I love fiction that focuses on fantasy-fulfilment: there’s a beauty in knowing that even fantasies we wouldn’t be able to live out in real life (or wouldn’t want to live out, in some cases) can still be enjoyed and revelled in as stories. Stories we tell ourselves to get hard or wet, and stories we share with others to give them that kick of lust too. This week’s guest blog is a fabulous piece of fiction by Gemini (whose work you can also find here on Literotica!), in which he indulges a long-standing curiosity. To put on a skirt, get playful, and seduce his best friend…

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I’ve written so much on this blog over the years about watching people wank, you’d think I’d have run out of things to say about it by now. You’d be wrong, though, because just as no two snowflakes – or two fucks – are ever exactly the same, so two precious opportunities to watch somebody beat one out will always be different in ways that I believe deserve fawning appreciation. Thanks to the uniqueness of every person I fuck, and the infinite ways in which I lust after their quirks and kinks, I can always find something in any given wank to get drooly and cross-eyed over. Today I want to talk about intentionality – how part of the joy of watching someone wank to porn is in understanding their specific choices about who and what will turn them on in this moment. Seeing them select a scene; skip through the parts they’re not interested in; maybe rewind the sections they want to to enjoy more than once… all this gives me horny little clues about their specific lusts in that moment.

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This stunning piece is part 7 in a series written and read by Sundial. You can catch up on the rest of the Sunday series here, and you absolutely should because every single episode is fire. 

You’re thrusting your hips, my head clamped between your hands and you fuck me hard. Your dick stretching my mouth wide, saliva pooling on my chin, and I’m hyper aware of my discomfort. Knees pressed as they are against the cool, bare hardness of the floor and the angle you’re keeping me at. I’m neither able to sit back to my heels, nor properly rise. My balance is a mess and my thighs are straining.

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It’s late, and I’m tired. So tired, in fact, that I’ve just slept through the last twenty minutes of the film we were meant to be watching. You can’t blame me: it’s not often I get to snuggle up on a sofabed with my head in somebody’s lap, sinking into the duvet and enjoying the gentle, rhythmic stroke of their hand on my bottom and thighs. It is blissful. Beautiful. Like stepping into a shower that’s set to the perfect temperature, or hugging a loved one when you meet them off the train. I am safe, cosy, happy. This scene is tranquil as fuck, so you can’t blame me for falling asleep. I am also a horny bitch, though, so I hope you can also understand what happens next.

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I woke up last Thursday with the loveliest, softest feeling: like I’d just had a truly sexy dream. It was hyper-realistic, and that realism lingered in my mind as I opened my eyes. Snuggling down beneath the duvet in a winter-warm bed, I ran hands over my body and allowed the details to return to me piece by piece.

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