A day in the life of a single man
He gets home at half past seven.
Nothing unusual there, he works from ten to five, then goes to the gym, then home. He’s been doing that routine for almost ten years. He lives alone and likes it because it gives him freedom to do whatever he wants. Five years ago he got himself a big flat, the kind you see in the movies when they want to tell you that a character is rich. Not that he is rich, but he’s doing well enough for that and he likes it.
First step, a shower and get changed into home clothes. He takes a second to admire himself in the mirror. His new body is coming along nicely, it’s clear that taking up the gym was one of the best decisions of his life. Even if he’s closer to forty than thirty, he’s in the best shape he’s ever been.
There are way too many products in the bath. Does he even use all of them? He kinda remembers buying all that expensive shit and renewing it every know and then, but he doesn’t recall using half of it. That soap and moisturizer in the corner, those feel right for him. Maybe he should... whatever. Doesn’t matter. He showers and dries off and goes to get some pijamas.
The left half of the closet is off limits to his mind. It’s like he can’t even think of it, like he can barely notice that it’s there. There’s the right half and his clothes are on it, and there’s the left half and he pays no attention to it. There are clothes there and some really fine ones, but they don’t feel like his and he doesn’t even think about touching them. He puts clothes from his half of the closet and ignores the other half.
The TV is on when he steps into the living room, even if he doesn’t recall having turned it on. And he definitely doesn’t watch that show. But whatever, he will change it back once he’s made dinner.
He has been learning how to cook. Today he’s trying something new and fancy that he read about a couple days ago. “He deserves it”, he tells himself. Then he stops a bit to think. Did he just say “he” instead of “I”? Who is “He”? He can feel the capitals in his mind when he thinks the word, but he can’t think whom it may be.
Doesn’t matter. He deserves it and He’s gonna have it. He gets the dinner ready and puts it on the nicest tray he can make, and then he remembers... no cheat days. He has his own regime and he’s gonna follow it, and although it was a nice experiment he’s not gonna eat it. He quickly makes a much simpler dinner for himself and absentmindedly takes both trays to the living room.
There is something on TV, he doesn’t know what. Does he even watch that show?
He sits on the floor in front of the TV. For some reason, it feels more natural and comfortable than sitting on the couch. He has his salad and chicken and protein shake and zones out, watching the screen with his mind blank, almost feeling like there’s a hand softly messing his hair. He doesn’t know what he’s watching and he doesn’t care: It’s just nice to be there and unwind. He doesn’t even move, all he does is breathe and stare and let go.
When he comes back to his senses it’s well past eleven. There is a second empty tray in the table along with the one he used. What was in it? Did he leave it there last night? He can’t remember. He just takes both trays to the kitchen and quickly washes them and brushes his teeth and he’s ready for bed.
He feels like he’s not alone, like there is a quiet presence waiting for him in the dark bedroom. But when he walks in there’s no one there but himself, yet he feels like he can almost hear someone breathing right next to him, like he can hear some words whispered on his ear...
A sudden wave of lust goes through his body and he stops thinking. He just needs to get naked and get off right now and there and nothing in the world can stop him. His clothes fall to the floor and are forgotten, and he kneels on the bed and strokes his cock in long, firm strokes.
One of his hands goes up to his nipple and pinches it. Hard. Harder. Harder!
Until a couple years ago he wasn’t into nipple play, but somehow he has gotten rougher and rougher in his taste recently. He just feels that need, deep inside him, to be treated harshly, and whenever he jerks off his fantasies are about having someone else do to him the same thing he’s doing to himself right now. He slaps himself, pinches, pulls, scratches, and the pain just arouses him more and more. He deserves it.
He closes his eyes an opens his mouth and it’s almost like there’s something poking there. Breathing gets difficult and his throat feels like something is being forced inside it, fucking it, but he doesn’t question it. It just feels too good to ignore. He stops jerking off because his hands can’t compete with his mouth. That feeling of something invading him and going past his throat as deep as he can swallow is enough to make him feel like he’s having the best sex ever, and he throws his head back and gags on nothing and gasps and feels his mouth full and it doesn’t matter if he knows it’s a fantasy, it still turns him on to the point he loses control.
He get on all fours and grabs a handful of nothing and puts him in his mouth and bobs his head up and down, sucking on nothing and sucking it with all his might. If he was asked why he’s doing it he wouldn’t know how to answer. He’s just acting out of pure animal instinct, doing what he feels he wants to do, doing what feels good to him at the moment. If he was asked if there is a voice telling him what to do, he would say he hasn’t heard anything. All the impulses and wants are his and his only. There is just him, alone in the dark, having sex with no one as hard as he can.
He stops the sucking movement and raises his ass. He doesn’t even move, just closes his eyes and pants and moans, and he feels like something is going inside his body, stretching the walls of his ass and going in, deeper and harder and faster, and even if it’s just a fantasy it’s the best fantasy ever that drowns him in a haze of desire that short circuits his brain and pulls him, pulls him, and he can’t stop and doesn’t want to stop and he almost feels like there are hands grabbing his shoulders and his pecs, squeezing him and digging their nails in his skin. He opens his legs even more and lowers his head and his chest, and he’s just an ass up in the air, with his whole body serving the only function of holding the ass up to be fucked by no one.
His head moves back, like something was pulling his hair. His dick bobs in the air and hits his stomach as he thrusts back and forth, his back covered with sweat and grunting at each thrust, and he falls into a rhythm that may be his or may be someone else’s, except that there is no one between him and the the darkness. He can’t see anyone, he can’t feel anyone, he’s not having sex with anyone. He’s just ass up, feeling like he’s getting fucked but it’s just a fantasy.
A part of his mind tries to tell him he’s not alone and someone is definitely there and that someone is definitely doing it to him, but he’s too far gone to care. He flips over and lays on his back and raises his legs up to his shoulders and stays like that, just feeling and loving what he’s feeling, and he doesn’t care. He might see, for a second, a tall figure bending over him, grabbing his legs and raising them even further, a pair of steel grey eyes locked on his own, but then he closes his eyes and lets go, getting lost in the sensation of something happening to his body, something he doesn’t care to try to understand. He doesn’t have to understand it, he just has to let it happen.
He simply feels and grunts and there are teeth biting into his neck and fingertips digging deep in the skin of his chest, and his cock gets even harder and explodes in an intense orgasm, but it’s not over yet, he continues caught on the sensations until he may have heard a grunt next to his ear and may have felt a warm invasion inside his hole, that takes him over the edge again, stronger than the climax he just felt, and deeper, and so much more powerful.
And when he comes down from that amazing high, the bed no longer feels like he belongs there. It would be wrong to sleep on it, but on the floor next to it there’s a rectangular cushion barely big enough for him to fit and a blanket to cover himself, and he sleeps there peaceful and satisfied...
... and alone. Everything is normal. Nothing happened.