John's hallway antics yesterday have left him a little sheepish. He's been quiet or pretending he's asleep ever since. I think he's scared in case I start up about the rise in his own trousers, ask how a man paralysed from the waist down can get a hard-on? He doesn't know for sure I saw that, but I did. Before he slyly tucked it up and out of sight under the waistband of his pyjama's it was quite hard to miss. It's not the inconsistencies and questions which that brings up concerning his paralysis that bothers me, it's more about if he can get hard, why will he not fuck me? Am I not even good to be used as a hole? A breathing sex doll? And I'm not talking love, or any kind of emotional sex. Just to be fucked, used and chucked away. I don't care. But when your hole is no longer even seen as an aperture for pleasure, God, it really means you have done something awfully wrong.

But what changed so suddenly yesterday morning? What was John thinking as my dick slipped and slopped about in his gob? Sadly I know the answer to that. He was thinking of a pimply faced, red-haired, baggy shorted, 17 year old postboy, I was barely a part of the equation. But I can be the postboy. If that's what John wants I can hide my face, turn my back and offer it up as good as anyone else. Just to have the man I love desire me, even for a few brief moments, for that I would jump off the world.


  1. He's clearly faking it.

    The only way to stop someone faking something is to make the thing they're faking real.

    Works every time for me.

  2. You have me doing wheelies in suspense.

  3. @ Mrs A Winthrope: I'm not going to deny having the same thought. X

    @ Jim: Be careful with the wheelies, I can't afford to lose another reader. ;) X


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