It is for me, at least. Which, in my warped little writerly brain, is all the more reason for me to do more of it. It's a win-win. I get to practice my smuttery; you get to read smutty things (that, hopefully, don't suck). And because I like themes, I thought I would weave this in with the theme I had already decided upon for Mondays--masturbation.
Yep. I'm going to write a whole series of short stories about people getting themselves off in the most creative ways and places I can come up with. I have no idea how many of these there will be, and I can't promise I'll manage one every Monday, but I think it should be fun, and I hope you enjoy.
Here's our first installment:
All it takes is a brief glimpse of the red skirt swirling about the ankles of the woman boarding the train ahead of him. That simple sight sets off a chain reaction of thoughts that trickle along his spine and pool around his cock, warm and enticing. He tugs at his long jacket, doing his best to conceal his sudden, inconvenient arousal.
Once on the train, he hurries to find an unoccupied compartment and locks the door, desperately hoping that he won't be required to admit another passenger. The minutes tick by as he sits, fidgeting, thinking only in images - red silk, smooth flesh, round breasts, thrusting hips...
He gasps, startled by the sudden lurch as the train begins to move.
He’s so hard it hurts by that point, and though he knows the porter will be coming for his ticket, he can’t bring himself to wait another moment. He unfastens his trousers and frees himself, leaning back against the seat with a sound that is half relieved sigh, half lusting moan.
He closes his eyes and conjured and image of her, focusing on her dainty hands, trying to imagine what those long, delicate fingers would feel like around his cock. His own are not half as soft as hers must be, but he doesn’t let that distract him.
He focuses every ounce of his attention on the task of stroking himself, slowly at first – as slowly as he can stand. There’s an edge of agony to the ecstasy, and it only heightens his desire. It isn’t long before any thought of self-control has fallen to the wayside, and he is pumping almost frantically, lifting his hips, biting his lip in an effort to keep mostly quiet.
Through the glorious fog of lust, he hears a sound that might be footsteps, and the thought of being caught is enough to send him over the edge, gasping and shuddering as his seed spills, warm and thick, onto his hand.
For a moment, he sits there, simultaneously enveloped in the warm pleasure and shadowed by the shame of what he’s done. It isn’t proper by any stretch of the imagine, but oh, it was glorious. His only real regret is that the object of his desires was not there to witness it.
Once on the train, he hurries to find an unoccupied compartment and locks the door, desperately hoping that he won't be required to admit another passenger. The minutes tick by as he sits, fidgeting, thinking only in images - red silk, smooth flesh, round breasts, thrusting hips...
He gasps, startled by the sudden lurch as the train begins to move.
He’s so hard it hurts by that point, and though he knows the porter will be coming for his ticket, he can’t bring himself to wait another moment. He unfastens his trousers and frees himself, leaning back against the seat with a sound that is half relieved sigh, half lusting moan.
He closes his eyes and conjured and image of her, focusing on her dainty hands, trying to imagine what those long, delicate fingers would feel like around his cock. His own are not half as soft as hers must be, but he doesn’t let that distract him.
He focuses every ounce of his attention on the task of stroking himself, slowly at first – as slowly as he can stand. There’s an edge of agony to the ecstasy, and it only heightens his desire. It isn’t long before any thought of self-control has fallen to the wayside, and he is pumping almost frantically, lifting his hips, biting his lip in an effort to keep mostly quiet.
Through the glorious fog of lust, he hears a sound that might be footsteps, and the thought of being caught is enough to send him over the edge, gasping and shuddering as his seed spills, warm and thick, onto his hand.
For a moment, he sits there, simultaneously enveloped in the warm pleasure and shadowed by the shame of what he’s done. It isn’t proper by any stretch of the imagine, but oh, it was glorious. His only real regret is that the object of his desires was not there to witness it.
