I can’t get Craig out of my head all week.

Half of me keeps repeating and dissecting Monday and what we said to each other and what we texted to each other. I never get flirty like that, and my first instinct is to berate myself for putting it out there, but then his smile floats through my head. Throughout that horrible story on Monday, and even the nerdy comment in his text, I never felt judgement coming from him. Is that because he actually likes me, or is he still trying to atone for being an ass last weekend?

The other half tries desperately to put his pretty eyes and full bottom lip into a locked compartment in my brain so that he’ll stop popping into my evening wanks. I’m going to have a difficult enough time on Friday looking at Craig without bursting into flames, but I’ll never be able to face him if I insert him into one of my kinky fantasies.

I have no idea why I like the things I do, and believe me, I’ve tried to figure it out. When I was younger, and just starting to masturbate and figure out what things turned my crank, everything was equally taboo according to my church. You were labelled just as much of a sinner for being a serial killer as you were for being a middle schooler touching yourself for the first time. There were no degrees of sin, just the fact that if you hadn’t been “cleansed” of any of it, even that innocent wank, you were going to hell.

Maybe that threat works for others, but for me and my teenaged sense of rationality, it actually worked in the opposite direction. The way I saw it, if everything is taboo, then really, nothing is. So at a young(ish) age, late teens really, but still younger than what’s probably normal to be exploring kinks, I felt free to explore fantasies, from gang bangs to puppy play and everything in between, figuring out which of those things I liked and which did nothing for me. I knew these were things that kids my age would find gross and weird, but they were also very vocal about thinking gay sex was gross and weird, so again, I was damned either way. I may have felt shame over the things I enjoyed thinking about, but that didn’t seem to be much of a hindrance.

During college, I took too many psych classes to try to psychoanalyze my kinks, but eventually gave up and just accepted that there wasn’t anything I could do about it. I still can’t explain why I love the thought of being used like a blow-up doll in a gang bang, but cringe at the thought of calling someone master or licking a boot. But over time I learned I wasn’t alone in these fantasies, and got to the point where I no longer felt the need to constantly berate myself.

This is also why my fantasy life is great, but real-life sex not so much. After Eric, I swore that my fantasies would remain just that, and I’ve never attempted to mention them to another soul since. I guess if the worst thing I’m doomed to in life is mediocre sex, my life isn’t too bad.

During tonight’s jack-off session, my thoughts refuse to stray from Craig and his sexy piercings and intensely handsome face. He pushes my shoulders down until I drop to my knees. His hands bury in my hair. I don’t imagine what his cock looks like, just what it feels like, invading my mouth. He pushes me hard against him, grinding my nose into his pubic hair until I can’t breathe. Saliva pools in my mouth, but my lips are sealed so tight around him that it has nowhere to go but back. I’m seconds away from choking when he jerks my head back enough to allow a breath and for all the drool to stream from my gasping lips. It mixes with the tears and snot that his rough grip and deep throating have automatically triggered.

On my bed, cock in one hand, I pull my own hair, mixing real and imagined pain together, getting me closer to the end.

Craig shoves me back onto his cock. “Yeah, take that, you little slut. I could tell from the first time you blushed that you were just a little slut thinking about taking my cock.”

My mouth is so full, but I still groan around it, and the vibrations push Craig over the edge. He’s so far into me he shoots straight down my throat. I can’t even taste it on my tongue.

Ungh. I’m still not there and part of me feels cheated that I didn’t get to taste him. But this is my fantasy, so.

Craig stuffs my mouth again, but after I groan, he pulls out and pumps his length, painting strand after strand of milky white cum across my face. He’s not through. It’s rough enough to leave bruises as he grabs my arm and spins me around, pinning my chest to the floor. I can hear the slick sounds of him beating off as his other hand spreads my cheeks. This time he sprays my crack, and the hot liquid dribbles over my hole and down my sac. Fingers swipe at the mess, then push the cooling seed into my hole.

I find my release, gasping at the thought of being coated, inside and out, in Craig’s cum.