Masturbation

Exposed Desires

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I stood there, my heart pounding in my chest as I stared at the photographs scattered across the bed. Each image was a work of art, a raw and unfiltered depiction of desire. Alex’s talent was undeniable, and I felt a spark of something dangerous ignite within me. I knew I had to confront him, to understand the man behind the lens.

When I found Alex in the kitchen, he was nervously stirring a cup of tea. His eyes met mine, and I saw the flicker of fear in them. “Brooke,” he murmured, setting the cup down with a clatter. “I, uh, I didn’t think you’d find those.”

I crossed my arms, leaning against the doorway. “You have a talent, Alex. A real talent. But why keep it hidden?”

He ran a hand through his hair, his gaze dropping to the floor. “It’s personal. Intimate. I never meant for anyone to see them.”

I took a step closer, my voice softening. “I think it’s beautiful. And I want to be a part of it.”

His head snapped up, his eyes searching mine. “What do you mean?”

I took a deep breath, my heart racing with anticipation. “I want you to photograph me. Just for us. A private session. No one else needs to know.”

Alex’s lips parted, but no words came out. He looked at me like I was a puzzle he couldn’t solve, his mind clearly racing with thoughts. Finally, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “Are you sure? It’s… it’s not just about taking pictures. It’s about trust, about vulnerability.”

I nodded, stepping closer still. “I trust you, Alex. And I’m ready to be vulnerable. With you.”

He hesitated, then slowly nodded. “Alright. But… this changes things. Between us.”

I smiled, a thrill coursing through me. “I know. And I’m ready for that, too.”

The next evening, we set up the shoot in my room. Alex had brought his camera, a sleek, professional-looking DSLR, and a few props—silk scarves, a feather duster, and a bottle of massage oil. The air was thick with anticipation as he adjusted the lighting, his movements deliberate and focused.

I stood in the center of the room, wearing only a sheer robe that clung to my curves. My heart was pounding, but I felt empowered, like I was stepping into a new version of myself. Alex’s gaze met mine through the lens, and I saw the hunger there, the raw desire that mirrored my own.

“Relax,” he murmured, his voice steady. “Let the camera see you. Let it feel you.”

I took a deep breath, letting the robe slide off my shoulders. I was naked now, exposed, but I felt no shame. Alex’s eyes widened as he took in my body, his fingers tightening around the camera.

“Turn for me,” he instructed, his voice low and commanding. “Slowly. Let me capture every curve, every line.”

I obeyed, moving with deliberate grace. The camera clicked, each shutter release a rhythmic pulse that echoed through the room. Alex circled me, his gaze intense, his focus absolute. I felt like a goddess, like every inch of me was being worshipped through his lens.

“Now, lie on the bed,” he said, his voice husky. “On your stomach. Arms above your head.”

I did as he asked, the cool sheets brushing against my skin. Alex knelt beside the bed, his lens inches from my body. I could feel his breath on my back, his presence a tangible force. The camera clicked again, capturing the arch of my spine, the curve of my hips.

“Perfect,” he whispered, his hand reaching out to trace the line of my shoulder. “Now, roll onto your back. Look at me.”

I turned, my eyes locking with his. His gaze was hungry, his desire palpable. I felt a heat building between my legs, a wetness that made me ache for him. The camera clicked, freezing this moment in time, this raw, unfiltered connection between us.

“Spread your legs for me,” he commanded, his voice rough with need. “Let me see you.”

I did, my thighs falling open, my core exposed to his lens. His breath hitched, and I saw the hunger flare in his eyes. The camera clicked again, capturing my vulnerability, my surrender.

“Touch yourself,” he said, his voice a whisper. “Show me what you like.”

My hand drifted down, my fingers brushing against my clit. I moaned softly, my hips lifting off the bed as I began to stroke myself. Alex’s gaze was glued to me, his camera capturing every moment of my pleasure. The air was thick with tension, with the unspoken promise of what was to come.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. “Let go for me, Brooke. Let me see you come.”

I closed my eyes, my fingers working faster, my body tightening with anticipation. The camera clicked, a relentless rhythm that matched the pounding of my heart. I was on the edge, teetering, when Alex’s hand reached out, his fingers brushing against mine.

“Let me,” he said, his voice a command.

I opened my eyes, meeting his gaze, and nodded. He took my hand, guiding it away, and replaced it with his own. His touch was firm, confident, as he began to stroke me, his thumb pressing against my clit. I gasped, my back arching off the bed, my body responding to his touch with a ferocity that took my breath away.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Come for me, Brooke. Let me see you fall apart.”

