Wednesday, 21 June 2017

World 2

I was under the cover.

All of me. The duvet, soft as was possible for a collapsible sofa bed, was lying heavily upon me. I knew what to do - I'd done it so many times before; it was a routine, almost. Hold up what I could with one hand; keep a steady rhythm going with my tongue. Circle her clit with the tip; feel its pulse. Run the flat all the way down the slit, then greedily lick all the way back up - small laps - savouring every moment.

All while my finger steadily moved inside her. Fingers. Two inside her pussy, her walls contracting, tight around them, holding them in position. I felt for her g-spot, my little finger - free from all such occupations - was busying itself with what it could. Stroking her perineum, pressing steadily against her anus. It would probably end up inside - it usually did. That brought her to orgasm.

It was a reward I was happy to work for.

The difference being that this was the height of summer, and I was getting hot. Well... hotter.

The fact that the window was open doesn't really make much of a difference - if anything, it was letting in more warm air. Under the oppressive summer heat, and in a small room, underneath a duvet (not to mention, of course, between a pair of legs...), made my head fuzzy and my body bead with sweat. Less aware of her moans of lust and more so that I was running out of air, I tried - briefly - to kick with my legs, open up a small hole to let some fresh air in.

"What are you doing?"

Get it together, ILB. You're here to do a job, so do it, superstar.

More licks.
More sucks.
More fingering.
More stroking.
More probing.

More heat. Much more heat. I was aware, then, of how hot she was, and how much having her lower half wrapped around my head couldn't be helping much with the dehydration demoisturisation dessication desperation situation. I was trying my hardest - believe me, trying - to bring her to orgasm, and what's worse, I could practically feel her teetering on the brink. If I stopped then, all my effort would have been largely pointless... but if I didn't, I was in serious danger of getting heatstroke.

It was her or me...

And I threw the covers off, taking in huge gasps of air as I fought for breath.

"What's wr...? You're red! You've turned red!"
And she left to get me some water.

Today, gentle readers, is a much hotter experience than that, which gives you an idea of exactly how uncomfortable this day has been. Fuck you, global warming.

Tuesday, 13 June 2017


Arching my back, my eyes fluttering closed and biting my lip, I lifted my backside off the bed and let out a noise somewhere between a squeal and a growl. It was the best I could manage, really, having abandoned all intuitive reasoning a while beforehand. With the first pulsation, I collapsed back onto the mattress, gasping for air, as I felt myself shoot once, twice, three times, four... a warm, sticky load of cum coating my stomach, making me forget, leaving me breathless.

I got up, picked up a cloth that hadn't been there before, cleaned up with one wipe, walked out of the room and asked the pretty girl behind the reception desk for the key. She gave it to me; I turned back to the door to my bedroom, which was still open, so I sat on the bed and put the key aside. I noticed that my cock was still hard, so I tried to ignore it because I'd just realised I was due at work. I called my dad to tell him so, but he didn't answer...

The world slowly came back into focus. I was still on my back, cum trickling down my sides, my hand still wrapped around my cock, which was still hard. My entire body was radiating warmth.

I'd fallen asleep. Briefly. I've mentioned the haze that's descended after a particularly luxurious orgasm before, but it's only rarely that I've succumbed to its thrall. I'm well aware that it makes me sleepy, but loath to fall into rest still covered in my own mess (although a lot of people seem to find that image sexy...), I generally have a tendency to clean up and then find that I'm not sleepy any more. This time, not being so fussy (and after having been wanting an orgasm for a fair few days), I'd just let it take me.

I still wonder how far I'd have sunk, had the trickle down my sides not woken me.

I made a vague gesticulation with my left hand and dragged over a tissue I'd had the foresight to leave nearby. I probably didn't do a very good job of cleaning up... but, by this point, I didn't care.

I rolled over onto my front, closed my eyes, exhaled...

...and was content.

