ClockworkFox
Really Really Experienced
- Joined
- Sep 27, 2018
- Posts
- 392
Calling all you sex maniacs, deviants and psycho sickos out there – is there someone you see on a daily basis, someone you interact with regularly, someone you are friendly with or simply talk to quite often … and also someone that, in an ideal world, you would love to shag six ways from Sunday because you are dying to slip into that particularly attractive slippery orifice, or feel their knob as it busily plunders said slippery orifice, but either they are not interested, not available, out of your class, or for whatever reason you cannot and will probably never get into their pants? In other words, someone with whom, to quote Clint Eastwood’s “Dirty Harry” Callaghan, you are shit outta luck.
What I am proposing will almost certainly NOT get you into their Calvin Kleins or their skimpy little cotton knickers, but it is, in my view, definitely the next best thing:
On a day on which you are 100% sure of seeing that person not long after you leave home – at work, perhaps, at the gym, in a bar or wherever, first make sure you have everything you need to go out the door without anything else to do with your hands – have your keys, coat, bag, wallet, whatever, within easy reach. Because once you have finished doing what I am going to tell you to do, you will not be able to walk around handling too many things. …
Intriguing, this, is it not?
Wash your hands, and then treat yourself to the easy part – the mother of all wanks, with some suitable image in your head - rogering Taylor Swift live on stage at Madison Square Gardens, perhaps (well, maybe out of sight behind the drum kit and backup dancers if you are the shy, coy type), or riding Ryan Gosling to hell and back with your thumb in his arsehole too, during a tea break on the set of La-La Land.
Yes, you jerk or finger yourself with gay abandon and shoot your goo into a handkerchief, tissue, pot, on the wall, the mirror, or anywhere it can be easily collected. NOW put your coat on, and get all your stuff together. Do whatever you like with the rest, taste it, slurp it all up if you like – a man does not have to be homosexual or bisexual to taste his own sperm, as you know, and, as you also know, every man jack of you has tasted his own spunk, even only out of curiosity, by around age 16, 17, 18 – but reserve a glob of it, a sizeable big glob, and rub a couple of fingers on one hand well into that glob, or three fingers, even, or four, or, what the hell, all five, and rub them around together, so that there is an ultra-thin film of spunk on your fingers. You can do both hands if you like. The ladies collect their natural scent and their post-glory gunk on a pinkie or two.
When you get there, you effusively greet the person whose holes you would happily drill many times over or the person you would like to drill your own holes many times over, and perhaps pat them amiably on the back as you kiss them, touch their arm, or whatever, just so long as those naughtily spunk-sullied fingers have a place or places to land on. NOT on bare flesh, because that would be unhygienic and probably illegal. But it is not too difficult to press the fingers quite firmly into the material in a friendly pat or an affectionate stroke. It will not leave a mark as such, and will go completely undetected. Only you will know. The kick, the thrill, the enormous high of knowing that the person worshipped from afar will be walking around for the rest of the day with your mark on them, your own fresh sex mark on their clothes, but has no idea. Let’s face it, this could be the closest your illicit spunk will ever get to them. If it goes on a shirt or a jersey, since nearly everyone changes their clothes every day, the next day you will not see it, but if it goes on an overcoat, which people sometimes do not change for days, you can smile a big smile as you stare at your spunky spot for days on end.
In the case of women, of course, there is the inconvenience (or advantage!!) that a happily weeping cunt smells considerably stronger, and people may notice. But who, I ask you, suddenly catches a whiff of something strange, sniffs their sleeve, automatically assumes that someone has been rubbing pussy juice all over them, and starts looking for a culprit? No one.
So go forth and do The Next Best Thing. Hopefully within the next 24 hours Literoticans around the globe will be gleefully carrying out the Spunk Transfer process. If you are caught, simply stare vacantly into the middle distance and say “It was Mistress S’s will. I simply obeyed as her Servant.” Granted, they may put you in a straitjacket and take you off to a padded cell before you can say “he shot ten ropes of cream across her tits”, but you will have accomplished your objective. Best of luck out there!
Mistress S
What I am proposing will almost certainly NOT get you into their Calvin Kleins or their skimpy little cotton knickers, but it is, in my view, definitely the next best thing:
On a day on which you are 100% sure of seeing that person not long after you leave home – at work, perhaps, at the gym, in a bar or wherever, first make sure you have everything you need to go out the door without anything else to do with your hands – have your keys, coat, bag, wallet, whatever, within easy reach. Because once you have finished doing what I am going to tell you to do, you will not be able to walk around handling too many things. …
Intriguing, this, is it not?
Wash your hands, and then treat yourself to the easy part – the mother of all wanks, with some suitable image in your head - rogering Taylor Swift live on stage at Madison Square Gardens, perhaps (well, maybe out of sight behind the drum kit and backup dancers if you are the shy, coy type), or riding Ryan Gosling to hell and back with your thumb in his arsehole too, during a tea break on the set of La-La Land.
Yes, you jerk or finger yourself with gay abandon and shoot your goo into a handkerchief, tissue, pot, on the wall, the mirror, or anywhere it can be easily collected. NOW put your coat on, and get all your stuff together. Do whatever you like with the rest, taste it, slurp it all up if you like – a man does not have to be homosexual or bisexual to taste his own sperm, as you know, and, as you also know, every man jack of you has tasted his own spunk, even only out of curiosity, by around age 16, 17, 18 – but reserve a glob of it, a sizeable big glob, and rub a couple of fingers on one hand well into that glob, or three fingers, even, or four, or, what the hell, all five, and rub them around together, so that there is an ultra-thin film of spunk on your fingers. You can do both hands if you like. The ladies collect their natural scent and their post-glory gunk on a pinkie or two.
When you get there, you effusively greet the person whose holes you would happily drill many times over or the person you would like to drill your own holes many times over, and perhaps pat them amiably on the back as you kiss them, touch their arm, or whatever, just so long as those naughtily spunk-sullied fingers have a place or places to land on. NOT on bare flesh, because that would be unhygienic and probably illegal. But it is not too difficult to press the fingers quite firmly into the material in a friendly pat or an affectionate stroke. It will not leave a mark as such, and will go completely undetected. Only you will know. The kick, the thrill, the enormous high of knowing that the person worshipped from afar will be walking around for the rest of the day with your mark on them, your own fresh sex mark on their clothes, but has no idea. Let’s face it, this could be the closest your illicit spunk will ever get to them. If it goes on a shirt or a jersey, since nearly everyone changes their clothes every day, the next day you will not see it, but if it goes on an overcoat, which people sometimes do not change for days, you can smile a big smile as you stare at your spunky spot for days on end.
In the case of women, of course, there is the inconvenience (or advantage!!) that a happily weeping cunt smells considerably stronger, and people may notice. But who, I ask you, suddenly catches a whiff of something strange, sniffs their sleeve, automatically assumes that someone has been rubbing pussy juice all over them, and starts looking for a culprit? No one.
So go forth and do The Next Best Thing. Hopefully within the next 24 hours Literoticans around the globe will be gleefully carrying out the Spunk Transfer process. If you are caught, simply stare vacantly into the middle distance and say “It was Mistress S’s will. I simply obeyed as her Servant.” Granted, they may put you in a straitjacket and take you off to a padded cell before you can say “he shot ten ropes of cream across her tits”, but you will have accomplished your objective. Best of luck out there!
Mistress S
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