I was close, so close, my body trembling on the edge. The camera clicked, capturing my pleasure, my surrender. And then, with a cry that tore from my throat, I came, my body convulsing, my juices spilling over his hand. Alex’s gaze never left me, his camera capturing every moment of my release.

As my body stilled, he set the camera aside, his eyes burning with desire. He climbed onto the bed, his body hovering over mine, his weight pressing me into the mattress. I reached up, my hands tangling in his hair, pulling him down to me.

“Fuck me, Alex,” I whispered, my voice raw with need. “I need you inside me.”

He didn’t hesitate, his lips crashing down on mine in a kiss that was hungry, desperate. His hands roamed my body, his touch possessive, as he positioned himself between my legs. I felt the head of his cock press against my entrance, thick and insistent, and I moaned into his mouth, my hips lifting to meet him.

“Ready?” he growled, his voice a rough whisper.

“Now,” I gasped, my nails digging into his back.

With a thrust that stole my breath, he slid inside me, filling me completely. I cried out, my body stretching to accommodate him, my walls clenching around his thickness. He began to move, his strokes deep and deliberate, his hips snapping with a rhythm that had me gasping for air.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groaned, his voice thick with pleasure. “So tight, so wet.”

I wrapped my legs around his waist, my heels digging into his ass, urging him deeper. He obliged, his thrusts becoming more urgent, more primal. The bed creaked beneath us, the headboard banging against the wall as our bodies moved in perfect sync.

“Harder,” I demanded, my voice a desperate plea. “Fuck me harder, Alex. I need it.”

He growled, his hands gripping my hips as he pounded into me with a ferocity that had me screaming his name. The room was filled with the sounds of our passion—our moans, our grunts, the slap of skin on skin. I was drowning in sensation, my body on the brink of another orgasm.

“Come with me,” he rasped, his voice a command. “Let’s come together, Brooke.”

His words sent me over the edge, my body convulsing around him as I cried out, my juices spilling over his cock. He followed, his thrusts stuttering as he buried himself deep, his seed pulsing inside me. We stayed like that, our bodies trembling, our breaths ragged, as the world around us faded away.

Finally, he collapsed beside me, his arm draped over my waist, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my skin. I turned to him, my lips curving into a satisfied smile.

“That,” I whispered, “was incredible.”

He chuckled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “I think the camera agrees.”

I laughed, a soft, contented sound, as I snuggled into his side. The air was still thick with the scent of sex, with the aftermath of our passion. I felt a sense of closeness, of intimacy, that went beyond the physical. Alex had captured me—not just on film, but in his heart. And I had captured him, too.

As we lay there, the camera sitting silently on the bedside table, I knew this was just the beginning. Our connection had deepened, our trust solidified. And I couldn’t wait to see where this journey would take us next.

Distance and Desire

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The phone buzzed on the nightstand, pulling me from the edge of sleep. I cracked an eye open, squinting at the screen. Lucas. A smile tugged at my lips, instantly erasing the grogginess. He was three time zones away, stuck in some boring business meeting, but even the distance couldn’t dampen the heat between us. I answered with a husky whisper, my voice already thick with anticipation.

“Hey,” I purred, propping myself up on one elbow. The sheets were cool against my bare skin, a stark contrast to the warmth pooling low in my belly.

“Hey, beautiful,” Lucas’s deep voice rumbled through the line, sending a shiver down my spine. “Miss me?”

“More than you know,” I admitted, my fingers tracing lazy patterns on my stomach. “What about you? Missing my mouth wrapped around your cock?”

He let out a low chuckle, the sound vibrating deliciously in my ear. “Always. But tonight, I want you to do something different.”

My brow arched. Lucas was usually the one calling the shots, but when he got that tone in his voice, the one that hinted at a challenge, I couldn’t resist. “Oh yeah? And what’s that?”

“I want you to guide me,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “Tell me exactly what to do. Make me beg for it.”

My heart skipped a beat. Lucas was a dominant man, both in and out of the bedroom, but this—this was a side of him I hadn’t seen before. The thought of him surrendering control, even just for a moment, sent a thrill through me. I leaned back against the pillows, my mind already spinning with possibilities.