Sunday, 11 June 2017


Some people turn to drink, or smoking, or drugs. Lots of children these days fiddle with those pointless fidget spinner thingies; executives have Newton's Cradles on their desks. Teachers fiddle with Blu-Tac; sports people throw their balls around. Nearly everyone wanks; some people, if they are lucky, fuck.

I fiddle with the holes in my body.

I am fascinated by skin. Mine has been tattered and torn more times than I'd care to remember, yet it heals. Wounds knit, scabs form and come off. Hairs grow and, whether they've been shaved off, plucked out by The Oxford Seamstress (who was dangerous in possession of tweezers) or, in the case of my head hair, just fallen out, they grow back. Keratin forms and my nails grow long; my skin stretches when I yawn. I scratch; I stroke myself. At night, when I sleep naked, my skin warms me.

And yet, for all this, I am more than a little fascinated by the holes.

My left arm, decorated as it is by the healed scars of self-harm scratches and falling on a very sharp rock, hides a number of little dips in the crook formed by my elbow. These, when I was 11, used to be warts which, again, I fiddled with - batted them back and forth, gently, with the fingers of my right hand - picked up, I imagine, from my weekly Tuesday swimming lessons. Further up, there is another, near my armpit: my BCG scar, a little depression in my body covered by a thin, stretchy layer of skin; almost exactly opposite, on the crook of my right arm in approximately the same place, is another - the remnant of a boil fixed by antibiotics when the pain landed me in A&E.

Run fingers through my hair and I feel the bump from my recent head surgery, or the one formed when I fell back onto concrete while acting (the scene looks amazing, though). Rub my eyes and feel what's left of the chalazion that troubled me before Eroticon; a nail along my lower lip and feel the rough edge of a spot that used to be there. On my foot there was a corn, which I removed with gel, waiting for it to dry while reading Tamora Pierce on top of my bed. Trace down my neck, my back, and my arse, and they're there. Flecks of skin covering wounds of the past.

I am fascinated. In awe. And yet, when I'm in my most mindless of moments - when distracted and I need something to touch - that's when I come to them the most. In summer, with bare arms, I often catch myself stroking my own skin, running the rough against the smooth, not happy with my own body but comfortable with what my skin provides.

So if you ever see me sitting with my arms crossed, twitching a little, inspecting my elbow or hugging myself with my head bowed, don't be alarmed. I may not even be too defensive, after all. Maybe I'm just being guided, unconsciously, towards the holes.

Tuesday, 6 June 2017


For a long time, I was the only single one in the house. The guy in the room next to me may have had periods of being officially single, but continued shagging his ex (loudly, as well - at least, she was loud, and he was hot, so it was a good combo); the French girl downstairs had a boyfriend but she never seemed to know where he was - we never met him, and she kept having to find him, so maybe that wasn't going well; my mate, who lived in the smallest room, was almost going out with a pretty girl from our year. When he told me they were official, it wasn't a big surprise. I followed them to the shops at one point. I've still no idea why.

I was single, although that's also not a surprise. I was single all the way through university and for years beyond. I knew most of the girls in the year by virtue of drifting through the humanities department and being unique enough not to be noticed - I also lived on campus during my first year, which helped. I even fancied a few of them - well, it's me; of course I did - at various points. My mate  Blaine, who I now lived with, liked to tease me about it a bit.

And then Sarah walked into my room.


I knew Sarah. I knew her from one of my classes and also somewhat from the time she shouted "Don't look at the light!" at maximum volume in the library. I remember her categorically telling me that she wasn't strange - just uniquely different.

But I didn't know Blaine knew Sarah. I certainly didn't know he was going to bring her to the house. I figured that his girlfriend, also named Sarah, knew her well enough; whether they were close enough to have a sleepover, I had no idea. But Sarah walked into my room... and I had no idea why at first.

"See, what Sarah didn't tell you," said Blaine, "is that she's had half a bottle of Sambucca and probably doesn't really know whose room she's going into," which translates - possibly - as, "there's a hot drunk girl in your room."

