Call it a fetish if you like but that word makes it sound like something that's bad, and for me it's not, for me it's just 'my thing'; it's what turns me, it's my favorite turn-on, and it always makes me feel good, never bad. My head and shoulders obscured from the doorway by a large box I'd placed on the nightstand. If he kept quiet he could see me without being detected, and more importantly for me, I couldn't succumb to the temptation of a peek (not that I would). I suppose I should explain first up that it's all part of 'my thing'. "Riding out at 5am." "Oh, um if I'm dreaming noisy again when you get up, try to ignore me and just pull the door to my room shut." "Um sure." I woke at four thirty and opened my eyes only once to check the lighting. Too early for dawn to have any effect but the near full moon streaming through my opened curtains put most of my bed in a spotlight.
The next touch a firm hand on the sheets between my legs, a strong erect finger massaging straight at my slit. The excitement is all in anticipating when and how, never if. The only changes I made were to edit out the parts that I've promised myself I'll improve upon next time. You'd be surprised how difficult these things are to arrange. I was never sure he was a man until the very moment he entered me. If you get an introductory message from someone one day that says "DO NOT tell me your asl" then it might be me, or someone like me; I know I'm not the only one, I met another once; but thats a different story. Answer yes or no to my questions, say nothing more. Many said yes early and kept saying yes as my requirements unfolded but sooner or later they'd feel a need to tell me how big their cock was or feel they needed to embellish a yes with "yes baby I can fuck you like that thats so hot". "Will you meet me at the Family Inn Motel, Room 17, at 8pm this Friday, knock twice then enter, don't say a word, do 'your thing' then leave? Anticipating that when he discovered this it would make him all the more horny, anticipating that as an early move he might dip his finger into me and taste me. I simulated this now, taking my finger from under the sheet and sucking it in my mouth moaning; wondering if there was a frustrated young man at my door daring to wonder himself if the mouth he couldn't see was doing what he was anticipating.
I began to anticipate the event before he'd come back from his morning work out.
Actually it was for myself that I masturbated, after all it's 'my thing' not his that anticipates the unseen.
It was then, in the dull reflection of my bedside mirror, that I saw I was not alone. I masturbated for my son again very early the next morning.
My hand on the outside simulating the fantasy mans cock trying to enter me. As I felt the orgasm begin its hot rush through my pelvis and onto my finger, I threw my head to the side and opened my eyes; daring a brief glance at the back of my mystery lover as if her were leaving the motel room. Wrapping a sarong around me I ventured out of the bedroom, trying to anticipate what might confront me. I know those court appointed analysts would say they understand how it came to this, but they'll be wrong now just like they were all those years ago.
The shadowy figure moved and a beam of moonlight lit up his face. But in the dream my father wasn't charging to my protection; he was standing further back in the shadows, looking over the shoulder of the young man I'd seen. As I said, there are more dimensions to 'my thing'; if you knew them all then you might (just might) understand why the revelation that my son might (just might) have been aroused at watching my arousal, was not as repulsive and some people tell me it should have been.
I lay there, watching the shadow, orgasms shivering through me and dissipating into a spreading wet patch under my finger. A dream of the only man who ever really understood me, the only man who ever protected me; my father. No hint in his note that he'd seen or heard anything last night. And now it seems, those secretive glances at his mother.
'My thing', the thing that turns me on the most, is not seeing not knowing what my lover will do next. The longer the moment lasts the more excited my anticipation becomes. I began to slowly fondle myself, anticipating a time soon to come when I'd be excited and sigh loudly – a call to him in his room.
Actually it's more than that, much more, it's also not knowing what my lover is doing right now. I imagined he'd been awake all night, straining ears for his mothers dreams.
It's the excitement of anticipating what he'll do next – eyes closed during sex feeling his body move, anticipating he's moving to suck my nipple into his mouth, my nipple hardening in readiness; never disappointed that his move may actually be to withdraw his cock and cum on my belly, the unexpected move adding a new dimension to my excitement of the unknown. A man given a key to the wrong room enters ready to play out a game with his wife. Anticipating him gliding silently but swiftly like a moth to a flame. This is what was driving 'my thing' - with the many men before who I've asked to watch me, the anticipation game is almost too easy. Will the lust be too strong and guide him to get a closer look and even to touch?
Of course there are more dimensions to 'my thing' and perhaps I'll mention others later. Finds his way to the bed in the darkened room, the first touch a hand on my exposed throat, the only words repeated through the fantasy are a warning "don't look, close your eyes, don't see what I'm about to do." No foreplay. I know they'll get excited, I know they'll begin to stroke their cock, I know that they'll eventually make a move to touch me or cum on me. I anticipated it wouldn't, but I anticipated that the desire in his mind would be taking those brave steps even his body wasn't. The story I was masturbating to was taken from real life. Wondering if there were one or two tell tale drops running down the inside of my leg as I stood there with my back to the door of Room 17.