1. Hung Up


    Date: 8/19/2015, Categories: Masturbation, Author: SITTING, Rating: 21, Source: LushStories

    There is nothing quite as thrilling as the knowledge that a man wants you. I’d never felt it before and maybe that was why it affected me so much. He was a practical stranger, just a neighbour who I rarely saw. He never even knew my name. But in the few times we did meet, I’d feel his eyes drag over me when he thought I wasn’t looking and it made my heart pound. I was a quiet girl but he made me want to get noticed. I was twenty years old at the time, too shy for my own good; a headful of insecurities fighting with all my wistful dreams. I would blush when he spoke to me and hate myself for it afterwards. I wanted to be older, sexier, more mature, but there I was; plain as a blank sheet of paper. I would practise smiling in the mirror, seeing which expression suited me best only so he might think I was pretty. And then I would remember the way he looked at me, that careless hunger in his eyes and a warmth would flare inside me. Every time I thought of that look, I wanted to celebrate it, share it with the world. I kept it deep inside though, an occasional memory to revisit and brighten my dull days. I never saw him much because even though we lived next door to one another, he was working nights at a factory while I nine-to-fived during the day. But maybe the rarity of our meetings was what made me crave them so much. I would relive our conversations in my head time and time again, wishing I’d said things differently, chiding myself for not being casual enough. They weren’t ...
    even interesting conversations. We talked about our flats, the miserly landlord and the rats that came from the neighbouring fast food joint. We spoke about out jobs and our families but none of it really mattered because the whole time my heart would be thumping and my palms sweating as he swept nonchalant glances down my body. He wanted me and the thought was terrifyingly thrilling. I would lie awake at night and think of him, imagine if he touched himself with the image of me in his mind. It excited me to picture him stroking his hard cock, his jaw hanging slack as pleasure overcame him. I would fantasise that one day we would be together and I would be able to touch him, feel the muscle that shaped his body. I wanted to touch his throbbing cock, wrap my hand around it and stroke him past the point of control. Every time after we saw each other, I would hurry for the privacy of my flat, falling against the front doors with my fingers fumbling with my clothes before slicking back and forth in my wet snatch as I breathed out his name. Maybe I was obsessed but I hid it well. I didn’t dare try to talk to him on any other level than the platonic because ultimately, I feared rejection. I had never been a confident person. At school I was the girl people didn’t talk to much, only to gossip about. Most of what they said was true. I wasn’t a girl with a white past and even though I’d come a long way, my old mistakes had left me ashamed and insecure. And even if he did want me, he ...
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