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Last year, I went abroad to Japan as an exchange student for six months. While I was there, I expected to develop some budding crushes on cute, lithe Japanese guys with dark eyes and fantastic hair . . . but instead, I developed major infatuations with the Americans who ended up coming with me! (Not that I didn't think the Japanese boys were cute, but, well, yeah.) Ah, well, what can you do? Anyways, four of the boys in particular sparked four very different fantasies in my head, each related to their personality. I have a feeling as I type them that they might be hot, but not really meaningful to anybody else who doesn't know them the way I do, but oh well, here goes anyways. The second guy was Vince, a tall, quiet, half-Mexican artist with this laidback and sweet, self-effacing sort of personality that charmed me completely:
I could never quite decide on which fantasy I preferred of Vince. I was enamored with his hands- they were artist’s hands, big yet graceful, long, tapered fingers and with pronounced and delineated joints and knuckles. I could stare at his hands all day, watching them and getting turned on imagining getting fisted. In my fantasy, it’s slow, almost surreal- I’m lying on my back and looking down my body at him where he crouches at the end of the bed, his dark, sensitive eyes watching me carefully while he stretches me with his fingers, playing, almost, within the sloppy wetness, touching and rubbing the walls of my vagina. He never breaks eye contact with me, and it’s that mesmerizing gaze, the communication between us, that makes it so vivid. It feels less like he’s putting his hands inside a hole in me, and more like he’s shaping me like clay, using his hands to carve out a space in a way that makes me infinitely aware of my nerve endings, a little frightened and breathless, but no pain. I don't come in my fantasy- it goes on and on without climax and without need of climax.
And then in the other fantasy, I imagine him jerking off. Although I like to paint a picture of his cock in my mind- slender, the same caramel color of his skin but flushed darkly pink, with a defined, circumcised head, his balls hairless but a pretty tuft of dark hair above his groin- my fantasy of his masturbation always includes other, important little details- he is shirtless and his chest is beautiful, he has funny, crazy-printed boxers, he jerks off sitting up, legs haphazardly splayed with one knee drawn up, head lolling against the wall, and when he touches himself, it’s all teases, like an erotic connoisseur. He never grips his cock and blindly jerks, but rather skims his fingertips lightly up and down the shaft, cradles and rolls his soft testicles, eliciting gasps and moans. I never see him come- just this session, devoted to mindless, reeling pleasure.
Vince is also the only one whose cock I want to suck, just for myself. He is the only one of the group who I imagine can appreciate the gesture- never a hand on my head guiding me, no words, no power games, no expectations- just giving into the sensation so that I can focus on his prick, the taste of it, the way it feels in my mouth. I sometimes look up the flat plane of his belly to him, but he’s never looking down at me- his head is always arched back and sometimes rolling from side to side. His cock starts off soft and it stays that way for a long time- not because he can’t get erect, but because I like it that way, soft and small. When he gets hard, his cock lays up flat against his stomach and I lick it like that, ripping my tongue over the canvas of his abdomen to only accidentally brush his dick, or licking the inside of each of his hairy thighs, my lips wetly bumping his balls and setting them swinging.
And then I push him to the bed, laying on his stomach with his face smashed into the pillow or the mattress, his erection pulled back between his legs so I can lick everything- his ass, his balls, his cock. I play with his very lightly furred asscheeks- not slapping, but rubbing and tugging the supple skin, grabbing up soft handfuls, pulling them apart to see his pretty hole. I feast on everything there is for me, swirling my tongue in deeper and deeper circles into his ass, drawing back to suckle a testicle into my mouth, licking the thick, ridged vein on the underside of his cock. His blowjob was silent- nary a moan- but rimming sets him off and he whimpers and groans into the mattress, his sounds muffled, a "Fuck." wrenched from his throat.
I never use my hands on him except to touch his asscheeks and legs; I don’t want to fuck him or jerk him off. I want to use only my mouth, my lips, and my tongue in a warm and sensual bath- no gagging and actually, very little in-out-in-out of his cock in my mouth. It’s all licks and kisses, and when I do swallow him, it’s shallowly, and I savor it, spiraling my tongue around the head of his prick.
In my fantasy, after the long and drawn-out oral pleasuring, he finally comes- not in my mouth or face, but onto my fingertips- and there is a long denoument: in the dim and shadowy darkness we lay in comfortable silence. I watch him, play with his sticky come between my fingertips, touch his body and mine, and savor the way my mouth feels, like I've drunk too much and everything is saturated with alcohol and the taste of him, and indeed, the entire time, I've been in that pleasant place- dick-drunk and tipsy on good wine. Eventually I fall asleep curled against him.
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