As I saw the lovely Girl on the Net say, “There’s not enough erotica about men wanking.” So I decided to take that as an incentive to write an erotica about a man wanking.

Happy reading!

He lay down on his white cotton bedsheets, freshly changed that day. He was naked and gripping the shaft of his hard cock with his oily, lubed-up hand. All he could think about was her. All he wanted to think about was her.

As he started to slowly stroke himself, he closed his eyes and formed the image of her in his mind.

It wasn’t just her body. In fact, her body wasn’t even the main thing, as much as he loved it. He thought about her laugh. God, how he loved her laugh. So full and lively, not holding back. Her smile that lit up the room and made his heart flutter. He thought of her warm hugs as well as the way her dresses skim and cling to her full hips. The way those hips swayed as she walked.

He imagined her lips around his cock, teasing his tip and leaving lipstick marks on his skin. He also thought about how he’d try not to look as she applied that same lipstick in the mirror. He was fascinated by it, the way she’d run the pigmented bullet over her lips, making it look perfect, almost like a painting. Like a doll. Like an art form. The way she’d zhuzh up her hair and blot those beautiful lips with a folded tissue before she stepped away from the mirror.

He thought of the way her lower belly protruded a little, that little natural bump that many women have. She hated it. He loved it. He wanted to kiss it and run his tongue over those gorgeous silvery stretch marks that adorned her lower belly and hips. The same ones she tried so desperately to make go away with the latest cream or oil from a glass bottle and dropper. The same ones she’d try and hide away from him because her idiot ex made her feel bad about them.

He thought of her hip dips and round, firm arse. How he’d give it a soft or firm swat whenever he walked past her in the living room, the kitchen, the bedroom. How it would ripple against his hips when he plunged his cock inside her from behind, and the noises she’d make as she muffled her orgasm into the pillow. How she’d cuddle up to him afterward and would rest her head on his chest, saying he was her safe place as she peppered his chest with sweet kisses.

He thought of the way she twisted her lips when she was concentrating on something. How she’d smile tight-lipped as she bit into that first piece of chocolate after a long week. How she’d run her foot back and forth along his calf when she was reading a book while he played a video game. How she’d light up and greet him with a warm hug when he came home from work as if she hadn’t seen him in weeks. The way she’d form her own commentary during film night on the sofa. He acted like it annoyed him, but he’d give anything to hear her little interruptions when it would just be him and she’d be away for work.

The way she’d tap that cream around her eyes at night, the one she says has that long word in it that he can never remember. The one she says will stave off wrinkles despite him saying he never notices the apparent latest crow’s foot. To him, it meant she was smiling. If he was making her smile then she was happy, and if he made her happy, that’s all he wanted. For her to be happy.

He thought of it all, chest panting, teeth gritted, until he shook against the sheets and he released himself all over his hand and it dribbled down his shaft.

She wanted to be perfect for him. But he didn’t want perfect.

He just wanted her.

*Image – Pinterest