There’s an explanation about this at the bottom, if this sounds a little far-fetched.
I closed my eyes, lying still in the cool darkness of my bedroom.
She’s there, watching me as I remain motionless against the soft luxury of the mattress, soothing my tired muscles. I feel relaxed, yet expectant; calm, but excited. Waiting for her.
Waiting for her to make a move, to glide from the shadows and approach me on the bed. To slide her soft, latex-encased gloves to the top of my hairy thigh. To squeeze my flesh until I whimper and my cock rises to an erection. I’m waiting for my fantasy woman.
The latex leotard moulds to her elegant body with a sensual sheen, the fishnets add sexual textures to her long legs, accentuated by her glossy high heels. But it’s her expression, the controlling eyes, the dismissive sneer and the provocative pout; she is my secretary at work, my wife at home, my first love at primary school and my one-night stand at University.
She is my dream; my cock surging as I feel fingers tapping lightly on my genitals, gripping my shaft and running her touch delicately over my head. She smiles at me, enjoying the sweet bliss warming my loins, and then she laughs. Taunting me. Humiliating me as my loins fizz with arousal.
I can’t help it: her sneering laughs sends shockwaves through my stimulation. So does the teasing of my size and my sexual prowess. So does the reminding me of my secret sexual desires: the need have bisexual experiences, the repeated dreams of piss-play and the hidden love of sploshing stories. She reminds me of my closeted skeletons and I’m pathetic, she admonishes. Totally pathetic.
But I know this, and the slide of her hand over my cock as her fingers close around my nipple and her words batter my dignity, causes my arousal to surge. I’m horny, desperately so, and grunting with every swish of her wrist over my cock.
I squeal as her fingers bite into my nipple, begging for mercy as she twists her grip. It’s pain; coursing through my body as she cackles sadistically.
Sweet music to my ears: the evil cry of my mistress, laughing as my body thrashes to her tune: the angry pain engulfing me, the gentle jerking of my cock and the evil look in her eyes.
But it’s the feeling, the smooth gliding of my manhood through her grip that has me wriggling, and crying, bucking my hips to the rhythm of her hand. She licks her lips: “I have a present for you,” she says, and reaches underneath her catsuit, pulling a zip that slides from her bum to her bully button. “You want it?”
Of course I wanted it. I wanted everything my woman would do to me, panting as her cunt was pressed against my mouth.
And lots of it. Dripping from her sodden crotch and into my mouth.
“I’ve been with lots of guys,” she warned. “But I know you’ll like it.” I didn’t like it; I loved it. The gloopy feel of her lovers’ deposits sliding from her well-fucked cunt and into my mouth. The musky smell, the warm texture, the humiliation.
Oh, the humiliation. It had my cock harder than it had ever been before as her weight was rested on my face and her thighs gripped my ears. I could feel every part of her lusciousness, smiling as her hands smacked my legs and her fingers patted gently on my cock.
It was bliss; she said she had fucked two hundred men and I jerked my cock into her hand. The thought of two hundred men spilling their load into my woman had me concupiscent with passion; the thrill of drinking their products was sending me towards orgasm.
But it was her friend, pulling my legs into the air and parting my ankles with one move. She kissed him as I cleaned her cunt, sucking mouthfuls of sticky cum into my mouth. It was gushing, flowing ever quicker as the lubricated head of a blunt cock rubbed against my resistance and my anus.
“Be fucked by Bobby,” she cried, her fingers dancing over my glans. “He’ll be gentle, baby!”
I was panting, gulping down the influx of semen into my mouth. I was groaning and crying, squirming and bucking as her friend filled my rectum with his meaty cock.
It was too much.
I couldn’t stop as the flood of orgasm filled me. My prostate pulsed and glowed as my loins quivered and the first rope of cum seeped from my manhood.
Wave after wave of orgasm coursed through me: my body alive with the intense orgasm. My nipples burnt in pain, my testicles sizzled with pleasure and my partner sneering at my pool of cum, gathering in my belly button.
We’d been here before.
Only when I opened my eyes, I heard the feint call of my wife: “Dinner!”
“Be down in a minute,” I shouted down the stairs, looking at the cum littering my chest and my abandoned work uniform on the floor.
There was no dominatrix, and certainly not an amalgamation of all my fantasies. There was no “Bobby” poking my arse with his thick cock. There was no squeezing of my nipples or slap of my skin.
Just my mind, taking me places I could not ever hope to visit.
There are many things I am a little fascinated by, but one is the aspect of my sexuality where I can come to orgasm without touching myself: they are incredibly strong, deep, slow orgasms where the climax lasts for ages with an extraordinary amount of semen. They are epic, and for someone who takes quite a lot of physical stimulation to come, orgasming with no physical stimulus is pretty nice.
I had experienced this with Wet Dreams and Erotic Hypnosis, but there is a third way of orgasming in this way, and that is a mental handsfree orgasm. I hadn’t managed it deliberately until quite recently, but I give you a link to a video that’s well worth a watch if you want to try this.
And no, this story isn’t (all) my fantasies; they aren’t the touches and experiences I use to bring myself to climax. What works for me is incredibly personal.
The featured image comes from here.