singular pleasures; thank you mr mathews

A forty-three year old man stretches back against a chair in his study at home. He is naked save for an inky black stocking resting across the top of his right thigh. A slim volume fans insouciantly from his left hand. His right hand grips his cock as he watches the arch of semen make its way to spill and splatter over the pale green and red christmas wrapping paper on his desk. He has spent the previous thirty-five minutes both reading the sixty-one stories from the slight book, spinning parallel worlds in his mind’s eye and masturbating his elegant and unusually curved cock. The spare poetic text provided the delicious undercurrent to his viscid release but the main adjuvant was the freedom he always found when imagining his lover. As he wanked, he had her any way. He lingered over the stories he thought would most capture her own imagination and he put her at their center but it was the fantasies and filth they had fashioned together that finally tripped him over the precipice. And so all at once in his greedy mind he came into the Oh of her soft mouth, the swell of her breasts, the curve of her buttocks, the violent tangles in her hair and the hot wet oblivion of her cunt. The minute his heart subsides he straightens his back, pulls up his chair and begins to wrap the book in damp paper ready to send the following day inscribed in the frontispiece, “for my favourite wanker, from hers.”

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