I had some kind of bug last week and I’m mostly better but my energy levels are still pretty low. Which means lots of naps, mostly in the afternoon. (Thank goodness I get to work from home!) As I’ve mentioned before one of the great, quirky things I’ve been enjoying lately is waking up with afternoon morning erections.

Technically I don’t exactly wake up with them. It’s more like my cock starts to wake up when I do, and as I start to shift and stretch it grows to a point that pressure against my clothes or bedding (or, in this case couch cushions) starts to feel pretty darn good. That sets up a nice little self-reinforcing cycle. It’s pretty yummy!

So anyway, there I was this afternoon, lying alone in the house on the living room couch with an erection that just ached for a little sensual attention. (I must be feeling better since I haven’t been feeling very horny either.)

So anyway I just laid there with my hands behind my head, watching its curve gently tenting the fly of my jeans and watching it twitch and shift when I squeezed the muscles at the base. (Men can benefit from Kegels too, you know. I’m not sure the information about that gets out as much though.)

Anyway, as I gathered my wits about me it occurred to me that if I started moving my arms I could do more than watch. I reached down and traced over the lump in my jeans with the back of my thumbnail, from the base up to the crown, spending a little more time over the sensitive underside an inch or two from the tip.

Then after pulling my shirt tails out of my waist I slipped my hand down under my belt buckle and alongside my shaft, reaching down a bit further to cup my warm and therefore soft and loose balls before coming back up, palm down, to grasp my length and squeeze and press.

When that wasn’t enough I unzipped my fly, reached in, and pulled myself out (not something I’m inclined to do since someone coming up the steps to the door might have seen me) and just watched its arched form, its shiny-velvety head hovering over without quite touching my belly, pulsing minutely with my heartbeat.

I just petted it for a moment, stroked the sides with the side of my fingers, ran my fingertip around the spongy ridge of the head, and down over the vestiges of my lost foreskin, and generally enjoying the sensual feeling of cool air and enjoying the mild sense of naughtiness of “playing with myself” in the middle of the day, in the living room.

One part of the play involved something I’m sure you may have noticed (you can check next time you get the chance) where you can squeeze all the blood out of the head, temporarily shrinking it to something like its resting size before you wrap your hand tightly around the base and watch it grow full and tight again.

Sigh. It would have been so absolutely wonderful if someone had been there to play with me. To just explore me and experiment, to watch how I reacted to different touches. Fingertips? Check. Fingernails? Check. Leaning over and brushing it with your hair? Check. Licking a line down the side and blowing to chill the moisture, then blowing more gently to rewarm it? Check. Seeing if you could squeeze it hard enough to make me squeak? Probably not — they’re awfully good about handling pressure. Seeing if you could make it rise to meet the side of your face? You could probably make it do that. Slipping off the couch to kneel beside it, eyeing it closely, watching the soft outer skin glide and flow over the firmness underneath? Check. Hold it tightly at the base and feel my contracting muscles make it quiver in your hand? Check. Circle the tip with your fingers, watching the light and shadows shift over it? Check. Squeeze it again and watch it grow larger, tighter, darker red and shinier around the head? Check? Lift it away from my body, bring it microphone-like close to your open mouth, watching my expression as you lions-mouth it — inside but not touching, letting me feel your warm breath but nothing else? Check. Tickling the head with fluttery eyelashes? Check. Lifting it up again and planting prim closed-lip kisses from base to tip? Check. Following again with wet, wet upward licks, painting one side, then the other, then a soft broad-tongued slurp over the upturned underside? Oh check!

For all the good that would have done! Had you been there the phone still would have rung right about then. And if we’d been so occupied we’d have been content to let the machine get it. As I was alone I only sighed. Tucked myself away before zipping, rising, and reluctantly resuming my busy life.