The kitchen's a mess. Dirty plates are piled four-high, and I have no clean forks or spoons left. Breakfast bowls have been rinsed with hot water, but otherwise sit waiting to be immersed in suds. A frying pan has been wiped down, but not scoured. Tea cups have blackened interiors, desperately needing a scrubbing with steel wool.
There's no dishwasher. Everything needs to be cleaned by hand.
And my hands are currently cupping my balls and sharply pinching my nipples. They are occupied with immersing themselves in water-based lubricant, before gripping my erect shaft and stroking, each pull taking me closer to spurting.
As I fuck myself, teetering on the brink of orgasm, my thoughts occasionally drift back to the dishes. As I masturbate with sloppy, fluid-drenched fingers, I feel moments of shame.
My kitchen is a disgrace, and I know it.
One day - when someone new and lovely enters my life - I will scour every plate, wash each coffee cup and polish every teaspoon. I will disinfect every bench and stovetop. For a new lover, I will work my hands to the bone, and the kitchen will sparkle.
Until then, my hands are too fucking busy.