Your favourite fantasy when masturbating?

Among my favorite fantasies I like when I masturbate. Normally imagining fucking someone I shouldn’t in an equally forbidden situation. Fun of fantasies for me is to imagine doing things one can’t/shouldn’t do in reality. Mom-son themes are a favorite. No real world interest toward incest. Itks more the thrill of imagining crossing taboo lines. It’s why I use images of other women and imagine them as my fantasy stand-in mother.

Risky creampies are also a fun twist to a fantasy. Cumming inside with or without permission and not knowing if she’s on birth control or not when I do. Maybe it’s safe or maybe not. The not knowing feels like more fun.

My first Lit story was based roughly on a fantasy of a woman in her 40s being roughly fucked by a bunch of much younger men in some semi-public place outdoors but very late at night.
 
meeting two men in a hotel— married, older men, say around 45 years old — and being on my knees for them sucking their cocks and, when they’re ready, they pull me up and put me on a sofa and fuck me in my mouth and pussy, changing positions, being rough. another is just one man who fucks me over the bathroom sink and pulls my head back by my long blonde hair so i’m looking in the mirror when he fucks me 💕
I like your active imagination! :devil:
 
I'd like to read about someone you know and think about in your fantasies. I always have guys I know in my fantasies with me or my wife. A couple neighbor guys we have, some sons' friends, and a couple guys I worked with, and a niece I always take turns in my
One major resident of my personal Fantasy land is a neighbor upstairs. He is 3rd world, in his late 20s. Muscular, working class. He is moody. I will catch him on the street and suggest a way to alleviate his sadness. I'm good at that.

( . )( . )
 
Men cumming without the usual Lit bullshit.
Ms. Lady Poet:

What do you think of this poem?

* * *

I don't know, what I am, where I am, where I am going,

only this mysterious body is my witness,

that from Fullness I was torn away, into time

between Nothing and Everything, wandering and alone.

I don't know where I am, nor if I may be dreaming, I dream

a staircase of Night in the desert of the living, and ivy

winds around my trunk, and from my eyes I clear it, remove it

and lift the eyelid of the dream from the crevice, where "I" falls.

But He through the wall of jasper stares unblinking

in all my motions and rings he gives me a sign,

that for me he conceived the world, the sun's cup, the wing of darkness.

I feel time like sand falling in an hourglass,

as at the doorway of moonlight, an unnoticed ray.

The black bird of Night settles on my shoulder.

[Viktor Vida]
 
This is not a fantasy

I'm in bed now, it's past midnight...

I have a date Friday night.

The guy isn't a trick. He's one i crushed on for months.

He's my candy. Latinx. Speaks Spanish. Slender, little mustache and beard. Lithe.

Like a jaguar... i'm reminded...

Esta noche

The beautiful man at 17th and Mission
Speaks in Mayan into his brand new smartphone
I recognize the words as he turns away
From eight lives back – too many years ago
When I disguised as a man and roamed south of The Border,

He turns back and I see hair colored midnight
I see his deep green eyes, unbroken nose,
Full lips and white teeth, a stereotype
Of the noble “Indian” man I suddenly want
As he looks me up and down, appraising me.

He speaks in Spanish: “Quieres acompañarme?”
I show him my lipstick, red as I apply it
Watching him watch me; I hand him a sugared fig,
There on the corner, in my tranny pride.
Then he takes my hand, and hails a cab.

His room is tiny, just a bed and TV,
And a tiny refrigerator; he offers a beer.
We sit on the bed and his kiss is electric,
We lie back, and his arms fall on my shoulders.
He hugs me, and I’m happy to be his girl.

His name is Erick Balam; as he says, “a jaguar.”
Yes, he speaks enough English to call his name.
He’s an immigrant, straight from Yucatán
And works in a restaurant, living on tips alone.
He’s Christian, he tells me, but “indigenous.”

I pull his knees up and over my shoulders;
I give him head, watching his tender eyes
His cock is long, dark, and uncut.
He says, “I like your mouth” and he gasps
I’m vigilant, as the jaguar springs

Down my throat, nearly choking me.
I keep my mouth around his stony root
And continue, during a long, Mayan age.
I dream of ancient gods armed with smartphones
And revenge on all injustice he may suffer.

I call him “my rebel” and he shines with pride
We keep his bed warm until the dawn.
Then he has to leave, and I make him impatient
In girly ways, brushing platinum hair.
I’m older now, and the Goddess of Time.

Outside, identities melt in the heat.
Borders? There are no Borders. There will be no Wall.
When men watch me as I redo my lipstick
I’m a boy and a girl, a virgin and a whore,
Even as I forget to ask for money.

We’ll come together and dance our way to glory
I’ll show you my trance tits, and you’ll kiss me.
Happy as we are, so we will be.
There is no Border, there will never be a Wall,
Tonight. Tonight or any, any night.

Continued in reply
 
Continuing...

My sexual fantasies have never wandered far from reality. Sexual reveries are, i think, like recurrent dreams, but without the transformations occurring in dream life.
Fantasies more resemble lucid dreaming and hypnagogia, or threshold sleep states.

As in lucid dreaming, sexual fantasies may be guided.

Lying in bed... thinking about tonight's date... i recall men who've had me...

Tough Guy -- i forget his name but i remember his cum. He had been doing meth. I sucked and licked his liontongue but he just couldn't nut.

So i begged him to cum on my face, hoping to turn him on enough for him to let loose. He pulled his nifty cock out of my pleasuredome. I was disoriented without a cock in my mouth, but he stood over me jerking off. Them he came, with cum dripping on to my mouth.

IRL.

( . )( . )
 

Sexual Revolution: A Fantasy

For Rexroth

I am a trickster: on the eve of July 4th,
A drunk Hispanic man, seeing platinum hair
Calls me a cougar, and tells me how good I look.

Later, at the Vesuvio bar in North Beach,
A cute young girl peers at me, and then
Tells her boyfriend quietly, “a man.”

Four nights earlier, in Vesuvio
An even prettier girl, with a bright young fellow,
Sulked as he told me how much he hated Trump.

I was dressed as a Mexican whore, in solidarity
With the victims of the camps placed on The Border:
A tight and low-cut top, with black lace roses,

Flowered tights, and a bondage bodice.
The girl was irritated by my attention
To her guy, saying, “I’m taking him back.”

I asked from where she hailed, and she said quickly,
“Portland;” where then the Antifa comrades
Faced off against neo-Nazis, cops, and feds.

“Lots of fascists there,” I told her softly.
In Vesuvio flirting; in Portland, I’d have fought.
July 4th. Trump has sold the country.

At Bondage-A-GoGo I twerk wildly.
The DJ plays Back in the USSR.
My date, cute, homeless, crazy, gay,

Asks about the “B” on my baseball cap.
“Boston?” he asks, thinking of his home.
“Brooklyn; no, bondage,” I answer cleverly.

Then, “no, Bosnia, Bosnia forever.”
Bosnia, the place I never forget;
The unhealing wound, syphilis of the West.

( . )( . )
 
I fantasize about my very vanilla wife doing wild and crazy (monogamous) sex stuff with me.
 
I'm on spironolactone. For most Litsters this has as much meaning as saying i like pie. I.e. none.


I don't get erections or have orgasms. The large clitoris i possess doesn't get hard or produce fluid.

My favorite fantasy while playing with my clitoris is World Peace.

My second is a Literotica for adults, not developmentally challenged teenage incels.

( ') (' )
 
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