It’s been three days since I had an orgasm and while I’m not yet at the point of desperation; I’m wandering around in a permanent state of low-level arousal with kinky mind-porn playing almost continually in the back of my mind. (More so than usual, that is).
You’ve done a lot of wanking in hotel rooms. Those one-night trips away for work, from the same anonymous chain hotels transplanted across the cities of England to the occasional quirkily unique independent hostelry; upon entering your chamber, the first thing you look for is masturbation possibilities. Full-length mirrors? Underfloor bathroom heating? A tiny slice of viewpoint within which a glimpse could be caught from the outside world? Perhaps a comfortable chair on which to sprawl, loose-limbed and wanton; imagining hands, eyes, tongues upon you?
When I hear others saying how awful 2018 was for them, I feel kinda guilty. Irrational I know, because I didn’t personally cause the bad things that happened this year (geopolitics, natural disasters, the collapse of Western civilisation into a teeming pit of poisonous vipers, economic disasters, etc) and I’ve tried to minimise my contribution to the burning bag of dog poo left on the doorstep of 2019 as much as I can (ethical shopping, ethical porn, availability of shoulder to cry on). It makes me awkward somehow, to say out loud “actually, 2018 was pretty great for me” when so many other people are suffering. But I’m going to anyway, not because I feel I have any great ‘improve your life’ insights to offer or that I feel I am in any way more deserving of success and happiness than anyone else. Why then? BECAUSE I CAN.
I usually struggle to take inspiration from image prompts but this by Kilted Wookie is such a great combination of cute and hot, that in my head the story just wrote itself…!
Image: Christmas is a cumming, by Kilted Wookie
“So, have you been naughty or nice?”
She has me pinned against the door; one hand around my neck and the other shoved down the front of my jeans. I struggle briefly; protesting “What if someone sees us?”
The museum is mostly deserted, only a handful of straggling tourists ambling from room to room. Here in the long corridor, we are alone for the moment, but anyone turning the corner couldn’t help but catch sight of us even tucked into the doorway niche as we are.
She laughs at me. “I’ll say you’ve got something in your eye” Mirth gives way to focus, her intent gaze making my stomach flutter. When she looks at me like this, I can almost feel the heat of her cobalt-laser eyes drilling into me. I relax and lean against the door, spreading my legs as wide as the confined space allows.
Your heart quickens every time you catch that first glimpse, melts with wonder and joy as you gaze longer until you are burning with fierce adoring need. Painted and polished, on display for the gaze of the discerning connoisseur and the idle glance disinterested passer-by both; she presents the same face to all and provokes in you a hot desperate need for exclusivity, access to the soul behind the smile, to explore the uncharted territory of mind and heart beneath the smoothed-over surface.
There are no fingers deft enough to pick her locks, impervious to light touch or sly nudge she stays locked away behind a shield of transparency. What you see is what you get, says her open face; here on my sleeve is my heart, look no further. You know there is more, and better beneath.