Not that I was going to try to take advantage of her. Of course not - it's not in my nature to do something to uncouth, and besides, I had no idea how. But I thought I'd make myself more sexually appealing, in case she suddenly decided she really wanted to have sex with the only single person in the house and knew that was me or something.

I changed into my pyjamas, sat cross-legged on my bed with my little soft rabbit and a copy of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, and sat there reading with my door open. Once or twice, Blaine and one or two Sarahs went past my door. Every time, they looked in, to see me sitting there like a lemon, reading a book with a toy rabbit on my lap. Nobody said anything, nobody did anything, and Sarah certainly didn't come back into my room to randomly make love to me in a slightly drunken haze. Even if she had, I probably wouldn't have known what to say. Or what to do.

Two chapters in and I heard a bump. Sarah was back, standing on the threshold without actually entering.
"What's that?", she asked, pointing indiscriminately into my room.
"Uhm..." I selected something at random. "It's my guitar."
"Cool," she said.

There was a pause.

"Hey, ILB..." said Blaine, appearing around the corner.
"Good night," he finished, shepherding Sarah (and Sarah) towards his own small room.

"Good night," I said cheerfully, before returning to my book.


"Hey, I think I came into your room the other night," said Sarah. "I'm sorry about that."
"No, it's no problem," I said.
"I really didn't know what I was doing."
"Neither did I," I admitted. "I didn't even know you were coming round."

"Your room's much bigger then Blaine's," she said. "Big and light."
"You can come into my room any time to stand in the light," I said. Only I didn't say that. I got about as far as, "...look at the light?"

"I can't help it!" yelled Rachel, from the bench behind us. "It's so beautiful!"

Friday, 2 June 2017

You give me fever...

I was awake last Saturday morning for just about long enough to decide that, yes, I was decidedly ill. It had been a bad night - not just because of the heat, but because I couldn't drop off to sleep at all - and then, when I started to feel tired towards daybreak, my IBS decided that this was a really good time to flare up and keep me awake for a few more hours. I called my Saturday job to tell them that I wasn't coming in (and got complained at because it was 'very short notice'), lay down in a pool of sweat and cloud of malaise... and then I fell asleep.

In my fever and semi-comatose state, I wasn't certain about anything, much. I remember snatches of things - a persistent buzz which I thought was in my head, but it turned out there was a bee in the room; occasional commentary and loud bangs which were a result of my girlfriend having the TV on and watching Gladiators on Challenge?; split-seconds of intense lucidity wherein I suddenly felt awake, alert and focused, only to instantly slide back into my daze. At some points between then and about 3pm (when, I am reliably informed, I woke up), I was genuinely asleep.

This I know because I had one of the most explicit fever-dreams I've ever had.

I don't often dream about sex (although when I do, I usually find a place to write about it...) and, when I do, it's usually in softcore - or, more often, I don't get to have sex after all. If I do, then it's usually with the wrong person. Nevertheless, if sex does happen, there's usually someone I know involved.

In my fever-dream, a whole new cast of characters was invented, who all seemed to instantly click as a group at the drop of a hat (basically like every single series of Co-Ed Confidential - also similar in that some of those characters don't appear to have names...). Nobody real was there, and yet they all seemed relatively sexually keen. The action took place in my local market town, on the street next to the market. And, yes, two of my brand new team were having sex. Like, a lot of sex.

That's basically it. That's the dream. I was standing watching two people have sex. I may have even shouted "Awooga!" at one point, but that probably wasn't me.

What I remember as being so unusual was how explicit this actually was. There was a full view of a flushing, glistening vagina - much bigger than one should be - and there was a gargantuan, incredibly thick cock that slid effortlessly into it. There was speed, there was strength and there was a lot of mess on the ground (that'll cost the Council a lot, cleaning up the pavement) and, at the end of it all, there was some globular, bubbly white stuff, which I'm assuming was meant to be cum, but looked nothing at all like it (colour notwithstanding). Repeat.

If any of you have seen the Flash animation called Diva Mizuki, it was kind of like that - although it looked real. I was certainly unconcerned about the fact that two friends I don't know were having incredibly close-up sex in public (and on market day, no less). As far as I was concerned, that was pretty much meant to be happening.

