Chapter Text
Sansa
I’m in love with a man I’ve only seen from abs to thighs. It’s official – I’m insane.
Okay, so maybe ‘in love’ wasn’t the right term, but she was crushing on H0undX88 really hard.
But that couldn’t be right, either… could it? Didn’t you need to know something about a person’s personality and know what his face looked like to crush on him?
Yes, so this wasn’t a crush. More like an obsession.
No, obsessions are for crazy people.
Alright, an addiction. She was addicted to his product. Addiction was a disease – no shame in having one. There was only shame in knowing you had an addiction and not doing anything to get help.
But she didn’t need help, so it couldn’t be an addiction, could it? It wasn’t interfering with her work or draining her life savings. It hadn’t cost her friendships. It was free, legal, and beyond that even normal for a 21st century woman, so it wasn’t an addiction, and it wasn’t wrong. So what if a few nights a week she watched one of his videos while pleasuring herself? There was absolutely nothing wrong with it.
No – Sansa felt no shame about pleasuring herself or even using video-graphic assistance. Years ago Myranda had confessed the type of porn she watched – to Sansa’s abject horror – and compared to that, Sansa’s preferred genre (male solo masturbation) was very tame.
(Now you’re probably wondering what kinky shit Myranda is into, but it’s too embarrassing for Sansa to repeat.)
What Sansa did harbor some shame around were the weird feelings the subject of those videos stirred in her. Feelings that felt awfully close to having a crush. Feelings of yearning. Feelings of wanting to meet him so badly that after an orgasm (or four) she felt disappointed instead of satisfied.
At nearly twenty-seven she’d been around the block enough to know this wasn’t normal for her. She didn’t fall hard for guys she dated. Or at least, she hadn’t since she graduated high school. She didn’t become obsessed with actors or musicians, or even the angry chef on one of the Kitchen Channel reality TV shows, who she found strangely sexy. She could encounter a hot guy in a coffee shop and be satisfied with sharing a small smile; no need to ask for his number or spend the rest of the day wondering if he might have been “the one” and she’d missed the opportunity to have fate put them together.
No, Sansa poured her life into three things: her job, her dog, and her house. As far as she was concerned, she didn’t need a man – for sex, companionship, or any other reason.
Which is why it baffled her that she would lay in bed at night creating fantasies that revolved around the parts of H0undX88’s anatomy that she was familiar with and trying to fill in the blanks on the rest.
First and foremost was the man’s cock. She could admit that, alright? God but he had a perfect cock. It was long and thick, but not too long or too thick. She was estimating it to be about seven inches, but it was hard to gauge in a video with nothing for scale except his hands which also appeared to be large. So maybe eight inches? Though when she looked at eight inches on a ruler it seemed too long. But whatever – more important was the perfect shape of it. It was almost ramrod straight, with only a slight upward bend, and obviously hard as steel. It was circumcised with a perfectly proportionate and well-defined head. The veins were readily visibly but not bulging, and the underside of the shaft had a ridge running the entire length that would be a perfect guide for her tongue to traverse from balls to tip.
His cock emerged from a trimmed nest of black pubic hair and Sansa liked that, particularly since H0undX88 was a hairy man. His profile photo on Trove.com showed his abs from just below his pecs down to his pubes. Undoubtedly the man was flexing in the photo, for his defined six pack was evident even under a coating of fine black hair. And he had the elusive V. Those sexy muscles that drew the eye down and inward from the waist. Most importantly, though, Sansa could tell he wasn’t a gym rat. Well, he might work out in a gym, but she suspected his toned physique was from physical labor. His muscles were defined but not ripped. She liked that better. Gym muscles were a turn-off for her. She’d had her fill of vain men who obsessed over their appearance instead of working on improving their other attributes. Harry had been good looking with a great body that turned women’s heads left and right, but he was a lazy, lying, cheating, man-whore with no employable skills and no interested in contributing to their household. Sansa could tolerate a boyfriend who wasn’t super helpful around the house if it was because he worked hard for ten hours each day. After all, she had a very sedentary job and so house chores were her primary form of exercise. But in the eighteen months she’d been with him, she was certain he never put in a full day of real work. Nor did he cook or clean or do laundry. He could shop for clothes for hours but getting him to drive five minutes down the street for a loaf of bread took a Herculean effort.
When they first met, he told her he was a personal trainer who did odd jobs for his pseudo-uncle’s construction business. Sansa was no snob. She was an independent woman who wasn’t looking for some doctor or lawyer or tech wizard to support her. As long as Harry was employed and not a sloth, she was cool with it.
