The first fingertips to touch your base feel almost electric. Gods you’re hard! You’re not sure if you’ve even been this hard without a cock-ring, your taut skin overwhelmingly sensitive. You bite your lip as you vividly imagine what that first, full touch will feel like in this state, how knee-weakeningly amazing it will feel when your lubed hand first meets your bare head, already tensing with the thought, straining to get harder still. You wonder if that’s even possible. You stare at the watching hole.
You imagine the watcher on the other side, no longer an eye but a finger beckoning, a lush pair of lips smiling, waiting, right there, unseen, unfelt. You know it’s impossible – you took care to prove it so – and within the safety of that knowledge you’re free to play out the fantasy and see just how far you can strain your cock before it, or you, break.
And so, anticipating that first electric touch, that first physical taste of the waiting lips, you step towards the watching hole.
Many things should worry you. The fact that the hole is the right height, the perfect height, waiting directly before your steadily advancing hips. The fact that it’s the perfect size, invitingly open with just enough room to accommodate you without fear of touching the sides, as if it were made for your tensing shaft. The way the darkness just inside the hole seems to envelop the questing tip of your cock in an almost physical way, resisting you ever so slightly and feeling warmer and wetter than the steaming air, all as if you were touching the entrance of something solid, something alive.
All these things should worry you, and in a calmer sense of mind they would. But aroused as you are, your mind gliding on the mix of reality and fantasy, your eyes half seeing and your skin half feeling every vividly imagined sensation – so that everything that should be a warning just becomes part of the fantasy, And fantasizing about an eager watcher and waiting lips, you steadily enter the hole.
The warmth inside grows with every millimeter, but still you shake as much with apprehension as anticipation. You know nothing will happen, but you can imagine something happening, every moment being the last moment before that first touch, that first lick, that first kiss opening to so much more. A small part of your mind keeps you anchored to reality, keeping your course slow and straight, constantly fearful of touching a sharp side or end, keeping every nerve constantly peaked, constantly waiting. Another part of your brain keeps telling you how stupid this is, how dangerous, how wrong, and that only fuels the excitement as you focus on not tensing, not moving, as you ease yourself ever further into the warm hole.
It just keeps going – you’re buried in almost to the base and still no end – how deep is it? You think you have an answer, as with a shock of sensation your very tip ever so lightly touches something – the solid end of the hole, not lips, just an anticlimactic end. But when you frown it's not with disappointment, but sudden confusion. Instead of sharp, gritty stone, the half-felt end feels... warm? Wet maybe? You’re imagining it, you want there to be lips there, want it so badly that you’re imagining feeling them there, insists your rational brain as it tells your hips to carefully pull back out so you can finish yourself and return to work. But your hips won’t move, frozen on the careful edge of caution and physical curiosity. Very, very carefully, you press another millimeter forward, feel the warm, wet end yield slightly, soft like flesh as your tip nudges into it. You can feel – a pulse? Your own pulse, surely. Everything, all of this is in your head, its all in your own head, you think with a disappointing certainty. Until the fleshy end moves against you.
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