Why send this? Why send it tome?
God, look at this picture. What does he even eat? Air?
Why is everything so clean and soft and toned? Why are you torturing me like this, sweetheart? Why.
Now I can’t stop looking. Every time I try to look away, my eyes snap back.
I hate him. I hate myself.
A shame he doesn’t like rum. Because right now, rum has made him so fucking lickable I actually have to put my hand over my mouth to stop myself from leaning in.
I want to lick my screen. I want to lean forward and lick my fucking screen. And then punch him right after.
Yeah. Punch him square in the jaw for making me think all this crap in the middle of the night. For sending me a picture like this. For having that waist.
God. My body is exactly as excited as my eyes are.
I’m disgusting. A few hours ago I was literally holding him because he’d just broken up with his girlfriend, comforting him, being the “good guy” for once, and now?!
Now I’ve got the most intense fucking boner because of him. What is wrong with me? Actually, no. What is wrong withhim?
He just broke up. And he’s sending me half-naked photos at midnight? Whose shame is this, really?
Either he wants me so badly he doesn’t care anymore… or he’s actually fried his last brain cell from studying too much and hit send by accident.
Those are the only two options. I’m fucking tragic. I actually can’t believe the only thought running through my head right now is that I want to jerk off. Ineedto jerk off.
That’s the one singular thing my brain has latched onto. I hate myself for it. I genuinely do. And I hate him for it even more.
Because what kind of bullshit setup is this, where I look at him, and for a second I forget he’s the same annoying, uptight, know-it-all Rava? The one who corrects my grammar. The one who probably alphabetizes his goddamn bookshelves.
Now I’m staring at his photo, and it feels illegal.
He looks like a fucking model. If he thought he could just send me that photo and I’d look at it all casual, like oh wow cool bro, while eating cereal with milk or some shit, he’s out of his goddamn mind.
That picture came with instructions. And I’m about to follow them to the letter. I’m gonna wring myself dry. That’s what this photo wants. That’s what it deserves. I’ll just lie to myself a little.
Tell myself it’s not really him. That it’s some random hot guy with a painfully good body and no brain behind it.
Not Rava Weston.
I pull my dick out. God, I can’t believe he’s making me do this. I can’t believe Rava Weston of all people is the reason I’m sitting here hard as fuck. But I’m not stopping. There’s no turning back now. My body’s already made the call.
We’re cumming. And it’s his fault.
My hand starts moving, up and down. I look between my dick and his slutty selfie on my phone, back and forth. These two things shouldn’t even exist in the same universe. But they fit side by side way too well. That’s the fucked-up part.
Shame curls in my stomach. He’ll never know what I’m doing right now. Never know how bad he’s got me.
My grip tightens. I’m going faster. You don’t deserve mercy, Weston. I’ve never felt this disgusting while jerking off.
But I’ve also never needed it this much. This is heaven.
My mouth falls open, but I make no sound. If I don’t hear it, it’s not real. If my dick could hear my thoughts, it’d slap the shit out of me. It’s too hard not to be real. I look at the photo again.
Why, Weston? Why do you have skin that looks like it’s begging to be bitten? Why do you make me want to cry while I’m fucking touching myself?
I can feel the orgasm coming. It’s real. I’m going to finish for Rava Weston. There’s no dodging that truth. I step closer to the table, phone still there, and I cum.
