You pulled me into the doorway alcove, pinned me against the cold concrete wall and covered my mouth with one hand. Sssshhh you told me, reaching up under my skirt. Silence now.
He’s not fucking you, he’s using you to fuck himself. Look at his tightly-closed eyes, his thrown-back head. You can study him at your leisure; right now you’re so far over his horizon, he can’t even see you in his mind’s eye. Look at how his pursed mouth sharpens his cheekbones and squares his jaw. Isn’t he beautiful, isn’t he delicious? You’re almost tempted to clench your cunt muscles around him to see the expression you love so much; of astounded, almost-pained intensity but you don’t want to draw attention to your attention just now; there’s too much perverted pleasure in your non-participation. Don’t make a sound, don’t move a muscle fuckdoll, your task is to lie passive and silent while he masturbates furiously using your cunt as an accessory.
“Incel stands for ‘involuntarily celibate’ which basically means “someone who isn’t getting laid because other people are denying them’ with the implication that those people shouldn’t be allowed to refuse. The idea that there should be equal distribution of sexual activity between all people seems very ‘Brave New World’ to me; and not in a good way but setting the entitlement issues aside; the phrase “involuntarily celibate” has great resonance for me. For a while in my life, I was celibate, and not by choice. I was in a long-term relationship with a man I loved very much. He was kind, intelligent, funny, handsome, independent, quirky and a completely fucking awesome cook. He adored me and showed it in many many ways. Except the one I wanted most.