“Alright,” I said slowly, savoring the power in my voice. “But you have to do exactly as I say. No questions, no hesitation. Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, his tone obedient, yet laced with a hint of mischief.

I smirked, my fingers drifting lower, teasing the hem of my silk pajama shorts. “Good boy. Now, tell me, Lucas. Are you hard yet?”

There was a pause, just long enough to make my pulse quicken. “Not yet,” he admitted, his voice rough. “But I will be soon.”

“Oh, I can fix that,” I promised, my voice dripping with confidence. “Start by unbuttoning your pants. Slowly. I want to imagine you struggling to keep your hands steady.”

I heard the soft rustle of fabric over the line, the sound sending a jolt of excitement through me. I closed my eyes, picturing him, his broad shoulders hunched over, his fingers trembling as he fumbled with the buttons.

“That’s it,” I encouraged, my voice low and sultry. “Take your time. I want you to savor every moment.”

“Fuck, Melissa,” he groaned, his voice thick with need. “You’re killing me.”

“That’s the idea,” I teased, my fingers slipping beneath the waistband of my shorts, brushing against the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. “Now, slide your hand inside. I want you to feel how hard you are for me.”

His sharp intake of breath was music to my ears. “Jesus, you’re good at this,” he muttered, his voice strained.

“I know,” I purred, my fingers drifting closer to the damp heat between my legs. “Now, stroke yourself. Slow and steady. Imagine it’s my hand on you, my lips brushing against the tip of your cock.”

The line went silent except for the sound of his ragged breathing and the faint, rhythmic squelch of his hand moving against his skin. My own breath hitched as I mirrored his actions, my fingers slipping between my folds, teasing the swollen bud of my clit.

“Faster,” I commanded, my voice shaking slightly. “But not too fast. I want you to edge, Lucas. I want you to feel like you’re about to explode, but I don’t want you to come. Not yet.”

“You’re fucking cruel,” he gasped, his voice raw with desire.

“I know,” I repeated, a smug smile playing on my lips. “Now, tell me, what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to touch yourself,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I want to hear you moan my name.”

My fingers obeyed without hesitation, slipping deeper, circling my clit in slow, torturous patterns. “Like this?” I asked, my voice breathy as a soft moan escaped my lips.

“Fuck, yes,” he groaned, his voice tight with restraint. “Keep going. Don’t stop.”

I didn’t. My fingers moved in sync with his, our breaths intertwining over the line, a symphony of need and anticipation. The tension built, coil upon coil, until I was trembling, my thighs clenching around my hand.

“Lucas,” I whispered, my voice a plea. “I’m so close.”

“Not yet,” he commanded, his voice firm despite the strain. “Not until I say so.”

I bit my lip, fighting the urge to surrender to the building pressure. “You’re so cruel,” I panted, my fingers slowing reluctantly.

“And you love it,” he countered, his voice smug. “Now, keep going. But slower. I want to make this last.”

I obeyed, my movements agonizingly slow, each stroke a tease, a promise of what was to come. The phone felt slick in my hand, my palm damp with sweat, mirroring the wetness between my legs.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he demanded, his voice dark with desire. “Tell me what you’d do if I were there right now.”

My eyes fluttered closed as I painted the picture for him, my voice thick with lust. “I’d push you back onto the bed, rip your pants off, and take your cock in my mouth. I’d suck you so deep, you’d be seeing stars.”

“Fuck,” he groaned, his voice breaking. “Keep talking. Don’t stop.”

I didn’t. My words flowed freely, each one a stroke, a caress, a promise of pleasure. I described every detail, from the way my lips would wrap around him, to the sound of his moans as I swallowed him whole.

“Melissa,” he warned, his voice tight. “I’m close.”

“Not yet,” I echoed his earlier command, my voice firm. “Not until I’m ready.”

He let out a frustrated growl, but he obeyed, his breathing ragged as he fought for control. I smiled, a wicked gleam in my eye, even though he couldn’t see it. This was my game now, and I intended to play it to the fullest.

Minutes stretched into an eternity, the tension coiling tighter and tighter, until I could feel the orgasm hovering just out of reach, a tantalizing promise.

“Now,” I finally whispered, my voice a husky command. “Come for me, Lucas. Let go.”

His groan was primal, raw, as his release tore through him. I could hear the wet sounds over the line, the smack of his hand against his skin, the hoarse cries of his name on my lips.

My own orgasm crashed into me a second later, a wave of pleasure so intense it stole my breath. My body arched off the bed, my fingers buried deep within me, my cries echoing his, a symphony of release.

