I’m Not a Fan of Hand-jobs
The Memoirs of a College Kid
What is she thinking? I wonder what she feels in this moment? As she removes the usual macro lens of consciousness and zooms out of her personal bubble to a wider view of her experience, is this moment significant?
Will this be a marker on her timeline, a memory encased in the formaldehyde of nostalgia for years to come?
As I muse over this, a pained expression slowly grows across her supple features as she desperately tries to siphon a fraction of pleasure from this dry, awkward and increasingly painful hand job.
She shows no signs of tiring, if possible she has become even more vigorous with my appendage then she was, a growing frustration on her face from what I can only assume comes from a feeling of hard work left unappreciated. What she doesn’t realise is that every iota of sexual desire has given way to a pulsing pain from my shaft right down to the testicles, which quite frankly are shocked by this whole ordeal.
As she continues to batter my nads, I cant help but wonder, what defines us? A question with insufficient evidence to answer. An ever changing explanation for a complex and ultimately fleeting conundrum. Life is a sum of singular experiences, death is the full stop, the equals sign at the end of the sum, only then do we know what defined us.
