Demon
Mydickwakesmeseveral times in the night. It’s rude and insistent. Persistently hard. It’s nothing to do with the asshole in bed with me. Obviously not. That would be ridiculous. It’s just that I have a very high libido and am susceptible to a strong male presence. Always have been. What can I tell you, ever since I hit puberty, I’ve been a bit of a fiend. I like having sex and I like jerking off.
Who doesn’t?
I’m not ashamed of it but right now, I admit, it is inconvenient. Very inconvenient. I wrack my brain to calculate how long I’ve been here.
Three nights, two days?
Is that right?
I don’t remember beating off the day they took me. I don’t think I did. I was planning to hook-up at Slay. If I didn’t, this is officially the longest I’ve gone without an O since the first time I jacked off. Even when I really did have COVID last year, I still managed to jerk my dick with devout fervor. No wonder I’m suffering.
The long night ends at last. At around eight in the morning, he switches on the overhead light and presents me with coffee and a bowl of bircher muesli with Greek yogurt, berries and roasted pecans. It’s one of my favorite ways to start the day.
“Ah,” I say sadly, as I take the bowl from him, “I was hoping for a hot breakfast today.”
I see a dark flicker across his eyes. I’m pleased. The day is off to a good start.
Start as you mean to go on, is what I always say.
By nine AM he’s working out again. I have mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, I consider it a victory. By the time he did it yesterday afternoon, it was clear he was at breaking point. I’m delighted I’ve managed to get him to this point so early today with so little effort. Like I said, I’m good at annoying people.
It’s a talent, really.
So, it’s not that I’m not pleased to have pushed him to this point, it’s just that I’m a little uneasy. It wasn’t easy watching him working out yesterday. It also wasn’t easy not to watch him. Yesterday he took his T-shirt off and worked out in his cargo pants and boots. He has a couple of wide bands tattooed around his left forearm and some sort of badge or insignia on his upper arm. Those are fine. They don’t bother me at all. He has a massive piece on his back. It’s done in black ink. It’s a raven in mid-flight. Its wingspan spans the width of his shoulders. Its tail feathers trail all the way down to the small of his back. For whatever reason, it does bother me. Not majorly. But a little. It’s fine, detailed work. It’s hard not to look at, that’s probably what it is.
I flick through channels as he works out. Now and again, he lets out a deep little grunt. I turn the volume on the TV up when he does it. He’s doing push-ups again. His form is unreal. His body is as stiff as a board. He drops down until his nose is all but touching the floor. He pushes himself up as if he’s weightless. I lose count of the number of push-ups he does. And, I admit, my mind wanders a little when he does crunches. For all his bulk, his belly is tight and rock hard. Seeing it clench is so disconcerting I’m almost relieved when he flips over and starts pushing-up again. My relief is cut short when he bends an arm behind his back.
Is he fucking kidding me? One armed push-ups?
What the fuck is wrong with him?
It’s not just the way he looks that’s hard to be around, it’s the way he smells, too. He smells like brute strength. He smells male. He literally smells like he’s been doused in a bucket of testosterone. To my disgust, it makes me hard.
“You stink,” I say when he catches me looking at him.
He presses his lips into a hard line and moseys on over to a pull-up bar that’s been installed in the narrow passageway that leads to the only door out of this hell-hole. I make a firm decision not to watch him doing pull-ups.
My resolve lasts for seven seconds.
He has his back to me. There’s no way he’ll catch me looking. I find myself unable to look away. When he pulls himself up, every muscle in his back ripples. The ink on his back glistens with sweat. The effect of the ink and the sweat and all the rippling make it look like the bird is flapping its wings. It looks like the fucking thing is flying. It looks like art.
I don’t mean it like that. Cro-Magnon man here is by no means my type. Believe me, he’s not. The last guy I slept with was an Avant Garde artist named Sven. He had long, lime green hair and matching acrylic nails. That’s my type.
Okay?
I like art. That’s all.
After his workout, he cuffs one of my wrists to the bed before heading to the bathroom for a shower. I can’t tell if I’m relieved or disappointed. I thoroughly enjoyed the pinched, prudish look of alarm he gave me yesterday, when he realized I was watching him shower. A repeat performance of that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
I hear the sound of water running and a couple of thuds I presume to mean he’s climbed into the shower. It occurs to me that I have a few minutes to myself. It’s been ages since I’ve had a moment alone and my hard-on hasn’t subsided. Far from it. It’s uncomfortably hard. I slide my free hand into my sweatpants and stroke my dick. I shiver in relief when my hand wraps tightly around it. I stroke quickly and firmly, gritting my teeth to stop any sound from escaping. I’m hard and the pressure in my cock is intense. I’m rushing toward orgasm when it occurs to me that if I come, he’ll know. I have a huge load. Always have had. He’ll see the stain in my pants or on the sheets. No fucking way he’ll miss it.
Fuuuuck!
With enormous reluctance, I drag my hand off my cock, squeezing the tip hard as I do it.
What the hell is wrong with me?
