I ride harder, chasing the angle that lights me up from the inside, one hand working my cock in tight, steady pulls while the other grips the base of the toy to keep it right where I need it.
Pleasure pushes tighter and deeper until it snaps. I come hard across my stomach and chest, thick ropes of cum painting my skin in messy streaks that run down toward my ribs. My thighs shake violently and a rough sound tears out of me as my body clamps down around the silicone again and again. It rips up from my core instead of just my cock, leaving me wrecked and panting on the hardwood floor.
I stop the recording with a shaky hand. The morning light has shifted while I was lost in it. My limbs feel loose and heavy, wrung out in the best way. I grab a towel from the chair nearby and wipe the worst of the mess off my stomach and chest, then carefully lift myself off the dildo. My hole feels swollen and sensitive. I give the toy a quick wipe and set it aside. Sleep tugs at me, so I drag myself back into bed, pull the sheet over my spent body, and let my eyes close.
The knocking starts a few minutes later, patient, familiar, and completely relentless. Only one person on earth knocks like that.
I drag myself up, still fuzzy, and trip over a textbook that skids across the hardwood with a loud scrape. I walk toward the front door still blinking away the last traces of that stolen moment, one hand scrubbing at my eyes. I yank the door open.
The man I conjured up in my brain during that early-morning grind is here in the flesh.
“No. Go away.”
George stands there with his toolbox in his good hand. His eyes drop immediately to the very obvious tent in my gray shorts, taking in the full, rigid shape of my cock and the tell-tale wet spot darkening the fabric at the tip. For one long second, he stares, then he jerks his gaze back up to my face so fast it is almost audible, his cheeks flushing a bright, guilty pink.
If he only knew what made me so pink earlier when I was riding something nearly as big as him, I should also have the same reaction as he does now.
“Your car’s been making that noise,” he says, voice a little too loud and strained, like the words have to fight their way out.
“I know. I’ve been ignoring it.” I drop one hand casually over my lap, palm pressing against the rigid length, but there is no hiding the bulge or the way my cock twitches once under the sudden attention. I try to keep my face neutral, as if this is any other normal morning.
George clears his throat and shifts the toolbox to his other hand before remembering the splint and switching it back. He fixes his stare on a point just over my shoulder. “Yeah, I heard it when you pulled up the other day. Pop the hood.”
“George, your hand is still in a splint.”
He lifts the injured hand and flexes the fingers that stick out. “Works fine. Pop the hood.”
“It is nine o’clock on my day off,” I complain like a brat.
“So go back to sleep. I will work out here.” He says it like it is the most reasonable suggestion in the world, as if fixing my car in the apartment parking lot while I nap is perfectly normal behavior.
I stare at him for a moment, fuzzy and frustrated and still feeling the echo of what I was doing before he showed up. I reach for my keys in the console table drawer and toss them in his direction. He catches them with his good hand.
“Give me five minutes,” I say.
8
Lance
I throw on jeans and a shirt, drag the hem straight, and head outside looking approximately thirty percent alive.
George is already elbow-deep in my engine.
Of course he is.
The man somehow manages to look aggressively put together this early in the morning. He’s standing there in the cool San Diego air with grease streaked across his grey long-sleeve, one bad hand braced against the frame while the other works through whatever mechanical sorcery my dying Civic requires today.
My car is a red 2008 Honda Civic with a hundred and fifty thousand miles on it. At this point, I consider it a miracle every time it starts without making a concerning noise.
George straightens when he hears me come out and hands me a coffee without even looking. Espresso, oat milk, hint of cardamom. I take a sip with a small smile, immediately feeling human rights returning to my body.
“Thanks for always getting it right.”
He grunts, takes a sip of his own. “Your alternator’s starting to go.”
“That sounds expensive.”
“Will be if you keep ignoring it. Battery light flickering is your first clue. You leave it, you’ll end up stranded somewhere.”
