Her fuck doll has been trained to keep his distance in bed. She likes to stretch out during the night. And each year her model makes stranger and stranger noises. “He must need his beer changed again,” she mumbles in the early hours.
She wants to begin the day with touch, and after a full night’s rest her fuck doll had better be ready. She reverses into his body, signaling to him to curl up in the fetal position and lock his knees into the bend in her legs. His arms are lifeless but they stay in place when she pulls them over her chest. A hand clamps on her breast with machine-like tenderness.
Her ass is slowly swaying over his crotch. She feels something. It moved.
She fell asleep wearing nothing but the sexy underwear she’d put on after a bubble bath the night before — she throws on her thinning grey sweatshirt only when it grows chilly. The cheeky panties, frosted in the color of blueberry, are damp over her folds from a night of collecting deceitful thoughts. She slides her underwear off and slips the cock out of his boxer shorts.
“Morning wood, that would be nice,” she thinks. “Now what were the instructions? Oh, right.” Three strokes and a seductive oooh and ahh. Repeat until hard.
After seven cycles she wonders if it’s time for an upgrade — there have been reports of 1998 models going soft. But after 10 cycles — and a little tongue action — he’s hard enough to slide into her morning pussy.
“Whose dick will it be this morning?” she thinks, as she circles her ass over his cock. She closes her eyes but sees nothing but creeps. The #MeToo movement has ended the careers of losers and abusers, but it’s also fucked over her imagination — et tu, Franco?
Instead, she goes back to a different time. They were naked under a bold sun that brought out an unnatural green in an endless sea of grass. The ground was hard against her hips. His grip was hard on her nipples. He was hard.
The memories fill her body with movement. Her nipples slip in and out of his loose fingers. Her body wiggles around his cock with the urgency of staying afloat on a raft in the rapids. Her butt cheeks flap against his limbs. And when he groans, she knows that he’s sprung a leak.
She remains in bed until his leaky dick retreats. She gets up quietly — does it matter? — to search for a smaller toy in the closet. There’s only one with enough water resistance to survive a long, hot shower.
It’s time to drown out the world — and everything that’s wrong within it; to focus on every little thing that matters.
