George’s head went light. He imagined his lips on that fount—the smell, the taste, wishing suddenly that he and Mikey weren’t so far apart. If he could have seen himself, he would have seen that his mouth was open, panting, like a feral animal in heat. His eyes were locked to the screen, seduced, craving the physical intimacy of sex he had all but abandoned.
Mikey’s face came back, flush, but smiling. “How was that?”
“Like porn.”
“Yeah? Good. Your turn, George.”
He was ready. He held the phone in his dominant right hand and stroked with his left, carefully aiming the camera so that he could repay Mikey fairly. George used to keep a Rolodex of mental spank-bank material. But after the accident, he’d had a hard time concentrating on any one fantasy, favoring the quick physical release with no supplemental enhancement. Now, however, almost burned into his retinas was the image of Mikey’s thick Italian fingers squeezing his fat cock until it wept with relief.
George stroked himself, also using his foreskin for its stretchy sleeve. He pushed up, forcing the skin to creep over his pink head, gathering, pinching narrowly before he pulled it back down, watching it stretch wide over the head and the swollen muscle of the shaft. He saw Mikey’s cock in his mind, the initial spurt, and then the steady river that followed, white gold flowing down.
He felt the familiar tickle from his core, rising to the surface. He closed his eyes and came, gasping with the initial release, and then breathing heavily with the spasms. He didn’t see, but felt the slickness of his semen, reducing the friction of his strokes, adjusting to less pull and more glide, finally getting a whiff of the pungent, intoxicating scent he’d been craving.
When he opened his eyes, he had wilted somewhat in his hand. Evidence of his orgasm was everywhere—on his meat, his hand, his bush, and trailing the length of his stomach and chest. He had forgotten about the phone and was relieved to see that it was still pointed at his junk and that he hadn’t lost his concentration entirely.
He brought the phone back up to his face.
“How was that?” he asked.
Mikey looked as if he’d seen a ghost, startled and subdued—an expression George had not yet seen from the burly and boisterous mailman.
“That was fucking impressive, George.”
“Yeah? I had my eyes closed.”
“Kind of like a sprinkler, just spraying in every direction... like someone turned the hose on full-blast and walked away.”
“It’s been a while. Must have built up.”
“I’ll say. Hot doesn’t even begin to describe it. And seeing you naked...man. Kind of wish it was up close though.”
George felt the inevitable pangs of awkwardness begin. Though justified, gratifying, and necessary, licentious play combined with post-orgasmic guilt was gambling with predictable odds.
“Uh, I should go Mikey. I need to get cleaned up.”
“Oh. Sure, George.”
“Uh... thanks?”
“No weirdness, OK? Just two guys helping each other out, remember?”
“Yeah. Yeah, sure, Mikey.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Goodnight, George.”
“Goodnight.”
George disconnected from the call. He lay the phone—that had miraculously missed being marred by his DNA—on the bed and headed for the shower.
“Just helping each other out,” he mumbled to himself.
Chapter 9
It was a gorgeous day, cool but not cold—Indian summer, as David would have said.
