There must be something in the air. Library Vixen's post from yesterday asked the question: "ever had one of those days where you can't come enough?"
Yes. Oh, yes. In fact, I'm having one of them today.
I wonder, is it different for women? Are you better able to hide your desire, that flush of heat, the hardening nipples and trickling wetness that heralds your arousal? Can you keep your quickening breathing, your pulse throbbing at your temples, your heart thumping against your ribcage, quiet? Are the people around you clueless about your raging desire, that want, the desperate need to get off, now, please, do me hard and fast and any way you like?
Guys, I think, have a bit more difficulty, especially if we work with lots of other people. A woman I knew (a pervert just like me) told me that the first thing she did with just about any guy was check out his crotch to see if he was packing. Twenty, thirty, a hundred times a day she'd be scanning the bulge at the latest guy's groin, assessing, wondering if he was nice and hard, if he was shifting uncomfortably, if he was trying to adjust to make his excitement less noticeable, if he was tormented by desire and frustration as well. Her relentless scrutiny used to get her some embarrassed looks, but sometimes it got her a good hard fucking too when she ran into a guy who was just as bold and overt as she was. (She checked one guy out who was very obviously hard as a rock and he caught her....but grinned and said "Do you like what you see?" That led to him fucking her in the bathroom of the bar and grill, a tale she recounted with relish).
And for someone like me who's almost always thinking about sex, trying to keep that hidden from the world at large becomes second nature. I like to think that I've gotten fairly good at it over the years, but I have to wonder whether any of the women I see daily are checking me out and grinning to themselves as they see that I'm sporting a railspike under my jeans.
So days like today, when no distractions are worth anything at all, when fantasies flare through my head at lightspeed, when even the slightest touch, every slight movement makes me throb and pulse and leak precum into my boxer briefs, when I dream of fucking and fucking and fucking until I'm sore and exhausted....those days can be pure hell. I can excuse myself and sneak off to the bathroom, where I whip my pants down, grab my cock and flog it relentlessly until my frustration erupts, spraying into the toilet almost angrily. I clean up, tuck myself away, and get back to work....and ten or fifteen minutes later, I'm swelling and pulsing and throbbing again, my crotch bulging, a ridge in my jeans delineating my desire. And I sigh softly, and grit my teeth, and try to concentrate on anything else, and fail miserably.
And the images whirl through my brain. You're bent over the couch, waggling your ass at me, purring "Come and get me, babe." Your hair is sweeping over my body as you slide against me, crawling up and over and around me, your tongue trailing small swirls over my skin, making me shiver and moan. You're riding me standing, your legs wrapped around me, biting my shoulder to stifle screams. You're openly rubbing my crotch as we sit at the bar, your eyes capturing mine, promising naughtiness beyond belief later on. Your head is bobbing on my cock as I push us past a hundred miles per hour on a straight open road, the windblast ripping my shrieks of ecstasy away and flinging them into the desolate wilderness where only scorpions and vultures are there to hear. I'm balls deep in you with your legs up over my shoulders, pumping you long and slow and deep, your wetness splashing out with every stroke. I'm stroking my cock with a lewd grin as you watch, your hand moving between your legs, our locked gazes smoking and searing. I'm tasting you, my tongue dipping into your honey, my face coated with it, nose rubbing your clit, lips wrapping around it to drive you over the edge for your fifth orgasm in twenty minutes.
Faster and faster they come, the fantasies, the scenarios. My cock throbs. My breath is coming faster. I can't concentrate on a damn thing. I can't form sentences properly, can't work, can't get anything done. My imagination is running wild again and I can't rein it in. Faster and faster, a thundering stallion beyond all control. And I feel like a stallion too, a stallion or a bull, pawing the ground, snorting, my cock getting harder and harder as these images assault me relentlessly.
Faster and faster, more and more details. We're making love in a cool blue room full of silk and soft pillows and velvet. I'm grinding against you in the midst of a crowd at a concert, trying to find some way to get free of my pants and under your miniskirt to slip up and into you. I'm watching you pump me slowly, your fingers slipping excruciatingly up and down my shaft, your face self-satisfied as I pulse and drool cum all over your hands. I'm taking you from behind, ruthlessly, roughly, spanking you till you shriek, yanking on your hair, filthy words falling in a rain from your lips. You're poised atop my cock, riding me slowly, hair hiding your face, soft sighs and murmurs and endearments in a steady stream. You're on the other end of the phone, telling me in detail what you're doing to yourself, telling me you're my little plaything, dirty glee in your voice as you shake and cum hard. You're lying on the table, breasts bobbling as I slide in and out of you, eyes rolling back in your head as I bottom out deep in your cunt.
God, it's hard to get through days like this. No sooner do I explode (into the toilet, into my hand, into the sink, into a tissue, into a wastebasket) than the beast rears its head again. And the stain on the inside of my briefs gets larger, and my head fills with images again, and I slide back into the abyssal whirl of fantasy, fucking and coming and fucking and coming and slipping and sliding, sighs and gasps and screams and murmurs, taking you relentlessly, over and over, over and over and over....and there's no rest. No rest for the wicked. No rest for the devious, the imaginative, the dreamer.
Having a vivid imagination is sometimes more curse than blessing.