a masturbator wrote:
I woke up with my heart hammering against my ribs and my cock straining so hard at my boxers that it left a little wet patch where the head pressed against the fabric. The last thing I remembered from the dream— one of those bizarre, so-real technicalities that only show up in fevered sleep— was the sound of car doors slamming shut, one after another, followed by high-pitched giggling and the rapid-fire click of cheap flip-flops and expensive heels on the sidewalk. It was insanely early, not even 6 a.m., but somehow every car on the block was packed with hot, barely legal college girls, all doing some new, viral #girlsgetoff challenge. The rules were simple: park in front of a random house, get in the backseat, and masturbate to orgasm before the neighbors called the cops.
I snapped my window open and nearly fell face-first onto the sill, craning my neck to get a better look. My breath fogged the glass. Some girls had already shimmied out of their track pants and yoga shorts, and one group—four of them, crammed into a battered Honda Civic—were naked from the waist down, legs thrown over the headrests, fingers knuckle-deep in themselves as they cheered each other on. It was this perfect, low-res blend of exhibitionism and solidarity, and it triggered something in me that felt like being twelve again, humping the couch cushions until my balls ached.
The best part was that they all seemed to know I was watching. They made pointed eye contact, smirked, and adjusted their positions to give me a better view—one even winked and pressed her tits against the rear window, leaving two perfect steam-prints on the glass while she fingered herself with three fingers and a thumb. I stroked myself furiously, not even caring if anyone saw (it was a dream, after all), and within seconds I shot an obscene, sticky load all over the ledge, which in Dream Logic immediately turned into a glistening, pearly line down the entire side of the house.
I turned to tell my girlfriend, who had apparently been in bed with me the whole time but was busy scrolling Instagram and only half-listening. “You won’t believe what just happened,” I started to say, but she cut me off with this look that said, ‘you’re a pervert and I love you, but I’m over this already.’ She rolled her eyes, muttered something about ‘typical men,’ and went downstairs.
I woke up with a start, still rock-hard, flopping in a tangle of sheets and half-remembered images of those girls arching and moaning in their cars. My girlfriend was already awake, sipping coffee and reading emails with her hair up in a messy bun. I sat at the kitchen table and told her every detail, from the Civic full of over-achievers to the girl who licked her own squirt off the dashboard.
She listened, stone-faced for a moment, then broke into a slow, wicked smile. “You know I would never just go downstairs and leave you to spy on girls by yourself,” she said, setting her mug down with a little flourish. “I would’ve pulled you away from the window and fucked you so hard you’d forget all about them.”
I nearly choked on my orange juice. I grinned, teasing her with a raised eyebrow, “So, you want to do a window show of our own, huh?”
She only shrugged, flicked my arm, and said, “Maybe. But don’t expect me to clean the ledge next time.”
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