The only reason I finally get up is because the cat has taken to chewing my hair when I don’t feed him promptly enough. When I eventually see my hairdresser, no doubt she’ll remark on my split ends and I’ll know exactly who to blame. The cat and my refusal to brush my hair. What’s the point.
It’s another day, I’m not sure which one because it doesn’t really matter does it. It’s Covid-19 haze - a blur of days and weeks of quiet abnormality. I’m in full ISO because I’m ‘saving myself’ to see my lover who has a chronic illness. I’m self conscious at the pure thirstiness of stopping life to see a lover, but we all need a little something to look forward to, don’t we. It tickles my inner submissive to be so restrained for them, but I haven’t told them that yet.
I’m masturbating incessantly, out of boredom, and procrastination. There are things I could do. There are things I could write and there’s a shit-tonne of study that I need to do, and yet my mind wanders to my lovers, who, through their memories I am lost in a fog of depression-fuelled frantic self-fucking. I’ve shut off the work room and the toys now live permanently next to my own bed.
After my religious routine of coffee and eggs, that even Covid can’t break, I fall back to bed to continue the book I’m reading. I’m appreciating the artful tome - it’s fat and deliciously more-ish. I can’t concentrate on anything productive right now, but the book is holding my attention longer than Netflix can with my covid-affected internet connection. I can get lost in the sordid world of it, somehow bettering my own. Maybe I’ll walk today, do a little home exercise, or maybe I’ll stay here all day, trapped in a book, taking breaks only for sencha tea, to refresh twitter and to cum.
Now that my work is restricted to online, each cum is stolen from the camera. If I have a sneaky one now, will it ruin it for later? Is my appearance too washed-up to film this time? I find it so hard to cum on camera, my mind doesn’t wander the same and simultaneously I’m not quite present enough. I worry about how I contort, how I sound, how much of a double chin I have at a particular angle and whether my orgasm looks convincing enough, as a non-squirter. People expect a lot from a pleasure that is supposedly ours.
This time, I can’t be bothered. Most times, to be honest. This is for me. I Skyped with my lover last night. We don’t fuck virtually, it doesn’t feel secure enough and honestly the thought of it feels awkward to me. So I hang onto little things that are said, which stir something in me. Simple things, like how they mentioned their hands on my hips, remind me of the last time we fucked. Nothing unusual, but equally very beautiful, sitting atop of them, their hands firmly on my hips, grinding into me so urgently and hungrily that I wish I could pause that moment and bottle it. It’s so primal and pure. The thought of them cumming makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Sometimes when they laugh, their pitch sounds so similar to the exasperated, tumbling sound they make when they cum. Isolation is making me very sentimental, you see.
As my wand loudly humms, numbing my outer labia, all the while still slowly getting me off, I pull out my favourite, comfortable dong and fill my self with it, remembering the last time my lover filled me that way. Last night they talked about how they’d love to kiss me, and as I fuck myself I recall how they kissed me so deeply the last time we played together. They kept kissing me, even when they felt me fall over the edge, again and again at the mercy of their hand - for which they are truly the most capable I’ve met. Just talking to them floated to the surface memories of so many moments, that I clutch to now, using both hands and specific equipment to (somewhat violently) bring myself to a sticky, strong orgasm.
I throw them aside, now satisfied and sad. It’s been so long since I basked in the afterglow of feelings and lust and multiple orgasms that don’t leave me sore. Doing it solo doesn’t fill the void of a person. I roll over, touching the spare side of the bed and imagine for a moment that I’m not alone in this. The cat jumps up and bats my hair, bringing me back to reality. I grab him for a cuddle and he swipes me, and I laugh, because my cat is the most consistent and normal part of this time and I’m grateful for his company, bratty as he may be.
I shower, imagining their arms around me, helping me scrub, and it brings a smile to my face that lasts from the walk from the shower, back to bed, where I stay today. I cum many, many more times, between chapters, so much that I can’t even feel myself pee due to the self abuse, and I long for the numbness to spread. There’s a light at the end of my tunnel - people looking forward to seeing me, and I count my blessings - competing closely with orgasms. The sun goes down and comes up and goes down again, each meaning one less day until I see my love, one less day of empty.
PETRA FOX
Twitter: @foxandthefeline
Instagram: @foxandthefeline
Web: petrafox.com.au
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