Jilling Off

There is something immensely satisfying about having muscles that ache from having them up in the air as a boy thrusts into you, pounds his cock into you so hard that your head is pushed back off the pillows and slips between the bars of your headboard. He tells you that he wants to fuck you from behind so you get on your knees and he pushes deep, deep inside of you. He asks if you want to ride him so you can watch him looking up at you in awe. But really, what you want is him pushing down on you again, covering your body with his, filling your world, filling up your head as he fills your cunt. You haven’t been fucked this hard for a very long time and it is fantastic, to lie back, to watch him do all the work, to feel your whole body shake. The slap of his body against yours makes your vision go blurry and you run your fingernails down his back and when he speeds up, faster and faster, you twist his nipples so that he comes, groaning, moaning, so much louder and more tangible than previous partners.

And the buildup was so simple, so direct, and yet you still got tingles when his hands went around your waist. There are no complications here, if we exclude your emotional baggage, so yes, the thrill of the chase may be missing, but this might actually grow into something that’s real, something you can keep and not have to return at the end of each night. And if it doesn’t, there’s no harm done, and a damn good fucking had.

A friend and I are in the lounge trying to decide where we want to have dinner that day, and I realise that I need to ask the boy that I am living with now, the boy who who shares my bed most nights, so I head to his room at the back of the house. He’s working on his computer as normal, so when we’ve finished our discussion I put my arms around him and kiss him on the forehead like I often do. I’m still overwhelmed that he exists, that I can touch him at almost any time, so I slide one hand down to his crotch, and start stroking his crotch, lightly. So often he’d push my hand away and tell me that I was “being naughty” but today he responds, spinning around to kiss me, and seconds later I am on my knees in front of him with his cock in my mouth while his ICQ messages bing away without him responding. Groaning with pleasure he opens the drawer where he keeps the condoms, and asks me if I want him inside me. I lie back eagerly on the floor – he is yet to buy a bed – and pull off my underpants, fingering myself. He grabs my breasts under my tshirt with one hand while carefully guiding himself into me. His cock is so big we have to take it slow at first, and it feels almost as if he is splitting me in two when he starts to thrust harder. But I love this feeling, I love his weight on top of me, I love the carpet beneath me, the curve of his shoulder blades, his close-clipped hair. I love him, and so when he is fucking me I am sure that he loves me too. But then I remember my friend in the other room, and I think that I should go back to her. I half sit up, laughing through our kisses that I was only supposed to take a minute. “You’re not going anywhere” he says, and he pushes me back down to the floor. We fuck more, but the prozac he takes makes it hard for him to come, and I start hurting, so I take him in my mouth again, as he jerks himself off. He comes across my tits, wipes me clean, and goes back to work. I return to my friend, face flushed.

And we are public servants. And our footsteps echo wherever we tread. And there is a building between you and I and coffee, and it’s new, so naturally, we would walk through it.

I can’t remember whether this was before or after I had hooked up with you at your desk. All I can remember is that the building was there, that it was brand new, that it was empty and sparkling and shining white.

And of course, memories come flooding back to me. We had already hooked up. I had already established that you could make me come. And that’s why I felt the way I did, that in that giant big empty atrium, we should have fucked. Hard and fast, instantly, you thrusting into me. Me, still seeking to gain the upper hand, pushing back against you, but imagine the crowds if they knew I was listnening? Why work as a foreign army when they could still rush us and take it all?

for whatever reason, we went to fist-bump tonight, and as your hand hit mine, I felt the impact of chunky metal. “I”m sorry about the ring,” you said, and I looked at you, and looked at the ring and all it symbolises and laughed and laughed and laughed. You had the grace to laugh as well, and to say “in all non-ironic forms as well, I’m sorry about the ring”. That was really sweet.