(no subject)
at the end of a day the includes this and this
Nic doesn't need fantasy. He doesn't have to conjure up scenarios or anything, because right now there are far too many real people in his life that he'd like to fuck, or that he has fucked, and most of the time it's like an overcrowded orgy in his head whenever he jerks off.
His mind skitters, pond-skimming from memory and image to wish and want, and he's barely locked his door behind him before he's unzipped and jammed his hand against his cock, feeling it twitch with heavy blood against the thin skin of his wrists. He's hard from this morning; he barely made it to the loo after the... thing with Bill and Keira, coming sharp and unsatisfyingly fast into his hand. He'd wanted to rewind after that, to stay in that weird, belly-twining arousal without giving in to it.
He's hard from being around Josh, inevitably, frustratingly. Nic wants and doesn't want him, dancing between his own blurred boundaries of friendship. He's hard from coming home to this house, even though Ian is not there. The house smells like Ian.
Fuck, even surfing this morning got him hard. It's pretty inevitable the day would end with his cock in his hand.
Nic kicks off his jeans, pulls off the shirt (stained with noodle sauce, bugger) and collapses on his bed, fingers pulling at the skin on his inner thighs, opening and spreading his legs wide. It's instinctual; he draws his knees up while his toes curl into the unmade bedsheets, and he's already breathing hard, exhales roughly in time with the kneading and scratching of his fingernails on his thighs, his hips, his pubic hair. He has no fucking patience to make it slow, but he squeezes his eyelids together and forces himself to calm down before he jerks off furiously.
Plenty of people have called Nic an inveterate wanker over the years, and they wouldn't be wrong: a bottle of Wet is under a pillow somewhere. The sound the lube makes when he squeezes the bottle into his palm is squelching and obscene. Nic loves lube. The sound of it, the slippery feel, the way his cock looks coated in it, the way it glistens pornographically around an arse, in the folds of a cunt. He rubs his hands together, and slicks his cock with a slow groan.
For a few moments it is all sensation, the addictive slide and clench of his hand on his dick, drawing out the space between strokes as much as he can, wriggling onto his side. He curls his free hand, slathered in lube, brushing the knuckles down his arse, working them around. God bless long fingers, he thinks, and Johnny comes to mind, fingers similarly long and deft, probing, teasing, egging Nic on with gentle mocking.
He lets out the breath he has been holding and pushes his thumb inside himself, clenching the base of his cock hard and rocking forwards into it, back onto his hand. Boys are so fucking lucky, Kiera had once said (gasped?) when he'd spent an hour fingering her arse, her hips canted up over his lap, sprawled on his bed and so wet he couldn't believe it. So bloody good and I don't even have a prostate. He'd been inclined to agree.
The tightness is in his belly, in his balls, and he slides his thumb out, feeling urgent, feeling the need for more, and his movements become inelegant as he thrusts forward into his fisted hand, cock surging with blood, another pulse beating under his fingers, two now, pulling them in and out of his arse with quick pants. All he can see is the tempting-as-fuck image of Bill's urgent thrusts, tipping Keira back, deliberate sliding into abandon, and he wants to know, more than anything, what Keira has done to him, with him, if she's had her fingers inside Bill when he comes, if she's had him underneath her and waiting, and Nic can see it so fucking clearly, those prettypretty wide green eyes, and that does it for him. He hisses croakily when he comes, squeezing his eyes shut tight, ekeing it out with shudders and clenching around his spasming fingers. His come is warm in his hand, and he smears the handful across his arsehole, pushing his wet fingers back inside himself, muscles still twitching.
He only slides his fingers away when his wrist starts cramping, and he wishes he wasn't so tired, but his cock is soft in his palm, sticky and heavy when he falls asleep.
Nic doesn't need fantasy. He doesn't have to conjure up scenarios or anything, because right now there are far too many real people in his life that he'd like to fuck, or that he has fucked, and most of the time it's like an overcrowded orgy in his head whenever he jerks off.
His mind skitters, pond-skimming from memory and image to wish and want, and he's barely locked his door behind him before he's unzipped and jammed his hand against his cock, feeling it twitch with heavy blood against the thin skin of his wrists. He's hard from this morning; he barely made it to the loo after the... thing with Bill and Keira, coming sharp and unsatisfyingly fast into his hand. He'd wanted to rewind after that, to stay in that weird, belly-twining arousal without giving in to it.
He's hard from being around Josh, inevitably, frustratingly. Nic wants and doesn't want him, dancing between his own blurred boundaries of friendship. He's hard from coming home to this house, even though Ian is not there. The house smells like Ian.
Fuck, even surfing this morning got him hard. It's pretty inevitable the day would end with his cock in his hand.
Nic kicks off his jeans, pulls off the shirt (stained with noodle sauce, bugger) and collapses on his bed, fingers pulling at the skin on his inner thighs, opening and spreading his legs wide. It's instinctual; he draws his knees up while his toes curl into the unmade bedsheets, and he's already breathing hard, exhales roughly in time with the kneading and scratching of his fingernails on his thighs, his hips, his pubic hair. He has no fucking patience to make it slow, but he squeezes his eyelids together and forces himself to calm down before he jerks off furiously.
Plenty of people have called Nic an inveterate wanker over the years, and they wouldn't be wrong: a bottle of Wet is under a pillow somewhere. The sound the lube makes when he squeezes the bottle into his palm is squelching and obscene. Nic loves lube. The sound of it, the slippery feel, the way his cock looks coated in it, the way it glistens pornographically around an arse, in the folds of a cunt. He rubs his hands together, and slicks his cock with a slow groan.
For a few moments it is all sensation, the addictive slide and clench of his hand on his dick, drawing out the space between strokes as much as he can, wriggling onto his side. He curls his free hand, slathered in lube, brushing the knuckles down his arse, working them around. God bless long fingers, he thinks, and Johnny comes to mind, fingers similarly long and deft, probing, teasing, egging Nic on with gentle mocking.
He lets out the breath he has been holding and pushes his thumb inside himself, clenching the base of his cock hard and rocking forwards into it, back onto his hand. Boys are so fucking lucky, Kiera had once said (gasped?) when he'd spent an hour fingering her arse, her hips canted up over his lap, sprawled on his bed and so wet he couldn't believe it. So bloody good and I don't even have a prostate. He'd been inclined to agree.
The tightness is in his belly, in his balls, and he slides his thumb out, feeling urgent, feeling the need for more, and his movements become inelegant as he thrusts forward into his fisted hand, cock surging with blood, another pulse beating under his fingers, two now, pulling them in and out of his arse with quick pants. All he can see is the tempting-as-fuck image of Bill's urgent thrusts, tipping Keira back, deliberate sliding into abandon, and he wants to know, more than anything, what Keira has done to him, with him, if she's had her fingers inside Bill when he comes, if she's had him underneath her and waiting, and Nic can see it so fucking clearly, those prettypretty wide green eyes, and that does it for him. He hisses croakily when he comes, squeezing his eyes shut tight, ekeing it out with shudders and clenching around his spasming fingers. His come is warm in his hand, and he smears the handful across his arsehole, pushing his wet fingers back inside himself, muscles still twitching.
He only slides his fingers away when his wrist starts cramping, and he wishes he wasn't so tired, but his cock is soft in his palm, sticky and heavy when he falls asleep.