Absurdly Slutty Hand Job

I am not a particularly nihilistic slut. By this I mean the stupid whorish things I do tend to be meaningful to the dumb hot people I impose upon. Consider yesterday:

In the call it early afternoon, this cis gentleman who I coerced with pizza into bringing me home the evening prior woke up from a nap to hear his roommate and her mom arriving home. I had been awake. This was because of the horrible transparent curtain creating extreme light in the room and also because this cis gentleman of fortunately more diverse nude ethnicity happened to look quite idyllic in the blinding fields of sunlight that he somehow snoozed through.

Being alert, aroused, etcetera, I heard the women talking on the stairs, the deadbolt slotting, and the door creaking well before my stirring bedmate. He flexed somewhat like a fish or other muscular, subhuman flesh vessel. This did not stop me from putting my whole palm and fingers over his face during the quiet awakening, because it felt smutty to do so. I also enjoyed his panic. It was one of those drowning, glimpse of the apocalypse, large eyeball recognitions caused eternally by bitches in clogs.

They called his name and, when he did not reply, settled into conversation about the farmers market while lowering various loud objects onto presumably like a coffee table or the floor. Fuck man, I didn't memorize the place. Plus, I had engaged in grasping this man's extremely smooth and well hefted butt, which probably made him want to screw me. We did not have sex the night before. Nor were we going to with his vehemently religious roommate and parental unit outside, as I explained in whispers while grasping his ass, but I could see down through the very transparent sunny sheet, and—yes this was still me explaining—there was definitely a taught penis pinned against the cotton.

I lay my fingers onto flesh under fabric, which he apparently hated, given the soft groan and horrified looks between the bedroom wall and my face. Not my concern, fuckboy. Actually, he was a very nice boy. But I had his cock in hand, and his existential horror was making my chest tighten and warm down through my intellectual little twat, and every time the bed chirped, we essentially guaranteed a curious audience out in the living room. They rarely stopped talking. However, a certain feminine curiosity and power settled down through the wooden walls such that my thrusting man occasionally froze.

The transient fears of the sexually prolific, post-modern male—that shit could populate a family encyclopedia, and mid-rub I wondered which sis or moms or aunty repressed this poor gasping load of abdominal muscles. He was clearly quite disturbed. But every pause he might have asked me to stop, so during one stiffening, I reassembled my right leg in a ponderous arc over the man's globular eyes and smothered my asshole down onto his mouth. Well, 'onto' or 'into,' as his chubby lips & tongue struggled immensely with my cheeks & sphincter about who exactly was on the outside here. I provided the expected gyration of hips to lather his chin with whatever weird smelly vagina stuff worked up the evening prior, fixed pleasantly in the idea of a big man forced to breath pussy air or nothing.

There exists a particular, Sisyphean joy in the degrading, which condones face fucking or roughly jerking a dick through the sheets, in spite of the stationary twaddle of human relations and emotions out there in the urban political climate or nearest living room, whatever. Fortunately, this sometimes still, sometimes convulsing boy twitched on through the increasing pace of my rough pulses, even when I occasionally moaned for the benefit of his feminine friends, until he gasped and came. There was much rising. Like I rose and ripped the sheet back as his anus lifted in the air and his back arced while a surprisingly large amount of semen squirted skyward through the dusty rays and then splattered down onto his chest and my hands with a certain frenzy of bed springs that did quiet the conversation briefly. I almost licked it off.

But that would be crass, and the boy was watching between my knees, so instead I gathered the most obvious bead of ejaculate on my index finger and deposited it on his delicious nose, extending the gesture down to his lips while thinking in my sluttiest drawl, 'well really dearest, anyways, who would you tell?'