~How the slashers jack off~
😏 well, here it is. The writing no one asked for, but everyone needs
<C.W: NSFW, male masturbation, some voyeurism>
🧢:He's loud about it. He's managed to peel off the rest of his clothes, kicking his boots off and hiking his lower half up onto a pillow- hips bucking upwards as if you were there on top of him. He's pumping furiously- chest heaving as he works himself into a sweaty mess. He's mumbling curses and all kinds of disgusting insults under his breath- sometimes you swear he's talking about himself. He's so red and drenched, you can't tell if he's crying or about to pass out. His free hand is grasping and scratching at his chest- closed fist coming to strike at his face inbetween failed attempts at choking himself. When he finally cums- it's thick loads, spilling over his hand- an obscene amount. His eyes are clamped shut- embarassment seeping into him as he struggles to get up and clean himself. He's out of breath and dehydrated to the point of exhaustion. And you're pretty sure he did cry.....
🕯:His hands work with the same gentle skill that he uses when sculpting. His touch is light- fingertips barely tracing the outline of his erect cock. He never makes more than a peep- body shuddering with attempts to control his breathing. He wants more, NEEDS more- hips thrusting into his own hand- but he loves holding back: he deserves to starve. The anticipation builds- dragging a warm sensation into his core as he continues to tease at himself. His whimpers grow louder as he begins to lose control: fist tightening around his cock, hand pumping faster. His own grip feels almost unfamiliar as he chases the high of a threatening orgasm- head beginning to buzz as his vision narrows. He's fighting to form coherent sentences as spurts of cum shoot out across the room. His thick, sticky remains drip from his fingers- reminiscent of liquid wax.
🔪:He's all over the place. He changes positions a lot- standing, sitting, laying down. Of course he's talking the entire time too- the dirtiest, filthiest things you'd ever hear come out of that sweet mouth of his. It doesn't take much for him to cum- just a few pumps of his fist and he's blowing his load. But he's got stamina for days- so he keeps going. He's cumming about 4 or 5 times before he even breaks a sweat. If you're near by- he's reaching out his free hand to grasp you. He just needs to feel you: the warmth of your skin, the softness of your body- it gets him riled up. He loves the thought of you watching him- his face red with embarassment at what a filthy boy he's being. He asks you a ton of questions- do you like that? Can you handle this, baby? You want some more? Afterwards, he lays with you- limbs tangled together as he waits for his second wind: now that he can hold himself together for more than a few minutes- he needs to be inside you....
🚚: Nothing he does is gentle, or quiet. The sensation hits him like a wave of firey passion and he's immediately yanking his truck off to the side of the road, legal parking be damned. He's kicking his seat back and fumbling to yank his belt out of its loops. Gruff, dirty hands go to work- one on the shaft, the other cupping his balls. He's struggling for the leg room to spread his thighs apart- it's the only time he regrets living in a truck. He's just SO desperate to get himself off- drowning in the waters of hormones- he can't focus on anything else until he's cum at least twice. Then his mind begins to wander- where are his toys? Are they in reach? He needs more- faster- harder. He's done this enough times that his hands find crumpled tissues on instinct- he keeps meaning to throw them away after but can't remember shit after his release. He has to roll both windows down to let out the immense amount of heat he just let off, and climb out to stuff himself back in his pants
🥩: He's gotta be quiet about it. The house is never empty- and lord knows the doors won't lock. But the risk of getting walked in on is worth the scolding if it means he can enjoy the wave of release. He's yanked his swelling cock out of his work pants- hands shaking from the anticipation. He's gotta be quick. By now, he already has your naked body fully memorized- every dip, curve, and bitable inch of your body is plastered in his minds eye: hips thrusting erratically as he imagines you beneath him. The mask needs to come off- he can't handle the mixture of sweat and spit that pours out of him while he's pumping himself into a drunken stupor. The build up of heat in his room is almost unbearable- hot breath fogging the open windows. It's the most noise you ever hear him make: moans and whimpers, the sound of which are much too small and gentle to come from someone his size. His load is huge- almost never ending: the results of days of pent up frustration. He's picturing covering your face and chest with his naughty secret
