I squint because her fingers are crossed behind her back, so I can only imagine what total baloney she’s spewing. She’s probably telling them I’d like to be blindfolded for a human (them) taste test.
She’s not totally wrong.
The curtains snap closed before I let out a long exhale and lean back against the covered window.
“That’s better,” I say to myself.
I just need to close out the world and, well, take the edge off. Get back to thinking with a clear mind because it’s too fogged up with sex.
Honestly, this is on Moonbeam. This is all her fault.
How could she tell them I’m attracted to them? I mean, I am, but that’s beside the point. Because realistically, it’s a maybe that I could build enough bravery to take on one of them. But all three? At the same time?
I can barely remember my name when they look at me. I turn into a bumbling idiot, saying things like, “I have to pee.”
A foursome… I pause, cocking my head, still considering quartet or maybecocktet? Anyway, a foursome is walking-on-the-moon kind of courage. I am not the Neil Armstrong of dick. There will be no planting of my flag on their moons.
Brooks’ ass filters into my mind.
And because I’m not completely unself-aware, it doesn’t get past me that just thinking about them makes my body warm with excitement.
My pussy is clearly off her rocker. I’m suffering from vaginal delusions of grandeur, or simplyvalusions. If that’s not a clinical term, it should be.
No, I suddenly think to myself,this is the remnants of my dream.
I’m all hot and bothered because when I was surrounded by them, it reminded me of…oof, I can’t even think about it again without feeling my cheeks blush. The things I did while slumbering last night are enough to get me put in the porn hall of fame.
Someone give me my golden cock.
My head’s nodding along with all my thoughts because a plan is forming. I grin, whispering conspiratorially. To whom? I have no idea, probably to the traitor downstairs.
“I just need to get them out of my system. Maybe a little quiet time. Just to myself.”
Thankfully, I’ve become quite a pro at working through a horny problem. So I push off the window and start the preparations.
A box of matches rattles as I swipe them off the dresser before opening the lid and striking one. I light the coconut-scented candle beside the bed before waving the scorched match, watching the smoke waft through the air.
Here we go.
It may seem silly, but self-care has become sacred to me, and I like treating myself. So I’ve developed an entire ritual.
There’s the candle, which romanticizes the vibe. No pun intended.
Next is my dirty little treasure trove.
I discard the match and make my way over to my suitcase. Truth is, I may have left a box full of toys at my old house for Poppy, but I kept my top three. The only helpers that ever got me where I needed to go—orgasmville.
I stare down before plucking all three out of my bag and gingerly taking them back to the bed, where I lay them out in order of importance.
There’s a tiny yellow thing called a lemon that’s for my clit; it resembles its name. As well as the almighty standard: a bright neon pink dildo equipped with a thrusting motion. I paid extra for that. And my newest purchase, vibrating anal beads for when I want something friskier.
Like I said, I take my self-care very seriously.
My shoulders do a little shimmy before I pivot and head over to the door, dimming the lights. This is step three—setting the mood. I head to the nightstand next, where my phone is, to play some music.
There’s a lot that goes on to get me to a place where I can relax enough to let myself go. It’s like having a ten-step skincare system that delivers a very healthy glow at the end.
I scroll through my playlists until I see “Afternoon Delight.” It’s not full of classic fuck-tunes as would be expected. In fact, it’s a lot more like elevator music for the mind, something to play in the background to let me wander into my own fantasyland.
