Page 48 of The Cult

Knowing how close he’d been from my edging, I gripped his wrist before he spilled all over the tiled bathroom.

“I’m so close,” he protested.

“What did I say?” I asked, twisting his arm behind his back.

“Please make me come?” he panted. “Make me come, please, Daddy.”

“So impatient.” I brought both of his hands behind his head and reached around to grab his cock.

“Please,” he whispered.

With my pity for him coupled with the desire to feel him pulse in my hands again, I stroked his dick the way I would mine. Long and slow. Cries of pleasure escaped his mouth, and I whispered in his ear, “Stay quiet or I’ll stop.”

He nodded, sweat beads trickling down his cheeks. I fought the urge to lick them.

I spit on my palm and pumped his cock until his body started spasming.

“I’m coming,” he panted, spraying the wall that was two feet in front of him. He was a fucking shooter just like me. Still coming, I aimed his dick at his stomach so more of his nut coated his abs and belly button.

After I milked Abel of his last drops, I spun him around, then untied my shirt that was covering his eyes. He blinked several times before his eyes landed on mine. “Did you come?” he asked.

I ignored his question and went to the sink to rinse my shirt with warm water. I’d take care of my needs later. The sight of Abel covered with his spunk caused my cock’s girth to double.

“Let me finish you off,” he begged. “Please?”

Fuckkkk. He knew what he was doing, but I couldn’t succumb to his offer. “No!” I barked. He’d never have that control over me. I wiped his cum off his body with my damp shirt. Once cleaned of his own release, I distanced myself and studied him. His wrists were red and covered with marks. I was proud. That was my work.

Abel reached for my crotch and grabbed my bulge. His touch almost made me come.

I slapped his hand. “I said no.”

Abel looked shocked and hurt at the same time.

I had to get the fuck out of here. I unlocked the bathroom door and marched out of his quarters.

In my world, there was no space for anything but chaos and gloom. Once I’d snuck back to my room, I unzipped my pants and pulled out my swollen purple cock. The head and small barbell piercing glistened with a thick layer of pre-cum that dripped to the floor once the entire length was free. I leaned against the metal door, the chilled surface no match for my burning desire. I spit on my hand and jerked my cock from the base to tip, relishing the slow strokes I preferred. A blindfolded Abel moaning while I beat his dick filled my imagination. If I wasn’t careful, this would be over way too soon.

I pushed my briefs and pants down to my ankles. I focused on my balls by tugging and stretching them lower. My breath hitched, caught between pleasure and pain. I could still smell his sweat around me. I wondered what his cock tasted like. A vivid scenario played in my mind of Abel’s hand pumping my dick, while his tongue played with the cock piercing before engulfing my entire length. He’d choke and his eyes would turn red and watery.

Instead of pulling out, I’d thrust my hips until I was all the way down his throat. “Fuck,” I groaned. My orgasm was about to hit me like a freight train that I didn’t have the power to stop. “Take it!” I murmured to the phantom Abel.

The image I’d conjured up had me spilling my spunk all over the floor.

When I opened my eyes, dark spots clouded my vision. I stood in front of a small puddle of cum and tried to remember the last time I’d exploded like that. Probably never.

Once my pulse had calmed down, I headed to the small bathroom for a much-needed shower. Under the spray, a realization dawned on me: that was the first time I’d come without imagining my wife. Even after her death, I pictured her body whenever I pleased myself.

Whatever. This was a one-off. My life would be back to normal—my normal—when this was all over.

The fire I’d started hours ago had been extinguished and all that remained of the old shack was charcoal and ash. I peeked outside the corridor through the small window and, when I didn’t see anyone in the empty hallway, carried the metal chair, positioned it under the ceiling tiles, and grabbed the cell phone I’d stashed days ago.

As expected, messages from Archer—The Reaper—flooded my screen. Messages arrived in one-hour intervals down to the minute—he was that anal about everything.

Archer: Did u find them?

Archer: Do u need us?

Archer: Still alive?

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