It's better to let me do the thinking, my cock said to me. I pictured myself in therapy ten years from now, with Frasier Crane sitting in the chair opposite me. (I may have binged watched too many old TV shows.) Old? My mother was in her teens when that show was on the air. Thoughts of TV shows and therapy left me as I sat my naked ass down on the couch and stroked my dick, thinking about Mom and what Mom was going to say when she realized that I no longer needed to make her do anything.
I used my spit to grease my cock, and as I stroked the full length of my member, pulling the neck skin over the head, I promised myself that I'd go and buy some lube. Something warm and soothing that gave a person the tingles. Something I could use on Mom's asshole. Would Mom give it up, even if I made her? That was something Jenna wasn't going to give me until she turned nineteen, so maybe I could make my mother give me hers.
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