Page 42 of Fabulous Filthy Friend

I thought I was okay with this.

Then why does it hurt so damn much?

Dad’s death was the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, but this comes close. Between our recent fight and her maybe out on a date with the man of her dreams…who I set her up with…it feels like death by a thousand cuts.

I take a deep breath and have to physically force my legs to move me back to my room. If I stay in the living room any longer, I’ll be tempted to keep getting up and checking. And I don’t stop wondering what’s happening on their date. If they’re clicking. If they’re kissing or—

Stop.

It’s stupid. It’s petty and juvenile. It’s selfish.

Yet…I can’t stop myself from doing it.

I flop down onto the bed and stare at my ceiling. This is unhealthy. I need to get my mind off the fact that she’s out on a date with somebody who’s absolutely perfect for her. Someone I set her up with.

I grab my computer from the nightstand and flip it open. This other world, this other persona has become my refuge, and yet again, I’m turning to it as the lesser of two evils. Either spend the night pining for what I’ll never have or spend it being someone else who might or might not be slowly blackening my soul beyond redemption.

The site loads, and I tug off my T-shirt and relax on the bed. Once the views pick up to close to a hundred, I flip on the camera and point it at my bare abs and hardening cock straining against my gray sweatpants.

“Happy Saturday night, friends.”

The flurry of hearts and hellos scroll across the screen. I guess I shouldn’t feel too bad about being alone tonight since so many other people are at home, too. But then again, they’re probably not torturing themselves over someone they can never have.

“I’m having a bit of a rough night, folks. I thought perhaps chatting with you would help cheer me up.”

Another string of responses floats to me.

I can come cheer you up.

What is it you need, HRD4U? I can provide.

I sent you another PM. Reply and I can take care of that!

I rub my hand over my erection. “I have just what I need right here.”

At least, I can convince myself I do for the time being.

Sometimes physical pleasure is the only cure for emotional pain—a lesson I’ve learned well over the last few years.

I roll my hips and thrust my package toward the screen. Wearing gray sweatpants alone is like porn to my viewers. I could come in them without ever exposing myself and they’d be happy. But they’ve come to expect more than a tease.

And the way I’m feeling tonight…this needs to be a hard, fast orgasm. No toying around. Get the release I need, then I’m going to pass out before I can wonder about Rachel and Dan’s date anymore.

I try to visualize a beautiful woman rubbing in place of my own hand, but despite every attempt to conjure up a blonde or redhead, a certain brunette keeps popping into my head.

Rachel’s face.

Her lips.

Her hands.

Her tiny little moans of pleasure.

Goddammit.

With a groan, I shove down my sweatpants to free my cock, leaving the waistband just below the base. There isn’t any need to look at the screen because I know how the viewers are reacting.

Even though they enjoy my longer, more detailed shows, they also love when it’s like this. No drawn-out exhibition. No detailed description of what I would do to anyone here with me.

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