So that's my fever dream. I can't say it made me horny, particularly. It didn't even make me too confused. Maybe it was just a result of my brain taking advantage of me finally getting a small amount of genuine sleep, throwing everything into a blender and then projecting that at me in case any of it made sense. I certainly felt a little refreshed when I woke up, and it was a lot less upsetting than the one I had the other night, which involved being in the cast of Hamilton and having to watch my girlfriend kissing Brody from Glee while rehearsing.

What's bugging me about this, however, and the reason I remember it so vividly (UNUSUALLY LARGE PENIS notwithstanding), is the fact that the male participant - whoever he was meant to be - was scarily familiar. He certainly wasn't anyone I know, but he wasn't generic enough to be Joe Public. He had defined features, olive skin and shiny dark hair (and a huge penis) and I have, genuinely, no idea who he was. All I can remember was that, in the dream, I knew him.

My brain can invent some crazy things sometimes. Unnamed crazy things. Either that, or he was Beau in Seattle...

Sunday, 28 May 2017

Soft Porn Sunday: Kobé Tai & Jeremy Piven

With a few exceptions, most of the things I've reviewed for this here meme have been from relatively low-budget features. If you'll forgive me for making assumptions, I'm fairly confident that the American soft porn industry (or the British one? is there a British one?) hasn't spent the last half-century having millions of dollars thrown at it. There's certainly a lot of money in porn, and in Europe it's different, with arty Italian softcore having more of a budget. Nevertheless, sometimes it's difficult to tell if something has been made on a shoestring or not. And sometimes it's easy, if you're also to see through the softcore sheen.

This, however, is a big-budget Hollywood film, so there's really no excuse.

Appearance: Very Bad Things (1998)
Characters: Tina & Michael

For those of you who don't know this film, seek it out. It's filthy, hilarious and shocking in equal measure. Admittedly, I've only seen it once, but I loved it... for reasons that I genuinely don't understand.

Very Bad Things is a dark comedy in which a bachelor party in Las Vegas takes a dark turn when a
Kobé Tai's face is a Very Good Thing.
hooker named Tina (Kobé Tai, who I've also seen in hardcore porn, so I know by association) accidentally ends up dead, after which the stag and his friends start to turn on each other. Control is lost and the body count increases, all because of the consequences of one dead prostitute. Like all great films, of course, there's a sex scene to start off the madcap antics.

Much as I like Kobé Tai (and I also like Jeremy Piven, who plays Michael) - and I like smart, sassy Tina - it's a bit of a challenge to fully enjoy this scene with the prior knowledge that her character ends up dead. Nevertheless...

Okay, so this scene takes place in an unfeasibly large bathroom, music with loud bass thudding through the walls and the characters bouncing dialogue back and forth. Michael - possibly a little drunk and certainly more than a little horny - crashes into the bathroom, pulling Tina along with him, and tries to explain what he's doing, disrobing as he does so; Tina, already topless, asks him is he wants anything (which could mean anything, one supposes)... and he continues to take his clothes off.

"Not quite what you expected, huh?"

There's quite a lot of play here, for what it's worth. Michael and Tina are having a lot of fun; there's a bit where he's attempting a sexy dance but slips over and falls (I'm not sure if that's scripted - maybe Piven just lost his footing), and some cleverly scripted dialogue ("I just wanna make sweet love to you, because you have no idea what you have gotten into!"), even though I get the feeling that Tina is just going along with things.

It's part of her job, I suppose.

Mirror, mirror on the wall - who will live, and who will fall?

The sex, when it starts, is quick and dirty. They have sex on the bathroom counter next to the sink; up against the wall with Tina's legs wrapped around Michael's back; while spinning around in the middle of the room (yes, really); Michael asking for reassurances ("You thought I was just some punk, didn't you? Thought I was a punk?" / "This isn't work, is it? This is not work!"); roughly against the glass of a mirror; again, against a shower; and it all culminates in a huge, screaming orgasm.

