What I Think About When I Think About Cumming (NSFW)

This is good. Really good. Like, I can’t believe it. This is intense. I think she’s cum already. I’m sure she has. She told me so. Unless she lied. Maybe she’s tired. She wants me to finish so she can sleep. Now that I think about it, I’m tired, too.

We’ve been at it for a while. OK, just stop thinking and cum. Boobs. Butts. Big bouncy boobs and big jiggly butts. Oh. Oh fuck. I’m close. Real close. Wieners. Big fat wieners slapping big fat butts. Fuck. Boobs touching my nipples. Shit. Hot breaths. Oh. Suck on my neck. Fuck. I love you? Ahhhhh.

I’m out of my head. I’m saying and doing things that aren’t me. I am in the moment. I pull her hair. I bite her lower lip. I tell her, “Fucking take it.” She looks at me. Her eyes are huge black pools. I can see myself in their reflection, and I look like an animal. I turn her around and bend her over. I spank her again and again. Her flesh pinkens. Her thighs shake. I lick her all over. I taste her fully. I touch myself, still tasting. She, her, everything, glistens. I’m inside her. She moans. I moan.

I look up at her, eager. She is wearing tight black leather that looks hard to breathe in. She looks down at me and shakes her head. You don’t deserve it, she says. You’re worthless. I pout. You don’t like that, do you? I shake my head. Too bad. My body tenses. My back is stiff. Get up, she says, putting a ball gag in my mouth and blindfolding me. She binds my hands and feet and secures them to locks on the wall. I don’t know what’s coming; I never know. That’s why I’m here. I’m both scared and aroused, and the mixture is hypnotic. My mind clears. Now you’re mine, she whispers in my ear. My little slave. She pinches my nipples hard and spits in my face. I’m in heaven. I can die.

Our bodies are hot and sweaty and constantly moving. We are running on passion, and it is endless. Every touch, every stroke, every breath is on fire. Our bodies are in sync, communicating beyond flesh, beyond words. We are creating a new language in an old world, and we are the only ones that can speak it. Our tongues dance around each other while our nails dig into skin. We bite each other’s necks and moan so loud it hurts. This is how we speak. This language is ours and ours alone. We both look at each other and everything stops. The silence says it all.

I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t even like her; in fact, I hate her. She is annoying, she is shallow, and she is smug. When I’m finished I can tell her what I really think: That was the best sex I’ve ever had, but you’re terrible.

I’m in my head and can’t focus. Thoughts, sounds, everything is distracting. My parents are sleeping next door, and their motorcycle snoring crashes through the walls. The TV is on, playing Boogie Nights in the background, and based on the sounds I know William H. Macy is about to shoot himself in the face. I keep thinking that I should cum—she told me to, she’s good—but I’m stuck, and the more I think about letting go, the more entangled I become. Focus, I tell myself, focus on how good this feels, on how pleased and contented she looks, on how I did that, on why she’s with you. This starts working, I can feel it coming, a tingly heat starts rising from within, this is it, come on, cum, let go, and as the white heat reaches the tipping point I hear three gunshots and know William H. Macy has shot his wife, her lover, and himself, and the heat fades away.

I’m near exhaustion and don’t know how I’m still going. My legs are numb, my arms are sore, and my dick is red raw. She looks out of it, too, her hair wet and splayed like a mop’s head, but she wants me to finish. I want to finish. I need to. It’s been too long; hands can only do so much. Maybe that’s why I’m still going, not knowing when this will happen again, and so I’m savoring every second, every individual thrust and stroke. I’m giving myself something to look back on and think about and long for. Future me thanks me. Future me is happy. Future me will cum.