My mum died when I was sixteen and she was thirty-one. Drug overdose, accidental, or that was how it was reported on her death certificate. I was back living with her at that point in a tiny one-bedroomed flat back in Knowsley, and that night I was late returning home because the chance of a second shift at the takeaway where I was working came up.
If I’d have been home on time, I’d have been there earlier to save her.
When you grow up in chaos, you crave control. When you carry guilt on your shoulders like it weighs the same as your mother’s coffin, you learn how to punish yourself.
That didn’t mean I didn’t enjoy it. There was a perverse pleasure in withholding what I craved, controlling my own enjoyment to a point where I thought I deserved it. Everything was rationalised. Everything was chosen. Even my penance.
Which was why my dick was hard enough to be used as a hammer in some pornographic house reno show.
I would not jerk off to thoughts of Nate’s sister.
‘Nate’s sister’ was exactly how I needed to think of her. There was no way I would, one, corrupt her into any of my slightly more wicked than normal ways — not that there was much that could be called normal. Two, she was just too much of a good person for me. Too pretty, too happy, too kind and nice and wholesome. I didn’t do wholesome. Three, Nate. Probably the best friend I’d ever had, the only person who knew about my shitty childhood, because no one needed to lavish me with pity and I really didn’t need the questioning eyes about how shit things had actually been.
I’d had therapy. I still had therapy. When I’d signed as a kid for Liverpool, the safeguarding lead, Mel, had been passed the details by the social worker who was doing her best to look out for me. She’d interfered in the best possible way, telling me what I was entitled to and why the club wanted to help — because it was in their best interests. There were no favours that would need returning. No pitiful glances. No questions. She’d shown me what to do to live in the accommodation for the trainees, told me to do A-Levels because somehow, I’d ended up with a decent set of qualifications after I’d left school, and then she’d in no uncertain terms told me to talk to a professional, because if I couldn’t unscrew my head, I’d fuck my career up before I’d even tied my laces.
So I’d gone to a therapist she found for me. The same therapist I still saw now.
The same therapist who’d helped me to accept who I was and why I chose to act in the ways I did. I liked me. I had no issue with who I was anymore, and I’d accepted that too.
But that didn’t mean sweet women like Jerrica Morris could become a notch on my bedpost.
My cock throbbed. Usually, I’d arrange to meet with Nicola or Polly, very occasionally both of them together. I knew them from a dating service that was very expensive and very discreet. Nicola was married and the CEO of a huge company dealing with tech. Polly worked in stocks and was married to her job. Both made enough decisions during the course of the day to want to give someone else the job of making decisions in the bedroom. We’d had our arrangement for three years, seeing each other every two or three weeks, whenever it fitted in with the rest of our lives. They’d both signed non-disclosure agreements. I’d signed theirs, too. Then we’d had thorough discussions about boundaries and safe words, what they liked, what they didn’t. How far we went.
It worked. Only now, I was hamstrung with not being able to get to them without asking for a damn lift, and neither of them ever came to me.
Jerrica had been in my house countless times. I’d had the team over, some of the backroom staff, their families and partners, for parties and barbecues. Nate’s daughters had stayed here overnight a few times, especially when their old house was packed up in boxes and they’d started to get a bit angsty.
Jerrica had stayed with them.
In the room next to mine.
And I still hadn’t changed those sheets.
I groaned. I wasn’t going to be able to get to sleep with what I had going on between my legs, and as much as I could get off on depriving myself of what I wanted, I’d also learned when it was best to let myself have it.
My en-suite was black marble with gold fixings and my favourite room in the house. The shower was a big, tiled walk-in with a built-in seat and handles that looked like they could be used to hold towels.
They weren’t for that purpose. They hadn’t been used yet either.
I was already naked, clothes in bed seemed pointless, so all I had to do was get under the jets and pretend I was somewhere else, with someone else.
I used my shower gel to lather up my hand, the water turning quickly from cool to hot, and started to work my hand slowly up and down my shaft, the water hitting my back hard.
Images of Jerrica’s legs played through my head on repeat. Soft, perfect skin, those tiny jean shorts and that cropped top, showing off a stomach that I would’ve liked to have run my fingers over, delving into the secrets of what lay below those shorts.
I wondered what she tasted like. What sounds she made when she came, if she needed soft, tender strokes or she preferred to be taken to the edge and held there, kept from coming.
I imagined the latter. I imagined how she’d be in here with me now, holding onto to those handles, my fingers fucking her pussy, finding that sweet spot; my other hand busying with her clit, pinching, holding, rubbing, until she got closer and closer to that edge, then bringing her back from it, until finally, I let her go.
That release. Always sweeter when it took longer to get there.
I leaned a hand against the shower wall, keeping my strokes firm and the tempo slow. I was not going to edge myself, not tonight, because that would be a treat, but neither was I rushing to the end.
My imagination was generally limited to plays on the field and plays in the bedroom. When I did this, I usually relived something that had happened already, but I had nothing to go off because I hadn’t even touched Jerrica.
I could only imagine it.
I came almost without warning, coating the shower wall with my release and filling the room with a groan, my eyelids closed and my head full of ideas about what it would be like to be inside her.
