Page 75 of Shroom for Improvement

“Sonny, I can’t tell you . . . how many times . . . I’ve thought about this. Can I?”

“Yes.” The word escaped without any consideration of what he might be asking.

Claude lifted my shirt over my head and threw it in the same direction as his jacket and waistcoat. We paused our kiss only for the fabric to pass over my lips, and then his hands were on me in a way that didn’t give enough time for insecurities. Didn’t give me time to think about my scrawny, boyish, six-foot-seven frame. My chest that curved inwards instead of out. My complete lack of any downy, manly covering. My skin so pale it was almost translucent.

He touched me like he was worshipping me. Like he was trying to memorise the shape of me through his fingertips alone. Then he wrapped his arms around my shoulders and his kiss turned more furious, more heated, more urgent.

Our bodies slotted together perfectly. Where my body curved in, his curved out. He bucked his hips against me, rolling them, holding them, pinching the head of his cock against my hipbone. He cried out into my mouth and bumbled an apology.

But it was all the encouragement I needed to replicate his movements, rocking against him, already chasing that delicious friction, shuddering with the overwhelming need.

And I knew in that moment my two weeks of holding back were over. I was coming today. There would be no stopping either of us now. In all likelihood, I would come in my jeans. And I was okay with that. Two weeks of neglecting my dick, all because that bloody house was watching.

At that moment, I could have searched the entire Stinkhorn estate and not found a single fuck to give.

I was gonna come. I was finally gonna fucking come. I was already dangling dangerously close to the edge.

“You feel so... Gods, it feels so...” I could barely get my words out. “I’m ready to end this pact right now. Are you? Tell me you are.”

“Yes. I’ve been so desperate for weeks,” he panted. “I need—can I touch you?” He paused his hand above my belt buckle, and scrunched his face into a ball, as though the pain of abstaining from dry humping me was overwhelming him.

“What about Jenny?” Just because I’d stopped caring whether the house had a live porn show didn’t mean Claude had. He was the one who could hear it, the one who would have tolisten as Jenny discussed or recounted what it’d seen. Possibly in blow-by-blow detail. Or hell, what if it would narrate?

Claude shook his head. “I can’t hold back any longer. I need this, Sonny. I need to fucking come. I’ve never been this desperate before, and honestly, I’m losing my mind a little here. I want these dirty, muddy, painted fingers on me. Please. I don’t care if the fucking house is watching. Let it. Let’s put on a filthy show for it.”

“Ye—” I started to say, but before I finished, I mashed my mouth to his again, my hands already clawing at the fastening on his trousers. His hands whipped my belt open, yanked my fly down, and dove straight into my boxers, wrapping around my cock.

My knees wobbled, I fell forward, and cried out at the blissful intensity of Claude’s warm fingers on me.

“Sonny, you’re perfect. So fucking perfect.”

I wiggled his trouser fastenings loose and pushed down his underpants until his cock was free.

A half-anxious, half-exhilarated laugh escaped my lips. It—Claude’s cock—was enormous. It had no right to be so big. Mine, in comparison, seemed teeny, and it wasn’t as though at six-seven it was disproportionately small.

“You’re... fucking huge,” I said, as I closed my fingers around him. They just about met. If we did fuck, and I really hoped we would now we didn’t care that Jenny could see, I would need a serious amount of prep to get me ready for that. Hours probably. “I think you might give Jasper a run for his money.”

Claude huffed out a laugh, which morphed into a guttural cry as I began to stroke him. I aligned our hips as best as I could, our cocks as flush as our height differences would allow. Claude’s fingers brushed my wrist as he closed the circle around both of us.

We worked in perfect unison. Our hands bobbing at the same time. Even our breaths and moans were harmonised. Our pace quickened. The desperation dropping away, crumbling like a canyon wall, as we both realised how close we were to falling.

“Claude, slow down. I’m gonna come.” I pressed my forehead to his and panted into his open mouth to steady my breath.

He slowed, matched my rhythm again. “I don’t want this moment to be over.”

But before I knew it, our joint pace had increased to almost punishing speeds. Our mouths were connected, but we were no longer kissing. We no longer had the breath power, or concentration levels for that. With his free hand, Claude slid his fingers behind my head, locking it into position by grabbing my hair.

“I’m gonna make such a mess of our clothes,” he huffed. It sounded like both a promise and a threat.

“Claude, I’m so close,” I said, my voice refusing to be any louder than a whisper.

He flattened himself against the wall and pulled my head back to look me in the eyes as he stroked me. “Come on me. Paint me.”

“Oh, gods,” I managed to get out before my orgasm, the one that had been building for two weeks, washed over me. Blacked out my vision. Shot silky white ribbons up Claude’s bare chest and stomach.

His whole body jerked and spasmed. He pulled my head down to his again and buried his face in the crook of my neck. He groaned, and wet heat exploded over my fist. Claude’s climax seemed to last an eternity—I was transfixed. Until he fell back limply against the wall and I saw just how much mess he had made.

“You weren’t lying,” I said, flicking my wrist to the ground so gravity would remove most of Claude’s jizz. “My jeans are wrecked. Your trousers might need dry-cleaning, too.”

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