Page 46 of Overachiever
Me: Hey, I’m Owen. I can’t make it to roof today. Sorry. No work today but sorry.
Despite the late hour, Meyer had replied.
Meyer: Are you calling in drunk?
Me: Nooo I’m calling in sick from BEING drunk.
If I’d have left it at that, no big deal. Maybe a little embarrassment and an apology. I’ve worked hard all summer without a day off while the other guys have all taken at least one. That’s not how things work for me. Drunk Owen just loves to screw me over, and the next text I sent—clearly meant for Remee—makes me want to hide under the bed.
Me: I just want you to know I’m thinking about you and your beautiful tits and your laugh and how much I want you in this bed with me right now.
Oh god, Meyer replied a few hours ago.
Meyer: I’m flattered, but I don’t think my wife would approve and frankly, I think I can do better so we should probably just be friends. Enjoy your day off and get your ass in here tomorrow.
“Oh no. No no no,” I groan. Going back to work should be fun.
“What?” Graham asks, walking in the room from the bathroom.
Without responding, I just hand him my phone. A second later, he’s flopping into the chair, laughing at me. “I tried to tell you not to text while you were drunk, but you wouldn’t listen.”
“You should’ve taken my phone!”
“Tried that too. You stuck it down your pants. Friendship only goes so far.”
Fair enough.
Wiping tears from his eyes, he hands the phone to me. “At least your boss was cool about it. And it saved you from actually texting Remee.”
Sitting up in bed, I stare at him as if he’s lost his mind. “I told my boss. My big, bearded construction worker boss, that I was thinking about his tits.”
Graham loses it again, and I throw a pillow at him before dragging myself to the shower.
* * *
Two weeks down and one to go. I’ve avoided getting drunk since that disastrous text and kept my drinking to a few beers on our nights out. Instead, I’ve tried to make the most out of the last weeks here. Graham and I have spent days on the beach, on jet skis, and partying at a few of the local bars. I’ve taken my telescope out on clear nights and found some peace in studying the universe, like I always do.
What I haven’t done is hook up with anyone, and I’ve had a few chances. Graham and I have both had offers—women seem to go for his quiet broodiness, go figure—but I have no interest in anyone else.
Since I’ve gotten myself together and not done anything stupid again, Graham has stopped watching me like an unruly toddler. It helps that he’s found a vacation fling of his own. I get a text an hour or so after I get off work letting me know he won’t be back tonight since he’s staying in her room.
Perfect. I know how I’m spending my evening.
My gaze keeps falling to the bag where I packed away all the toys Remee and I bought at the sex shop. I’ve struggled to keep her out of my mind, and I’m tired of fighting it. Maybe I can’t have her right now, but my spank bank is full of her.
Digging in the bag, I find the fleshlight she tortured me with, and my cock hardens at the sight of it. Seriously? One time and she has me popping a Pavlovian boner like a dog drooling at the bell?
Of course, it won’t be the same without her, but I need something. I squirt a ton of lube in it so I won’t have to stop and add any later. Shoving my pants and underwear down, I sit in a chair and close my eyes, picturing Remee. Her smile and her tits, that wicked look in her eye when she wouldn’t let me come.
This isn’t going to take long, and I have all night. Hell, I might just do it twice.
I lube up my cock as well, and give it a few strokes before sliding the contraption over it. In my mind, I see Remee looming over me, and I groan at the instant pleasure. It occurs to me I should’ve wiped the lube off my hands before I started because it’s hard to hold tightly in my slick grip but I’m not stopping.
Unlike what Remee did, I don’t plan to edge myself into a frenzy. I just want to get off. It doesn’t take long for me to get into it, and my surroundings fade away while I picture her fucking me. She’s riding me and begging me to make her come. As I imagine turning her over and slamming into her from behind, I shove the fleshlight down hard.
It feels so good. Faster, and with enough force to be on the edge of painful when it smacks my base, I work it up and down. Just when my frantic strokes send me over the edge, making me lean my head forward, my hand slips off of the slick surface, forming a fist just before it slams into my eye.
Pain blooms, and I clap my hand over my face.
