It didn't matter what time of day or night it was, every time I swung my twin lenses anti-clockwise there was Sean beating out another demitasse of boy cum. Besides there is something a little odd and decidedly unerotic in his self-abuse; always in the same place, the same position, eyes staring almost unseeingly before him, his arm and hand pistoning in a relentless almost mechanical motion. Sometimes it seems to hurt; I'm certain that I've detected dewdrops forming at the corner of an eye and once I was certain that his cheeks were tear-stained.And his technique leaves much to be desired, how wonderful it would be to see his delicious muscle straining, the cum risen to fill its length, precum oozing from his slit, twitching wildly unattended until a solitary finger glides along its underside teasing as it empties itself of all its yumminess in endless, helpless pulses. Mmm. But no, all we get is metronomic hand shanking. How selfish. Now I don't want you to think that Sean is some. His door was open, and so was his zipper, and there was internet porn on his computer screen. He didn’t even try to hide it from me, and that made me even sadder that we had come to such a pass. I glanced at his cock in his hand—a natural thing for a wife to do with her husband, I suppose – and I shook my head in disappointment that he was not nearly as long, and even more importantly, nowhere near as thick, as the man I had already shared four sexual encounters with, each better than the last. I felt sad that my husband, while a decent enough lover when we began, had never thrilled me ad satisfied me like my new lover. And had spent the last three years blaming me for every bad thing in his life, especially his lack of a job and lack of drive to look for a new one. He even blamed me for bad things that had happened to him many years before we ever met. I headed on down the hall, slipped off my blouse and skirt, and tossed them into the washing machine, along with the love blanket.
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