Jack
- 1 year ago
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On My Jack free porn video
on my jack jones again
Some women are good at being alone. I would definitely be mistaken for one of them. I have lived the kind of laundry list of harrowing everyday pain women go through. I have endured the loneliness of a flooded flat, smear abnormalities, a broken heart and an empty bank account with all the grace of a feminist who knows that when it comes down to it, I cope without help. I am happy to pad around my flat in the red stockings and bra I purchased from Altrincham market for no one's pleasure but my own; I can lose days at a time in unaccompanied contentment. I am happy to sit in a restaurant and eat silently while people watch and wish they could join me, or even be in my place.
I'll tell you a secret; my body doesn't respond to solitude quite as well as my heart does. If I told you it was nymphomania, I'd be lying. I go grocery shopping without underwear or pick up strangers in bars. I have no judgment of the women not brave enough to do that. I'm really quite envious of them. No, I have a terrible problem with pride that leaves me with idle fingers and a lust that debases me even though no one can suspect it. Beneath my dignity, I will confess that I yearn and I am wet for human touch. I don't want the touch of someone who just met me and will fuck me and leave me in the morning. I know that a fumble will never satisfy the complicated and twisted tastes I have. I don't want the slow grind of a boyfriend who can schedule me in and whom I look at while he sleeps and ache for something I cannot have. I won't feel satisfied with on screen filth. I'm not a prude I do worse in real life, rather I hunger for a tangible touch. I hunger for the space between my flesh and yours, while it shimmers with the prospect of sex a cock deep in my pussy.
I wish I didn't feel this way. I expected to excel at celibacy the way I excel at most everything I try my hand at. The frustration starts so slowly. It's often just a look from a passerby. Some days it will be a result of the shock of red lipstick set with my auburn hair and the bold eye contact I give. But other days, I am trying to be invisible, when the stare from a man sets the tinder in my heart alight. I hate to be so aroused against my better nature, my hips swinging just a little more than I can help, my longing look that I can't conceal. I feel the simultaneous fear and hope that he may notice and stop. I honestly don't know what I would say if a guy ever does stop.
No, it doesn't take a lot these days. It could be his voice, the timbre of a man's voice as he says something commonplace, perhaps in a business meeting. The way the sound shapes in his throat will find a way between my legs and make my toes curl in desire. I want to possess the men I see, to seize them where they stand and remove whatever they wear while everyone else watches. It's as if I have forgotten what is underneath the suits and t shirts. It's like I have had my permission to look on them revoked. At the same time, there exists all that delicious skin that I can sense so keenly, beyond my view. I can recall the shoulders of every man I ever slept with, except these days it's not at my leisure, it's at my torture.
My friends think it is funny that after so many years of sexual adventure, I should retire for a time. It's still curiously unfashionable for a woman to admit to lust. We approve of women who are cartoonish in being voracious or women who are brave enough to plumb the depths of kink for our public titillation. But I am one of a legion of hidden women who censor our own day to day desires. We walk down the street and we work in your building and we are greedy for something we would never ask of you. There is something in us that is darker and needier and bottomless, we want, we want so much. We will never tell you so.
When I stand before the mirror naked, what I see now are the hands that used to own it. I wonder if the man who remarked on the curve of my waist and traced it with a tickle still remembers it. I wonder in whose mind, if anyone's, my nipples still swell. Just their reflection brings back the memory of the many mouths upon them, my nipples being bitten and pulled. The exquisite shame of wearing clamps with chains has left me and now all I remember is the pleasure. I can see my own sly surrenders and men who smiled at the conquests, all lived out on my pale skin. Each freckle is a reminder of a kiss, my back an unwelcome testament to the slow ecstasy of my true love's tongue, trailing up my spine towards my craning neck. I recall his slow delight in licking me there, because I had asked him to. It was weird. But I wanted him to so much so that he loved doing it, weird as it was.
I've tried to 'take care of it' - why do we still call masturbation 'taking care of it?'I take care of it quite often,(even now as I type) My lust is not an unruly pet or a household task to be completed. My synapses and my nerves crackle, I need, I need, I so desperately need to be fucked and it feels almost limbic. Maybe it is. I still find myself restless in my local sex store, while a woman who I might not have been attracted to in other circumstances, finds me batteries. I chatter a little more than I should while I pay, it's like she knows what is wrong with me.
