Page 19 of His Atonement

Which is why I shall never share with her my own struggles, my perverse addictions, and the way going without is wreaking havoc on my body.

Aimlessly, I wander to the fridge, open it, stare at its contents then remove a six pack and drop it on the table. I then grab my grinder and the dried hemlock, nightshade, pot, another blunt, and a bag of Funions that I found I enjoy far too much, thanks to my pregnant sister.

I throw my iPhone on the dock and select a classical playlist, plop down at the table as Chopin floats through the air and helps further release my tension. And just as I pop the top on an ale, toss a handful of crisps in my mouth, and begin breaking up my herb, chill bumps ripple over my skin followed by a flutter deep in my gut that causes my cock to twitch.

How odd.

I ignore the sensations, the way my skin becomes tight and even more sensitive, the way my mind grows hyper aware of my surroundings. I don't acknowledge the way those chill bumps race up my spine, scatter over every inch of flesh or the warmth that spreads from the pit of my stomach up into my chest, the heat that licks out and sears each nerve ending in my body. Most definitely ignore the way my cock continues to twitch, to swell, the way my balls grow heavy as an intense need takes root at the very core of me.

I need to get this fucking blunt rolled immediately or else I will wind up humping a piece of furniture the same way Samson used to when he was a pup.

I may enjoy a little pain with my pleasure, but I draw the line at thumping my erection against metal or wood.

Pouring my quickly diminishing focus into rolling myself the fastest blunt I can, I continue with my quiet evening, continue ignoring the way my body is acting a fool, until the very obvious rumble of a motorcycle meets my ears.

A motorcycle that is not quite as big as the dragon's or Havok's, a motorcycle that isn't even the same make and has a more vintage flare.

As if pulled by some unseen magnetic force, my eyes flick to my small window, looking past the sheer curtains while I hold my breath.

I go completely still.

Watch.

Wait.

Then shoot up from the table and all but run toward my window as that same motorcycle cuts through the yard and hits the trail that leads deep into the forest, through the valley toward the furthest point of the mountain range.

I squint against the black and blue sky to see the bike take off after a huge truck, a moving truck by the looks of it, my cock now at full mast and straining so hard against the mesh of my shorts it may tear a hole in them.

Frankie.

He has arrived and for some reason, my body is reacting to him as though he is the last warm body on the planet, the last hole I will ever be able to stick my dick in while my mind battles the reaction.

This is absurd.

Absolutely absurd.

Yes, I am hornier than a motherfucker, filled to the brim with pent up sexual frustration, but the fact that there is a new human on the property should not draw a response such as this from me, and it is mind boggling that it is happening.

Especially when I have made it my mission to cause great amounts of displeasure against the newcomer, to torture him in simple though impactful ways to pass my time and subdue my insatiable addictions until I may embrace them fully once again.

I push up on my tiptoes, try to see into the night, and watch until the motorcycle disappears from view before I growl low in frustration, a growl that unexpectedly turns into a moan.

Which is the exact moment I realize I've subconsciously shoved my hand down my shorts and began stroking my aching dick.

Gods, this is completely absurd.

So absurd in fact, that I push my shorts down my thighs, strip off my t-shirt, and palm my cock once again.

With my left hand braced against the wall, I drop my head and watch my hand, watch it slide from root to tip, watch the bead of precum as it leaks from the head.

I groan as I spread it along my length, squeeze a little tighter as I repeat the action, then cup my balls and give them a tug.

The image of that motorcycle pops into my head, the figure dressed in black, the way his long body controlled all that shiny metal. I hiss through my teeth as my eyes slide shut, curse under my breath over the way that image makes my balls draw up tight.

My pace quickens, my grip tightens with each stroke, and before I know it my nails dig into the brick, toes curl against the rug and my hips snap forward as I fire my seed all over the wall in front of me.

“Fuck," I moan as I pump my cock slowly, wring every last drop of cum from its apparently never ending release. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."