The world spun for a moment, the only sounds our heavy breathing and the faint static of the phone line. Slowly, I came back to myself, my heart still pounding, my skin damp with sweat.

“Fuck,” Lucas finally managed, his voice hoarse. “That was… incredible.”

I laughed, a soft, satisfied sound. “Told you I was good at this.”

“You’re amazing,” he corrected, his voice warm with admiration. “I can’t wait to see you, Melissa. To touch you, to taste you…”

My smile widened at the hunger in his voice. “Two more days,” I reminded him, my fingers tracing lazy patterns on my stomach. “And then you’re all mine.”

“Two days,” he echoed, his voice a promise. “Until then, I’ll be counting the seconds.”

We stayed on the line for a while longer, our conversation drifting from the explicit to the mundane, the anticipation for our reunion hanging heavy between us. When we finally hung up, I lay there in the darkness, a satisfied smile on my lips, the memory of his voice, his moans, his surrender, replaying in my mind like a private, erotic film.

Two days. It couldn’t come soon enough.

Reflections of Desire

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I’ve always had a thing for mirrors. Not just any mirrors—the kind that let me see every curve, every line, every detail of my body as I move. There’s something intoxicating about watching myself, about knowing I’m the one in control, the one creating every moan, every shiver, every gasp. It’s like I’m both the performer and the audience, and the show is always for me. But sometimes, just sometimes, I let someone else watch. Like Jed. Jed was different. He didn’t just want to fuck me; he wanted to see me, to understand what made me tick. And when I told him about my mirror habit, his eyes lit up like I’d just handed him the key to a treasure chest.

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, the kind where the sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains of my bedroom, casting a soft, golden glow over everything. I’d just finished a batch of chocolate chip cookies—my specialty—and the scent of butter and sugar still lingered in the air. Jed was lounging on my bed, flipping through a book of poetry I’d left on the nightstand. He looked up when I walked in, his brow furrowed in concentration, but his gaze softened when he saw me.

“What’s that?” he asked, nodding toward the handheld magnifying mirror I was holding. It was an old thing, the kind you’d find in a vintage shop, with a brass handle and a circular glass that magnified everything to three times its size.

I smirked, setting it down on the dresser. “You’ll see.”

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. Jed was good like that—patient, curious, but never pushy. I crossed the room to the full-length mirror on the back of my closet door, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. The mirror was old, its edges framed in carved wood, and it reflected the room back at me in perfect detail. I could see Jed watching me from the bed, his book forgotten in his lap.

“You sure you want to do this?” I asked, turning to face him. My heart was pounding, not from nervousness, but from anticipation. There was something thrilling about knowing he was about to see me like this, raw and unfiltered.

He sat up, leaning against the headboard. “I’m sure,” he said, his voice low and steady. “I want to see you, Mary Ellen. All of you.”

I took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Then I turned back to the mirror, my reflection staring back at me. My red hair fell in loose waves down my back, and my pale skin seemed to glow in the soft light. I was wearing one of his button-down shirts, the tails hanging just past my thighs, and nothing else. I could feel his eyes on me, heavy and warm, as I reached behind me to unbutton the shirt.

One by one, the buttons came undone, the fabric falling open to reveal my bare breasts. I watched in the mirror as Jed’s gaze flicked down, his throat working as he swallowed. I smiled, a slow, knowing curve of my lips, and let the shirt slide off my shoulders, pooling at my feet.

“Fuck,” he murmured, and I felt a rush of heat at the sound of it.

I stepped closer to the mirror, my nipples tightening as the cool air touched them. I reached for the magnifying mirror, holding it up to get a closer look. The glass magnified everything—the delicate veins beneath my skin, the faint freckles scattered across my chest, the way my nipples pebbled into tight buds. I traced a finger over one, watching the movement in the mirror, and let out a soft sigh.

“You like that, don’t you?” Jed’s voice was rough, and I glanced over my shoulder to see him biting his lip, his eyes glued to my reflection.

“Mmm,” I hummed, not bothering to deny it. “You’re watching, aren’t you?”

He nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed again. “Every fucking detail.”

I smirked, turning back to the mirror. I lowered the magnifying glass, letting it hover just above my stomach, and slowly trailed it downward. My breath quickened as I watched my hand move, the magnified view giving me a close-up of my skin, the faint dusting of red hair at my core. I parted my legs slightly, just enough to give us both a better view, and felt a rush of wetness between my thighs.

