Calling all Eunuchs
My unrealistic but incredibly sexy castration fantasies
He’s beneath me on the bed, his leg between mine as I move against him. A moan escapes his lips, and I smile. “Do you like that?” he whimpers. I move my hand until it’s almost touching his erection. “Imagine when you can’t even get hard anymore. When it’s just a limp, useless thing.” The pressure between my legs is delicious as I slowly grind on his skin.
“Fuck!” He exclaims. “Please.”
“Please what?” I’m grinning, but his eyes are squeezed shut and he can’t see.
“Please castrate me.” He cums as he says it, I can feel it against my hip.
“See, you’re already too premature to fuck me. You didn’t even take your boxers off.” I grind harder, I’m getting closer.
My castration fantasies are most likely Freudian. I love penises. I love how they look, how they feel, and how responsive they are to my evil desires. I think on some level I’m jealous that his arousal is so external, so urgent, so visible. So much like a child who gets jealous of a toy they can’t have, I want to take it away. But it’s not enough to take it away temporarily. I want to keep it.
