I Think About Your Cock at Night
I slide into bed, a nostalgic grin splashed across my face, before sliding my underwear down and kicking them to the side. That little moment makes me think about your cock, still.
Just trippin’ over my pants to get naked for you.
I’ve deleted all of your videos and photos, but I don’t need them. They’re permanently etched into my brain, ready and waiting for when I settle down and get comfortable. I can recall every single one on demand, like my only personal wank bank streaming service. It’s a great talent to have sometimes. Only sometimes, though.
Honestly, I miss that perfect cock. How the fuck could I possibly forget it?
I trail my hands down between my thighs as I think about it. I don’t know what you feel like, taste like, smell like; unfortunately, I’ve never been that close. I’ve imagined it, though. Daydreamed, fantasised, envisaged for far more hours than is healthy. I’ve wondered, in minute detail, how you would feel sliding into me for the first time. Because that first thrust… damn, that first thrust. It has always been my favourite. My whole body shudders at the thought of it.
I remember every inch of your length, every single vein, the exact shades, all the little noises you made, how you undressed, grasped yourself, everything. Every single little detail. Sometimes, I think those memories have faded, but it doesn’t take long for them to pop back up, like haunting – but filthy – reminders.
I debate for a minute: toy or fingers tonight?
Toy or fingers. Hmmmm. My fingers win.
As much as I’d love to feel full, stuffed, packed to capacity with cock, I’m not interested unless it’s your cock. My silicone replacements just aren’t the same now I know that your cock exists in the world. It’s been a while since I’ve been completely and utterly obsessed with one, but I’m obsessed with yours. And it’s definitely worthy of all my admiration.
You should come here and let me admire it.
Admire it, worship it, suck it, ride it, whatever.
As I slide my fingers inside my cunt, I close my eyes and pretend you’re watching – sitting at the bottom of the bed, cock in hand, stroking a little, transfixed by me. I’d put on such a show for you, show you all the magic tricks my body can do.
I twirl and circle and nudge my fingertips around my clit next. Fuck, it feels good. I bet you’d feel better, though. I don’t think it’s going to take long, but then again, it never did with you. Would you let me come yet if you were here? What do you think? Are you impatient and bratty like me, or would you demand that I wait, hold off, simmer down until I was practically begging? Would I even listen? Probably not. When did I ever?
Thoughts of you, your face, your exquisite cock consume me as I debate with myself. To come, or not to come? That really is the question. Honestly, though, I’m too far gone to debate for long. You’re not here, so you don’t get to decide.
I do.
So, I keep going. Yes, I can come. And I will. I do, urgently, loudly, with hips bucking against my own hand and thoughts of your thick cock circling my mind. If you’d been watching, I’m sure you’d have enjoyed the hell out of it.
I still think about your cock at night.
To be honest, I kinda hope I never stop.
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