I love it when you masturbate.

I ask if I can watch and you blush and shyly say yes. You still aren’t used to someone who doesn’t get mad when you touch yourself. You search for porn on the laptop, turn it on and look at me one more time to make sure I’m really not mad. I smile and tell you how beautiful you are, sitting there with your cock in your hand.

You turn your face to watch the screen, but you leave your body in profile for me. Leaning back in your chair, you relax, cupping your balls, the first tentative strokes increase. Images flash on your laptop screen: cocks of all sizes, pink pussies, gaping assholes, boys fucking boys, girls fucking boys with fists and strap-ons. The people in the videos moan and yell, slap and fuck. The sound of your breath quickens, your ancient office chair creaks, the lube on your cock is wet and thick.

I’m hypnotized by your hands. I follow each practiced stroke up and down your shaft. I love the contrast of your strong hands against the smooth pink of your cock. You glance at me to see if I’m still watching from across the room. Sometimes I touch myself too, but I prefer to watch you, losing yourself deeper and deeper in pleasure. Continue reading

I don’t know who hates it more when you have to leave.

You stay until the last possible moment, and then you stay a little more.

I’m still naked, you gave me one more quick fuck. You were almost out the door, then you turned, came back in. You didn’t even take your jeans off, you pulled them down around your ass, then fucked me hard. Hard enough, we both hope, to last us another week or so. But we both know better.

I wrap myself in a sheet, follow you outside so I can watch you pull away. I want to see every second of you. I stop short of running down the street. I’m not given to such theatrics, even if it is what my heart wants.

Your car turns the corner. If I peer at the right angle, I’ll see a flash of white between those two houses, then you’re really gone. I go back inside.

I’m too sad and restless to sleep. My hand lingers on my thighs, still damp from you. I feel the bruises on my hips, my breasts. I push into each one, remembering the moment you forced them into bloom. Continue reading