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She slowly sinks to her knees, dragging her body along mine as she descends, keeping her hands on my cock all along. She looks up at me with those big baby blues and whispers, “I told you I’d do anything you want.”
In reality, I’m stroking my hand faster and faster up and down my shaft that’s harder than it’s ever been before. I’m going to pass out from the heat and all the blood rushing south from my head to fill my cock.
Fantasy Dolly leans forward to kiss the tip of my dick, and her little tongue dips into the slit at the top, tasting me, and…and that’s it. That’s all it takes for me to burst. Rope after rope of thick, white cum pulses out onto the shower wall. I’m breathing raggedly and have to brace a hand on the wall to keep myself upright. It’s the quickest, hardest nut I’ve had since I first figured out how to stroke myself off as a teen.
Forget being a creep. I now feel like the world’s biggest pervert for thinking of that teenage girl on her knees for me. The fantasy dissolves as I mentally berate myself for all the twisted shit running through my mind.
I quickly finish washing up, ashamed of myself the whole time, and step out of the shower. I catch my reflection in the mirror again. An ugly, old, dirty bastard like me has no business thinking about a young girl like that.
I’ve never been tempted to pick up a woman who promises to do anything I want, as other lot lizards have offered to do when they were looking to make a few bucks off me. I’ve seen other men take them up on their offers, but that was never something I wanted to do. So I was clear with Dolly that I wasn’t interested in that kind of shit from her. I also told myself I wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole, so it’s seriously fucked that I would start fantasizing about her naked in the shower and ready to suck me off.
I’m disgusted with myself and turn away from the mirror, unable to look at my reflection any longer.
Chapter 5
Dolly
I spend too much time in front of the mirror thinking of Wyatt and comparing our sizes. He’s so tall I wonder if he would even be able to see the top of his head in the mirror if he were to stand behind me. He’d surround me on all sides.
I shiver at the mental image.
Stripping off my hoodie, my thoughts drift to him again and again. Is his chest covered in thick, curly hair like his beard, or does he shave for a smooth feel? I’d like to think he doesn’t shave. I don’t know why, but the idea that he’s covered in body hair brings heat to my cheeks.
Wait, why am I thinking about what Wyatt looks like shirtless? I’ve never had these kinds of thoughts about a man before, especially one who is closer to Dad’s age than mine, and I try to push them away.
I step into the hot shower and work a small amount of my favorite strawberry-scented shampoo into my hair. I hope it doesn’t run out any time soon since I don’t know if or when I’ll be able to replace the pricey shampoo, conditioner, and body wash set, not until I find some kind of job willing to hire someone with zero work experience.
It feels good to wash the sweat and stink off my body after sprinting from my house to the truck stop. I always feel more human after a shower, and for just a minute, all is right in my world.
Closing my eyes, I wonder what kind of shampoo Wyatt uses. That leads to thoughts of him in the shower next door, using his impressively large hands to scrub his mystery shampoo over his scalp, through his beard, and down his (possibly) hairy chest.
I picture him in front of me, pulling me into his solid arms. What would it feel like to rake my soapy hands over his broad chest, to scrape my fingernails over his nipples, and then down lower? I let out a small moan when I think of the hot, lusty look he might give me as I wash him, knowing now that he has gorgeous, honey-brown eyes.
I know he thinks I was insulting him about his size, but I like how big and masculine he is compared to other men. How he could use his size to intimidate most men. Make them back off if they tried to hurt me. As tall as Dad is, Wyatt’s even bigger than him. I bet he’d think twice about going up against a man like Wyatt.
With the way Wyatt was able to catch me without effort after I fell, I can imagine how easy it would be for him to pick me up and hold me with my legs spread wide around his thick waist while I run my hands over his shoulders.
I like his big, bushy beard, too, and I want to know what it feels like to comb my fingers through it the way I’ve seen him do a few times. What would it feel like to have it scraping along my bare skin if he were to lean over and place a small kiss on my neck, my collarbone, and down to my breasts?
There’s a lot I like about him, actually, and—oh god, where are these thoughts coming from? I have to stop. I have to stop thinking about him and how big he is. How big he might be everywhere.
He might have felt sorry enough for me to let me hitch a ride, but that doesn’t mean he wants anything to do with me. He said it himself—he doesn’t want anything from me. Fantasizing about him when he would never look twice at me is just depressing, even though I don’t quite understand why.
I rush through the rest of my shower, trying not to think about Wyatt in the room next door. After drying and getting dressed in black workout leggings and my oversized hoodie, I wrap my towel around my wet hair. I take one last look at myself in the mirror and see just how red and flushed my cheeks are from the heat and the fantasy, hoping Wyatt won’t notice.
When I open the door, I find him leaning against the wall across from me. He’s changed into soft, navy-blue pajama pants and a light gray sweatshirt stretched tight across his chest and thick middle. My cheeks must turn bright red when he eyes me up and down.
He doesn’t look happy about having to wait for me in the hallway, though, and I stammer, “I-I’m sorry. I hope you weren’t out here waiting for too long.”
“It’s fine,” he says after clearing his throat. He looks flushed now, too, and I wonder why. “Uh, make sure you’ve gone to the restroom because I don’t have one in the cab, and I don’t want to have to wake up to bring you back here in the next few hours.”
“I’m good,” I say, not totally understanding what he means by that.
He sighs and turns away. “Come on, I gotta get some sleep.” He gestures for me to hurry up as he walks toward the exit and out into the parking lot.
Another habit of his—always telling me to come on. I’m surprised he hasn’t thrown in another shake of his head when I have to jog to catch up to him, eyes locked on his backside for some reason, which bounces a little with each long step he takes.
My skin tingles again when he slows down until we’re walking side by side, and he places his hand on my back.
