That's what does me in. A twisted shiver bolts down to my dick, hardening me right up. I’ve been half-reared and ready to go for ages now, and Ian's kind, innocent message poked a hole in my feeble dam of decency.
God, Ian is dangerous. He has to know how attractive he is, given how casual he is about what he wears, and that makes him even hotter to me. I want what I can't have and can't be.
I can’t help it, not even when I think back to Ian and that pretty girl in the library. I’m guessing they’re together.
And I’m here alone, getting aroused by nothing more than the thought of him.
I need to get a grip. Rubbing the bridge of my nose, I make another weak attempt to banish all visuals of him from my brain and recline into my flat, dorm-issued pillow.
I flit my gaze around the room, scanning to make sure it’s safe, and I exhale, letting my hand slip into my boxers while I strain to keep my mind blank, focusing on how good my hand feels.
As pathetic as I am, not thinking about Ian is gonna be way easier after I take care of this immediate problem. Heat zips up my body as I make a fist around my dick, the gentlest contact makingme thrust upward. It’s been days, and while I know that nobody cares anymore, old habits die hard.
Emphasis on thehard.
If I was any less screwed up, I’d take care of myself all the time, but instead, I force myself to wait days, until I’m drowning in hormones and incapable of thinking about anything beyond how badly I need to come. Until I start falling apart, when my body betrays itself, and when every single shift in my boxers makes the situation a hundred times worse.
Because life decided to give me two things that mix like oil and water: a family who told me that pleasure is poison, and the world's most soul-crushing, hyperactive, unignorable sex drive.
I bring my hand back up and suck in a sharp breath as I drag across the sensitive area below the head, feeling myself firm up beneath my fingertips.
Yeah. I’m gonna go for it.
Whatever messed-up beliefs my parents have, I’m sure as heck trying to leave those behind. I’m a thousand miles away now—I can jerk off in bed without getting paranoid.
Maybe. Again, old habits die hard.
I release my grip and glance at the door, making sure it’s locked, before sliding my boxers all the way off and grabbing a packet of lube out from my backpack. My fingernails catch on the ridges at the edge as I tear the foil open, and I let the thick, clear liquid fall into my hand.
I squeeze the rest of the packet onto my hard-on, and then I spread it.
My god, that’s so good.
Sick pleasure zings through me as soon as I close around the head, the bliss thickening my dick even more and putting me at risk of making noise. Keeping my breaths quiet and level, I slide down my shaft in a slow, gentle drag. The light touch still makes my thighs clench, and the silky lube makes this feel ten times better than anything I've tried before.
I tighten my grip, a breath escaping my lungs, and I stroke once, then twice.
Then my hands move on autopilot. My left goes down to squeeze my balls as my right speeds up, working its way up and down, making my core twist and unravel while sending spikes of need through my length to crest at the tip.
There's no way I could resist this. I tried, I really did before, but stronger heads prevail, and the one lower down won out. It's messed up how I have to fight back the sounds stuck in my throat, almost as if my weakness is being punished with another test of strength.
At least I have enough of that strength left in me to stay dead silent.
It doesn’t take long for the first signs of an orgasm to prickle in my balls; it never does, but even for me, this is fast. A couple of slick, devastating pumps later, I come hard, biting my lip to hold back a stubborn moan as my body tenses. I unclench my core as I fall back to reality, dropping my softening cock onto my stomach and letting my arms slump against the mattress.
Jesus, this is so addictive.
That, apparently, is precisely why I had to hold out and fight against my own body.
Because “shooting heroin is also supposed to feel great, but that doesn’t make it right.”
What a bunch of bunk.
A dopey smile plays out on my face, and out of instinct, I force it away. I grab my shirt and wipe myself down with hurried movements, scraping off every trace of what I just did.
Then I pause, slowly flipping the shirt inside-out before placing it into my laundry hamper. After washing my hands in the sink and slipping into sweatpants, I lie back on my bed, sighing.
Even though I got what I craved, as always, the short burst of relief darkens into filthy, gnawing shame.
