#plaster cast

From last week

"I love all things Asian. Chinese Silk for my Dirndls is so lovely. Trying out the neck rings felt amazing. Only Karate was a bad idea."

Three weeks after the accident, Kate had almost grown accustomed to the weight of the cast. She lay on the couch with her leg propped up, the hard white shell encasing it from ankle to the base of her toes, leaving only her toes free—painted a deep, glossy purple. She’d insisted on getting a pedicure even in the hospital, telling the nurse, “At least something should still look pretty.”Every evening Mark came straight home from work and went to her. He always started with her leg: gently tracing the edge of the cast, running his fingertips over its smooth, unyielding surface, then lower, across warm skin and between her exposed toes. At first Kate had only smiled at his fixation, but she quickly realized how intensely it aroused him—the helplessness of it, the stark contrast between cold plaster and soft, living flesh.Tonight he knelt beside the couch. Kate watched in silence as he leaned in, lips brushing the rim of the cast before sliding down to her toes. His tongue glided over the painted nails; he took one toe into his mouth and sucked slowly, reverently, while his free hand stroked the side of the cast like a lover.“You know I can’t move it,” she whispered teasingly, voice already unsteady.Mark said nothing, just drew closer. Carefully—aware of the weight—he lifted the casted leg and settled it between his thighs. The rigid plaster pressed cold against the denim at first, but he quickly unbuttoned his jeans and freed his straining erection.The lower edge of the cast now rested firmly against the base of his shaft, hard and immovable. He began to rock slowly, using the cool, unyielding surface for friction while his mouth continued its worship of her bare toes. Kate’s breathing grew ragged as she watched him lose himself completely to the cast.“Go ahead… use it,” she murmured at last, lifting her leg as much as the heavy plaster allowed.The pressure increased; cold plaster and warm toes worked together in perfect opposition. Mark gripped the side of the cast for leverage, hips moving faster, lips still lavishing attention on the purple nails.It didn’t take long. His body tensed, a low groan escaping as he came—hot, thick pulses spilling over the cool white surface. Kate watched with quiet satisfaction as he shuddered, struggling to catch his breath.When he finally looked up, she gave him a slow smile.“Five more weeks to go,” she said softly. “Plenty of time for you to practice.”

Dec. 2019

This picture is wild! These faces are plaster casts. On the right is my ex-boyfriend from high school, and on the left is his best friend at the time — the one I cheated on my boyfriend with. I was involved with him again in my mid twenties, and he passed away last October at just 31 from a heart attack. His funeral was awful. His grave doesn’t even exist anymore. He was buried as a Muslim in an anonymous grave on a Catholic cemetery. He never had a real grave. The feeling of seeing his coffin and knowing there’s him in that coffin — dead — someone I once loved physically and emotionally, among us, but dead. All our old classmates and exes at the cemetery, crying, in shock. Sometimes it haunts me. He was so handsome and charismatic and totally mental. At the time these plaster casts were made by a friend of ours (with whom, by the way, the late guy and I once had a threesome), the guys were around 18 or 19 years old. Captured in their youth and beauty for eternity.