Horn dog



Yesterday I was a pervy little horn-dog, hanging out with my pseudo dad. We were enacting what it would be like to be ‘one of the boys’. Two hillbilly hicks, with dubious virtues and no morals. Did we push it too far? Are they still relatable? It was fun to be ridiculous, to talk about stuff that made us sound reproachable. Father and son sifting through porn to post on a bare pockmarked stucco wall. Now come the sex dolls, I can’t stop giggling, as we simultaneously dry hump and I try to poke them with my measly cock. I enjoy touching their inflatable curves, their small humped breasts like torpedoes underneath my hands. I grind, but I am so self-conscious. Is it obvious how much I am enjoying this? I try not to look like I am enjoying it too much, and I keep flitting from one thing to the next, constantly jabbering. I am reminded of that uncomfortable feeling that would sweep over me like a blanket when a sex scene would appear on the screen of the tv as I sat next to my parents, and I would squirm in my arousal. I was once told that my lips go red when I’ve just masturbated, and my eyes go green when I lie. I feel like I cannot hide anything in the recess of my body, all of my organs seek to betray me. Like my nipples yesterday. I think I could come like this, rubbing against her plastic ass, but my shorts are so tight and I’m embarrassed.