Matt has been looking at himself for over ten minutes, staring at his reflection. Wondering. He needs to get behind those eyes that stare back at him. Look into his own soul from the other direction, but he doesn’t seem capable of that. What’s stopping him? Why can’t he see further than his face? Those eyes are flat. There’s no three-dimensionality to them. It’s like looking at a picture. Even when he smiles, he doesn’t register the smile in his own head. It’s like the person staring back at him isn’t at home.

He doesn’t seem to be able to hold his own attention. Maybe that’s because he knows what’s going through his head. He knows his own thoughts, and so he cannot seek to understand what he sees before him. And let’s face it, he’s not even talking to himself. All he wants to do is look at the person opposite him and wonder whether they feel sexy.

His gaze is drawn to the bedside table. He knows what’s in there, and it’s calling to him. They’re calling to him, but he turns his head away and looks back into the mirror that’s leaning up against the wall and right next to the door to the bedroom.

“I don’t understand you,” he says.

And he doesn’t. Not anymore. It’s as if he had undergone a complete makeover of his attitude towards life. He doesn’t understand where his desires come from. He doesn’t know who or what generates the urges he has, and yet he can’t stop them; he wants them, desires them, needs them. He’d even go as far as to say he can’t live without them.

Two different people are occupying the room. The real one, and the one in the mirror that’s staring back. One of them is going to feel good afterwards, while the other is going to wonder why it’s come down to this. Maybe it’s a need for something different, unusual, off-the-wall excitement.

It wasn’t always like this. He was a normal human being. Not that he’s abnormal now, but his sexual urges are becoming more extreme, delving into the world of fetishes. The urges didn’t even inhabit the fringes of fetishness before they developed. They just went from one extreme to the other, and now he finds himself in a deep pit with steep sides, slippery as fuck, and he’s sliding further downward. Not that he wants to get out, he doesn’t. He likes it here – at the moment!

Is it chemistry? Is his body changing that much to make his mind crave different things than what he craved some time ago? Does his body want it, or is it his mind? He doesn’t really know. Maybe his body is reacting to his mind, causing that well-known phenomenon of unsolicited feedback.

While he’s been looking at this man in the mirror, he’s been struggling to understand when the changes manifested themselves. He thinks it was when his cock changed its shape. When erections took longer to establish themselves, when his moobs filled out a bit, when sex changed between his wife and him, or maybe when he started writing erotic stories.

He keeps looking at himself, knowing that any minute, he’s going to reach up and flick his nipple. He has a fetish with his nipples. Nipples that, ten years ago, didn’t care whether they were touched or not. If they were pinched, he moaned that it hurt, and when his then-girlfriend squeezed them, nothing would be felt anywhere; it was as if they weren’t connected to any other part of his body, not like women’s nipples.

That’s all changed. If he touches them now, his balls stir. His cock twitches until it throbs and grows. The tingling sensations that he gets from flicking them are unbelievably electric, and the hard little nubs stand erect, sending signals to each other as if they were experiencing quantum entanglement. They seem to get signals before he even touches them, and when they are sensitive, they send signals to other parts of his body with every flick.

He's seen videos of women with the same fetish. All they do is flick, tweak and pull on their nipples. Sometimes, twisting them. Those that can reach bite them and suck on them. Oh, how he wishes he could do that. Those videos are mesmerising and can last as long as twenty minutes. He watched one of them until the woman had orgasm after orgasm, and all she did was touch her breasts and play with her nipples. Some women take a while to achieve climax, but they all do in the end.

He's looking at his reflection, sitting against the bed, nearly naked, fully aware of what he’s thinking. And those nipples are crying out to him. He sees how this is going to develop, and he can honestly say that his mind is reeling at the thought of it. It’s not like he needs to do this right now. But he wants to.

He watches the person in the mirror, thinking that it's some stranger. One who is reaching out to him, wanting him to touch them. Play with them. But he knows that as soon as his hand extends, there will be nothing to grasp hold of.

He did something like this at four this morning while his wife snored next to him. He quietly opened the bedside drawer and reached in, pulled the nipple clamps out and attached them to each of his nipples in turn. He tugged on the chain connecting them quietly under the bedclothes. It felt fucking wonderful even though his mind was half asleep and his eyes half closed. He pushed his cock between his legs and squeezed them together. Feeling the throb of his penis against his thighs. The combined senses had him moaning in silence, and he soon developed a hard-on to be proud of, but he had nowhere to go with it, and so he had to let it down gently, unclip the clamps and put them away. It was a brief moment of excitement.

When he plays with his nipples, he feels feminine, like those women in the videos that he watches. He feels his body respond just like theirs, even in the way he sways from left to right, the smile on his face, the biting of his lip, the gasps and moans are just like the sounds they make. Is that a pre-determined, conditioned response to this part of his body? Who knows? And yet he doesn’t act feminine when he tosses his cock off.

