I was up late, masturbating and looking at financial options between now and end of this year 2022. I have a stash of savings I could dip into. It’s a thing now because I am officially losing money at this job. I mean I always was but it’s reached the point of no return. The Rubicon.
My stash of savings makes no sense where it is at present. That’s been true for a long time. It is not enough to grow as an investment. It stagnates. But then in my bank account it would simply disappear.
I thought seriously about not showing up today. That is probably how it will end for me here. Just not showing up. AWOL. None would even care except for the bosses, and they would just chalk it up to another one down, another one down, another one bites it.
Morning Mas felt like I was at church. Something about the woman’s position, on her back legs spread, stroking and gently spanking herself. I don’t like spanking of any kind, not even as a gentle joke. But she didn’t do too much of that.
What was magical about this woman was when she cast her feet across the screen. Mostly the feet were off screen, showing only the heels, if even that. But once and again she swung her legs across, bringing the feet into view. That was when it felt like a church service, the feet sprinkling her version of holy water onto me. This was the spit and drool that traveled from her mouth all the way down her body, or so I let myself believe. The drool and spit unquestionably covered her breasts and stomach, and the wetness of her cunt spread throughout that region.
But did any of that reach her feet and ankles? Would it have been enough that by waving her feet across the screen she meant to sprinkle me with her holy water?
I don’t know but a man can believe, right? It’s all about lies, fantasies, and whatever works for achieving the goal at hand, the goal in hand. I find the act so clean, and joyful, all natural and safe. The main risks for me now are having a heart attack before coming. I’d die happy, at least. Happy and alone, my body slowly locked into the pose of grasping my cock with all my might as the chest pains make me masturbate to death. It would be a righteous find for the EMTs. They would know. “Another one up and out.”
…
My woman never made it last night. Not in the 45-minute window of opportunity after which I bolted. Did not like the mood of the place, or the bartender. I think the fill-in bartender might explain why she didn’t appear. I think she only appears when he works, and normally the same would be true for me. But I stayed, typed out the day’s account of the Flatbush adventure, and skedaddled.
I don’t appreciate bartenders asking me to open a tab when the place is, for now at least, what passes as my regular. I’m trusted there but not by the substitutes.
Today will be long and constipated. I did not want to come in today but leave request was denied with no explanation. I do not matter here. My job is an extension of the waste I’d been leaving behind before taking this job. Now the waste takes a more colossal turn as nothing here will ever matter, or remain. I feel this will be a day of double mas. Triple, really, since the Morning Mas is done.
Maybe I’ll get fired once and for all.
I wanted the woman to show up last night. I really did. This week I’ll have two days to see if that can happen. She posts precious little to her social media.
Speaking of which I started swiping through TikTok. All I seem to get is women half my age asking if it’s cool to get boned by men twice their age. The belief seems to be that older men treat women better, more kindly. But why am I getting that and seemingly nothing else?
OK, I went back to it and did get other type of content. But still, it’s a thing for me after being pursued so aggressively by two women half my age. They were fun and all but troubled. Glad to have gotten out of those nonsenses.
The woman I hate to hate has just arrived. Something about her has sent my innards into recoil the moment she spoke to me. A cynical, chirpy voice which speaks in overknowing tones about people she does not know.