He's the one doing most of the screaming. She even puts her hand over his mouth to quieten him down - a nice touch, and fairly wise!

I like this. I think it's hot, and it's funny, and playful. And the fact that it's a professional Hollywood
Hush. It's quiet time now.
film means that it looks, when compared to anything else I've reviewed, absolutely gorgeous - the lighting is good, the staging is great, the script is sharp and the camera work is fantastic.

The entire scene is intercut with what's going on next door, which is something approximating a full-on brawl: it's a of thrown punches, being thrown against walls and tumbling over sofas, complete with something at the end which almost looks like the start of a Doctor Who regeneration sequence. The cinematography has the mêlée flicking back and forth with the sex, which also has a lot of energy and some pretty violent overtones (although with more nudity) - a marvellous dichotomy matching the scrap in a small, crowded room with the sex in a large, empty one, the same thuddy music throughout. It's a wonderful piece of cinema, never mind what happens next.

But since what happens next is the rest of Very Bad Things, I don't think I mind that at all.

Wednesday, 24 May 2017

Walk On By

Lightsinthesky unlocked the door, walked into the porch, kicked off his shoes, dumped his bag on the floor (and probably pulled off the stupid hat he used to wear; I don't know, it was a long time ago), and went to hang his coat on the coatpeg.

It was only then that he noticed the peg was already occupied by a coat he didn't recognise. He had a big family, sure, but he knew his mum's coat by sight, his sisters had moved out a long time ago and his dad still wore a blazer (which gives you an idea of what up-to-date and advanced person he was). Nobody else could be home, except his older brother, who either didn't need or didn't want a coat. He owned a SNES and Primal Rage, which made him cool, or something.

This, of course, isn't the sort of thing I'd notice, mostly because my sister appeared to own a different coat every week. Even so, I doubt I'd have been curious enough to go up three flights of stairs and walk straight into my older brother's room, without knocking, to ask whose coat was on his peg. Except this is Lightsinthesky we're talking about, so of course, this is exactly what he did.

In the split-second between opening said door and noticing his brother, naked, spread-eagled on top of a young lady and "goin' at it on the bed" (as Lightsinthesky so poetically phrased it when recounting his escapade to us in the cafeteria the next day), he remembered whose coat it was. Said person wasn't wearing the coat any more. She wasn't wearing anything else, either.

So what do you do when you walk in on your older sibling having sex, specifically someone you don't know they're having sex with?

"Hey," said Lightsinthesky, "so I'm just going to town. Might get a bite to eat and do some shoppin', but I'll be back before dinner tonight. Say hi to Mum when she gets back and tell her I'll bring something from Tesco."

And he walked out.

[Inspired by Girl on the Net's post about the same subject. Go and read that too.]

Saturday, 20 May 2017

Wanking Functional Skills - Level 2

My favourite food item in the world, even more so than sherbet lemons, is the cheese sandwich. It tastes good, and is satisfying and comfortable. It's cheap, quick, and easy, and suits pretty much any occasion. Cheese sandwiches are, basically, the reason I'm overweight. They are glorious in their simplicity.

What I'm trying to get at here, really, is to provide via example some sort of proof that the simplest things can be the best. (I'm drinking very cheap tea from Lidl here, made with two-days-expired milk and reboiled water from a kettle, and it still tastes like tea.) And recently - over the last week, in fact - I've been re-affirming that the same can be said of masturbation. Although not always... still... sometimes.

Much as I like masturbation to be a lengthy experience for me - it takes me a while to settle on something, and then a while more to get into the mood, plus I have stamina, so it takes me a pretty long time to come - my simple wanks have come as something of a necessity. I've recently started a new, second (third? fourth? probably technically fifth?) job, because I am a millennial and just one job would probably result in me dying quietly in a ditch somewhere near Slough, which takes up a fair chunk of my time. Add this to the fact that I've been doing more shifts at my regular job, saying yes to everything because I am a fucking idiot, and doing all the admin that my clients have to do because I want it done properly, and it's pretty clear that, at the end of the day, I'm pretty much in need of some sort of stress relief to stop me cracking under the strain.

