Page 16 of Shattered Veil

I could feel her convulsing on my tongue.

“Fuck,” I moaned a miserable curse, continuing to heave large breaths as if I had just finished sprinting.

I tried to will the vivid non-memories away, yet they remained.

I had offered her the spare bedroom in my apartment. She asked if she could have a nightcap, and I obliged. We chatted on the couch. Our eyes met as we realized how close we were sitting. She smiled that fucking smile…and I went for it. She sighed against me, I felt like a god amongst men, two plus two equaled four, and then, her bare feet were grazing my back as I worshipped her.

I was painfully erect, now—to the point that I was concerned that moving the comforter that laid over my lap would finish me off—and shame was washing over me in a wave. It was just a dream…a harmless dream…but thinking of her in such a way felt wrong on so many levels.

And, fuck me, but that made the thought of it even hotter.

I sprang from my bed, thanked whatever god above that I didn’t orgasm from the movement, and headed straight for the shower. The image was probably comical, really, and it was a goddamn blessing that I lived alone. My torso was angled slightly downwards in an attempt to reduce the strain of my dick against the fabric of my boxer briefs. My bare feet slapped across the cherry wood as I power-walked past the kitchen, and I groaned when I glimpsed the time on the stove that read 2:03 A.M. I rushed into the bathroom with an air of desperation, cranked the temperature in the shower to what I could only describe as ice, carefully peeled my boxers off, and stepped in.

“AH!”

I sucked in a breath through my teeth, my muscles stiffened, and I allowed the frigid water to pelt my body. I told myself that I would stand there for as long as was needed to remedy my situation…and the minutes passed. The initial shock of the temperature waned, my fingers and toes began to go numb, my skin—though typically a bit pale aside from the areas that were tattooed—seemed to have a blueish pallor to it, and my cock was still fucking hard.

I wondered bitterly if I would die here. If I would get fucking hypothermia from standing in this shower, waiting for my hard-on to abate.

Monday would roll around, and I wouldn’t have the ability to call in for work, being dead and all. My coworkers, most likely Brooks, would be concerned because, if anything, I was a punctual and up-front person. The lack of my presence throughout the day without any alert of it—a no-call, no-show, as it could be called—would be alarming, and they would try to contact me. The phone would ring, and ring…or, perhaps, my phone would have died by then, as well…and that’s when the police would show. They would bust down my door, the shower would still be running, and they would race to the bathroom.

And, there I would be. Dead. Blue all over, with the exception of my cock, of course, because I would probably still be fucking hard.

It would be an anomaly. The policemen would be perplexed—I could imagine it:

Policeman One stops in his tracks. “Oh shit, he’s dead.”

“Uh huh…for a while, looks like,” Policeman Two replies. “Better call the medical examiner.”

“Is he…is he erect?” Policeman One ponders aloud as he squints at my body.

Policeman Two grimaces. “Oh, Jesus. That he is.”

“How the fuck is that possible?” Policeman One notes, “He’s past rigor mortis, right?”

“Definitely,” Policeman Two agrees. “No idea how he’s hard right now…they’re gonna want to do studies on this shit.”

“An autopsy at the very least, right?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Policeman One tilts his head to the side as he takes in my appearance even further, and then asks hesitantly, “…think it has anything to do with how big his dick is?”

Policeman Two nods emphatically. “I mean, he’s enormous…probably. They’ll want to study that, too.”

I laughed loudly at my morbidly imagined scenario, looked down, and whispered, “Oh, thank God,” because I was finally flaccid.

I turned the water to hot, regained the feeling in my limbs, and remained there until my skin was splotched with red from the heat. I exchanged my sexual thoughts of Cassie for the memory—the real memory—that had happened the night before. Remorse over what I had said, how she could have taken it, and why repeated over and over in my brain. I supposed that was natural—a natural thing to feel after essentially telling her to fuck off. It would pass, I told myself.

It didn’t pass, though…and furthermore, I was concerned that the dream which had left me in a state of, erm, distress was becoming a recurring one. It did recur—both Sunday and Monday at exactly two o’clock in the morning, I awoke in a similarly shocked state. Eyes wide open and flat on my back, I was panting. Damn near covered in sweat, I groaned, realized the sins that I had unintentionally committed yet again, refrained from slapping my face as a form of punishment, and hopped in an icy shower.

On Monday morning, I had thankfully recovered from my brief bout of hypothermia, and as I drove to work, I—once again—thought of Cassie. Not in the lewd manner that I had been attempting to erase from my dreams, but with shame regarding my horrific behavior. I had considered contacting her, but I didn’t have her phone number—I had never asked her for it, and I never intended to—and I was cursing myself because of it. I didn’t know what I would say, but I still had the urge to reach out and talk to her. There were several routes I could take:

Erm, sorry, I can be a douche sometimes. We cool?

I’m definitely not friends with the guy who tried to rip your top off.

I didn’t look at your tit when it happened.

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