Memory is a fickle friend. While so much of this story is remembered in "technicolor" down to the feel of lint in my pocket or the callous on his left hand or the exact time on a clock, other moments are a blur, beyond the reach of a probing mind.
Such is the case, unfortunately, for much of the time I spent in TCD's house.
I remember some things, of course. I remember the light-headed feeling of walking up to his door. I remember thinking his lawn was well tended and wryly wondered if he did it himself wearing a "wife-beater". I remember the doorbell not working and the flash of anxiety at getting no response to my somewhat hesitant knocking. I vividly remember the relief that he didn't answer the door and the surge of adrenaline that told me to "get the fuck out of there!"
But, of course, just as I turned to run, the door opened, and it is from that point my memories begin to play tricks.
He was not what I expected. Younger, shorter, more clean cut that his voice suggested. He was Hispanic, I would guess, though he was clearly raised in America. And yes, he was good looking, though in an unremarkable way. Most memorable, however, was the fact that he greeted me at the door with absolutely no clothes on. Kinda hard to forget that, especially in his somewhat crowded/busy neighborhood.
I don't remember why he hit me and knocked me to the floor or if that was even the next thing that happened. Perhaps I was staring too long, or maybe I failed to answer him when (or if) he spoke, or maybe because he didn't like what he saw. I don't know. I just remember the lemony smell of his floor as my face planted itself on the crack between the white and the black tiles, and I remember thinking, "This floor is really, really clean, I better not mess it up..." followed by the slow recognition: "I am now in for some serious bad luck...".
I must have lost consciousness, because for the life of me, I don't remember how I got naked or even where my clothes were. And I had even less idea how I ended up on the "most abrasive carpet in the world", but the carpet-burn on my knees is not something I am likely ever to forget. While obsessing about the blistering pain in my knees, it took me a long time to realize my hands were duct taped behind my back.
I remember a string of events around his coming back into the room and pushing his cock deep into my throat and slapping me for scraping his dick with my teeth. Every time I tried to explain that I wasn't a particularly good cocksucker, I got jap-slapped, sometimes with the back of his hand, other times with his dick. I had never really deep-throated an average cock before, at least not well, but TCD's dick wasn't average and he wasn't waiting until I learned. His very brief instructions, such that they were, entailed telling me: "I hope you ain't ate nuthin faggot boy, cuz I'm a gonna rape that throat until you throw up, bitch." I remember trying hard to make enough spit to cover his fat 8 inch cock (or was it 13 inches?) but every time he pushed into my throat I gagged and worse-- I panicked, feeling like I would never breath again. And just as I would start to really go nuts, he would pull out, enough to let me breathe a couple of breaths before he shoved back in. I don't remember how long he throat fucked me before I blacked out again...
When I woke up the second time, I was alone, face down on the carpet from hell. I struggled to swallow and then regretted ever trying, as I was accosted by the angry taste of his cum, burning as it tried to slide down my that thing I used to call "my throat".
It wasn't until I stood up that I realized my throat hadn't been the only victim. Because of the startling "lack" of feeling in my ass, it took me by surprise that I began to feel something dribbling down my right leg. With no little trepidation, I reached back and felt for my hole but couldn't actually feel anyhing other than the slime oozing from my ass, which I reluctantly brought to my nose for the superfluous identification.
I am not sure what compelled me to look in the mirror, but I wish I hadn't. When I looked, I saw the letters written on my forehead by what must have been a big-ass marker: "Y O A T". What the fuck was a "yoat"? I have been called many things by many people (not all of whom particularly liked me) and indeed was called at least a dozen humiliating names by TCD himself in the short period I actually remember, but try as I may, I couldn't remember anyone calling me or anyone else a "yoat". Did he mean "goat" by some chance? Maybe he was just a terrible speller. Maybe it wasn't English and since I don't know Spanish, I settled anxious mind down thinking that must be it.
