It Ends All Too Quickley

My finger knows it's way inside of me. It explores and rubs all the rights places. My toes curl. My lips pant like a dog. This isn't the first time I've masturbated thinking of being tied up and humiliated and used like meat. It isn't even the hundredth time. Every second the passion grows and grows. I actually have to stop on three separate occasions because the pleasure was coming so tantalizingly close to spilling over.

I don't let myself. I want to prolong the moment, the fantasy as long as possible. Let myself get caught up in the moment to moment intricacies of it. The sting of pain of a hand smacking my tits, the look in his eyes tat makes mine search for the floor, the taste of latex on my tongue. I want more, more more, more, more...

But, eventually I lose out. I always lose out. One touch too many, and I tip over the edge. My body squirms and spasms, and I bite down hard on my pillow to avoid being too loud. My hand keeps pumping and pumping searching for a second, and a third. But, within ten minutes of beginning this solo journey, I am alone and tired, laying in a pool of my own sweat and juices, reminded that there is no phantom dom here. I am alone. No one can see me.

Or at least that's what I think...