“Jesus, Mary Ellen,” Jed groaned, and I glanced back to see him shifting on the bed, his hand resting on the bulge in his jeans.

I bit my lip, my heart racing. “You like what you see?”

“Fuck yes,” he said, his voice hoarse. “But I want to see more.”

I smiled, a wicked little twist of my lips, and lowered the magnifying mirror further. The glass caught the light, casting a distorted reflection of my pussy back at me. I was already glistening, my lips swollen and parted, and I could see the faint flutter of my clit as my breath quickened. I pressed the edge of the mirror against my inner thigh, watching the way the cool glass made my skin goose bump, and then trailed it upward, closer to the heat.

“Oh God,” Jed whispered, and I glanced back to see him unbuttoning his jeans, his cock already straining against the fabric.

I smirked, turning back to the mirror. “You want to touch yourself, Jed?”

He hesitated, then nodded, his cheeks flushing. “If you do.”

“I do,” I said, my voice steady. “But I want to watch you. I want to see you watching me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. His hand slipped into his jeans, wrapping around his cock, and he began to stroke slowly, his eyes never leaving my reflection. I watched him watch me, the sight of his hand moving over his thick length sending a jolt of heat through me. I was dripping now, my clit throbbing, and I pressed the magnifying mirror closer, letting it hover just above my pussy.

I reached down with my free hand, parting my lips to expose my clit. The magnified view was obscene—my flesh swollen and pink, the hood pulled back to reveal the sensitive bud beneath. I circled it with my fingertip, watching the movement in the mirror, and let out a soft moan.

“Fuck, Mary Ellen,” Jed groaned, his strokes speeding up. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

I smiled, my eyes fluttering closed for a moment as I pressed a little harder, my breath hitching. “Keep watching,” I murmured. “I want you to see everything.”

I lowered the magnifying mirror further, pressing it against my clit, the cool glass sending shivers through me. I could see every detail—the way my lips stretched around the edge, the glistening wetness coating the glass, the faint pulse of my clit as I rubbed against it. I added a second finger, slipping it inside my dripping cunt, and moaned at the sensation.

“Oh fuck,” I breathed, my head falling back as I watched myself in the mirror. “Jed, I’m so close.”

“Me too,” he rasped, his hand moving faster now, his cock thick and flushed. “Come for me, Mary Ellen. Let me see you come.”

I didn’t need to be told twice. I pressed harder against the magnifying mirror, my fingers moving faster inside me, and let out a sharp cry as my orgasm hit. My body shook, my muscles clenching around my fingers, and I watched it all in the mirror—my face flushed, my lips parted, my eyes squeezed shut as I rode the waves of pleasure. My juices coated the magnifying mirror, dripping down the glass, and I moaned at the sight, at the knowledge that Jed was watching it all.

“Fuck, yes,” he groaned, his hand moving frantically now, his cock glistening with pre-come. “Mary Ellen, you’re—”

His words were cut off by a sharp cry as he came, his body arching off the bed, his cum spurting over his hand and chest. I watched him in the mirror, my own breath still ragged, as he shuddered through his release, his face contorted in pleasure.

When he finally collapsed back onto the bed, his chest heaving, I turned to face him, a satisfied smile on my lips. “You liked that, didn’t you?”

He grinned, wiping his hand on the bedsheet. “Best fucking show I’ve ever seen.”

I laughed, a soft, breathless sound, and walked over to the bed, my legs still a little shaky. I leaned down, pressing a kiss to his lips, and tasted myself on his mouth—salty and sweet.

“Next time,” I murmured, pulling back slightly, “I’ll let you touch the mirror.”

His eyes darkened, and he reached up, tangling his hand in my hair. “Next time,” he agreed, his voice low and promising, “I’m going to fuck you while you watch yourself in it.”

I shivered at the thought, my core already aching for it. “Deal.”

And as I climbed onto the bed beside him, the mirror still reflecting the aftermath of our pleasure, I knew it wouldn’t be the last time. Not by a long shot.

The Green Thumb’s Secret

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The air was thick with the scent of blooming flowers and damp earth as I stepped into The Green Thumb, my favorite greenhouse. Spring had finally arrived, and with it, my annual gardening itch had flared up like a wildfire. At forty-eight, I still felt the same thrill I’d always had when surrounded by nature’s bounty. My shorter blonde hair, now streaked with a few silver strands, framed my face as I pushed open the glass door, the little bell above it chiming softly. The warmth of the greenhouse enveloped me, a stark contrast to the crisp spring morning outside. My green eyes scanned the rows of vibrant plants, their colors a feast for the senses. I was on a mission, armed with a list of ambitious plans for my garden this season.

