Page 42 of Three Pucking Ex's Brothers
I grab my stroker and without a second thought, I bring it up as I climb onto my bed, onto all fours, and fuck it harder. I imagine grabbing onto her hips, my hands running over her sides.
“I’m going to come,” I breathe out, knowing in the sanctuary of my bedroom, alone, no one can hear me.
One heavy thrust and I pull my hips back and the stroker falls on the bed. I close my eyes as I try to push the fantasy away, the image of Nora holding me down as I beg her to let me go, but she doesn’t.
In my thoughts, she never lets me go.
She pins me with her thighs, her hands on my chest as her lips find mine as she begs me to fill her.
“I want you to come inside me,”she begs.“Please, Daddy…”
“We can’t, please…I’m going to?—”
Tears pool in my eyes as my shoulders and my entire body tenses.
“It’s okay…”she whispers. “Just let go.”
Those words make me as ashamed as they do aroused.
Just let go.
Give me what I want.
In my mind, her mouth covers my cry as I come undone. But in reality, I barely have time to grab my stroker and reposition it as my balls draw tight and my orgasm comes like a hurricane. I hurry and grab my glass jar and get it underneath me just as the first spurt of cum shoots out.
I close my eyes, my body going numb as my limbs turn to Jell-O.
I come hard. Harder than I usually do, that’s for sure. I suck in a breath and open my eyes, staring down at my cock as it continues to pulse and spurt cum against the inside of the jar. With my free hand, I pump my shaft lazily as I continue to come. When I’m finally done, when I catch my breath and my dick has softened, I pull the jar away and look at what I’ve done.
Shame and guilt hit me as they always do, when I see my wasted cum. I try my hardest to push the thoughts away, the guilt and shame that festers every day when I do this.
It’s a waste.
It’s all a waste.
Because I have no one. No one but myself and these voices in my brain and the truth that I’m never going to have anyone tofill. I’m never going to get the chance to be a dad or a husband. I should just accept that.
I head for the bathroom, needing to cleanse myself of my fucked-up fantasies, and my fucked-up traumas. I don’t need a therapist to tell me how messed I am. I do a bang-up job on my own.
This is why you can’t be with someone. No one will ever understand.
I turn the hot water on and don’t waste time as I wash myself of my guilty thoughts and wasted cum.
But I know I’ll never truly be clean.
When I get out, I make my way to my room and get dressed before seeing that my mother texted me while I was in the shower. I bring up her text, noting that she wants me to come over to help with dragging out her fall decor since it’s in the attic and she’s claustrophobic and my dad’s off on a business trip.
I shoot her a text that I’ll be over within the hour, and before I put my phone down, I see Brett’s text thread. The last text from him was weeks ago, when he said he was coming home from a game in Michigan. I haven’t heard from him since. Not that we talk often, but still.
I debate calling him. The nagging part of me needs to know the truth about him and Nora.
I just…need to know.
So I call him. The phone rings twice before he picks up.
“What?” he asks, his voice labored and heavy like he’s in the middle of a workout.
“Hey, I uh…need to talk to you about something.”
