Watching him

He’s not fucking you, he’s using you to fuck himself. Look at his tightly-closed eyes, his thrown-back head.

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.

The Butcher

His strong, blunt-fingered hands are clean and soft, but I know what they do, day by day; where they’ve been and what they’ve touched.

CW: If you’re vegetarian, vegan or are squeamish about where your food comes from; don’t read this. If you read it anyway and find yourself squicked out or offended, don’t hate on me. I did warn you.


His strong, blunt-fingered hands are clean and soft, but I know what they do, day by day; where they’ve been and what they’ve touched.

Handsfree

I was feeling pretty terrible, my mind playing tricks and my body protesting against the sudden withdrawal of my head meds, so I went back to bed in the middle of the daytime, fully intended to sleep off the symptoms.

As I snuggled into my pillow-piled nest, I realised I wasn’t sleepy. Perhaps a little solo play session would help me feel better. I explored the idea behind closed eyelids; would it? Contemplating the possibilities of my toy collection, a spark of arousal began to glow – I realised that already I felt less sick, less headachy, less despondent. Worth a try then.

B&W picture of my rear view in hotel room mirror

Solo Hotel Room Romps

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?

Sightseeing

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.

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