I woke up shivering, and not from the nightmare. My engorged cock stood tall and proud, begging to be touched. Stroked. Fondled. In my mind I could only see Charlie. His face, that grin, the body that captured my attention. Tentatively I reached down to rub my erection, fully expecting it to wither as it did the last time. When I slid my fingers along the smooth skin, much to my surprise, it got harder.

After spitting into my palm, I wrapped my hand around my dick, relishing the feel that had been denied me for too many years. Long, smooth strokes up and down had me moaning, thrusting up into my hand, and all the while Charlie was on my mind. In my imagination he caressed me reverently, his touch so light as to almost not be there, but I knew it was. He pressed his lips against my neck, nibbling on the skin, bringing up goose bumps, whispering to me how much he wanted to be inside me, how much he needed to taste me.

He’d be on his knees and lower his face to my crotch to lap at my balls, then up my shaft until his tongue swirled around the head, and then he’d bob up and down as he worked to take me all the way to the base. He would press his fingers against my pucker, and I’d spread my legs for him, allow him to touch where no one else had ever gotten close.

“Matt,” he’d whisper, his voice husky.

I orgasmed so hard it splattered on the headboard and seemed like there would be no end to it. My body rocked from the sensations, and I cried out Charlie’s name as all the pent-up emotions rolled through me. When it finally subsided, I could feel the cooling liquid sliding down my stomach and onto the bed.

The overwhelming sense of relief brought tears of joy to my eyes. I’d had my first orgasm in thirteen years. Then reality hit me square in the face: the person who’d been responsible for it had left and gone to New York to start his life over again.

And I’d let him go.