Only apparently his definition of “working as a personal trainer” meant spending hours each day at the local gym training his own body and offering free advice to the other guys (and girls) who worked out there. And the odd jobs for the uncle? It was odd alright… After buying her house, a fixer-upper on the lake that she bought for a song since it had been completely neglected by the previous owners, she realized that she knew more about carpentry, electric, and plumbing then Harry did. And that was saying something. The man didn’t know what an electrical panel box was, or that there was a valve to shut off the water to the toilet in case of an overflow. His promises to help her renovate the property had been farts in the wind, and now, six months after their breakup, she was still living in a house that smelled dank, had faux-wood paneling throughout, had a pink bathtub with soap scum impervious to everything short of kryptonite, a water heater that took its job of heating water pretty lightly, and flooring that ought to be in a museum as an exhibit on evolving styles in home décor. Shag carpet in the bedrooms – pink in the master, burnt orange in the other two. Faded yellow linoleum (which may or may not contain asbestos) in the kitchen. Hardwood in the dining and living rooms that might be salvageable, but it was such a dark color that Sansa wasn’t sure she wanted to salvage it. Her vision had been “light and airy” with definite beach vibes. White wainscoting; pale, warm-gray hardwood-look laminate floors throughout, white kitchen cabinets, robin’s egg blue bathroom… Well, suffice to say her inspiration was endless, but her ability to execute on her various ideas was limited. She was certain she could install the laminate flooring herself but was afraid to start chipping up the old linoleum tiles (see: aforementioned asbestos concerns).
But wait, wasn’t she talking about H0undX88? She really needed to work on her focus and concentration. This was the reason her list of home improvement tasks was never completed. She had started listing everything she could do herself (or with the help of her sister, since some things simply needed four hands), and those things which would require her to pay a professional. But every time she sat down to put this list together, she’d get side-tracked with things she didn’t need to decide right at that moment. Like would her bathroom really be robin’s egg blue or was she bold enough to go with aquamarine? She’d then spend an hour scrolling through Google image results and the list would go forgotten, then later misplaced, then she’d have to start all over. And history would repeat itself as she pondered whether grayish woods were trendy now but would look faddish in a few more years (like wood paneling and shag carpeting). And if she was going with a traditional hardwood look instead, then why not just keep the existing wood that apparently ran throughout most of the house even where it was covered by hideous carpet? But it was so dark, and she wanted everything “light and airy”. So she’d be back at square-one.
But right, back to H0undX88. His positive attributes didn’t stop and end with his penis and Adonis belt. His thighs were muscular and covered with more of that dark but fine hair. And don’t even get her started on his hands! She could probably get off just watching a video of him doing things with his hands (besides stroking his cock). Changing a light bulb. Writing a letter. Shuffling cards. Resting them on a table. God, she wanted those hands all over her. In some of the videos that were filmed from a close range she could see hints of callouses, particularly on the side of his index finger. Harry had no callouses except faint ones on his palms from lifting dumbbells, but he moisturized compulsively so they never got too out of hand. But H0undX88? (Oh, this is getting tedious – let’s just call him Hound.) He had the callouses of a tradesman. Brick mason? Carpenter? Electrician? Plumber? And his hands were muscular, to boot! Who knew hands could be muscular?! She spent hours each day typing at a rapid-fire pace and her hands weren’t muscular.
So, to recap, he had a beautiful penis, toned torso, powerful thighs, and hands that made her horny just looking at them. Oh, and how could she have forgotten his forearms?! Watching the muscles and tendons strain beneath his skin was almost as erotic as watching his hand clamp around his well-lubed dick. Some videos even caught a bit of his bicep. Those ones were promptly added to her “favorites” list on Trove.
She had no idea what his face, feet, shins, back, chest, or butt looked like. He could be an ex-convict, a drunk, someone who hated dogs, or someone who was simply rude, and yet she was totally obsessed with him. Yes, obsessed. She could admit it now even if she couldn’t admit it five minutes ago, because a comment on his latest video popped up from Vicki7972 and Sansa wanted to hunt the bitch down in cyberspace then murder her in the real world.
Vicki7972: Sooooo sexxxxy. Love the cumshot wish it was for me.
Sansa growled at the screen of her tablet. Way too many o’s and x’s, and an abhorrently absent semicolon. Even a comma would suffice, but apparently Vicki was a completely uneducated moron. Sansa hoped Hound wouldn’t respond to her. He rarely communicated with his fans, probably because he was busy working at his manly job. Or maybe because he was shy. Sansa liked that notion. If he was shy, then he probably didn’t like the attention of women like this Vicki (if that even was a woman). If he did enjoy comments like that then he wasn’t a fit for Sansa, who had her lifetime’s fill of men who needed to have their egos stroked on a daily basis.
Isn’t a fit for me? Fuck, maybe I am insane…
She had a crush on a man she’d never met nor even spoken to. He could be an asshole, he could be gay, he could be ugly, he could be married.
She was jealous of a woman, who may not even be a woman, for commenting on said man’s solo video, when that woman, like her, would never meet that man. She was also a little jealous of the porn actresses in the videos that sometimes played in the background of Hound’s videos. She was jealous of his hand that it got to touch his perfect cock. She was jealous of his cock that it got to be caressed by that strong, manly hand. She was jealous of the Fleshlight he used in some of his videos – that should be her vagina!
Yep, definitely insane…