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Since it’s Henley.
Wrong was agreeing to keep fucking her in the first place. Wrong was letting her make you pancakes and asking her to kiss her. You want to survive this, this is how you do it because you can’t fuck her and you’re physically incapable of fucking anyone else, so this is it. This is what you’ve got so, quit whining and get to work.
Before I can let myself think my way around what I’m doing, I jerk my pants further down my hips, taking my boxer briefs with them. My cock practically jumps into my hand and I wrap her panties around it. Fisting them around the head, pre-come seeps through silk and lace, my arousal mingling with hers.
Just like that, I don’t give a shit about right or wrong. What I can’t do and what I can. Should or shouldn’t. My brain finally shuts the fuck up.
The silence is glorious.
Giving myself a slow stroke, I pump my shaft from tip to base, again and again, until I’m thrusting my hips against the grip I have on my cock, her panties sliding along the hard, swollen length of it, each stroke I give myself harder and faster than the last.
I think about kissing her last night. The way her lips felt against mine. Her tongue in my mouth. Swirling and licking against mine. The way she tasted. Sweet and sticky like maple syrup. Warm and salty like butter. Her hands in my hair, fingers gripped against my scalp, hard enough to hurt.
Suddenly, it’s her hand wrapped around me, pumping and stroking up and down the shaft of my cock. I can feel her breath, hot and ragged against my neck. Her tongue tracing the ink on my chest. My neck. My bicep. The seam of my lips.
I want you to kiss me.
“Christ.” The curse rips itself up my throat, heat pooling at the base of my spine, seconds before my balls go tight, the orgasm spiraling up the length of my dick so fast and hard I have to clamp my hand around it to keep it from jerking itself out of my grip while spasm after spasm wash over me, hot spurts of semen lashing against my exposed stomach.
I lay here, breath sawing through my lungs so quick and heavy, I feel like I just ran an eight-minute mile. Raising my shoulders off the mattress, I look down the length of my torso, knowing what I’ll see.
My hand glued to my cock.
Henley’s panties and my abs covered in cum.
Flopping back onto the bed I squeeze my eyes shut, hearing an almost audible click as my brain comes back online to sum up the situation in two words that have become my personal mantra.
Pathetic shitsack.