Homework

Mr. I has asked me to write this, for him. He doesn't know about the blog, but I like to think he wouldn't mind.

Masturbation

I've been thinking about this all day, especially in the car. Vibrations and comfortable silence have that effect on me. Right now, I'm fingering myself a little, in between sentences. The keys have little damp spots on them, especially the "I".

I've missed being able to see my cunt. And I don't remember my asshole peeking out so coyly from below. I'd forgotten all the layers and folds that hide everything. I'd even forgotten the three little beauty marks that mark the way.

I'm never very wet, when I fuck myself. Not at first. I want it, but it's not that kind of wanting. Not yet.

I'm getting wet now, rubbing myself in lazy circles and thinking about you. I've propped up the mirror so I can watch, just like I promised. It's hard; the mirror pulls me out of myself, pulls me away from my own slow hands. I watch my breasts or my eyes or the line of my jaw to see if it looks pretty when it's slack with lust. It does, I decide, and then I start rubbing harder.

I'm barely moving, except for the rapid strokes of my fingers. I don't need the confirmation that it feels good and I don't need hints where to go. My cunt is blushing with the heat and the friction and my wetness is dripping down, away from where it is needed, but I don't care. I like the friction, the thinnest edge of pain. I can smell myself on the air.

I watch the way my ass spreads out beneath me in the mirror and I've lost it again. I half close my eyes, just enough that I still get a sense of movement. My muscles ripple, from my cunt out to my curling toes and my busy, busy fingers. I remember your hands on me, on my neck, in my ass, holding my arms, a dozen ghost hands fucking me together and I imagine what it will be like to hang from your ceiling.

I change rhythms without thinking about it; now my whole hand is pounding and there are little slaps and whimpering noises. I want it so badly and that voice, that mean voice (that sounds more like you every day) tells me that I won't get any cock, I don't deserve any cock but I'm going to have to fuck myself for him anyway. That voice owns me.

I can't picture anything anymore, all I can do is listen to the voice and imagine the teasing head of a cock so close, so close… and I want it and I'm so goddamned frustrated I want to cry but I don't, I just whimper and moan and hope the neighbors can't hear. Or that they can and they come in and fuck me out of this misery.

I'm speeding up. My muscles all flex at random. My free hand reaches for something, anything to hold on to and the voice whispers at me and I'm convulsing on the floor, crying out with relief and need.

It's the last thing I feel, before the orgasm fades- my cunt, gripping at the empty air.