Page 30 of Stupid Dirty

My body feels too light without him wrapped around me. Like I might float away. But there’s no way to say that without sounding crazy, so I stay quiet.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. Ever. Let’s go for a drink on Friday and feel it out, if you want to see what you’ve been missing. Life sucks enough all on its own. We should savor the shit that feels good.”

His grin is infectious, and I don’t have the heart to point out his hypocrisy. Besides, maybe I really have been missing out.

“Sure, Cade.”

He’s still holding the hand he used to help me up, so he claps me on the shoulder with the other and we lock eyes for a moment. His tongue slips out to wet his lips, and I find myself watching it for no reason.

Somewhere deep inside my lizard brain, a warning bell goes off. But I don’t know what the warning is, and I’m pretty sure I won’t until it’s too late.

Today was probably the most time I’ve spent talking about sex with another human being in my entire life, which I’m blaming for why I’m unbearably aroused right now.

I can’t sleep. I’ve been tossing and turning, willing this fucking hard-on to go away, but it’s persistent. I don’t know why I didn’t just rub one out before trying to sleep, but for whatever reason, that felt like giving in.

There is no reason that a fifteen-minute conversation with my best friend about the fact that I’m a fucking virgin should be making me horny. No. Reason.

This is all so fucking confusing.

Punching the pillow and rolling over for the millionth time, I wince when my very stiff, over-sensitive cock jabs into the mattress. Ouch.

I give up.

With my face buried in the pillow, I roll my hips, dragging my length along the mattress. It’s impossible not to moan at the relief that floods through me. Every inch of my body feels lit up and at attention. My muscles are all tense as I keep moving, grinding slow and dirty.

I feel like a desperate, horny teenager. Even more than when I actually was a teenager. I know this can’t be how adults are supposed to jerk off. Normally if I need to get myself off, I’ll do it in the shower for easy clean-up. Quick and to the point. I’venever had the urge to spend a lot of time building up to it or pulling out elaborate fantasies.

But right now, the slow build of pressure and anticipation almost feels better than it would to just give in and stroke myself, even if my dick is crying out for it.

In the quiet dark of my room, I wonder how Cade jerks off.

Is he quick and efficient? Doubtful. That boy can’t make a fucking sandwich without taking a detour. Plus, he gets too much enjoyment from the little things.

Savor the shit that feels good.

I can picture him in his room, tucked away when everyone else is asleep, taking the time to tease himself and draw it out. I bet he strokes himself slowly until his cock is practically purple and he feels like he’s going to explode.

Groaning, I bite the pillow and drag my swollen cock along the sheets again, but that’s not cutting it anymore. I need my hand. Reaching down, I shove at the waistband of my boxer-briefs and then kick them down until my cock is free, wrapping my hand around it and giving a long, slow pump.

I bet Cade would be relaxed while he jerks off, because he’s always fucking relaxed. He’d sprawl out on his back, just miles of muscle covered in ink, bunching and flexing as he moves his arm. I can picture him spreading his legs wider as he gets into it. Maybe he likes to tug on his balls.

Maybe he likes to do other stuff.

I’ve heard of guys liking their prostate stimulated while they jerk off, and if anyone is secure enough in their masculinity to try shoving a finger up his own ass for the sake of an orgasm, it’s Cade.

It’s got to be hard to reach that far down, though. I picture him pulling back his thigh before stretching out one long arm and spreading himself open.

Would he use one finger? Two? How deep would he have to fuck them into himself to feel whatever pleasure he’s looking for? As soon as the idea pops into my head, it’s all I can think about.

I stop stroking my cock, instead making a tunnel with my fist that I can fuck into. It’s slick with precum and if I keep my face pushed deep enough into the pillow with my eyes closed, I can pretend I’m fucking into an actual human being instead of dry-humping my mattress into oblivion, all alone.

I wonder how hard it is for Cade to keep quiet as he fucks himself on his fingers. He’s loud in every single thing he does. He must be loud during sex. I can picture him splitting himself open, fucking into himself with one hand while he strokes himself with the other, biting his lip, a flush covering his face and chest from the effort of not moaning and whining as he writhes in pleasure.

He’s loud when he does anything else. If he didn’t have to keep quiet, how loud would he be when he came?

“Fuck.” I almost choke on the word as my balls draw up without warning and I spill hot cum into my fist. I’m still rocking my hips as my cock pulses, and the orgasm seems to draw out forever, until my muscles are trembling and the pillow is about to suffocate me.

Rolling over, I collapse on my back away from the wet patch, struggling to catch my breath. Small, tremoring aftershocks are still making my spent cock twitch, and there’s cum smeared across my thigh.

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