Those biting cold January Lake St. Clair mornings were hard on a Desert Child’s lungs. Even remembering the proper time of the shuttle stop seemed like such a titanic effort. I just know eventually I made it to the proper building lobby, pressed the correct elevator stop, and drudgingly made my way down the hall to the Wednesday morning lecture for another topic of human muscles and attempts to finesse and conquer a few of the caprices of spinal cord injury. There was a small mercy in seeing the boxed coffee and bagels in the back of the classroom. I filled a droll Styrofoam cup with coffee. I was set on dulling yet another taste of bitterness on an already bitter dark winter morning that I compromised personal preference and relented to grab some standby indestructible-to-expiration creamer cups. I usually don’t use them.
Why does this colloid yuck always look so dead when it lands in the liquid? Milk or cream are always more compliant. The pathetic way it always sulks, keeping its sorry shape and resists to fully integrate into the coffee… it looks dead. At least cum, once it leaks out of a pussy, leaks *progressively livelier* as it heats up. It awakens, starts to race, faster and faster. The sperm need a leisurely stream to swim down If they’re going to win. And usually there are two main portions. The portion that is deep inside the woman’s vault is ecstatic at the thought of trying to find treasure deeper within, and the other portion just leaks out ever faster towards the rectum. For those who welcome that effect. Myself included. Adds a little bit of zest. Manufactured is optimized for ease of penetration, but the thought that a man’s cum joins the effort somehow makes it more *personal.*
Seeing this white goo in my coffee. It just stays stagnant. Resistant to the heat. Remains stubborn shapely form in the coffee instead of politely homogenizing itself with its micro cocoa bean artifact neighbors both trapped in hot water. The drinker of the sad morning coffee must always vigorously stir some life into it. Cum just… awakens by itself. Magical.
Ha, these thoughts. Coffee-creamer-as-cum at 6:53 AM? I guess it was just one of those mornings.
Sitting in the middle of the aisle, with maybe 4 pairs of desks on either side of the room, I had no idea what awaited me. A simple glance. A stoic glance. A knowing glance.
See, my exceedingly kind reader, I always have had many more things in my head than what I ever dared to express.
I don’t know if this memory is really all it seems. I think it is. I eventually sat down with my coffee-with-a-splash-of-dead-dull-white near the back of this room, and there were other tired students at the desks near the walls on both sides. I was sitting in a stand-alone chair near the back of the room.
And you…
I could probably Google around, find your name if I wanted to. You could be John Smith. Or Krystian Franz Cornelius Bartus III. Does it matter?
I just remember that you were in a wheelchair. I gathered from later conversations that you were a quadriplegic from a tragic accident. The effects of that tragedy weren’t really registered into my brain that January morning.
I was alone, in the middle of the aisle. And you looked up. Proud in your metal and leather throne. Regal. And you looked at me so severely. Right into my eyes. It was direct. It was difficult to hold that gaze and I eventually looked away. I am a shy creature. Yet in microseconds, possibly, while we were still in that locked gaze trance, I had the most uninhibited thoughts. Were the shadows of the forms of my inner imaginations and mental puppetry obvious and projecting out from my eyes?
How did you develop such a strong, masculine gaze?
I..I can’t begin to define such a thing like “masculinity”, because this concept is loaded and indiscernible for many. But I want you to know that in that man’s gaze, for a second, I was entranced. I want my readers to know that he stared at me point blank and unafraid that morning, and it was impossible to look away. I soon began imagining myself in scanty negligee, performing for him on a pole, I suppose. I would have started on a basic grip with my right hip flexed up and externally rotated, wrapped around the metal with my right knee clinging to the metal and with my left hand sinking down with my torso along the outside of my left leg, tracing, feeling up and down. I would have shaken, swayed, and exaggerated the curve of my hips to whatever music he chose. *In the Air* by Phil Collins. Lana del Rey’s *Cherry.* *Rachmaninov’s C-sharp minor prelude*. It did not matter, because I want you to know that my legs would carry the beat of whatever piece that man chose up through my waist until my shoulders and neck. Completely lost.
I would have let purposely-too-loose black lace bra straps sink below my shoulders. Danced for him. Crawled up to his threshold, cock in my mouth and patient for a reflexive hardening. Let him enjoy the sight of my body. I would have straddled his head and laid my pussy straight onto his mouth and felt those lively and expressive parts of his tongue contend with me. I would have been grateful to hear his gasps and moans. I hope he knows how grateful I would have been for them. More grateful than the superficial and shallow glances from a sea of others in my life.
I would have held my deep pink orchid just above his face. Let him direct my fingers inside myself with just his words and cool direction. He could have borrowed my hands commanded them become his with a few words. “Come hither” incessantly against my inner ridge and watch my floods gush out of me. Bruise myself burgundy and purple with spatula or paddle and reveal my holes head into the ground, ass up for him. He could have directed me to turn around in fort of him, get on my hands and elbows, and prostate myself unashamedly for him.
*Where did your gaze come from?*
Your glance and benevolent objectifying glance meant something. You held it for so long. With me. Before teaching your lecture that you have taught a hundred times. Did you really figure me out so quickly? That terrible and consuming submissive and masochistic soul I have? Did you know that you could have commanded me to do anything, and I would have gladly done them for you, to make you feel like an emperor on these cold shores of St. Clair?
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/j35ya8/a_gaze_one_winter_morning