MIRROR, MIRROR
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~ Channeling The Divinyls ~
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I search myself, I want you to find me.
I forget myself, I want you to remind me.
My muscled walls, dripping from our combined release, clamp against his cock as he pounds his steady demanding rhythm inside my cunt. My fingers slip, grasping for purchase between my slick swollen lips, sliding through our cum-soaked mess seeking the frictive pressure I need on my clit.
I am soaked, inside and out; imbued with his ejaculate and flooded with my gush, the push of his hot hard into my tight wet spills our combined juices, coating my labia and dripping down my inner thighs. My skin is dewdropped with perspiration and arousal, my pubic curls drenched with sweat and cum.
(Image Source) This picture doesn’t really have anything to do with my post, but I love that they all look like they’re holding each other’s junk.
I have never had a ‘thing’ for men in uniform.
Perhaps it is because I take a broad view of the term; uniforms are, after all, worn by millions of people every day, and are so commonplace that we often don’t even recognize them for what they are. The UPS driver wears one, as does the cashier at the grocery store. Hospital staff are recognized by rank and position within their workplaces by the color and style of scrubs they wear, and are recognized by the common layperson as “medical staff” by virtue of wearing scrubs, period. It’s a uniform.
Bus drivers, mail carriers, mechanics, firefighters, police, flight attendants… Everywhere you look, someone is wearing a uniform. Chefs, nurses… Hell, even your friendly neighborhood Starbucks employee follows a dress code and wears a smock so as to be immediately recognizable to their customers as “someone who works here.” Slightly informal though it may be, it’s still a uniform.
Uniforms are everywhere. And they do nothing for me.
However…
I am both too hot and too cold, restless, agitated, exhausted. I stare at the ceiling and try to track my thoughts, aligning them one by one against the sliver of light that beams across the painted plaster. But the brightness distracts from the otherwise dark, and in the dim, the jumble of bedclothes strewn around me seem a physical manifestation of my disordered brain. Pillows and blankets call to me for straightening out, for attention to comfort, and my body does the same.
I am…
Unsettled.
My skin is tight with agitation, my nerves a jangle of anxious apathy.
I know what I need to do – and ‘need’ is exactly what I’m dealing with; a need for release, both psychological and biological – but what once was a quick and simple cure-all ritual for these kinds of nights has become a minefield of potential distress, and I find myself having an internal dialogue in an attempt to overcome my reluctance.