There's something deliciously indulgent about being alone. One by one, all of the sweat-drenched garments can come off, tingling as sensation comes back to my skin. Cool, dry air across my chest, rippling my fingers slightly as I kneel in front of the fan to stretch.

None one to tell me to cover up, no peevish voices needling me to work more, to stay, to review this one last report.

Just silence, and the steady beat of my heart.

My imagination, too, always along for the ride, and here it goes again. I've been waiting the whole day, of course, words on my lips and fantasies flitting through my mind. Soft, silken hair in my grasp and the hauling strain of my hips, pushing forward into soft, wet pleasure. Maybe I'm off in some far-off land, inside my mind, when I kneel and retrieve the little bottle from its hidden drawer. Maybe I'm so close to where I am, someone familiar dancing just beyond my reach. But the thoughts fill me, drawing the ghost of a smile to my lips and the blood pumping in slow, hot throbs down to fill my cock.

The lube is cool, slippery, as it runs down my palm, and I shiver. Just like I always do, half in anticipation of what's to come.

So I close my eyes, and feel the wet drip on my thigh, the bob of an aching shaft between my legs, and I begin. A hand, gentle as a lover's touch, wrapped around pulsing flesh, sliding easily in long, slow strokes. Right there, where I'm sensitive, right where the thickest swell of my cock fills my grasp and pleasure shudders from my lips. My palm, swirling over the head, for just a moment while my toes clench under me.

Alone, I remind myself, soft grunts falling into the cool night air, a moan for an imagined companion, eyes shut tight as her lips, the soft folds of her, the slick tight embrace of her body, pump along with my hand.

Another drop of lube, coating into my palm, slides tenderly over veins and melts into the clench of my fist. I can feel it, salty beads already forming and dripping from my tip. Pleasure. Hot and rolling inside me, the images behind my eyes flashing. Rolling, grinding, pushing back on me, a lover with eyes glistening in delight singing praises in my mind.

Pleasure, coursing through me with every long, hard stroke, just as my hips begin to rock on their own. From right there at the base where hair tickles my wrist to the dripping tip a fist and more above, every motion swirling and coalescing.

I'm groaning now, working myself to the point of sweat, bracing myself upright on a single arm.

Alone.

Someone called my writing an exercise in masturbatory excess, so this one's for them! And you, if you'd care to help me with that "alone" bit. All comers accepted, especially if you've got a fondness for romance, feeling stubble tickle between your thighs, spinning a tale together with sex and story entwined, or letting your lips seal around a loving cock.

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