24 hours (reprise)

One afternoon last August, mired in a bit of a writing slump, I sat down and rattled off this post, on all the memories and fantasies that had been turning me on over the previous 24 hours. Like most people’s, my sexual imagination is a bit of a kaleidoscope; over and over it turns, new images flashing up as the old ones disappear – however temporarily.

As I sat on the sofa this morning, my leg jiggling uncontrollably and my fingers drifting down to brush over my cock every few seconds, I thought about that list, and decided that the best way to break my current writing slump was to write a September 2015 edition. I grabbed a piece of paper and started to scribble down all the thoughts that have been getting me horny since I woke up yesterday morning…

• Waking up at 6am, just as the first watery light starts to push its way through my curtains. Feeling her soft, warm arse press back against my hard cock; the sleepy sigh as she moves her legs just far enough apart for me to guide it between them, into her cunt. Falling asleep again afterwards, sticky and satisfied, my face buried in the damp hair that falls down around her shoulders.
• This story. Always this story. What it would be like. How I’d feel. The variations on it… A more traditional hen party in a weekend cottage somewhere. I know one of the bridesmaids, and it’s a game we’re playing together. I’m the ‘stripper’, or the ‘life model’, and she sits watching her friends watch me. They’re loud…excitable…oblivious. Later she’ll walk me back to my car and I’ll fuck her on the lush grass, under the stars, both of us too worked up to last more than a minute or two. Or she’ll sneak me up to her room and I’ll wait there for her. In the morning, she’ll make sure someone spots me as I leave, and after that she’ll always be ‘the one who fucked the stripper’ – it’ll turn her on every time someone reminds her.
• Corridors and stairwells. Pushing her back against the wall before the door’s even slammed shut behind us, my hands already under her skirt, or squeezing her tits. The pause before she scrambles down onto her knees and tugs at my belt. Rips at the buttons on my jeans. Eating her out on the stairs, her legs spread wide, boot heels digging into the carpet to keep her from falling. Lifting myself up above her, and the look of expectation on her face as I thrust inside.
• My new fucking machine! The endless possibilities. On her knees, perhaps, the dildo filling her from behind. Slowly at first, then faster, faster. “Don’t make a sound,” I say. “One word out of you – a noise of any kind – and I’ll fuck that disobedient mouth of yours till you swallow my cum.” She looks me in the eye, smiles, and moans theatrically.
• Things that I didn’t know were hot till I tried them. Years ago now: “I want you to jizz on my cunt.” I frowned at her, unconvinced, but after she came all over my cock I knelt between her legs and pressed the tip between her labia, stroking furiously before relaxing my grip and letting the cum just spill out onto her skin. We watched it trickle down together, her Cheshire Cat grin one of the sexiest things I’d ever seen. After that, I didn’t need to be asked twice.
• My friend’s sister. My former colleague. Two others who might be reading this. All the women I’ll never fuck, but who make my stomach clench with arousal whenever I think about having them in my bed – which means, of course, that I think about it all the time.
• Blow jobs in public places. They appear more often in my fantasies these days, especially in summer. Meeting for a drink after I’ve been running. You’re waiting at the bottom of the beer garden when I arrive, idly stirring your drink at a wooden picnic table. I’m in shorts and a vest top; a sheen of sweat covers my shoulders and makes the tufts of hair at the top of my chest glisten in the sunlight. You pull me towards you and reach inside my shorts – I’m semi-hard before your fingers even make contact with my skin. It’s a quiet, weekday afternoon, and I can feel the sun on my skin as you take my cock in your mouth. I come in your cleavage and you rub some of it into your skin. When we leave, you hold open the swing gate at the side of the pub and kiss me as I walk past. “Now we’re both salty,” you say, and neither of us can hold it together for more than a couple of seconds.
• This story too. Fucking her after she’s fucked someone else. Maybe we’re not a couple at all, and it’s just a casual thing. A different dynamic. No jealousy or humiliation – instead just the giddy, gleeful note to her voice as she sits on my cock and tells me how much she already aches from having his inside her all night long. The way she staggers to the bathroom afterwards on shaky legs. I watch her cross the room, and pick out the bright red marks my fingers left as they dug into her arse – scattered among the darker bruises he gave her hours earlier.
• Voice control. All the ways to speak softly…and carry a big stick. Making her wait just that little bit longer, till she’s right on the edge of her comfort zone, and nervous about how much further I’m going to push. The relief on her face when I finally relent and give her what she wants.
• Hotel sex. So many private, secret moments in a building full of hundreds of people*. I love having a big hotel bed all to myself, but at the same time it always, always feels like a waste.
• Stolen kisses. Full-on teenage snogs – the kind I never had as an actual teenager. Sometimes just to find out what it’s like to do that particular thing with that particular person. Hurriedly straightening our clothes again after we disengage; trying not to laugh when we get caught.

Some things don’t change – I still think about kissing a lot…

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*Full disclosure – I stole this line!