1. Hung Up


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

    had a whole other life into which I probably didn’t fit. Surely, if he really wanted to make something of us, he would have said. But he didn’t say. I would lie in bed in that dusky state between sleep and reality and my dreams would be borderline; still there but influenced by my waking mind. I would imagine him taking me, suddenly and unexpectedly, maybe right there in the corridor outside our flats. He would press my face against the faded paintwork on the wall and I would be powerless, unable to escape as his cock would slide into me, inch by aching inch. And his voice would be in my ear, taunting me, reassuring me, saying how long he’d waited for the moment. I imagined how he would feel, relentless and demanding, pushing me harder and further until we came and then sleep would fade and it was just me, my fingers small and inadequate beneath the sheets. I wondered how much more substantial his fingers would feel if they were inside me, stretching and filling me. There was something electrifying about looking at his hand when we met, only to remember the exact shape and size of his fingers. We actually shook hands the first time we met but his grip was too light, too gentle. I couldn’t remember it well enough. I thought about the way he would hold me if we were both naked, his hands grasping and urgent, fingers digging into me painfully. The thought was so precious it made me want to cry. Every night was filled with images of him. The way he smiled, the yellow-green of ...
    his irises, the clothes he wore. I pushed further through reality to escape into dreamland, imagining him in the shower, his hand a blur of motion; imagining his cock in my mouth; his body crushing mine. It was achingly wistful. My fingers would tease my wet snatch, bringing me closer to the edge before I’d pull back and relax, letting his image and voice fill my head again. I imagined him through the thin wall, lying on his bed, his hand fisted around his cock. It made me breathless. Sometimes I would hear him moving about and I would listen silently, praying that any second he’d knock on the door and profess his desire for me. It didn’t happen. Days and orgasms went by. I tried not to think of him but I couldn’t help myself. I would search for time to masturbate over the thought of him. The toilets at work, leaning against the cubicle door, my fingers urgent and searching, eyes half-closed as I imagined him there, watching me. I felt so lonely. I would see other couples, laughing and dancing together and I thought about them, wondered how it was that they were so carelessly happy. I didn’t tell anybody how I felt about him. I kept it inside like an exquisite secret, something that nobody should ever know. I felt like we had a connection even though we never acknowledged its existence. All it would have taken was one knock on his door, one hurried confession and maybe all my fantasies would have come to life. I came so close, time after time but my mouth would fail me at the ...
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