Before he left me, I spent a chunk of a tax rebate on a sex toy (viva love honey what a web site girls). I figured I'd get the best that money could buy. I spent a few months so clumsy with the variety of settings that most of my orgasms were a shock. I'd simply pressed a button I didn't plan on pressing and cum by accident. Since then, I have worked through the buttons, this one, that one, combinations that make me shudder long before my brain is quite ready to give in. It being a toy, I have taken to playing, pressing my wet body up against the streaky bathroom tiles with one loud cry that I know my neighbours can hear. On the sofa, by candlelight with curtains which really aren't opaque. With the windows open in summer, while my pornographic moans float faintly on the humid air. Sometimes the mechanics of my vibrator will kick in and it will be a robotic fuck, designed to get me there quickly. Other times fantasy will take over and I will take a mental ride on the glory of riding him while he was cuffed to the bed and unable to protest.
There may only be so far I am prepared to go. The other week I found a smaller sex toy and held it up against my existing one, pretending to debate where it would go. But you know where I put it, right? As I feel the lube between my arse cheeks I always tell myself that I should be above this, but once I have hit the buttons I tremble with the kind of obscene gratification that I remember so fondly. I miss it. For one moment I am totally full and my flesh is alive and I make the sound I never make anytime else. It's a sound my body knew long before that confident ex boyfriend found a way to make me sing it out. His giving me anal sex on our first night together was so bold and surprising I gave in without question. It happened to be my very first time and the sound I made then is the same one I make every time, even though I am alone when I fall silent.
Loneliness is always that much worse when I am covered in lube and my own sense of completion. I am beautiful when I am breathless and flushed with my hair across the pillow, but there is no one to see it. I lie in the dark with no words to say and no one to hear them. There is no body to press my own into. I remember what it is to find someone else in the dark. I used to love hearing the shock or the pride in his voice, though I liked him better when he was rendered speechless. If I was to share something truly disgusting and taboo with you, it would be that 'I love you' is the thing I crave to hear, the thing I cannot replicate in any position now.
So this will go on. I will be the pretty young woman who smiles at you on the bus or files your paperwork. You won't know by looking at me how much I want to be fucked. You would never guess the lengths I have gone to in order to satiate myself. You would never have me down as the kind of girl who has dirty dreams about you that makes looking at you so hard, you won't be able to say why I can't meet your eyes. My fantasies will play across my mind while I screw up my nose at a newspaper or laugh with you on the phone. Maybe you will stand too close to me or tuck my long red hair behind my ear in a manner that is a little too familiar and I will give myself away for just a moment. Or you will watch me witness a couple greet each other, with my just parted lips and a gaze of envy. Maybe you will suspect. Even if you sense the chemistry in the air, I won't ever reveal my lust to you. But I want you so much it hurts not to have you. Thank you xhamster you are my life line.
Some women are good at being alone. I would definitely be mistaken for one of them. I have lived the kind of laundry list of harrowing everyday pain women go through. I have endured the loneliness of a flooded flat, smear abnormalities, a broken heart and an empty bank account with all the grace of a feminist who knows that when it comes down to it, I cope without help. I am happy to pad around my flat in the red stockings and bra I purchased from Altrincham market for no one's pleasure but my own; I can lose days at a time in unaccompanied contentment. I am happy to sit in a restaurant and eat silently while people watch and wish they could join me, or even be in my place.
I'll tell you a secret; my body doesn't respond to solitude quite as well as my heart does. If I told you it was nymphomania, I'd be lying. I go grocery shopping without underwear or pick up strangers in bars. I have no judgment of the women not brave enough to do that. I'm really quite envious of them. No, I have a terrible problem with pride that leaves me with idle fingers and a lust that debases me even though no one can suspect it. Beneath my dignity, I will confess that I yearn and I am wet for human touch. I don't want the touch of someone who just met me and will fuck me and leave me in the morning. I know that a fumble will never satisfy the complicated and twisted tastes I have. I don't want the slow grind of a boyfriend who can schedule me in and whom I look at while he sleeps and ache for something I cannot have. I won't feel satisfied with on screen filth. I'm not a prude I do worse in real life, rather I hunger for a tangible touch. I hunger for the space between my flesh and yours, while it shimmers with the prospect of sex a cock deep in my pussy.
I wish I didn't feel this way. I expected to excel at celibacy the way I excel at most everything I try my hand at. The frustration starts so slowly. It's often just a look from a passerby. Some days it will be a result of the shock of red lipstick set with my auburn hair and the bold eye contact I give. But other days, I am trying to be invisible, when the stare from a man sets the tinder in my heart alight. I hate to be so aroused against my better nature, my hips swinging just a little more than I can help, my longing look that I can't conceal. I feel the simultaneous fear and hope that he may notice and stop. I honestly don't know what I would say if a guy ever does stop.
No, it doesn't take a lot these days. It could be his voice, the timbre of a man's voice as he says something commonplace, perhaps in a business meeting. The way the sound shapes in his throat will find a way between my legs and make my toes curl in desire. I want to possess the men I see, to seize them where they stand and remove whatever they wear while everyone else watches. It's as if I have forgotten what is underneath the suits and t shirts. It's like I have had my permission to look on them revoked. At the same time, there exists all that delicious skin that I can sense so keenly, beyond my view. I can recall the shoulders of every man I ever slept with, except these days it's not at my leisure, it's at my torture.
