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When thirty hours away from motherly duties came along, I could have devoted the time to cleaning this cracker-crumb-encrusted house. Or to Christmas shopping. Or to working…working would have been a great idea.
Instead, I engaged in a minor fuckfest.
Honestly, I don’t know what came over me. I had an entire highway’s worth of good intentions scheduled for the time, but few of those plans came to fruition.
I guess that taking pictures of naked people fucking horns me up. Who knew?
Driving home with a camera full of hard cock and a pussy slick with juices, I dialed the number of a friend. Our schedules aligned, thanks be to the gods. I’d barely pulled on fresh panties when he arrived; I barely made it up the stairs before they were off again.
He left, exhausted, some two hours later. I however was not exhausted. Still naked, still lying on sex-damp blankets, I pulled out my trusty plug-in vibe and came some more before falling asleep in blankets that were now soaked through.
I woke in the morning in funky sheets and starving half to death. Thoughts of hot showers, caffeine and fresh laundry skipped through my head, but before I could implement any of these ideas, a phone call from a friend caused the bed to suck me back into its funk.
The conversation started out politely—is it possible to call a conversation dealing with nekkid fucking photography polite? But before long, pants were unzipped, panties were pushed aside and the plug-in vibe made an appearance for another round.
We said good-bye eventually, and I had every intention of getting my day started. But the proximity of vibe to cunt and the fact that the bed was already an abysmal mess made me keep going, alone, for many more long minutes.
And then I promptly fell back to sleep, because that’s just the kind of luxuriously slothful day it was shaping up to be.
I woke up again a few hours later sticky, reeking of sex and starving. I crawled through the shower and gathered a pile of bedding the state of which made me blush. And then I actually acted as a responsible human being for a few hours. I did laundry. I remade the bed. I settled in for a little bit of work.
But then the gods smiled down upon me once again; my friend’s schedule opened unexpectedly. Another two hours of playtime wrecked another set of sheets, not that I much minded. He left, satisfied; I stayed behind to wank some more, until the blankets were soaked through and I couldn’t move.
Eventually it dawned on me that orgasms were not the answer.
I had a problem I could not fuck my way out of. All the masturbation and playtime in the world had failed to touch something in me that badly needed to be touched.
Surely at some point in the future that place will be once more be touched. And I’m not—at least not now—finicky enough to turn my nose up at an honest rogering until that time comes around again.
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