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?
A mean machine-cuckqueaning scene
It’s roulette boys, but not as you know it
Exploring honour bondage – conclusion: holy fuck, YES
Given the choice, I no longer know whether I would choose to push on until I simply dissolve and evaporate; or to back off and slump, rolling lazily down from the mountaintop back to Earth. How fortunate then that the choice has been denied me. He wants me to come again. He’s going to make me.
He swaggers in through the saloon doors, leaves them swinging and creaking in his wake. Strides up to the counter with a ringing of bootheels, leans against it in comfortable silence. Surveys the other patrons momentarily, then turns to face…