Page 5 of This or That
Chapter 4
Just Breathe
Mike
My tongue’s heavy, and my mouth is as dry as cotton. With my head buried beneath the covers in my expensive bachelor pad in the 6tharrondissement, I shiver at the unpleasant sensation. My place is closer to the Sorbonne than I wish, and it brings an unwanted crowd—mostly preppy students and inquisitive tourists—especially on weekdays. Today, I’m too out of it to notice.
As I debate whether to pry myself out of bed for some water, an arm that doesn’t belong to me assaults my muscular chest over the comforter. To add insult to injury, a snore that rivals a chainsaw follows. At that, heat flares down my spine and I growl, wondering if this is a nightmare. Of course, I must be imagining things!
I don’t remember bringing anyone home. I don’t remember banging anyone. What I do remember, though, now that I’m partially awake, is my dream.
A surprising cowboy hat. An enticing scent. A scorching kiss.
Instantly, the pad of my thumb grazes my lower lip, and I’m hard as a rock. This time, the warmth that courses underneath my skin is of a different nature. My thirst is forgotten when a new hunger takes over.
Good morning, wood!
I roll on my back, lick my palm, and mindlessly slide my hand into my boxer briefs to palm my erection. It’s in desperate need of release… and attention.
Keeping my eyes shut, I apply the perfect pressure while letting the lingering dream lead the way. The more I caress my length, the more ragged my breathing becomes.
Holy shit!
Yeah, yeah, my thoughts are profound when I’m jacking off and my mind’s on overdrive.
Before my body goes lax, a fleeting thought crosses my mind: no woman will ever have the full roadmap for the perfect hand-job. They think they do. As eager as some are to stroke, suck, and swallow, they don’t have a fucking clue about what goes on in a man’s body.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m twenty-seven and, over the years, I’ve nailed my fair share of women. Initially, I was too green to pay attention. Later, I believed that it was caused by a stale routine; at least, that’s what sex with your high-school sweetheart at an early age will teach you. Part of me was relieved when Ella dumped me after our four-year relationship. The other half was angry that I didn’t see it coming.
Then, I began experimenting. All colors, shapes, and sizes. Deep down, I knew I was searching for a meaningful relationship, but first, I had to investigate what I preferred. How I preferred it. Why I preferred it. I learned so much about my body over the next few years. So far, the sentiments that are supposed to accompany a relationship are nowhere to be found. Not that I mind; I’m young and in no rush. Since the crushing breakup, I’ve decided to concentrate on my new career. From criminal lawyer, like daddy dearest, to fashion design intern to walk in my grandma’s shoes. But let’s not get into that now.
Focus, Clayton.
I sigh and do just that, pumping with renewed purpose. In the back of my mind, I catalog the women I’ve met so far. They were good, but not perfect. Don’t they say that if you want something done right, do it yourself? That doesn’t mean that I want to end up alone; I sure don’t.
I snicker at the next question that pops into my head.Do I have any idea of what women experience when my thumb is circling their clit?The answer’s still no, but I show them a good time or they wouldn’t ask for a repeat, right?
Distracted by my runaway thoughts, my free hand roams to my aching balls. Stroking. Cajoling. Pinching. Yeah, no woman’s ever touched my family jewels this way. Hell, they rarely do, even when I voice my needs. Like they’re scared of them. Like touching them would damage my baby-making potential. Like that’s their one and only purpose.
Oh well, I know how to work my body to achieve a quick, powerful, and messy release.
The porn clip that unfolds in my mind is pretty similar to the one that I watched the other day; I enjoy the ones produced by Brandon Boner. The graphic scenes combine with the overwhelming heat from my X-rated dream. This time, a cowboy hat hides the woman’s face.
Who cares if it isn’t real? My vivid fantasy does the job. The details are fuzzy, but it’s enough to get myself off. I wet my lips as my heartbeat accelerates, but I nonetheless try to milk the high. (Pun intended!) My mind remains fixated on the damn cowboy hat, and I urge my imagination to uncover the face that my twisted brain keeps hidden. To no avail.
On the verge of an orgasm, I skillfully handle myself; it’s both aggressive and gentle. A satisfied smile lifts the corner of my mouth as pleasure continues to build from deep inside. My thoughts become incoherent while one last question crosses my mind:How can a woman truly comprehend what goes on between me and my manhood?
My entire body stiffens and my legs spread wider as I stroke myself like a madman. Next thing I know, the caveman side of me takes over and groans when the climax hits like a tidal wave. “Ohhhh, fuuuuck!”
At once, my heart rate reaches record speed and my eyes pop open. I huff and puff in a feeble attempt to catch my breath as I blow my load on my stomach with such force that the sticky covers plaster to my spent body. The face behind my fantasy stays a blur, but what do I care anyway?
Have I ever come so hard?
“The least you could do is be discreet!”
What?
My head swivels at the unknown feminine voice so quickly that my neck hurts. I forgot that I had company, and it caught me off guard.
