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I pace around the hotel room, fingers running through my hair, pressing it back against my head, blushing and fretting.
Am I really doing this?
The rose bowers is a good hotel. It's a very livable place, very comforting - top notch, good for relaxing and getting smooth social experiences, they said. And that's fine, that's good, but the thoughts are...
I rub my face against my hands and stare at the little invitation to "Cock Club" and laugh shyly.
Am I really doing this?
The question comes naturally in the form of "Am I really entertaining this?", of course, the sort adjustment that is so good at concealing things from the full wrath of the judgement of my dignity. It's perfectly fine and if anything courteous to read through and actually consider a recommendation of a professional or yes even a goddess, and it wasn't like...
I breathe deeply.
...I am really doing this?
Giving myself a narration about the fact that I'm actually doing this, I mean - I don't even want to pretend that I'm not just making excuses for myself here.
There's nothing wrong with having a taste for cocks - being gay for girlcock has always been a fun thing that you entertain and entertain with, and having one yourself and being positive about who you are has been something that you've worked hard for, up there with the work on the magic that gave me the chance, and it's natural to go to interest groups for things you like but.
"Cock Club."
I groan, loudly, louder then I would normally permit myself if I didn't take the time to personally inspect the privacy wards, and let out a strained laugh.
Sure why the hell not.
