Ok, so I have been hiding up in a Brooklyn tower, getting bonked all day, eating fine breads, cheeses, delicious salted greasy pork products, and a steady bottle of wine a day—vacation is good. Though traveling often seems to allow a bit of melancholia into my system. The goodbyes, the returns, large amounts of people on their way to other places– other places that I make up in my mind as I encounter each person. The smile on their faces, the tears welling in their eyes. The long and lost looks of weary travel shows in the creases of their faces.
For me, I return with a mixed bag of sexuality and love. When I departed to visit the NYC cock, I left behind the new steady cock–who had already found the solace and warmth of another cunt. He did so out of jealousy, spite, anger, sadness—I am not really sure of the motivation. Perhaps it was just pure fuck want, but I don’t think so. My feelings were hurt, even though it is exactly the same thing I was about to go off and do, and even pushed for the whole non-monogamy adventure. Now I return home with a sadness of my own and I am not sure I can give or get back to the steady cock that I left.
NYC is a fun and generous cock indeed, but he is not my cock–he too, like me– seeks escape from his life and up until now that escape has been our vacation fuck excursions. However this time it felt different. I had trouble keeping my mind clear, I kept comparing the two men. I was unable to kiss NYC like had in the past. My kisses on him seemed void and almost empty–distracted. And on the other hand my kisses to and from the steady cock seemed sullied and fractured.
It took me awhile to release completely and enjoy the ride, so to say, with NYC. We had lovely time. The place I stayed was very suiting to my moody girl ways, lots of book, lots of art and riding crop to redden the ass of NYC.
I guess because of all the tension with steady cock, it made me be more of an assertive vixen with NYC. I pretty much had control of his cock the whole time. I have been going back to basics– giving long sweet torturous hand jobs intermingled with my tongue and mouth. Just watching the way your cock reacts to my touch, to my hand wrapping around your shaft, the grasp of your balls between my fingers. My hand can make you so hard, so ready for my cunt to ride you, but instead I just want to bring you to the edge, then back down again. I want to kneel beside you and watch my hands on your cock, watch your face tilt in that agony of something you wife won’t do. I want to make your cock so wet with my saliva and your pre-cum that my hand glides with ease along your shaft as I slowly squeeze and pull you toward orgasm.
Laying on the turquoise vintage sofa, with that morning sunshine pouring in and the Brooklyn traffic drowning out any of our sex romp noises– I finally got lost. All became clear and all became nothing. It became lips, hands, cock, and cum—you and I and the rest of the atoms around us meant nothing. These moments in life happen so infrequently–these times when I can completely leave my body. I crave them. It’s like running, which I cannot do anymore, I have been channeling sex, like I used to channel running–it becomes my absolute escapism.
You become thicker and rock solid, I know you are about to cum, I drop my mouth down firmly around the bulging head of your cock and cup your balls firmly with my palm. I am truly in worship stance– on my knees, hand in prayer position around your root, and my head lowered in around your tip invoking the taste your cum to fill my mouth. I drain every last bit of you and keep twitching my mouth, until I am sure your cock has been fully used for the moment and then we slowly let the world return and await the next escape of orgasm.