Lance
I’m tangled up in bed with this warm, blurry figure whose face I can’t quite make out. A hand slides down my stomach, fingers teasing lower until they wrap firmly around my cock, giving me one slow, perfect stroke. My hips twitch as they lean in close, whispering something hot and low right against my ear. A thick beard brushes against my neck and jaw, rough and scratchy. Oh, that feels too damn good.
“Beard?” I mumble, half-confused, wanting to pull back and look, but a low moan slips out of me instead and I just melt into the sensation. I can feel a hand caressing my lower back, until a thick finger slips between my ass cheeks. A jolt of raw pleasure hits me as it circles my tight rim, teasing it, then it slowly pushes inside.
The stretch burns so good I chase it without thinking, rocking back onto that digit, hips moving before my brain has any say in it. Pleasure cracks open behind my eyes and I sink deeper into it, greedy for every inch of that pressure.
Then it starts to go. The grounding warmth at my back thins. The fullness eases out of me slow, and I grab for it and get nothing. The voice at my ear dissolves mid-syllable. The weight, the warmth, the gravity of the body behind mine, gone, until I’m holding fistfuls of air.
I come up gasping, chest heaving like I’ve just run a code blue, the dream yanked out from under me before anything could finish. My cock is heavy against my stomach, angry red and steel-rod hard. It feels like my body hasn’t caught up yet. It’s still chasing something that isn’t there.
The room is still a bit dark with the sun not quite up yet. My body has me halfway to the edge, only for my own subconscious to yank it all away and leave me blue-balled in the worst way.
I’m aching and I’ve had a shit week. I’m going to fucking take care of it.
I push myself up and cross to the cabinet in the corner. Deep-shelved, solid wood, the kind of storage built for tools, ammunition, or anything a man decides needs organizing without inviting questions. The lock combination clicks open under my fingers before I have to think about it. Pre-Azure Tides Lance would have hesitated. Current Lance doesn't second-guess himself.
I open the cabinet doors.
Six dildos stare back at me. They stand tall, bases down, arranged by size from left to right on the shelves. A sommelier’s flight, except the tasting notes are mine alone. Six in two months since I got back from Trevor’s wedding feels about right for a man who finally stopped pretending he wasn’t curious about this particular thing.
The slim blue dildo I started with, back when I was still treating this like a science experiment. The medium knotted in shimmering nebula hues. The curved tentacled with the flexible ridges that taught me a thing or two about angles. The thick ridged obsidian with writhing texture. The girthy crystalline with the suction cup base, which was a learning curve in a literal sense, and which lives toward the back because it’s the one I use on the shower tile and it doesn’t get to touch the others.
And at the end, on its own, my current favorite. It sits a little forward on the shelf, a sure tell that it gets pulled out the most lately.
Almost-black silicone, substantial girth. Nine inches, realistically veined, with a weight that sits heavy in my palm when I lift it. I don’t think about why this one, or the size of it, or whose it is closest to. I definitely don’t think about clicking buy at two in the morning and paying for overnight shipping as if that wasn’t an answer in itself.
My body already knows what it can do with this one.
This all started with a patient. He came into the ED with two dildos lodged inside him and the bearing of a man whose weekend had simply gone sideways. He was probably embarrassed, but he didn’t look like he was in pain. He looked, for lack of a better word, free. He was just a guy who’d been doing things for himself and had the misfortune of landing in the ER for it. The team handled it the way we handle everything with gloves on and faces neutral, not a single raised eyebrow between us. It was professional, routine, and afterwards I moved on to the next patient.
Except I really didn’t.
That night I got home, poured a drink I didn’t finish, and opened tabs on my phone I had never touched before. I told myself it was professional curiosity, for research, the same intellectual itch that made me good at my job. It was just clinical interest in how the human body could accommodate that much, tolerate that much, want that much.
Sure. Intellectual.
Then Azure Tides happened, and I came back knowing and understanding what my body actually wanted, stamped into me as a new piece of information I couldn’t un-learn. One toy led to another, my preferences sharpened fast. Turns out I knew what I liked the minute I stopped refusing to find out.
Two months later, the cabinet had a lock on it.
I’m not ashamed of any of it. I’m private, which is a different thing entirely. Shame would mean there was something to hide from. Privacy just means no one has earned the key.
I take out my favorite dildo and set my phone on the small tripod on the dresser. I adjust the angle so the camera catches everything from the ribs down. I carry the toy over to the open space on the hardwood floor near the foot of the bed. The suction cup locks onto the wood with a satisfying click.
I check the frame one more time. The shot is good. It will show my thighs spread wide, my cock, and the way my hole stretches around the thick silicone when I take it. There are times that my head gets into the frame, my expression of pleasuring myself all captured on camera, but I don’t bother editing it out. That’s exactly what I want to watch later.
I press record.
I slick myself open with practiced fingers, breath steady, then coat the toy generously. When I ease down onto it, the stretch hits hard. My body opens around the thick head. It then takes more, inch by slow inch, until I’m completely seated. The fullness presses against every sensitive spot inside me. I rock forward, testing what the angle gives me, until my cock twitches and starts to leak against my stomach. The camera keeps running, silent witness to the way my thighs start to shake, and my mouth drops open on a ragged exhale.
My mind starts to drift, filling in the gaps my reality is missing.
A tangible body behind me instead of empty air. Strong hands gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks, guiding every movement, controlling the pace.
I just let the images build, but frustration starts creeping in because I can’t quite hit my prostate consistently. I want this so badly it’s making me desperate. I want someone who knows what they’re doing to just take over and make me feel this without mehaving to work so hard for it. Someone whose hands I already know the shape of.
The thought sharpens without warning. George.