It doesn’t help that he’s wearing hold-up stockings. He bought them after he saw a woman dressed the same way rubbing one hand up and down her thigh while sucking a nipple. She came hard and ended up with her whole body shaking on the edge of the bed. He must have watched that video a hundred times. He’s been no stranger to stockings ever since his ex-girlfriend had him dress in her clothes because she hadn’t had any pussy for ages. She pretended. He pretended at first, but he liked the feel of her clothes, not that he told her.

He has a reasonably nice body, made better by the Aegean sun a few months ago, which has given him a nice tan. His legs are slim, and he’s tall, and still the stockings come up to his crotch. He loves the feel of them. He loves walking around the house in them, and he loves the way the air cools his legs when it flows over them. Don’t get him wrong, he’s not lost his masculinity. Let’s say he’s just connected with his feminine side more than others.

He still wants to know what’s going through that person's head in the mirror. He knows what’s going through his mind, but it seems detached somehow, as if he doesn’t know what’s going to happen.

He does know. It’s not just a wank, it’s a journey.

He lifts his hand upwards, and he can already feel a tingling around his nipples. He hasn’t even touched them. He can sense it. He looks in the mirror – the person staring back seems to be unaware of what’s happening. He finds himself swiping his tongue over his lower lip. He doesn’t know why. The closer his fingers get, the stronger the electric charge that he feels. He hovers over them. Enjoying the feeling it's giving him.

Do it, go on, touch them. He hears the words in his head, urging him onward.

He can’t help but close his eyes. Not knowing is a strange feeling. Even stranger when you’re pretending that you don’t know what's going to happen. Closing his eyes makes everything a little more surreal, like someone else is doing this to him. He pretends it is.

The person in the mirror could be a trans girl because he’d accept her to his bed with the click of her fingers. It could be a female friend from faraway shores, or it could be some bloke who wants to play. He’s got to the age where he doesn’t care who is on the other end of the sexual gratification. Male or female, or anywhere on the sliding scale between the two.

He knows one person who would devour him if she could be here, and it’s not his wife. She’d be pinching his nipples and sucking on them like they were manna from heaven. His cock would be swallowed whole, and he doesn’t think his ass would feel left out either. He sometimes wishes she were here, and not a thousand miles away. Fuck! She’d even peg him with pleasure.

That’s something else he’s been considering. Once or twice, he’s nearly suggested it to his wife, but for some reason, the man in the mirror pulled back at the last moment. Too scared. Too scared to suggest something that she couldn’t cope with. She has coped with the nipple clamps, she knows about them, and she does pinch and suck and tweak his nipples when they have sex. It’s just a slow process, introducing her to the list of fetishes he has stored in his head. She doesn’t know about the stockings, but at least he doesn’t use hers; he has his own.

His fingers are getting closer, and he can feel his breathing become erratic. He can feel the excitement it creates. His nipples are almost crying out to be flicked. The hairs around them don’t help much because the closer he gets, the sooner they pick up the slight vibrations, which gives the game away. Not that he’s trying to be coy or anything.

Biting his lip helps with the tension that’s building around him. He wants to run his hands down his stockinged thighs, but he’s too excited. He’s going to do it. Touch them. Feel the silk under his fingers.

Fuck it’s electric. Just the slightest brush with the pads of his fingers. Electric shocks seem to bounce between them, which has now got him thinking about a Van de Graaf generator and what that would do. The brush of his fingers over the nipple makes it harden instantly. They stiffen up and shout, MORE! once his fingernail catches the tips. He flicks them. A second flick follows, then multiple ones before he slows down and rubs the pad of his fingers around them. It feels so nice, pleasurable. He could sit like this for ages and let someone else do all the hard work, but someone else is not there, and the person in the mirror is not helping matters. They sit there and grin back.

The sack containing his balls twists and turns with just the touch of his nipples. His cock moves from hanging to the side to hovering pensively above his balls. He loves the feeling as the reaction unfolds.

He opens his eyes and takes a look, watching the flimsy member twist, and then he looks at the mirror. He watches his reflection grimace with the pain and smile with the pleasure. He watches him as if watching a video of someone being pleasured. “You dirty little fucker,” he says.

He’s right, and he knows he’s right. He almost wishes he’d nod his head back at him and tell him to take him, toss him off. He’s going to anyway.

Nipples cry out at the sudden lack of attention as his hand slides over his stockings, down to his cock. He straightens it, pushes it between his thighs and closes them tight. He squeezes his thighs together, feeling the hardness pulse and throb. A grimace appears on his face as he stares at the reflection. It knows how this is going to turn out. It’s always known.

He wants to do it all at once, but can’t. He wants to brush his nipples, toss his cock off, feel his stockings and yes, probe his ass. All at the same time. He can do two of the three with the nipple clamps with ease, and he’s found a way to do three. He’s very inventive.

This is how it’s done. Imagine nipple clamps attached to each nipple and a chain linking them. A piece of string is attached to the chain and twirled around the base of his cock and drawn tightly so that there’s no give in it. The string is looped around his balls like a cock ring. That’s the setup, now start wanking. The result is that with one hand, you are pulling your nipples and tossing yourself off, and the other hand is free to roam over those wonderful, stockinged thighs. You’d have to agree that’s clever, right!