I wandered through the aisles, running my fingers over the leaves of a particularly lush fern. The plants here were always healthier, larger, and more vibrant than anywhere else. It was almost uncanny. I spotted Mike, a young employee I’d seen around before, watering a row of tomatoes. He was in his early twenties, with a lean build and a mischievous grin that always made me smile. His dark hair was tousled, and his arms were toned from hours of physical labor. I approached him, my curiosity getting the better of me.

“Mike, these plants are incredible,” I said, gesturing to the tomatoes. “How do you get them to grow so well? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

He paused, his eyes flicking around to ensure no one else was within earshot. “Well, Mrs. Kate,” he said, leaning in closer, “there’s a secret to it.”

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “A secret? Do tell.”

He glanced around again, then whispered, “It’s the fertilizer. We use something special.”

“Special?” I prompted, leaning in as well.

He hesitated, then said, “It’s… well, it’s semen. The guys here, we all contribute. It’s like magic for the plants.”

I froze, my mind struggling to process what he’d just said. “Semen? You’re telling me you use… cum as fertilizer?”

Mike nodded, his cheeks flushing slightly. “Yeah, it’s a bit weird, but it works. The plants love it. They grow faster, stronger, healthier.”

I was shocked, but also strangely fascinated. “And… how exactly does that work?”

He shrugged. “It’s got all these nutrients, right? Nitrogen, phosphorus, potassium. Plants thrive on it. Plus, it’s natural. No chemicals.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, a mix of disbelief and amusement bubbling up inside me. “Well, I’ve heard of organic farming, but this is next level.”

Mike grinned. “Exactly. Wanna see?”

Before I could respond, he took my hand and led me toward the back of the greenhouse. My heart raced as we passed through a door marked “Employees Only.” The air back here was warmer, heavier, and the scent of earth and something else—something musky and distinctly male—hung in the air. My cheeks flushed as I realized what that scent was.

We entered a large room filled with pots of soil, each one labeled with a plant’s name. And there, in the center of the room, were several young men—all college students, by the looks of them—sitting on stools, their hands moving rhythmically. My eyes widened as I realized what they were doing. They were masturbating, their cocks in their hands, their faces contorted with concentration. Each man had a pot in front of him, and as they climaxed, they released their semen into the soil.

I stood there, frozen, my mind reeling. This was… surreal. And yet, there was something primal, something raw about it that sent a thrill through me. I felt like an intruder, yet I couldn’t look away.

Mike noticed my shock and smirked. “Told you it was a secret. We only hire young guys for this reason. They’ve got nearly limitless reserves of cum, and it’s the freshest you can get.”

I shook my head, trying to process it all. “This is… incredible. And so wrong. But incredible.”

He laughed, a low, infectious sound. “Yeah, it’s a bit taboo. But hey, it works. And the plants don’t judge.”

I glanced around the room again, taking in the scene. The men were of all different builds and ethnicities, but they shared one thing in common: their cocks were hard, their hands moving with purpose. One guy, a tall, muscular blond, was close to finishing. His hips were thrusting subtly as he stroked himself, his face flushed with arousal. Another, a lean, dark-haired guy, was moaning softly, his eyes closed in pleasure.

“How often do you… do this?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“A couple times a week,” Mike replied. “Depends on how many orders we have. The more plants, the more cum we need.”

I nodded, my mind racing. “And… do the customers know?”

He shook his head. “Nope. It’s our little secret. They just know their plants are the best.”

I thought about it for a moment, then said, “I’ll take a dozen tomato plants, a few roses, and some herbs. And… whatever else you recommend.”

Mike grinned. “Coming right up. And don’t worry, they’ll get the full treatment.”

A few days later, the plants arrived at my house. I’d arranged for them to be delivered and planted by the greenhouse staff, curious to see if the rumors were true. As I watched from my kitchen window, a group of young men—Mike among them—unloaded the plants from the truck. They were all wearing tight jeans and loose t-shirts, their youthful energy palpable.

