Page 4 of Your Only Fan
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I spit and put my plate down.
I guess there’s no point even trying, is there? My new delivery I can resist. A new video? Hell to-the-fucking no.
Some may find it weird that I’m subscribed to my student’s YourFan page, but in my defense, I was subscribed long before he became my student. Heck, until he started his third year at Harlow University, I didn’t even know he went there.
And since I was already a fan before he became my student, and since I had to work in such close proximity with him but was unable to do anything about it, I kept my subscription as the only gateway for my insatiable hunger for him.
I’m not hurting anyone. I just admire from a distance, and I’m not using my position of power to influence him in any way. That’s not wrong. Right?
Since there’s no way I’m eating now, I jump up and reach for the envelope, practically tearing through it on my way to the bedroom.
If I’m doing this, I’m doing it right.
I lie back on my bed and turn my TV on. I send the video from my phone to the screen on the wall and let Ezra’s raw beauty fill my room.
He’s in his car. He’s wearing the same outfit he’d been wearing in class—a loose-fitted red t-shirt and skinny blue jeans with distressed knees.
With slow, sensual movements, he unbuttons his jeans and takes his large, smooth cock out and in view for us. For me. The way he looks at the camera, the way his lips part as if thirsty, it’s like he puts on a show especially for me.
My tongue wets my bottom lip, and I grab the envelope and tip it upside down.
A pair of indigo Nick Grant briefs with a black, elastic band drop beside me on the mattress, and I admire the faded cum stains visible on the fabric.
A branded Ezra Dixon card falls on top of it, and I pick it up to read it even though it’s always the same, handwritten message.
For my number one fan, Ezra D.
My cock aches in my pants, trying to stretch to its full glory, and I let it out.
I put the card on my bedside table—to add to my collection—and pick up the briefs, pressing the worn cotton under my nose and focus on the TV where Ezra is sliding his hand up and down his shaft.
The divine smells of his sweat and cum, a mix of musk and pungent chlorine, wafts in heavy doses through my nostrils, sending shivers of desire and need down to my own length, and I take it in my hand.
I squeeze my pink head and the clear precum forms a bubble before it trickles down. I catch it with my thumb and bring the taste to my tongue and take another deep breath, imagining it’s Ezra’s precum I’m tasting and not my own.
His eyes tighten on my screen, and he gasps with a guttural sound that makes my tight hole flex, and I beat my dick for him, pretending he can see me. Pretending he enjoys my company. Pretending he loves me.
On times like these, when my orgasm is peaking and it threatens to spill, I think of how bad I’ve got it. How I’ve caused this to myself because I let myself become enthralled by the sensational porn star instead of putting a stop to my addiction.
But then the orgasm hits me and the satisfaction is too great to care.
Yes, I’m a sad excuse of a man, living with a fantasy of a man I can’t have, feeding my addiction with a monthly subscription and a constant stream of underwear deliveries. But it feels good. And I’m not hurting anyone other than my own love life. Which is nonexistent, if that hasn’t been obvious.
And with that thought in the back of my mind and the image of Ezra in front of it, my cock pulses, my stomach clenches, my breath catches, and my cum paints my dark skin white. The buzz of Ezra’s smell and the pleasure of release brings my whole body to completion, and my lids become heavy.
On my TV, Ezra comes on his torso, too, and gives me his naughty smile before he takes a swipe at his cum and presses it on his lips.
And with that steamy visual, the video cuts off and I’m left catching my breath in the soft light of my room, the sun penetrating through the thin white curtains.
When I come to again, the room is darker, and it takes a rub of my eyes and the rest of my face before I realize I fell asleep. My cum has dried on my skin, and Ezra’s briefs are bundled up next to my ear.
I check my phone to find it’s almost seven. Linc is supposed to be coming to watch the game soon.
I better clean up.And so that’s exactly what I do.
He’s here on the dot, of course, carrying two six-packs of beer with a big smile on his face.
Lincoln is a handsome Black guy. He’s kept his football physique from high school, and he shaves his curly hair, which makes him sexier and more imposing.
