An Embarrassment of Riches

Not because of any great affinity for being yanked from my slumber by wildlife singing or the sight of the rising sun burning off the previous night’s fog. The enjoyment is more prosaic, a pure bout of escapism from my shitty one bedroom apartment with its exposed pipes along the wall, my shitty dead-end job with its shitty bosses (plural), and my shitty personal life without any closeness or intimacy in the foreseeable future. It’s the moment when even I, “Crazy Daisy”, can get some measure of enjoyment out of my twisted freak show of a body and I am going to savor every second.

I take hold and whip the covers off from the bed, letting them settle on the floor, to be dealt with later. I fully open my eyes as I roll onto my back, grasping my t-shirt and pulling it up, staring at the yellowing plaster and broken fan on my ceiling as it goes. Hmm, that image won’t do, not at all sexy, so I close my eyes as I let my hands wander. My breasts never amounted to anything at all, barely enough there to miss qualifying as flat-chested, but my nipples were something special: plump and long and sensitive, they stuck out like the barrels of a pirate ship’s cannons and sent jolts of pleasure through my body that electrified me to the core. So they are the natural starting point, my fingers flicking them lightly, taking their time before massaging what little in the way of tits I can claim, then heading down my chest at a deliberate pace to my belly button, circling it lazily with one finger.

Goosebumps rising across my almost translucent skin, following my tentative touch, I close my eyes tighter and try to think of today’s fantasy… mmm a guy, bashful and submissive, a virgin? No. Not that, not today. Aggressive, mean even, with experience under his belt, that’s what he’ll be. What does he look like? He’s tall for starters, absurdly tall, like six foot seven and built like a linebacker – all muscle, but not too over the top. Muscular, tall, dominant, what else? Let’s take it up a notch further, make him black as well, and not the mainstream cream-in-your-coffee black, but the kind of deep, rich ebony that bleeds into being violet when he’s hit by the right light. He’s strolling through my door in mind’s eye, the small details filing in: shape of his eyes and lips, a half snarl, half smile expression on his face, hairless nude body with a long scar from his left pectoral down to his eight pack abs, his massive hands with scarred up knuckles, and his package – dark like German chocolate, the head a belligerent shade of purple, thick and flared out behind the circumcised head, with angry looking veins crisscrossing the shaft and a set of smooth, fat balls to top it off. It’s a powerful fantasy I’ve constructed and a powerful name pops into mind, completing his character: Jackson.

My fingers come up from my belly, rubbing against my closed lips, imagination in overdrive to turn them from the three pale white digits they are in reality to Jackson’s luscious dick of my reverie. Unhurriedly I lick at them, barely extending past my lips before imagination provides me the next step, Jackson growing impatient with my amateur efforts and cramming his manhood into my mouth. In response, I jab my fingers in, keeping up with the façade, surprising myself with my surprise at my own movement, giving my nipple in hand another firm tweak. By now I’m leisurely wriggling on my bed, my arousal rising as I push my fingers a bit past two knuckles deep in my mouth – the veneer of fantasy turning it into a third of Jackson’s fat dick, stretching my lips wide as he slides in and out at his pace, not mine. I take my time with it, the mental guiding the physical, sowing the fields for what’s yet to come, letting myself spend several long minutes just working with my mouth.

But it’s not enough to satisfy me in and of itself, not by a long shot. Thankfully, my brain tells me Jackson has other plans. My fingers slide gracefully from my lips, becoming his deliciously wet cock sliding down my chin and I shudder, taking the moment to hook my thumbs in the waistband of my panties. Raising my legs off the bed I slide the plain white cotton affair off my legs and deftly toss them nowhere in particular. I’m sure to keep my eyes closed, not wanting to see the aberration below my waist, even as I plan to pleasure it, since I know it will retard my utopia’s progress to face a stark reminder of my own self. Jackson takes it out on me, giving my other nipple a light slap with wet fingers, drawing a sharp intake of breath as he pushes his cock, even thicker now, back into my open mouth. I want to be a good girl so I suck, four fingers in my mouth now, going well beyond the second knuckles, my tongue licking to earn its keep. God, it’s such a wicked thing, so wicked in fact I abandon my nipples for more erogenous pastures, wet fingers flat against my belly, sliding past my stiff co

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