They began planting, their movements efficient and practiced. But as they worked, I noticed something strange. One by one, they started to undo their pants, their hands disappearing into their jeans. My heart skipped a beat as I realized what was happening. They were masturbating—right there in my yard.

I felt a flush of heat spread through my body, a mix of shock and arousal. This was… audacious. And yet, I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Mike caught my gaze through the window and winked, a mischievous smile on his face. I stepped back, my cheeks burning, but I couldn’t resist watching.

The men were unapologetic, their hands moving with purpose as they stroked their cocks. One guy, a lean brunet with a piercing, was moaning softly, his head thrown back in pleasure. Another, a muscular redhead, was thrusting his hips subtly as he jerked off, his face contorted with arousal. Mike was watching me, his hand moving slowly, his eyes locked on mine.

I felt a tingle between my legs, a wetness that surprised me. This was wrong—so wrong—but it was also the hottest thing I’d ever seen. These young men, their cocks hard and throbbing, their hands working feverishly as they climaxed, one by one, into the soil around the plants. Their cum, thick and white, mixed with the earth, a primal offering to nature.

As the last man finished, Mike approached the window, his jeans still unbuttoned, his cock semi-hard. He grinned at me, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “One last fertilization treatment,” he said, his voice low and husky. “Just for you.”

I felt my breath catch in my throat as he started to stroke himself again, his hand moving slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. I watched, transfixed, as his cock grew harder, his balls tightening. And then, with a low groan, he came, his cum shooting out in thick streams, landing on the soil near the roses.

I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth. This was… incredible. And so dirty. So taboo. But I couldn’t deny the heat that had built up inside me, the wetness between my legs that demanded attention.

Mike smirked, tucking himself back into his jeans. “Enjoy your plants, Mrs. Kate. They’ll be the best you’ve ever had.”

I nodded, unable to speak, my mind still reeling from what I’d just witnessed. As they loaded their equipment into the truck and drove away, I stepped outside, the scent of earth and cum heavy in the air. I ran my fingers over the leaves of a tomato plant, feeling a strange connection to it, knowing what had gone into its growth.

That night, as I lay in bed, I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d seen. The image of those young men, their cocks in their hands, their faces flushed with pleasure, was burned into my mind. I felt a hunger, a need that I hadn’t felt in years. I slipped my hand between my legs, my fingers finding my wetness easily. As I touched myself, I imagined Mike, his cock hard and throbbing, his hand moving in rhythm with mine. I moaned softly, my hips bucking into my hand as I pictured him coming, his cum shooting out, thick and hot.

I came hard, my body shaking with the force of my orgasm, my juices coating my hand. As I lay there, breathless, I realized something: this was just the beginning. The Green Thumb had awakened something in me—a primal, raw desire that I couldn’t ignore. And I knew, without a doubt, that I’d be back. For more plants. And for more of their secret fertilizer.

Nostalgic Pleasure

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I lay on my bed, my mind drifting back to a time when life was simpler, and my pleasures were raw and unfiltered. I was Melissa, a woman of 44 years, with brown hair that cascaded in loose waves down my back and brown eyes that had witnessed both joy and sorrow. My body, though marked by time, remained fantastic—a testament to years of care and a playful spirit that refused to age. My face, pretty and expressive, could shift from kindness to cruelty in an instant, a true switch capable of dominating or submitting, depending on the whim of the moment. Today, however, I was neither dominatrix nor submissive. I was a woman lost in nostalgia, yearning for a taste of the past.

It started with a memory—a vivid, almost tangible recollection of my teenage years. Back then, my sexual exploration was a secret world, a realm of discovery hidden from prying eyes. My go-to method of pleasure was simple yet profoundly satisfying: humping a pillow. Not just any pillow, mind you, but a special one. It was soft yet firm, perfectly shaped to cradle my body as I ground against it. I’d straddle it, my hips moving in a rhythmic dance, the friction building until I climaxed in a rush of youthful ecstasy. That pillow had been my silent companion, a witness to my early sexual awakenings, tucked away after each session like a cherished secret.

Years had passed since I’d last indulged in that hands-free pleasure. Life had intervened—relationships, careers, other methods of satisfaction. But today, as I lounged on my bed, a wave of nostalgia washed over me. I felt an irresistible urge to revisit that old ritual, to reconnect with the girl I once was. I rose from the bed, my bare feet padding softly against the wooden floor, and made my way to the closet. There, tucked away in a corner, was the pillow. It was a bit worn now, the fabric faded and the stuffing slightly lumpy, but it was still familiar. I pulled it out, holding it close to my chest, and smiled. It felt like reuniting with an old friend.