Not today, though. The nipple clamps are staying put because he’s just going to revel in the pleasure he’s getting from his nipples. He wishes he could climax just by playing with them. That would be a first.

There are lots of firsts he’d like to do, but cannot. A self blowjob would be the highest on his list, followed by sucking his own titties. But he’d have to go down the hormone route to get breasts that big. Hell, he wouldn’t even mind fucking his own ass. Can you imagine that at four in the morning, when you're drifting in and out of sleep? What would the wife think of that?

He’s giving in to temptation. He can feel his hand move towards his throbbing cock, and he doesn’t have the strength of will to stop it. One hand takes up his nipple and pinches it while the other wraps itself around his hot member. He strokes it. Slowly at first. Pushes it away from him and lets it spring back. He circles his balls with thumb and forefinger, forming a cock ring, and he tosses them off. He pulls down hard on them, which causes his dick to bounce around like it’s on fire.

All of this while watching the person in the reflection act like a slut on heat.

He hasn’t forgotten his nipples, and he squeezes and twists them, pulling them until his finger and thumb are forced to relinquish their hold. He repeats the action before swapping hands and doing the same to his other nipple.

If only he could suck that cock right now. Stop it from bouncing around with his lips, arresting its motion and sucking it inside his mouth with a satisfying slurp. He’d love that. His hand circles his cock once more while the other caresses his thighs, especially that space between the top of his stockings and bare flesh.

All he can think of is masturbating. Bringing himself off. Making himself cum. Splashing spunk all over his chest. He’d love to spurt so that it reaches his face. That would be so dirty. He’d feel like a proper slut with cum dripping off his face after a good session.  Except it doesn’t splash anymore, it's more like energetic dribbling.

He pulls harder and harder on his nipples and thinks, Where are all your sexy friends when you need them? Where is the woman with the big tits, hanging over the side of the bed with her breast flesh on either side of his face while she pinches his nipples for him, and he tosses himself off. His tongue in a constant search for a female nipple to bite or suck on.

He’s stroking the full length of his cock, and his loose balls are banging hard against his ass. Every tug sees them fall heavily, so much so that they start to hurt when they are fully extended. But he lets them hurt, he wants them to hurt, he wants to feel them suffer for his ultimate pleasure.

He opens his legs wide to feel more like a woman, and he looks at the cum-slut that’s appeared in the mirror. His cock is throbbing, and he can feel the pressure building. He can feel the surge beneath the surface. Those waves are breaking over him, and his nipples are loving the rub, the flick, and the squeezes.

All he can think of is this orgasm. The pleasure this is giving him. He watches the man in the mirror make funny faces. He hopes he doesn’t look like that when he cums. His gaze is directed to his throbbing cock, watching it pulse and give in to the constant feeling of being overwhelmed. His ass leaves the floor, pushing upwards, while he pumps and pulls on his dick. He’s watching himself. Watching himself climax in the mirror, like he’s detached.

He really wants the other man to suck him off, or take his exposed, delicate hole last minute. Any of those actions would be nice.

He feels the surge of spunk shoot upwards and out it comes. Both of them have cum at the same time. How good is that? He pulls on it a few more times to get everything out in the open, and he pinches his fingers together to collect it.

Looking in the mirror, he watches the man lift his fingers to his mouth and watches him suck them clean. He tries his best to understand him, but he cannot. His orgasm seems to have wiped his memory clean, just like his lips are doing to his fingers.

There was a time when he would think that eating spunk was gross. That changed when he and his ex-girlfriend started swinging, and he found other men were more accepting. He soon became one of them. But, at some point in his journey, he began to think about what a waste it was to wipe it away. Women have always been expected to swallow, so why not him? And yes, he has tried to splash his face, but he’s just not that flexible anymore.

Why are orgasms so anti-climactic?

He used to hate having orgasms. He’d rather keep a strong hard-on for the whole evening and fuck all night rather than climax. The trouble was that the women always wanted it splashed on them or inside them, but he preferred to stay hard and ready for action. Cumming is a synonym for Game Over.

He looks at that man in the mirror again, staring at him. He wonders why he does this and what he gets from it. Because now, all that is left is to get up, wash, put some clothes on, and get on with the rest of his day. So, what’s it all been for? There’s no one to share this moment with. No real person to smile at and say, Wasn’t that good. Did you enjoy that? He wishes there were; he wishes he could share all the things he does with someone because it’s becoming boring.

The stockings will have to come off at some point, which he feels is a shame.

Back to normality, social acceptance, and all that!

And he’ll have to put that mirror back on the wall in exactly the right position, too, otherwise she’ll know.

At least he hasn’t been caught watching porn this time. That’s something.

He’ll have to put this sexy person away for the day, a bit like packing a suitcase for a holiday. He’ll have to put all those dirty, filthy thoughts to the back of his mind and be the dutiful husband, father and grandfather until he has a few hours to himself again. That’s when he starts to smile inwardly, bite his lip, dig around in the wardrobe for those sexy clothes, get excited while dressing and yes, get that mirror off the wall.

Someone has to love his cock. Otherwise, what's the point?