It’s Just a Story

“It’s just a story,” I told myself.

My cock didn’t care. It was just a story, but it was so well written that I was now a voyeur, transported from my world to theirs and witnessing their carnal embrace. My fingers teased the wet underside of my cock’s purple head, then squeezed.

“Let’s draw this out,” I thought. I needed this.

No stranger to stories meant to titillate the erotic senses, I’d spent some time this morning scouring my trusted source. This one was particularly good. Being preoccupied, she’d been initially reluctant to accept her husband’s advances. But his hot breath on her neck, his fingers teasing her skin, and his heated description of the naughty things he wanted to do to her body made her succumb. She was his, after all.

Surrendering to his will, she let her sundress pool at her feet, then she dropped to her knees. God, I love erotica. His desire for her, I could understand, but her desire for him is what drew me in. Her want of him, her need for him were evident. She submitted not only to his desires but to hers. Embracing her sexual femininity, she was a woman; she was a wife; she was his wife. She had needs, too.

My hand was stroking now as I “watched.” Her mouth was his, and his cock was hers. Soon overwhelmed with the need for more, they moved from the kitchen to the bedroom, and I followed. Soaking in every word, I barely controlled my hand as they devoured each other’s bodies in a fervor fueled by their love, their need, and their trust.

My crescendo built with theirs as they rose to the peak, and my hand filled with a creamy flood as I heard her unbridled screams of release. My breathing came down with theirs, and we all basked in a warm afterglow.

I opened my eyes and looked at myself in the mirror. It was just a story.

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