Christmas divination ⇐ Sex stories

[Guest]

1.

Parents asked me to help in the dacha with interior decoration. I stayed after the New Year holidays, which we celebrated as a family. Relatives returned to the city, and I was comfortable working alone, so to some extent I myself helped them to leave. And so, one day, after finishing work, I decided to have fun. Yes, the Internet was there, however, I wanted some more mundane entertainment. I remembered that it was Christmas week, and climbed into the attic to tell fortunes. I chose the attic intuitively, but rightly: doing such things in the area of ​​\u200b\u200bthe sleeping place would be somehow strange. So the non-residential attic turned out to be an ideal place. There was once a guest room equipped with light, a table and a sofa, however, it was never used, so it could safely be considered non-residential. And so I arranged the mirrors, lit the candles that I had in reserve in case of a blackout, and began to look into the reflection. Who has not encountered: the corridor that appears in mirrors placed opposite each other puts a person into a trance. Something like the state that occurs if you stare at the fire; after a while you stop being aware of what is around you. A state similar to a vivid concentrated dream. And so I sat down and watched. My skepticism, I must say, helped me - by the fact that I did not expect anything and did not count on anything. And so, gradually, I began to discern how a figure began to move towards me from the depths of the mirrored corridor, which, as it approached, took on the more and more clear outlines of a naked girl. She looked at me intently and walked and walked, approaching me.



2.

I was lying on the bed, throwing my hand behind my head, and a girl was sitting on me and coquettishly touching my sleeping dick with her hand. The girl was charm itself: a sweet smile, a wonderful figure, gentle touches. However, I looked at her as if I did not understand what she wanted. She noticed my puzzled look, sluggish dick and she was blown off the coils! She knocked over the shelves with clay pots, overturned the table and screamed loudly, heart-rendingly:

Faggot. Impotent. Fucking mouth, die!

I was touched by her experiences, but sincerely did not understand what she needed from me?

Who are you anyway? I asked her a question.

In response, obscene curses rained down, an indistinct drawn-out scream and the sound of broken plates.

“God, take care of me about the love of sluts,” I prayed, and somehow she immediately calmed down and kindly, being near me. She was sitting on the floor on her knees with her elbows on my chest.

Don't say that again, okay? It's nothing that you ... that you don't have ... - she continued to sadly finger me on my chest. — Do you want me to turn into a boy and fuck you in the ass?

— No, — I was completely bored and turned my head to the wall. — What is your name?

— Elena.

"Bake the pies," I told her.

I don't want to," the sad Elena answered.

Shut up.



3.

I remembered how I used to race around the football field as a schoolboy; from the summer heat, from the wind, from a good blow, I got up then. Elena caught this barely noticeable movement of my cock, and her tenacious, hungry fingers grabbed it. The memory faded and I looked at Elena:

- Understand, I'm not interested in your silicone ass. I need feelings, emotions. And you live like a work-vacuum cleaner, according to the program once and for all. And maybe the mind excites me in a woman? Maybe I want to compete in business? Eh…

And I indulged in sweet dreams, as I bend over a young lady who stubbornly talks about legal formalities.

I can't," I heard Elena's voice.

— Well, do you have any talents? It can't be that a person has no talents at all!

I don't know," Elena said sadly.

I wanted to hit her. Hit like a tennis ball with a racket. But I held back. Sat on the sofa.

What are we going to do then? You do understand that your methods…” I shrugged, pointing at the work of her methods, “do not work?

The poor thing was sitting on the floor and quietly crying.



4.

—Evil bitch, — I thought, looking at this innocence. - What's on the forehead, what's on the forehead.

— Tremble, child of sexual intemperance. I have friends…” I looked at her. But you didn't guess. I'll take care of you myself. Yes, I have friends - drug addicts, whores and generally all kinds of jerks ... You know, I love fucked up ... So, welcome to the world of prisons, broken cars and dug up corpses. How do you like the idea? — I leaned towards her and looked gloatingly into her eyes.

I don't want something.

Me too. So, are we going to fuck a dead dick, or are we going to try to get fucked in a stolen car?

— Or maybe it’s possible somehow differently ...

No, you can't. So put on your shorts and let's go see what's out there in general.

We went out onto the porch. Night. Street. Flashlight. And there are surveillance cameras everywhere. Actually, the idea jarred on me, to seek solutions to my problems by humiliating others or causing them suffering. It would be more correct to say that I experienced abuse and self-affirmation. In the end, I realized that this is the inevitability of life, it was, is and will be. The best thing I can do is stop wasting time worrying about what happened to me. So, we went in search of adventure.



5.

The night was damp and dark. Only the sound of footsteps could be heard. In the countryside, the city dweller is bored, only half-decayed abandoned houses excite a little imagination. Someone else starry sky. And I ... was excited rather by the thought of rape. But how can you rape someone who wants it? We sat down by a tree on the bank of the river. I was smoking, Elena was sitting next to me.

— You know, I get sexual pleasure from committing thefts. I can't explain it. It's like the moment of owning a house, a shop, or a man with all his junk... Sex with a woman is just physiology: her body, my body. I don't feel anything during sex with a woman. There must be something wrong with me, but I can't figure out what.

Elena looked up at me.

— Am I doing something wrong?

No, I'm not talking about that. When you steal, it is passion, it is an expression of anger. And shame, and adrenaline, and cowardice, and shame. I can not understand. There must be some sense of superiority in it when you interfere in the management of other people's affairs.

Does it turn you on to meddle in other people's business?

I don't give a damn about other people's business. Violence excites me. Suppression of someone else's male sexuality. I want only me to have a dick, and only women to consider me as a satisfyer.

I finished speaking and finished. It was getting light. I was alone, and my heart was light.