Back in my bedroom, I positioned the pillow on the bed, its soft surface inviting. I stripped off my clothes, letting them fall to the floor in a careless heap. My body, though older, still felt alive—my skin smooth, my curves inviting. I climbed onto the bed, straddling the pillow as I had done so many times before. The sensation was immediate. The softness of the fabric against my skin, the way it molded to my body as I settled atop it, sent a shiver of anticipation through me. I closed my eyes, letting the memories flood in, and began to move.

My hips swayed slowly at first, my movements tentative as I reacquainted myself with the rhythm. The pillow seemed to remember me, too, providing the perfect resistance as I ground against it. My breath quickened, my nipples hardening as the friction built between my thighs. I moaned softly, the sound filling the quiet room, and increased the pace. My hands gripped the bedsheets, my fingers digging into the fabric as I lost myself in the moment. The pillow was firm enough to support me, yet soft enough to yield to my movements, creating a sensation that was both familiar and exhilarating.

I tilted my pelvis, angling my body to maximize the contact. My clit, swollen and sensitive, rubbed against the pillow with each thrust, sending sparks of pleasure through my core. I bit my lip, my eyes fluttering open as I gazed down at the pillow, now a blur beneath me. My hair fell around my face, framing my flushed cheeks and parted lips. I was no longer a 44-year-old woman; I was a teenager again, discovering the joys of her body for the first time.

The rhythm of my movements became frantic, my hips pistoning up and down as I chased the orgasm building within me. My moans grew louder, more desperate, each sound a testament to the intensity of my pleasure. Sweat began to form on my skin, glistening in the soft light of the room, as my body worked in perfect harmony with the pillow. I was drowning in sensation, my senses overwhelmed by the nostalgia and the raw, unfiltered pleasure of the moment.

Then, it happened. The orgasm crashed over me like a wave, powerful and unrestrained. My body stiffened, my back arching as I cried out, my voice echoing in the stillness of the room. My cunt clenched around the pillow, my juices flowing freely as I rode out the climax. It was a hands-free orgasm, pure and unadulterated, a reminder of the simplicity and intensity of my younger days. I collapsed onto the pillow, my chest heaving as I gasped for breath, a satisfied smile spreading across my face.

For a moment, I lay there, my body still buzzing with the aftermath of my release. The pillow felt warm beneath me, almost alive, as if it, too, had shared in my pleasure. I ran my hands over its surface, tracing the familiar contours, and felt a surge of affection for this inanimate object that had brought me so much joy. It was more than just a pillow; it was a symbol of my sexual awakening, a silent witness to my journey of self-discovery.

As I lay there, my mind wandered to the years that had passed since I’d last used this method of pleasure. I thought about the relationships I’d had, the lovers I’d shared my body with, and the ways my sexuality had evolved. But in that moment, I realized that there was something uniquely satisfying about this hands-free, pillow-humping pleasure. It was a solo act, a celebration of my own body and desires, untainted by the expectations or needs of another. It was raw, it was real, and it was mine.

I rolled off the pillow, my body relaxed and sated, and lay on my back, staring up at the ceiling. A sense of peace washed over me, mingled with a renewed sense of self. I felt nostalgic, yes, but also rejuvenated. It had been a lovely reunion with a method I’d once cherished, and I knew it wouldn’t be the last time I revisited that old, familiar pleasure.

With a contented sigh, I reached out and pulled the pillow close, hugging it to my chest. It was more than just a tool for pleasure; it was a piece of my history, a reminder of the girl I once was and the woman I had become. I closed my eyes, letting the memories and sensations linger, and smiled. It had been a beautiful journey, and I was grateful to have taken this trip down memory lane.

As I drifted off to sleep, the pillow cradled in my arms, I knew that this wouldn’t be the last time I indulged in this nostalgic pleasure. It was a part of me, a piece of my sexual identity, and I wasn’t ready to let it go just yet. The pillow humping, the hands-free orgasms, the raw, unfiltered pleasure—it was all a part of who I was, and I intended to savor it for as long as I could.

And so, I slept, the pillow by my side, dreaming of the past and the pleasures yet to come. It had been a lovely reunion, a reminder of the simplicity and intensity of my younger days, and I knew that this wouldn’t be the end of my journey with this old, familiar pleasure. It was just the beginning.