"I'm coming." I spilled my coffee when I heard her say that. I was instantly hard,picturing her naked, under me, legs wrapped around my hips, her nails ripping skin off my body as my cock slams into her. "I promise, I'm coming." My hard cock, slightly curved at the crown is battered by her walls. We came together.
None of that happened, except for in my mind. She did say I'm coming, then, I promise, I'm coming, but to her co-worker who needed help. A single word, one meaning during the day, a completely different meaning in bed, in the night, when clothes are not needed.
My point is, don't they know what they're doing? Women, I mean.
The other night I was watching TV. A young woman, lass, I think. She took over making a fire in the woods, the fat guy couldn't do it. She blew into the sticks, her lips perfectly shaped as the fire illuminated her face. My cock sprang, tapping my hand resting on my thigh. She blew again. I could almost feel her breath on my shaft as I freed my cock.
It's not their fault, it's the way my mind works. The other day I was texting a former co-worker, we were outsourced. She said it is hard to get use to not working. Of course I changed that to is it hard? You know I like it hard.
It's very hard. Glad I don't have a cat, it would use my cock as a scratching post.
A smile, her eyes looking into mine, stealing my mind, asking how they can help me. So many thoughts cross my mind like a lighting bolt crosses the sky.
A friendly hug goodbye, her breast bumping my chest by accident. She doesn't movie it, but actually presses it a bit. I picture her hand squeezing it as her other hand rubs her pussy, fingering herself like mad.
Jeans, they look painted on, my eyes melt them off her body. Her cheeks move so perfectly, hypnotizing me.
That throaty sound they make because it's hot out and their tired of being hot, sweating into their panties. I hear them making that sound in my head, so much deeper, louder, cumming in their own special way.
I can't talk about college gymnastics, I can, but my cock will be doing the typing. I admire the physical beauty of what they do, but I so wish I could be a balance beam sometimes.
There are so many more, from my present and past. I'm always thinking don't they know what they're doing? I think they do sometimes.
But there's one, only one, we talk on the phone. She knows what she is doing. Her voice is a whispering breath in my ear. As pleasant as honeysuckle in the night air. She asks, "is it hard?" She knows the answer. I never feel shy with her, though I do with all the others who have crossed my path, they scare me. But not her.
I stroke, listening to her sweet voice, pretending my hand is hers.
Stroking in the dark, recalling her words, whispering here it cums, feeling cum flowing, hot like lava, flowing over my fingers. I shoot out, like a powerful cannon. I bomb my own body, feeling splats of cum as I moan incoherent sounds.
She knows what she is doing to me.