Page 22 of Serving Bunt

“Night,” I said to no one.

When I finally stepped inside, it felt like I had just run a marathon. The room was small but cute, with knotty-pine walls, a queen bed, a barely there kitchenette, and a window that looked straight at—

Yup. His cabin.

“Fuck,” I muttered.

Mo gave me a judgmental side-eye from the pillow she’d claimed at the head of the bed. Hopefully, she would forgive me for what I was about to do. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

And horny times called for jerking off in a tiny cabin.

I kicked off my shoes and stripped down to my boxer briefs within seconds, planting my ass on the edge of the handmade quilt. My cock was already straining hard against the fabric, a wet spot darkening the front. I shoved the briefs down my thighs and kicked them aside, finally freeing myself.

I wrapped my right hand around the base, squeezing once, then leaned forward and spat into my palm. I slicked the spit over my cock in one long stroke, spreading it from root to tip, then did it again, letting the wetness mix with the precum leaking from my tip.

“Fuck,” I breathed, my eyes falling shut.

My hand moved up and down my shaft in a steady rhythm. Slowly at first. I was already too worked up; it wouldn’t take much to send me over the edge.

The cabin was dead silent except for the wet sound of my fist and my own ragged breathing.

Fucking filthy.

Fucking hot.

Every stroke sent sparks up my spine. I leaned back on my free hand and let my mind go where it wanted.

To one of Diaz’s stories.

The one that had lived rent-free in my head for months, long before I’d known who the author was.

It started after a late-night game. The stadium was empty except for the two of us. In the story, Diaz had dragged me into the dugout after the final out, dropped to his knees on the rubber mat, and looked up at me with those dark eyes while he worked my belt open.

“Been thinking about this for nine innings, Miller,” the Diaz in my head said, his voice low and thick with desire. “You in that tight uniform, your ass in the air every time you bent over for a grounder. I’ve been wanting to taste you since the first pitch.”

I tightened my grip and sped up, twisting my wrist just under the head. The vision of his mouth on my cock was so vivid, I could almost feel it.

Hot, wet. Relentless.

“Come on, Alabama,” fantasy-Diaz whispered, pulling off just long enough to speak, spit dripping down his chin. “Fuck my throat, tesoro. I can take it.”

I groaned under my breath and stroked faster, my hips rocking up to meet my fist.

In his story, he let me use his mouth hard, gagging softly every time I hit the back of his throat. When I finally came, fictional Diaz swallowed every drop, then licked the head of my cock one last time, like it was his favorite lollipop.

But it was the whisper afterward that always destroyed the real me.

He looked up at me, lips swollen and voice hoarse, and growled, “That’s it, tesoro . . . . That’s my good boy. All mine.”

I came hard with a choked groan, the word tesoro echoing in my head.

“Peter,” I cried as thick ropes of cum spilled over my knuckles and onto my stomach.

My hips jerked helplessly as the orgasm rolled through me in long, shuddering waves. I kept up my strokes, drawing out the pleasure until every last drop was wrung out of me.

For a long minute afterward, I just sat there, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling.

Mo had turned her back to me in clear disapproval.