I’ve only seen one in real life and only a few on-screen late at night when thinking about Olly became too much.
I don’t have a lot to compare to, but this one is very… thick, based on how wide the guy’s mouth is stretched around it.
I don’t recognize the face, but I’d recognize the white sneakers he’s kneeling between anywhere.
Olly.
He sent me a picture of his dick being sucked.
I try to suck air into my lungs, but each shallow breath causes the cotton of my top to scrape like teeth against my sensitive nipples.
His name flashes on the screen with an incoming call, and I freeze, panic slicing up my spine.
I can’t answer. What would I say? Thanks for filling my spank bank?
The call ends, and another message flashes.
Answer the phone, Lovely Lacey. You know you want to.
I do… desperately.
Which is why I can’t.
Another image appears, clearer than the last, as light illuminates his entire length for my hungry gaze. I’ve pictured Olly’s penis in my fantasies and described him in intimate detail in my stories, but imagination doesn’t compare to reality.
My fingers trace his outline over the screen, circling the head and picturing myself in the stranger’s place, feeling the heavy slide of his shaft against my tongue.
Saliva fills my mouth, and a heaviness settles in my breasts.
This is the worst antidote for getting over a crush.
Olly’s name flashes with an incoming call again.
There’s a sudden quickening of my heart, my pulse erratic and thunderous in my ears.
Answering is a bad idea—I’m never getting over this crush if I give in to indecent curiosity, but the wanton, pornographic author in me slides my thumb across the screen.
“I knew the kinky side of you would answer.” Olly’s low chuckle is hoarse, almost breathless. “Inspired yet?”
Scenes form in my head, and snippets of dialogue follow as a new story weaves through my consciousness with Olly as the star.
I lick my lips; my mouth is as dry as the Sahara Desert. “A little.”
My voice sounds hoarse, all the moisture in my body pooling between my thighs.
Olly sighs in mock disappointment. “A little isn’t good enough. We can do better.” His voice drops into a low, erotic moan. “Do you want to watch?”
“Watch?” I squeak.
“Mmmm.”
Air escapes my lungs in a rush, leaving me breathless and light-headed. I clutch my throat. “You’re with him? Right now?”
“That’s… what I… said.” Heady breaths punctuate each word. “Wanna see?”
Yes. Blood thunders through my body so fast that my vision blurs and I feel faint. I grip the edge of my mattress to keep myself sitting upright. “I… I’ve decided to write women’s fiction, remember. I don’t… need to.”
No matter how much I swallow, my throat is too dry and scratchy, my voice a hoarse whisper.
