He’s sitting at the table, his eyes glued to a screen, which is normal. And his hand is moving rapidly in his lap — also not unusual. But when I surprise him by joking, “You started without me!” he slams the laptop shut and sinks in his seat, obviously trying to stuff an awkward erection back into his fly.
“It’s not what you think! I was, um… checking…my, uh…”
“… foreskin and how fast it can move? What are you so embarrassed about? You know I don’t mind. Hell, if you’d told me I would have helped you check, and made the clean-up easier.”
I lick my lips so he gets my drift, but he just cringes even lower.
“I really wasn’t…”
“Oh god, is it something awful?”
There isn’t much I’d consider off-limits as wanking fodder, and we had that discussion a long time ago. If it’s legal, he’s free to enjoy whatever turns him on in the moment, and he’ll get no judgment from me. I’ve seen him jerk it to tentacles, trapeze artists, and toothless GILFs, so not much surprises me any more. But that’s the point: he’s happy for me to watch those with him. Whatever this is, he’s hiding it.
I walk round the table with a disarming, “Let me finish that for you,” but as soon as I’m close enough I flip open the laptop.
He’s on YouTube. Nigella Lawson is kneading her baps.
I get it. Nigella’s hot, and it’s understandable that he’d think so too: she’s a brunette, like me, and busty, like me, but she’s thinner and way prettier. That’s okay, most women in porn are better looking than I am; I’m not threatened by that. But Nigella is a better cook, and that hurts.
“What’s so special about her? I bake. You don’t stand in the kitchen wanking over my dough.”
“You wouldn’t let me: it’s unhygienic. But if you want me to cum on your buns, you only have to ask.”
Linked to Wicked Wednesday