As soon as the stupidly raunchy idea pops into my head, I know I’m going to make it a reality. It’s not a matter of whether I think it to be a good idea or not - and, trust me, I know this is a bad idea. I mean, if the roles were reversed and it was a man about to do what I am about to do, people would agree: it’s disgusting - perverted, even! I mean, what kind of woman masturbates in someone else’s bed without that person knowing? It’s fucked up, is what it is.
And yet. The thought popped into my head while laying(?) in Ozzy’s bed, alone in his apartment, trying to take a nap. This is what we planned when he left not ten minutes ago to pick up laundry. He would only be gone for maybe half an hour, and I would use that time to rest. I needed to sleep; I was an overtired toddler who missed her nap and was now a crying, unhappy, useless mess because of it. Eventually I would have to leave the little bubble that is Ozzy’s gorgeous condo on the 33rd floor above The Palnera. But I had to drive about 20 minutes to get home, and I was in no state to get behind the wheel - at least, not without just the littlest bit of sleep(*).
I was able to listen to the rest of the song currently playing from my phone, which was on my (well, Ozzy’s) pillow. There I lay, in just my panties and tank top. In Ozzy’s bed, under his duvet. I promise that I tried, if only for half a moment, to put the thought out of my head and simply fall asleep - like I was supposed to be doing. However, I know myself fairly well by now. Having turned 30 a week ago, I feel more self assured than I have in ages. When I’m in my own home and trying to get to sleep, if a nuisance thought comes up, I have to acknowledge it and actually do something about it before I’m able to drift off. If I think I forgot to brush my teeth, I must get out of bed and brush them. Otherwise, I’ll never get to sleep.
In this situation, I should have been able to ignore the idea of getting myself off in Ozzy’s place - in his bed. I know it’s pervy! I don’t want to do this, or even have thoughts like this come up at all! I am a good person, dammit.
A good person whose hand is now moving to her panties, shoving them down around her ankles. It only takes a moment for my fingers to dip between my thighs and find myself beyond ready - I’m soaking wet, and Ozzy has yet to even kiss me, ever. All we’ve done is hang out, talking for hours, quite literally into the early morning. This time, I’ve been with him at his place since about 2am. It is now roughly 7pm. Wait - that just cannot be right. It’s been 17 hours?! There’s no way.
It doesn’t matter, anyway - not anymore. I move from laying on my back to resting on my knees, shoulders to the bed, my right cheek pressed into his pillow. My hand is moving faster, rubbing circles on my clit, dipping in and out of my pussy(*). I’m practically panting when, seemingly out of nowhere, I moan his name. Fuck. What is that all about? I mean, I know what it is: I’m really taken by this silly 27 (almost 28) year old man who is the most stereotypical bachelor I’ve ever met. I mean, when I walked into his apartment 17 hours ago, every single cabinet and drawer were open, and there was hardly a square foot of floor that wasn’t currently home to some sort of random junk that didn’t belong(-).
Finally, I completely give in to the simple fact that I’m alone, trying to get myself off in Ozzy’s bed without him ever finding out about it. I moan his name even louder, and I’m so fucking close to orgasming when, bzzzt! My phone rings - it’s Ozzy, and he’s calling me. It’s as if he heard me say his name - well, moan his name - and decided to reach out. My heart is beating out of my chest, so I force myself to take a breath before I answer the phone.
As nonchalantly as a woman caught in such an act can possibly be, I say, “Hey. Wh-what’s up?” I silently curse myself for stuttering, thinking I’ve completely given myself away.
“Hey. Do you want to get dinner when I get back home? There’s a barbecue place in the casino we can go to.”
“Um,” I reply, still breathing hard. “Sure, that sounds good.”
“All right, cool. I’ll see you soon. Bye.”
“Bye,” I say as I hang up the phone. I can finally take a deep breath when I hear the soft beep and know that Ozzy is no longer on the line. But I am still in his bed, with my panties around my ankles, essentially laying in the child’s pose - but instead of my arms above my head, my hand is between my legs and I’m touching myself, desperately trying to make myself cum. I let go of the shame bubbling up in my chest and give in to the rhythm of my fingers. I’m even louder when I finally finish; I must have said “Ozzy” a dozen times before I finally reached the tipping point and had an intense, but brief, orgasm. All of the tension left my body and I lay there for just a minute.
I then got up, gathered my clothes and his lotion, and headed to the bathroom to clean up after myself. Even after I peed and put my panties on (inside out now, just to feel the slightest bit fresher), I was convinced that he would be able to smell sex on me. I put lotion on my sunburn and relatively new tattoo, got completely dressed, and used his deodorant. It had been about 24 hours since I’d used my own last night, after all. I had a little body odor going on, and I didn’t think he’d mind. But honestly, what did that matter? I had just masturbated in the man’s bed, moaning his name the whole time - was I honestly thinking about if he’d care that I used some of his Old Spice?
I shook my head and laughed at myself in the mirror. This whole thing, this entire day and the last week that we’d been talking and spending time together, were just so far beyond ridiculous that it wasn’t even funny.
“Fuck me,” I mumbled. Then I cackled, because that was the issue, wasn’t it? I wanted him to fuck me and he simply wouldn’t do it. Fuck being respectful: I wanted him to grab me by the waist and shove his tongue down my throat. That’d be a good start to all the things I wanted him to do to me. Really, I just wanted him to touch me and kiss me and fuck me, deep and hard and fast and any which way he wanted it. I wanted to simply be along for the ride.
I’m about to reblog this post with a cover of a book. The book’s title is Who Can Replace A Man. I want you to imagine a cover for that title, perhaps even a cover that answers the question of who in fact can replace a man. I’ll even help you out: it is a science fiction book. This will not really help you. There is truly no way you will be able to imagine this cover. But try anyway. It’ll be a fun experiment.
is the world really such a terrible place? yesterday i asked if oat milk was extra and the barista said yes so i said ok just regular milk then and when she gave me my chai latte she whispered “i gave you oat milk ;)” doesnt that make u want to live another day?
