Page 61 of Shroom for Improvement

“What did it say?” Sonny asked. Oh, he thought I was talking to the house, not having an internal debate about masturbation.

I decided to be honest. To a point. “It didn’t. I was just thinking about how difficult it’s going to be over the next, however long, not doing... the thing we said we wouldn’t do.”

Sonny laughed. He understood what I was referring to. Perhaps it’d been on his mind, too. “Honestly? I’m kinda bricking it. I’ve never considered how often I—” He broke off, laughing, his cheeks pink. I had to adjust my position on the bed just in case. “There was one time, when I was maybe a hundred and fifty, I went travelling with my parents and my sisters for the summer. In an RV. The beds were all in a single communal space, and the walls surrounding the on-board bathroom were as thin as tissue. I couldn’t... all summer... I thought I was going to burst. At one point I snuck into some random, abandoned roadside barn to... you know.”

Oh, my gods. He was adorable.

“We’ll just have to not think about it. And try not to think about anything that might trigger the... appetite for it,” I said.

He bit his lip, making my lower abdomen clench and my dick twitch.

“I can definitely try to do that,” he said, nodding.

Well, that made one of us.

“Are you okay if I switch the light off now, or did you want to make notes or read or something?” I asked.

He slid down under the covers. “Nope, I’m ready. Good night, Claude.”

“Night, Sonny.” I clicked the lamp off. Settled myself into my usual sleeping position.

After a minute of quiet, Sonny spoke. “Truth or dare?”

Dare. And please say, I dare you to kiss me.

Instead, I said, “Truth.”

“How come, all those times I asked you to get coffee with me, you turned me down?”

“Uh...” I faltered. Because I’d figured a guy like him—as attractive, and cool, and intimidating as he was—wouldn’t genuinely want anything to do with me. That I would say yes to his proposal and he’d point and laugh and tell me he’d been kidding. Why would a young fae like Sonny have any genuine interest in a miserable old U-Rail conductor like me? I’d be fooling myself if I ever thought I stood a chance. “I don’t drink coffee.”

It was the truth. I only prayed he wouldn’t ask if that was the only reason.

“Sure,” he said, and I got the sense he knew there was more, but he didn’t push me on it.

“Truth or dare?” I asked.

“Dare.”

I dare you to kiss me.“Tell me more about plants or soil, or whatever you’re passionate about.”Let me fall asleep to the sound of your voice again.“Please.”

He shifted on the mattress, turning his body onto his side to face me. Even with the light off, there was no mistaking his smile. “My biggest passion is soil. And everything thatisthe soil, including fungi, and what we can do as individuals to save the planet through good soil health...”

And while Sonny waxed lyrical about microbes, and bellyached about artificial fertilisers—which he referred to as the grim reapers of the soil—I realised I’d spent so long fearing this man’s voice. Worrying he would strike up a conversation with me beyond the initial,“Tickets please.”Worrying about what I’d say to him if he did. How I could say as little as possible for fear of putting my foot in it and making a gigantic tit of myself.

But it wasn’t like that with him. Not at all. It was easy and fun, and his voice seemed to soothe something so deep in my soul I had no idea it needed soothing.

Even Jenny must have sensed it, because the house made no attempt to interrupt Sonny.

Agents of Thunder

Sonny

I woke up hard. Of course I did. He was there, next to me, sharing the same duvet. His smell drifting over, invading all my senses. And also because lately I had just been in a “mood.” Like a super-horny mood. My dick throbbed, and my hand ached to cradle the head of my cock, rock the heel of my palm against it.

Would it really be so terrible if I excused myself to my room and sorted myself out? I couldn’t hear the house, or talk to it, but the house definitely saw me and would almost certainly grass on me to Claude again.

What if I didn’t use my hands? What if I lay here and cycled through my filthiest bank images until I came unassisted? Until I messed up Claude’s train-print pyjama pants?

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