Masturbation on a Memory
Monday, November 19th, 2007Wet.
Squirming, with my toes curled under.
I bit my lip, not too hard, but just enough to make it hurt a little.
I let the last time I had sex with you flash back though my mind. It’s like a scene from a movie, with you and I in sepia tone with no sound. Just our clenched fists and mouthes-opened faces, like fish suckling for water. Behind me, pounding slowly and deliberately, your face toward the ceiling, worshiping my ass. All in tones of brown.
I squirm some more.
Eyes closed.
Door locked.
Just in case.
I let the first time I had sex with your flash back though my mind. This time, it’s Technicolor, surreal, fast, with a strobe light distorting our bodies. We dance on the floor with everyone else, but the cocoon or your arms, I feel a finger slide up my skirt and push aside my thong in a frenzy. College students back then, we didn’t care who noticed. Not that anyone did. They were too involved with their own butterflies. Dancing, sweating, humping together on to the bumping of an obnoxious base.
That’s it.
That’s the spot.
Should I indulge or should I hold out even longer? Can I hold out? Can I resist touching that spot in my mind of you and I fucking?
And like a trigger, I give in, imagining that it is you.
I’m moaning softly like the night we drank too much of your parent’s sweet red wine and fucked in the refinished basement while they slept upstairs, proud that they could trust us and unaware of the condom you kept in your wallet.
Then I’m screaming like the morning you woke me up with your tongue between my legs, relentless, slurping, licking every drop until my body, still exhausted from dreaming, just quivered all over.
And I’m gushing.
Flowing.
Cumming…cumming all over your memory.
Edit from Aurora: I’ve moved! Cum visit me at Between My Sheets!
This week’s challenge? Let’s see how many difference ways we can say “masterbation.” This one might be a bit more challenging than last week’s 
