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Another funny, sideways smile. Or smirk.
“And to think, I had you pegged as just a pretty face.” I grin, and hold, despite the way it makes my stomach twist.
He smiles back. “To think.”
Inside my chest, something spreads its wings. I start down the steps, still smiling as I call over my shoulder, “Later, sensei.”
As I start into the woods between our houses, my heart is pounding in the best possible way.
TEN
Barrett
My balls are throbbing so hard I can feel it down the insides of my thighs. My shaft is swollen and hard as a baseball bat, with slick precum oozing out the head, coating my palm, which grips my cock and strokes it up and down.
I lift my hips and drag my loose fist upward from the base, making a ring under the head. My thumb finds the soft notch just underneath the head and strokes there, while my left hand plays support and grips my sac. I close my eyes and roll my balls around until they, too, are taut and aching.
I’m breathing hard. My legs are shaking. I’m leaning back in the armchair—the one by the window. The one where a few hours ago, I dozed off for two hours and woke up screaming so loud I’m surprised Gwenna didn’t hear me from next door.
I tighten my fist and stroke faster, up and down my shaft, bouncing when I reach the base, causing my balls to bounce, too. I slide back up and roll my palm over my head and stroke back down, and then back up, until I’m right there on the edge. My head is too sensitive to touch. My cock throbs with my pulse, and my balls have drawn up tight.
I want to come. I need to get off. Jesus Christ, my body needs that hot wash of endorphins or I’ll go fucking insane.
I wrap my hand around the base and tug up toward my swollen head. My cock throbs and I try to think of pussy. Wet, pink pussy; plump, slick pussy; fat lips spread, glistening cunt that drips down toward her taint. I imagine tonguing the smooth pearl of Gwenna’s clit, the way her cunt tightens and then spasms hard enough to squeeze my shaft. I cup my head. It’s warm and smooth and sensitive from being buried deep inside her.
No.
The voice is faint. I can’t afford to listen. Not when I’m so close.
Panting now, like a damn dog, I spread my legs and cup my aching balls and grip my shaft, harder than it’s ever been, so damn hard it’s twitching every time I stroke it.
It’s that pussy. Her pussy. I lift my hips as I imagine driving deep inside her, making her bounce atop me…tits swinging. I groan. I can feel cum pulsing in me, filling up my shaft till I’m so full of it, more precum leaks. I spread it all around, tweaking the rim of my head, and feel my balls throb.
“Fuckkk.” I spread my legs and press them shut, and spread my legs and jack myself…so hard and fast…I feel it ripple out, sensation building in the core of my cock, radiating outward till my balls clench and my cock jerks and I feel the warmth of cum spill in between my fingers.
Breathing hard, I sag against the chair. Gold stars dance in the blackness behind my eyelids. My head spins—but it feels good. I can breathe now.
That’s the last thought I have before I wake up some time later, whimpering and writhing, tugging on my hair so hard there’s blood on my fingertips from where I’ve pulled some of the Dermabond off my busted scar.
My body shakes there on the stretcher as I hear the drill’s sharp whine. I can’t move my head and neck, my arms and legs. I’m strapped down tightly. I can’t seem to summon up the fear I should be feeling. The headache is all-consuming; there’s nothing else I can process besides the excruciating pain radiating through my head and face.
I look at the ceiling of the plane. I’m floating there, while lying here. I think I might be dead. Who lies still while someone drills a hole in their skull? Except I feel the scalding bite of the drill bit as it pokes through bone. The airplane’s ceiling spins. Bile splashes up over the back of my tongue. Then I feel the headache ease… The pressure in my chest eases. My throbbing eyes go numb… My neck and shoulder—blinding, hot, white pain—are peeled away. My body feels so cold.
“Am I dead?” I slur.
Just kill me. Kill me like I killed her. Kill me like I killed Breck.
I wake up eons later to the sight of my numb lower body, lumpy underneath a blue blanket, framed by thick, beige bed rails. There’s a tube or drain in every orifice. My left eye is fucked up. My left hand is fucked up. I can’t move or speak
. Don’t even have the strength to roll over to hide the tears that soon start dripping from my eyes.
I’m aware of nurses easing me over on my side so they can change the dressing on my shoulder. The one that cost me the use of my left hand when Breck needed me. The one that took my gun.
Strange to have them all buzzing around me. Strange, these doctors—caring for the dead…
I shut my eyes and focus on each breath. I’m not dead. I curve my hand over the bleeding, Dermabond-edged wound and lean over so I can prop my arms on the windowsill.
I wrap my arms around my head and draw my legs in close to my chest. My heart is beating fast, but it feels like an echo. Everything, an echo. This place isn’t real. I pull my hair again, to feel it sting.
