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I start to post his five-inch cock on Facebook with a message about his premature-ejaculation problem. I’ll probably be going to Facebook jail because it’s a cock pic, but whatever.
It’ll be worth it.
This is the real reason that we haven’t had sex in forever. By the time I start getting wet, he’s already finished. I’ve tolerated it and thought about his other qualities, and the fact that we’ve been together since high school. The fact that I thought he loved me. I'm angry: not with myself, but with him. I found him with Rachel and yet I've not shed one tear. It’s as if somehow I feel free, yet humiliated. I don’t deserve to be humiliated; he does. So I post on Facebook, for all his friends to see. As soon as I hit the post, I start getting likes for the picture with the message, "Zach coming before the action starts!"
I grab the last of my things and look around my room. I’m glad that I shipped most of them home on Tuesday. I only have a couple of thing to pick up before I hop into the car for the long drive. Daniel, my stepdad, said that he wanted me to come home before I went on vacation with Zach. I wasn’t going to do it, especially after I gave Zach the wrong date for the end of term. Now I see no reason not to. After all, I’ve got to plan my summer and I don’t feel like staying here a second longer for Rachel to come back and see me. I plan to avoid her like the plague. Thank God we’re not sharing again next year.
As I walk to the car, my phone’s vibrating like crazy. This is when I see that most of his friends have liked the picture and shared it. I have around forty views, but I’m sure by the time I get home, it will have gone viral, and then Zach will be the one worrying about my actions, rather than me worrying about his.
Colt
Home sweet fucking home, I think, as soon as I walk up to the intersection and press the pedestrian walk button. Just a couple more blocks to the house.
California’s so fucking hot; it's like walking through an oven. Even my balls are sweating. How do people walk through this shit?
I guess I could've called a cab, but the house isn't far from the Amtrak station, so I took a train, and now I'm walking. I figured I'd take it all in. And for the most part, I've been soaking it all in for the first time in a long time.
I knew I was getting close when those nuclear tits came into view off the I-5. If you've never seen them, you should. They're nuclear reactors that power the area, sitting right along the coast, and the guy who designed them must've had some fucking sense of humor because they look like a perfect pair of tits.
I feel a thin line of sweat run down my face, and another bead of sweat trickle down the contours of my abs. I stop and take a drink of water and survey my old neighborhood. If I'm being fucking honest, I wish that I didn’t even have to go home. I could be hitting the beach right now, working on my tan, surfing the T-Street break, and picking up the girls clamoring for a taste of the dudes brave enough to ride San Clemente's most consistent waves..
"Hey, hottie!" someone shouts.
I barely hear the voice from the convertible at the intersection. I’m lost in my thoughts about my stepdad Daniel asking me to come home. It's my fucking summer break and I thought I'd chill with the guys before we all hop on a plane to Bali. But those plans got derailed quicker than I can get in a girl's fucking skirt. Poof. Those plans detonated pretty fucking fast.
But yeah, there’s a girl calling out to me.
I mean, I’m not surprised she’s impressed enough to call out. If you see me, you know what I’m working with. My fucking 8 pack abs that you can see through my tight shirt. My ripped body. My tattoos.
My fucking face that’s cut and and deep, soulful eyes.
But more than anything, my giant fucking cock. She can probably tell what this cock does.
Hell, she can probably tell my entire body was designed to fuck.
That’s right, Colt Morgan was built to have sex.
"How may I be of service?" I ask the dark-haired girl in the convertible next to me at the stoplight. I play it casual. There’s one thing about San Clemente girls. They never fucking fail to surprise me.
"In more ways than you can think," she purrs.
Holy shit!
Sure, the girl’s got wavy dark tresses. But she’s got a slutty vibe in her face that I’m fucking familiar with. This is a SoCal chick. One of those who’s driving that car on Daddy’s money. She’d probably drive a jalopy if it meant he’d pay more attention to her.
But he doesn’t. So she’s out. Trolling for guys.
The girl knows she’s got a limited window of time to impress me if she wants me to fuck her. She doesn’t waste time as she starts to lower her top, flashing her big boobs. No doubt they’re fake. They’re fucking huge—symmetrical and extra perky—j
ust the way I like them. I bet they'd fit nicely in my hands. They look like two big melons squashed into her thin vest. I’m so tempted to follow her home as she lowers her top further, leaving nothing to the imagination.
I can hardly speak; I feel as if I’ve got one of those big melons stuffed right in my fucking mouth. I'm not kidding when I say that I can practically fucking taste her.
I blink to bring myself back to reality. "Those," I point to them, my fingers aching to touch her because I’m getting so fucking hard, "could stop traffic!"
She laughs, "I think that they’ve already done that. So, big boy? Are you going to follow me home or are you going to sit there and look at them all day long?" She's chewing gum, and I watch as her moist lips open and close seductively. If I'm fucking honest, I can already imagine something else between those lips.
Like I said, I know these girls and what they’re all about.