My friends think it is funny that after so many years of sexual adventure, I should retire for a time. It's still curiously unfashionable for a woman to admit to lust. We approve of women who are cartoonish in being voracious or women who are brave enough to plumb the depths of kink for our public titillation. But I am one of a legion of hidden women who censor our own day to day desires. We walk down the street and we work in your building and we are greedy for something we would never ask of you. There is something in us that is darker and needier and bottomless, we want, we want so much. We will never tell you so.
When I stand before the mirror naked, what I see now are the hands that used to own it. I wonder if the man who remarked on the curve of my waist and traced it with a tickle still remembers it. I wonder in whose mind, if anyone's, my nipples still swell. Just their reflection brings back the memory of the many mouths upon them, my nipples being bitten and pulled. The exquisite shame of wearing clamps with chains has left me and now all I remember is the pleasure. I can see my own sly surrenders and men who smiled at the conquests, all lived out on my pale skin. Each freckle is a reminder of a kiss, my back an unwelcome testament to the slow ecstasy of my true love's tongue, trailing up my spine towards my craning neck. I recall his slow delight in licking me there, because I had asked him to. It was weird. But I wanted him to so much so that he loved doing it, weird as it was.
I've tried to 'take care of it' - why do we still call masturbation 'taking care of it?'I take care of it quite often,(even now as I type) My lust is not an unruly pet or a household task to be completed. My synapses and my nerves crackle, I need, I need, I so desperately need to be fucked and it feels almost limbic. Maybe it is. I still find myself restless in my local sex store, while a woman who I might not have been attracted to in other circumstances, finds me batteries. I chatter a little more than I should while I pay, it's like she knows what is wrong with me.
Before he left me, I spent a chunk of a tax rebate on a sex toy (viva love honey what a web site girls). I figured I'd get the best that money could buy. I spent a few months so clumsy with the variety of settings that most of my orgasms were a shock. I'd simply pressed a button I didn't plan on pressing and cum by accident. Since then, I have worked through the buttons, this one, that one, combinations that make me shudder long before my brain is quite ready to give in. It being a toy, I have taken to playing, pressing my wet body up against the streaky bathroom tiles with one loud cry that I know my neighbours can hear. On the sofa, by candlelight with curtains which really aren't opaque. With the windows open in summer, while my pornographic moans float faintly on the humid air. Sometimes the mechanics of my vibrator will kick in and it will be a robotic fuck, designed to get me there quickly. Other times fantasy will take over and I will take a mental ride on the glory of riding him while he was cuffed to the bed and unable to protest.
There may only be so far I am prepared to go. The other week I found a smaller sex toy and held it up against my existing one, pretending to debate where it would go. But you know where I put it, right? As I feel the lube between my arse cheeks I always tell myself that I should be above this, but once I have hit the buttons I tremble with the kind of obscene gratification that I remember so fondly. I miss it. For one moment I am totally full and my flesh is alive and I make the sound I never make anytime else. It's a sound my body knew long before that confident ex boyfriend found a way to make me sing it out. His giving me anal sex on our first night together was so bold and surprising I gave in without question. It happened to be my very first time and the sound I made then is the same one I make every time, even though I am alone when I fall silent.
Loneliness is always that much worse when I am covered in lube and my own sense of completion. I am beautiful when I am breathless and flushed with my hair across the pillow, but there is no one to see it. I lie in the dark with no words to say and no one to hear them. There is no body to press my own into. I remember what it is to find someone else in the dark. I used to love hearing the shock or the pride in his voice, though I liked him better when he was rendered speechless. If I was to share something truly disgusting and taboo with you, it would be that 'I love you' is the thing I crave to hear, the thing I cannot replicate in any position now.
So this will go on. I will be the pretty young woman who smiles at you on the bus or files your paperwork. You won't know by looking at me how much I want to be fucked. You would never guess the lengths I have gone to in order to satiate myself. You would never have me down as the kind of girl who has dirty dreams about you that makes looking at you so hard, you won't be able to say why I can't meet your eyes. My fantasies will play across my mind while I screw up my nose at a newspaper or laugh with you on the phone. Maybe you will stand too close to me or tuck my long red hair behind my ear in a manner that is a little too familiar and I will give myself away for just a moment. Or you will watch me witness a couple greet each other, with my just parted lips and a gaze of envy. Maybe you will suspect. Even if you sense the chemistry in the air, I won't ever reveal my lust to you. But I want you so much it hurts not to have you. Thank you xhamster you are my life line.
Fay
- 19.07.2022
- 15
- 0
