Page 283 of Devil’s Disciples

“Haven’t yet.”

“Ever fallen off a bike?” I asked.

“Bicycle?”

“Yeah.”

“Many times,” he said.

“Did people see you?”

“Yep.”

“It wasn’t embarrassing?”

“Nope. I didn’t let it be. The difference between me and you is that I don’t give a fuck what people think. Now that we’re getting on with our lives, you should try adopting that philosophy.”

It sounded easy, but it wasn’t. If I fell off the surf board, people would laugh. Then, I’d feel embarrassed. Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone video taped it and posted it on YouTube.

It seemed I couldn’t go anywhere and maintain anonymity.

I stared toward the beach for a moment. Two men paddled out and caught a wave, then rode it back to shore. Neither of them fell off, and no one seemed to care. I wanted to check surfing off my list, but a small part of me feared the inevitable.

After Porter’s release from the doctor, I’d been filled with nervous energy. I was itching to live a life free of restrictions, inhibitions, and the threat of cancer. I glanced in his direction. Still sitting with his eyes closed, he looked peaceful. I, on the other hand, was yearning to do something. Something other than surf.

“Can I play with your dick while you’re relaxing?”

He tilted his head to the side and opened one eye. “If it’ll make you happy.”

I found pleasure in doing anything with Porter. Doing things with Porter’s dick took my pleasure to an entirely different level.

I’d see more dicks in one weekend than most girls would see in a lifetime career in the porn industry. Stiff dick pics flooded my inbox, as did five-second-long videos of men stroking themselves.

Porter’s dick stood out from the tens of thousands of dicks that had burned cock-shaped lesions on my corneas over the years. It was long, thick, and as straight as a rocket. I was fascinated by it.

It was the one dick – the only dick – I’d ever seen that was pretty.

I slid off the edge of my chair, duck-walked to his side, and reached into the leg of his shorts. After gripping the semi-soft shaft, I looked him in the eyes.

They were closed.

I stroked his cock gently, fascinated by its ability to grow to four times the original size. In a few strokes, it was as hard as steel. His eyes, however, remained closed.

“Does it hurt?” I asked. “When it’s all bound up in your shorts like that?”

“Nope.”

He was shirtless, shoeless, and freshly shaven. I wanted him to toss the shorts and let me play with his dick. Other than the fact that his cock was hard, he didn’t seem too interested in my little dick game.

“It’s trying to stand up, but it can’t.” With the shaft gripped firmly in my hand, I wiggled it back and forth, watching the peak of the fabric tent move as I did so. “It’s restricted. Like putting on a size two when you need a size six. It can’t feel good.”

“It’s not a big deal,” he said dryly.

I peered into the leg of his shorts. His dick was pointing toward the beach at a forty-five-degree angle, limited in travel by the fabric of his swim shorts, which were stretched to the limit.

“You’re pitching a nylon tent,” I said. “It looks like it hurts.”

He opened one eye. “Okay. It hurts.”