Maybe this is what dykebreaking is really all about. You didn’t expect it to go this way. It’s safe to say we’re friends now, me and you, and things are nice. Sure, we may have spent a few nights together and rode each other senseless, kissed and cuddled and came all over each other, but it’s all calmed down now. You got it out of your system. Sometimes you desire a bit of male attention, as you’re well-wired to do, but it’s not often, maybe once a month and nothing stops us from having a bit of fun together texting and sending pictures. It’s long distance, it’s casual, and we are careful with each other. No danger to our friendship. Some quick relief and pleasure, a dumb, perverted kink that you can rub out and be done with.
But what you didn’t expect was to still think about my dick even on the days where men repulse you. You really didn’t think that the words that I moaned into your ear and the things you whimpered back to me would stick - did you even accidentally call me daddy one time? And did I call you my sweet princess back? How embarrassing, that’s not like us. The same way it’s not like you to daydream about it even on the days where you’re texting two or three potential suitors, cute mascs and femmes, setting up dates. Why must it be overshadowed by a few harmless nights of meaningless, so unserious fun?
It’s begrudgingly that you notice you have a large, dark damp patch on your grey panties, the ones you bought because I asked you to enough times that you gave in, and because you secretly delighted in how much a seemingly average straight guy was drooling over the idea of seeing how embarrassingly wet you were getting for him. You are far too horny, and almost pissed off as you slide your hands down your pants and close your eyes. The images are degrading: my beard grazing the insides of your thighs; the vision of yourself in the mirror, mascara running down your spit-covered cheeks after I facefucked you; my hairy chest pressed into your face as you squirmed and intently felt it pulse inside you; the teeth marks you left on my bicep; the thick, hot ropes of cum I shot into you and the string of our mixed juices that kept us touching even after I pulled it out. In this moment, they are genuinely meaningless to you. Maybe even a bit disgusting. But your body isn’t saying the same thing. How annoying. Similarly, you can’t even touch your dildo anymore. Not only does it not fill you the way it used to after taking me for four days in a row, but the way you sucked on it during the weeks leading up to that, wishing it was me, changed how you saw it in a way that no number of strap sessions with soft girls could ever undo. And yet, with every thought you get closer to orgasm. None of this makes sense: you’re a lesbian! A lesbian who played out one silly fantasy for kicks! Nothing should have changed. This is so fucking stupid. By the time you slide two fingers into yourself - they now feel so tiny compared to mine - your head is so flooded with the masculine sights and sounds of what I did to you and the way your legs shook that you can’t help but pout, bite your lip, and let yourself cum. You really didn't think this was what the "breaking" part referred to.
God, if this is how it’s going to be for now on, you only have one thought: how long until you actually, really want it again?
jbbartram-illu
blakekathryn
2087
origamiaround
vaporwave
andulkaphoto
