Hand versus brain

Got home late last night, as expected, following yet another post-season loss by the Twins to the Yankees (don’t even get me started) and pretty much went right to bed. I wasn’t at all horny and had little interest in trying to make myself that way. I fell asleep.

After a bit, I turned over and partially woke up. My hand absentmindedly found it’s way under my pajama bottom’s waistband to the flaccid and free cock.

“Oh yeah,” my hand said, “that’s still here.”

“Um…what are you doing?” my sleepy brain asked.

“Nothing,” said my hand, “Go back to sleep.”

“OK.” *yawn*

Squeeze.

Whoa,” said my brain, “That’s not nothing.”

“Well, it’s not much.”

“Just leave it alone. It’s not yours to play with, and besides, it’s sleeping. You should be, too.”

“Right,” said my hand, “Just a sec.”

Squeeze.

“Stop squeezing that,” said my brain, unamused.

“Leave me alone. I’m not hurting anything. Look, it’s not even hard. I’m just…squeezing.”

“Why? Why are you squeezing?”

“Because, that’s what I do. I grip things. I squeeze them. Mind your own business.”

The cock started to plump up a bit.

Jesus!” my brain hissed, “You woke it up! You really need to stop this.”

“Really? I really do? You realize, of course, that I can’t do anything by myself. This is only happening because you want it to.”

Squeeze, stroke. Plump.

“I…I…,” stammered my brain, “I do not. No, I don’t. I don’t want you to do that…not at all.”

“Mmm-hmm,” said my hand.

Squeeze, stroke, squeeze, stroke. Stroke, stroke, stroke. The cock was at 80% and filling fast.

“Look,” reasoned the hand, “We’ve hardly seen this thing move for, like, four days. We should keep going. Just to make sure. You know, just to make sure it still works and all.”

“That…sounds reasonable,” said the brain, “But as soon as we do that, it’s back to sleep and you leave it along.”

“Sure. That’s exactly what I’ll do.”

Ninety percent…stroke…stroke…98%…squeeze…stroke…100%.

“Um…*pant*…er…OK…that’s enough, don’t you think? It’s working and all…”

Strokestrokestrokestrokestrokestrokestrokestroke!

, said my brain.

“YEE-HAW!!” said my hand.

STROKESTROKESTROKESTROKESTROKESTROKESTROKE…stroke, stroke…STROKESTROKESTROKESTROKESTROKESTROKE.

“Moan,” said my brain, “groan.”

STROKE! STROKE! STROKE! STROKE! STROKE! STROOOOOOOOOOOOOKE!

“FUCK!” exclaimed the brain, “Too close! Too fucking close! Stop NOW.”

Dribble.

“Fucking hell, look what you almost made happen!”

“…” said my hand.

“HEY! I’m talking here!”

“What, sorry? Oh, hi. Yeah, I was just smearing all this nice slippery precum stuff all over the head of the cock. Doesn’t that feel nice?”

“Er…well, yes, now that you mention it, yes it does…feel…nice…”

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s not the damned point! You nearly got us in a lot of trouble. And now I’m totally awake. More than, in fact. You need to knock this shit off right now or I’m going to have to get us out of bed and put that damned steel thing back on. Is that what you want?”

“No.”

“Then will you stop?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

Pause. “No.”

“That’s what I thought,” said my brain. Then, for good measure, it added, “Asshole.”

Five minutes later I was locked up tight. Very tight. And my hand was grasping the steel tube, pulling on it, squeezing my balls.

“Fuck,” said my hand.

“Go to sleep,” said my brain. And I did.