The devil is in the detail…
Life is not a plot; it’s in the details.
– Jodi Picoult, Vanishing Acts
When I’m wanking, my fantasies are usually about the broad strokes, if you’ll excuse the pun – falling through a doorway and fucking in the hall, being fingered in a bar, or sucking a cock in an alley. It’s the actions, not the details, that fuel my desire. It’s like I’m watching myself from a distance, like I’m watching my own porn but without close ups. No fine detail or focus.
Except that there’s a scene that I can’t stop thinking about. It’s pretty generous to even call it a scene. It’s an image or maybe a gif of this one small repetitive motion. I can see it in HD, blinding me with its searing heat.
I can’t stop thinking about my husband sucking someone’s cock.
Specifically, because this is all about the details, I can’t stop thinking about the moment from when he parts his lips around the head to when he pushes all the way forward, sliding the cock deeper into his mouth until the tip must be pressing against the back of this throat and his nose is buried in the other man’s stomach. Slow, steady forward progress; a smooth movement. Sliding, swallowing; ungghh….
And even though it’s just the one movement, it gets hotter every time I imagine it. I keep embellishing my fantasy, focussing on another small detail and gaining new pleasure from each imagining.
Such as the hair. Fuck, the hair. I imagine the fiery red of his beard mingling with darker curls of the other man’s body hair. And when his face is pressed right up against him, throat full, beard against pubic hair, I imagine him taking a deep breath. Inhaling through his nose and drawing in the scent of the man who is fucking his face. That breath sound makes my cunt ache.
And then he swallows. I can hear the catch in his throat, watch his Adam’s apple rise and fall, and imagine how full his mouth must be. His lips become coated in saliva and it starts to overflow so he swallows again. A gasp of breath through his nose, his Adam’s apple rising and falling, and maybe a sound from the man behind the cock. Maybe a gasp of his own or a deeper more guttural grunt. Maybe he’ll reach down to grab a handful of his hair, pushing him closer, forcing his cock deeper. Then maybe he’ll gag, tears running down his face, or maybe he’ll just take it, swallowing again as his mouth and throat open up be filled with cock.
This fantasy is just that one scene. I don’t even imagine the withdrawal, although I am now and it’s fucking hot too – trails of saliva connecting cock and lips; that same intense, slow slide of lips against cock. Lips and cock, and cock and lips and I’m watching it all.
Sometimes I’m really there – an active presence in the room, watching them while they know they’re being watched. Performing.
Sometimes I’m not there. I don’t know how I’m seeing them because this is a secret moment that I’ve discovered. Not much changes; nothing physical that I could describe, but it feels different. The fine details feel different. Not performing, really truly enjoying.
Oh, I could think about this all day…