Hence the functional wank.

I enter the room and find that my girlfriend is still at work. Curtains get closed; side light on. Off go the clothes, work shirt and smart trousers no more than a crumpled heap on the floor, possibly overlaid with sensible grey knitwear if it's been cold. Satchel (yes, I have a satchel) discarded on the floor, pants and socks lying nearby. Bedclothes hastily assembled and I'm lying flat on my back, cock rigid and held firmly between my thumb and index finger, working my foreskin back and forth. Grasping through headspace for something sexy to get me off, taking deep steadying breaths, peaking when I can, coating my hand and stomach (and chest and neck if I'm superhuman enough) with creamy mess, and finally juddering to a halt.

If I'm tired by the time I get back, that's nothing compared to how I feel afterwards. I've noticed a tendency to crawl straight into bed after cleaning up, although there's something to be said for the notion of falling asleep while still covered in my own cum (this isn't a fetish - it just involves less movement and I am a lazy ho). Either way, I end up dozing - which is, frankly, all I really want to do after what feels like 4,201,510,975 hours of standing up.

I even have a blister on my big toe, which is odd, because my shoes are rubber - you'd think they'd be flexible.

It's a world away from the excessive compulsive flickering or spiritually transcendent vainglory of my usual wanks. It's not intended to be An Experience, a prayer to the altar of internet soft pornography, or even something to generate content (although I'm writing about it now - hooray, content!). It's a swift, functional, down-to-earth, honest-to-Glod dirty wank. Solid, easy, and - crucially - shorter.

The rest of me's too fatigued to do anything else, anyway.

Sunday, 14 May 2017

ABC, easy as 123, easy as do-re-mi...

"Does anyone have their book?" my music teacher asked for the umpteenth time. I'd gotten mine out when she first asked, as had one of the girls in the class who I never really talked to. Everyone else was pretending not to notice, apart from the guy sitting next to me who was busy writing "NO HOMEWORK" on every page of his homework diary.

I never really enjoyed Music lessons at school. I love music; it's a very important part of my life. I sing (poorly), I dance (badly), and I play a few instruments (barely), but I got very little out of the lessons at school. I got more out of being in the jazz band and my weekend violin lessons (and, occasionally, the local youth symphony orchestra). My class, however, were less enthusiastic, and had by this point  successfully seen off four music teachers - none of them had intended to stay for long - responding well to none of them.

The rogues and scallywags on the other side of the classroom were particularly not paying attention insofar as having started an ABC game on the topic of sex. Having started with "aaaaaah!", although I'm sure I could have coming up with something better - "Abstinence", "Asexuality", "Arousal", "Artificial suppression of oestrogen receptors in the ventromedial nucleus of the hypothalamus" - they had moved swiftly on through the alphabet.

My music teacher had given up by this point and was attempting - quite bravely, in my opinion - to give an explanation, to those of us who were still listening, of the Dorian mode. She even asked for contributions, from those of us who would dare to volunteer. I think I came up with Drunken Sailor at some point.

"F is for FUCK," came a spoken chorus from the other side of the room, accompanied by a few titters from the quieter ones upon realisation that the F-word had just been nigh on shouted across an otherwise silent classroom built for ambience. My teacher, who I thought would respond more negatively to this, gave them a weak remonstration for making too much noise - as opposed to focusing on the swearing. Which was possibly a rookie mistake.

Seated at my keyboard, half-making notes on the Dorian mode while composing in my head, I couldn't help listening in. My attention in their ribald discourse waxed, and then waned, and then grew again. By the time they passed L (I can't remember what it was, but it wasn't "Love", to my disappointment), I was all but enthralled.

