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Jacking off. Fingering. Pinching your hard rosebuds atop your tits. Stroking my cock in front of your face. Sticking my tongue between the folds of your wet lips. Clitoral sucking. A finger up your ass. But not words of love and romance. No flowers. No dinners by candlelight. I touch myself. It is dark. I am alone. Now I am hard. I feel the first drops emerging from my tip, and my hand slides both along the smooth skin and with the slick lubricant I am producing. My hand slides along the smooth skin, but slowly and quietly. I have to be careful. There is a door. But it is only a door. Doors are meant to be opened. They can open at any time. I touch myself. I think of words that create images. I think of pure images. Of memories. Tight black leggings with no underwear. The outlines of lips so clear, so obvious, so visible. Images that were not sexual at the time. Images that were the subject of playful words. Words that some people took offense at. I touch myself. The image is. It was busy in here today, with the usual mix of mercs, farmers, and townies, but I didn’t spot anyone that raised the old hackles. Weaving around a couple of chatting patrons, I headed over to the bar where the bartender was busy serving a chilled beer to a burly farmhand.“Jake!” the bartender exclaimed in surprise, when he glanced in my direction. “I didn’t know you were back in town. Staying for long?”I removed my hat and duster-coat, dropping them on a vacant bar-stool, then leaned against the comforting sturdiness of the solid oak bar. “Nothing planned for the moment, Abraham,” I replied with a jovial grin. “Just kicking back for a bit, while Bob gives the Valkyrie some TLC.”“Yeah, I heard all about Shady Creek. Gangers wasn’t it?” he asked conversationally, as he reached for a bottle of bourbon from up on one of the liquor-stocked shelves.I nodded, then frowned as I replied, “They’re getting bolder. I haven’t seen gangers head this far south for years.”Abraham poured out the.
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