I suck in a breath as I realize my hand is still moving, stroking my dick, cupping my balls, pressing firmly against my taint. Which means I’m jerking off to my best friend’s broken button pic.
I need to stop. Right now. Right…now.
I should think about Auden. I should think about Jonathan Bailey, or Jacob Elordi, or all three of them oil wrestling. I should think about literally anyone in the whole goddamn universe other than Robbie fucking Wojcik, because I promised myself I was done with this shit.
But as has happened so damn often the last few weeks, when I’m hard and aching, Robbie’s all I can think about.
I imagine walking into the locker room and finding him like that picture, shirt rucked up and jeans hanging low. I imagine him laughing as he shows me the damage. I imagine pressing him back against the lockers, dropping to my knees, pulling those jeans down just a few more inches, and tonguing his slit. Just enough to tease him.
I imagine him groaning, “Ames. Fuck. Thatmouth.”
His big hand gentle but firm in my hair. His harsh, panting breath echoing off the metal lockers.
His murmured reassurance. “So good, Amesie. So good for me on your knees like that.”
My balls draw up as imaginary me locks eyes with imaginary him. The same affection is there, the love that’s been between us for over a decade. Only this time, it’s electrified by something new. Something hot and slithery. It burrows under my skin and stiffens my cock.
Imaginary locker room Robbie wants me.
“Your throat, baby,” he murmurs, thrusting gently deeper into the back of my mouth. “Show me how much you can take.”
Hot tears slide down my face as I squeeze my cock. I want to be so good for him. Want to show him how much better it can be with me than with L… anyone else.
His thumb brushes the tears away. “Gonna come.” His guttural warning sends me over the edge as I imagine hot, salty spunk landing in my throat and on my tongue.
My whole body goes tight, every muscle coiled. And when my orgasm hits, it’s like a fucking shipwreck, all scattered pieces and frothing seas. Destruction, but also freeing.
For a few seconds, I can’t think. I’m floating on the waves, even as the ship disappears into the murky depths, as my sticky hand moves through the aftershocks, as my heart slams against my ribs, as my tongue worries the copper-tangy spot where I bit my lip.
But then the waves recede… and guilt crashes in right behind it. I’m alone in the still water.
Goddamn it. Pity party much? Fuck.
I’m stronger than this! Besides, I’ve moved on, for fuck’s sake.
The phone’s buzz draws my eyes against my will.
Robbie
Hey, are you at Watchfire? I am dying for a hot sausage
I blink.
Robbie
^flatbread. Sorry. SORRY!! Lol. Typo. Can I grab one on my way home?
“Arghhhhhhhh.” I glare at the stuffed otter, who’s slumped on his side, thanks to my recent athletics. “Do you see this shit?Doyou? I am just one man. How am I supposed to cope?”
But Hippyottermus doesn’t answer. He never does.
I roll off the bed and stride to the bathroom to clean up, furious with myself. But by the time I’ve grabbed new underwear, splashed water on my face, and gotten dressed, I’ve regained my composure.
This was a moment of weakness, that’s all.
So I do something a little unorthodox, to prove to myself that I can.
Not working, but I’m home. Come over and I’ll make you something.