They were stuck on M. My brain, of course, had instantly thought of "making love" as a possible option, but I wasn't about to get up, walk across the room, sit down in a group of people I didn't like and offer them a way of advancing their sex game. It was, eventually, suggested by one of the bolder girls who giggled a lot, but overruled by a boy who I think won a Spice Girls competition at one point, who suggested "masturbation" - something I still didn't know how to spell at that point, thinking it was spelled "mastibate" and referred to absent-mindedly fiddling with one's penis.

It had been spread around the school that I masturbated. Unlike a lot of the other boys at that age, I didn't.

It occurred to me a few seconds beforehand what would happen when they got to S. Fearing that we would get another rich chorus in unison and observing from a safe distance how flustered our teacher was getting while arguing with one of the girls who insisted that her name was "Dorian Mode", I saw two possible options: take decisive action, which would involve causing a ruckus all on my own in order to stop everything; or do nothing, allowing this word game its freedom of sexual expression at the expense of our teacher.

While I was still trying to decide, "S IS FOR SEX!" rang out across the room so loudly that I think they could hear it in the Maths classroom downstairs. I tried to look scandalised - even though I wasn't; I just tried in case anyone was looking at me - the boy I usually worked with smirked; the guy in the corner continued to write "NO HOMEWORK"; our poor teacher, nary a minute after she'd last asked, was struck dumb. Whether at the defiance of her request or at their blasé ejaculation of the entire concept of sex in unison, she had no idea what to say.

"Uh..." she decided upon.

But there was no stopping them. They raced ahead, increasing in both volume and tempo, until eventually they were brought to a grinding standstill... although by neither teacher nor student. They just couldn't think of a Z.

"Z is for..."

Silence. Nobody, including the teacher, was making a sound.

"Mrs R," I said suddenly, raising my hand, "I've got a question."

And a light bubbling chatter broke over the rest of the room as I swiftly made up something to ask. I have, to this day, no idea if they ever settled on a sexual Z, but I'm fairly certain that, after another ten minutes of chatter, the class had sunken back into their usual torpor.

Tuesday, 9 May 2017


When I masturbate in my computer chair, I usually do so perched on the very edge, feet flat on the floor for support. It's, frankly, a little less hassle to masturbate like this; there's more space to move, I don't need to hunch over as much, and it's easier to reach my penis, whereas slumped back on a chair, I can't spread my legs as easily, so masturbating is a tricky business at best.

What it isn't is comfortable.

I mean, yes, it's comfortable to begin with - and I don't just mean that my penis is comfortable throbbing away between my thumb and forefinger. It's just sitting on the edge of a chair. But, after a while - by which I mean a long time; I usually climax in less time than that, although it varies - it does start to hurt. My arse tends to go a little numb and things begin to seize up - the remedy for which, evidently, is to stand up.

If you're naked and erect, and there's a large window right in front of your desk, this may not be the best of ideas.

Today it took me over an hour to masturbate to orgasm. I mean, I managed it all right, and (as it turns out) I didn't have to put in a lot of effort; I just hadn't engaged my brain properly. Whatever the reason, the net result of this protracted masturbation was that, for an hour or more, I had a full erection in the palm of my hand and a derrière that was rapidly growing more and more numb as I balanced on the edge of my plastic chair waiting for the volcano to erupt. And, as it's summer, it was still light outside. If I stood up someone would have been able to see me in all my gory. Er, glory.

Eventually, I stood up. I didn't have a choice, really - I wanted to orgasm and I wasn't going to do so in SUCH PAIN. So I briefly stood, for a second, shook off the blues, and sat back down.

There was nobody in the street, but just before I sat down, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass of my windows...

...and there I was. Standing there, in plain sight (should anyone have been looking, which they weren't), naked from the waist down, hair a mess and flushed face, with a huge and very obvious erection. Shameless, exposed and brazen. I may not, as I rationalised after the fact, particularly like my body (with the possible exception of my eyes, my hands and my penis), but in that general haze - the combination of being very horny, very excited, and uncomfortably numb enough to want to stand up - my cares had gone somewhere. 

Here's my naked body, London. Erection and all. Take me for what I am, or don't take me at all.

As I sat back down, I felt more powerful than I've felt in a long time.