’s house and I was left alone again. I wondered whether my body could take another session with the cone – my vagina was demanding it, but sometimes, I thought with a giggle, my cunt’s eyes were bigger than its tummy. I decided to have another look on Robert’s computer, to see what the current websites were and maybe get some tips.

He’d left it switched on again, and I quickly trawled back through the sites he’d visited in the last few days. It was the same stuff – mostly adult women, some even my age, stuffing enormous lumps of latex into their holes. I must confess I found some of the pictures very arousing. I imagined what I would look like – maybe I should rig up the digital camera. Maybe even download a few pics onto Robert’s computer. I chuckled at the thought.

One of the sites had links to stores where you could buy the items that were being used in the photos. I followed the link, and was transported into a treasure house of extreme dildos that were considerably bigger than anything I had used. Some of them as long and fat as a man’s leg, others shaped like hands or fists, yet others like a row of grapefruits on a skewer. Each was accompanied by exact measurements and even mini-reviews by ‘satisfied users’. I grew very aroused.

So much so that I couldn’t resist purchasing one, an exact mould of a man’s arm and hand. I knew about fisting but had never managed to twist my wrist enough to get my hand in further than the knuckles. This dildo was much bigger than my hand. I typed in my credit card number, winced at the postage charge from the USA, and with a deep breath clicked on ‘Confirm Purchase’. My heart beat fast and I found it hard to sleep that night. I had forgotten, of course, that I had left an electronic trail on my son’s computer ...

A surprisingly short number of days later, I came home from work to find a FedEx package on the kitchen table. Robert must have been in when the courier arrived. I gulped. It had to be the ‘arm’ dildo – I had asked for it to be sent to the local post office, but they must have ignored that. What explanation could I give? Fortunately he hadn’t opened it. I attacked it with the kitchen knife and soon birthed the object inside. Just looking at it made me shiver. I hefted it in my hand – it was heavy and slightly flexible, very lifelike. I felt a sudden rush of wetness in my pussy, and knew that I had to try it out there and then.

I shed my skirt and panties, the latter already wet, and then realised that I didn’t have anything to lubricate the dildo. I could hardly use butter or something. I hurried upstairs to the bathroom and smeared lube over the latex hand and writs. The fingers were fused together, the thumb tucked into the palm, making a blunt point. Trembling with excitement I stood the dildo on its end and squatted over it, my pussy lips parting eagerly. I felt a sudden emptiness deep inside me, almost like hunger.

As I bent my knees, the tip of the fingers slid easily into my tunnel. I got it in nearly to the knuckles without much effort, I was so aroused. But the diameter of the widest part of the hand was greater than anything I had taken before. I grasped the ‘arm’ to hold it steady and leaned forward, using my weight to push it in. I felt my vaginal walls stretching, the muscles protesting. The knuckles were pushing hard against my inner labia, bruising the tender flesh.

I lifted off and paused for breath. I was pretty certain I could get the thing in, once I had willed my muscles to relax enough. I poured more lube over the hand, although I was producing enough juice to fill a plant-pot, got into position, took a deep breath and bent my knees again. This time I started to bounce up and down a little, the latex knuckles slipping a millimetre further into me each time. God it was big! My legs were starting to tremble. My vaginal walls were on fire and for the first time almost I wondered if was doing myself some serious damage.

Suddenly I heard the sound of the front door opening, and at that moment the complete hand slipped through my muscle ring and into my vaginal cavern. I couldn’t stifle a loud groan of pleasure as my whole body seemed to clench around the massive invader. The thought of Robert on the floor below, moving around, perhaps about to come up the stairs – and I had left the bathroom door open! – made me shake with a mixture of fear and excitement. My hands were slippery with lube and I couldn’t make my muscles obey me and pull the thing out.

‘Mum! Are you in?’ my son called out.

‘Upstairs,’ I shouted, my voice sounding strange and hoarse. I shuffled across the bathroom, inelegantly, the dildo still buried deep in me, and managed to shut the door. I then realised that in the kitchen he would have seen the box and packaging, together with (if he had looked closely) the enclosed catalogue of similar items, and on the floor my skirt and panties, the latter darkly wet in the crotch. Oh my god. Oh my god.

I wrapped a towel around the shaft of the dildo and managed to pull it out, with a loud sucking sound. My vagina felt as if it had been twanged like an elastic band. Staggering slightly, I wrapped the dildo in the towel and stuffed it at the bottom of the linen bin. With quick thinking, I took off my blouse and bra and put on a dressing gown, then sauntered downstairs trying to act casual – not easy when my whole crotch was on fire, not to mention running with juice and lube.

‘Hi Robert,’ I called, ‘I was just about to have a shower.’

He was in the kitchen. The catalogue was open before him. My heart missed several beats. He stood up, a kindly smile on his handsome face. He hugged me and I sagged against him.

‘It’s OK, mum,’ he murmured. ‘I know.’

‘Oh dear,’ I said weakly. I could feel tears starting.

‘It’s cool. Really.’

‘Really?’ I looked up at him, wondering if the hard object pressing against my stomach was his wallet or an erection. ‘You don’t mind?’

‘Of course I don’t mind. Why should I?’

I remembered the websites he liked to visit. ‘Mature Dildo Sluts, eh?’

He chuckled. ‘You got it!’

I wiped my eyes. ‘I guess we’ve not got many secrets now, eh?’

He looked away, embarrassed. ‘There’s something else, mum …’

‘What, my love? You can tell me. Remember, no secrets now.’

He swallowed, then looked me in the eyes. It came out in a breathless rush: ‘Can I watch?’

________________________

That was two years ago. After his first-year course in web design at college, Robert set up a website for me. Four nights a week, for a full three hours, subscribers can watch me pleasuring myself with my extensive (in both senses) toy collection. They can also download a huge gallery of photos and some movies, again of me stretching my orifices wider than even I had thought possible. I’ve gained quite a reputation among aficionados of the genre. Two other online ladies – both ‘mature’ like me – vie with me to accommodate the largest and most bizarre objects. I’m the only one who squirts when I come, though – I never fake it – which gives me the edge. It’s called MyDildoTime – a little more subtle than Horny Mature Gaping Squirter, I feel.

The website has become so lucrative that I’ve given up my day job. Robert still lives at home, since he chose our local university for his courses. He wields the camera for me, uploads the material, decides my costumes and ‘screenplay’, and looks after the revenues. And finds ever larger toys to buy with our profits! Just as well, because after three hours of massive penetration and several all-consuming climaxes, all I want to do is sleep for a day.

Robert hasn’t had sex with me, although in every other respect we are very intimate. He hasn’t suggested it and neither have I. But he sports a constant rigid erection while working on the website, and especially while filming and photographing me. In fact, he usually relieves the pressure of his spunk over my exhausted, naked, sweaty body at the end of a session. Maybe that counts as having sex – what do you think?

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last modified 9 August 2007