Send Us Your Smut - The Porn Ain't Talkin' by Colin Mulholland
Here's another about entertaining yourself when you're not going out.
The Porn Ain't Talking - by Colin Mulholland
I'm on my bed, ruffled blankets tossed aside, though not so far. I like the comfort along my side. The porn is being lame again, nothing I quite like this quiet morning.
I harumph and toss the device to the side, then link my hands behind my head to stare at the ceiling. I hear a creak. The bedroom door, ajar, an eye, seeing all that the covers aren't covering.
"May I come in?" you whisper aloud.
I consent.
You're in your usual about the house rainbow tie-dye top and striped bottoms. I'm nude and exposed. You sit on the bed near my still blanketed calves and feet.
"Things not going well?"
"Nah, the porn ain't talking."
"That's not good. How come?"
"Dunno for sure. All the world of late?"
You touch my hand a moment while your eyes look this way and that as you consider things, then you rise and walk to stand against the wall near the foot of my bed. Once you're on the wall, our eyes lounge a long while, then you say
"Try again, with me here. Please."
Hands remaining linked behind my head I consider your kind offer. I have been honest of my attraction for you, and you for me once I shared, and we have both promised not to act on that while we're roommates in this seven human mini-commune.
Is this acting on that if I say yes?
"You'll stay there, no touch?"
"Yes, like we promised. But maybe cuddles,"
I squint a bit
"and only cuddles,"
and you finish, "after you're cleaned up."
On that lead, my right hand leaves the back of my head to play upon the soft rim of my head. Slow at first.
Our eye contact is immense and I lengthen inches, and harden full in a moment.
My surface is all cool, eyes locked with yours in the strangest erotic hands off friendship, while inside my porn conditioned mind flips through pages of pop up fuck tales.
I pause, and soften. Then after a not wholly uncomfortable half minute you JOI me, which is sweet, but I stop you, to put aside all that, fun as it is.
Then I think about walking with you in evening and dawn, on oh-so-cool house streets and treed pathways, in fall and spring and sun and snow, and that one time and that other time and all the richness of being friends with you.
And I cum, twisting my hips in too much release, spilling some on the blanket. My eyes rest.
I feel a tap on my shoulder, and open my eyes on you, holding a t-shirt you scooped off my floor.
"Wipe off," you say, holding the shirt out, one of my favourite purples; and when I take it, "then move over."
I wipe, and dab what I can off the fitted sheet.
"You might want to come in the other side," I say, noting the spot, "it is a bit wet there."
You do, and as you climb on, I turn, and your face is right there and our lips touch briefly, like close friends might hug, then you say
"Turn away. I'm the big spoon."