I was away from Belle and unlocked for one night last week. Thursday night, to be precise. The night before, I was so jacked up and horny that I slept only a few hours here and there. I kept waking up with the kind of stuffed tube that only feeds upon itself with all kinds of visions and scenarios spinning in my head.
So, as I boarded the aircraft the next morning and flew a few hours to make a presentation in front of a bunch of total strangers, I was operating on energy reserves. Forced fun following and an overly indulgent dinner of the kind reserved for important life events (graduation, marriage, death) or large corporate expense accounts left me in my mid-priced yet stylish hotel room aching for the bed and numerous pillows.
And I was, truly, exhausted. I neglected to pack any bedclothes so I climbed in between the cool, crisp sheets able to feel their cool crispness along my entire body. Even those areas that typically only feel the inside of a steel tube. Nonetheless, I was tired. Exhausted, remember? I laid back and opened my laptop in order to catch up with Facebook and the world news. My eyelids were leaden and I moved to close the computer and turn out the light.
But I didn’t. Instead, I thought to myself, let’s just see what’s waiting for me in my Tumblr feed. I clicked the link to The Portfolio’s dashboard and saw a stream of bodies materialize. At first, I can’t say it much affected me, but after a few moments and seeing a couple of particularly interesting specimens that nicely complimented my taste, there was a stirring beneath the sheets. My leaden eyelids lightened a bit and the veil of sleep withdrew a bit more. My left hand found its way to the pudgy penis and gently coaxed it into full stiffness.
The more dispassionate parts of my brain saw what was coming. I would likely edge myself for an hour or so (and it was already late) before perhaps allowing a couple slugs of creamy white goo out in a non-orgasmic emission. Then I’d toss and turn and deal with multiple erections and probably punch myself in places most men would wither to consider before finding myself standing bleary-eyed at the check-in counter for the flight home.
While pondering this certain fate, I also happened to notice how the stroking felt. How the fat, heavy PA ring moved within the head of the penis and how that sensation was, in a word, excellent. There are times, most men would agree, when jacking off is perfunctory and not especially great, but there are others when the loop of one’s hand and one’s member and one’s brain is in perfect tune. Where the three elements form a continuous element of pleasure. In that crisp white bed in that moderately-priced yet still stylish hotel room with the over-active air conditioner I felt such a oneness. And I weighed that oneness against my previously considered fate.
There really was no question. At no point did the alternative seem likely. I knew what was going to happen. I was going to come. And I was going to like it. Yes, I knew I’d feel guilty immediately afterward, but I also knew with a certainty how good the orgasm was going to feel. The inevitable build-up, the hovering on the brink, and the explosive fireworks that would run along my spine and over my scalp as the creamy payload spewed forth.
And, as long as I was being bad, I decided to drag it out. To really revel in my disobedience and make it count. As the orgasm would approach, I’d change my grip and make it wait, make it work its way back down. The big heavy ring deliciously tickling the most sensitive part of me from within while my hand teased it from without. I worked that load the best I could. I wanted to be bathed in ejaculate. I wanted to really fucking come. This wasn’t going to be a case of manslaughter. This was going to be first degree murder. Not premeditated, perhaps, but with all the same consequences.
And I came. And there were fireworks and tingling. Every hair stood up on my body. The cream gushed forth all over my stomach and hand. I came like a 17-year-old. It was glorious.
For 6 seconds. Then the stupor washed over me tinged with a froth of guilt. I staggered into the bathroom and wiped the offending paste from my body and fell back into bed. And I slept, knowing I’d tell Belle. Which I did. Two nights ago.