Weirdly, the only thing I could think of next were the fucking Hardy Boys and not the cute Parker Stevenson/Shaun Cassidy Hardy Boys, either, but the four dozen Hardy Boys books I read when I was 10 years old. Nothing I did could clear my mind of the stupid "boys" until it finally occurred to me that they were speaking to me from the recesses of my youthful memories to remind me: you're looking at a mirror, dumbass. I ran back to the mirror expecting THE answer to everything going on, but was only met with the sickening realization that TAOY was probably even less intelligible that a "yoat", which at least sounded like something. Again, my mind rapidly mulled the meaning of TOAY, and again, it was rebuffed.
Of course, by now, my body, and its many travails was now starting to wake up and it didn't take much for my body to remind my mind: you have far bigger issues than this stupid teenage mystery, dude. The now searing pain in my ass, the mangled chortling of my throat which could not longer utter words, even in a whisper, the raw feeling in my knees, the ache in my shoulders where my arms must have been pulled back in some physiologically irrational way, and the growing feeling that could only be described as micro-wasps trying to sting their way into my butt cheeks.
When I consulted my new nemesis, the fucking mirror from Wonderland, I could tell someone had wailed on my butt as they were "spanking welts" all up and down each cheek. And above them in very neatly written words which I deciphered quicker than a Hardy Boy: This Ain't Over Yet.
My Cunt
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
What the hell am I doing here (WTHAIDH)? Part 3: Doing what's next
Every moment in life offers you a choice. You can hit snooze for the third time, OR you can get up early and go running. You can skip breakfast and gulp down an Extra Large Dunkin D Coffee, OR you can eat a bowl of fresh cut fruit with oatmeal. You can drive to work like a man possessed, pushing for every advantage to get to work those 3 minutes faster, OR you can decide to be the guy that let's the other car make that impossible left turn. Every moment offers us those choices, if we only open our eyes and see them for what they are.
But not all choices are equal.
I didn't have to call "The Card Dude". Keeping The Card was a choice. If I had thrown it away that first day, this story wouldn't need to be told and I would be a rather different person. Calling The Card Dude ("TCD") was another, and somewhat bigger, choice. With the call, I "chose" action and "carpe diem" over the mundane safety of my comfortable life. With that call, I chose to be "another me", if only for a moment, with no idea who that might turn out to be.
As I sat looking at the phone after being "ordered" to the TCD's place, I realized I was being presented a much larger and (seminally) profound choice. It was one of those "Big Life Choices" that we get from time to time. It was a choice between a lingering (but inconvenient) fantasy and a "hard to contemplate" reality, between serotonic comfort and adrenaline rush, between a control-oriented brain, and the unprobed recesses of my inner void (um... so to speak...)
Some part of me, the responsible/dependable part, calmly reminded: "You don't have to go. Just walk away now, and chuck this whole thing up to an *interesting* life experience. In a few weeks, it will all seem like a funny dream." And as the rest of me heard these soothing words, I felt the lightness of being that often follows a near traumatic moment.
I became me, again.
I left my office, jumped into my car and allowed muscle memory to make all the turns, stops and starts that represent my 13.5 minute drive home. But 43 minutes later, I was still driving and my heart-rate picked up as TCD's rather ordinary house came into view.
Apparently, choices, profound or otherwise, aren't always made with one's brain.
But not all choices are equal.
I didn't have to call "The Card Dude". Keeping The Card was a choice. If I had thrown it away that first day, this story wouldn't need to be told and I would be a rather different person. Calling The Card Dude ("TCD") was another, and somewhat bigger, choice. With the call, I "chose" action and "carpe diem" over the mundane safety of my comfortable life. With that call, I chose to be "another me", if only for a moment, with no idea who that might turn out to be.
As I sat looking at the phone after being "ordered" to the TCD's place, I realized I was being presented a much larger and (seminally) profound choice. It was one of those "Big Life Choices" that we get from time to time. It was a choice between a lingering (but inconvenient) fantasy and a "hard to contemplate" reality, between serotonic comfort and adrenaline rush, between a control-oriented brain, and the unprobed recesses of my inner void (um... so to speak...)
Some part of me, the responsible/dependable part, calmly reminded: "You don't have to go. Just walk away now, and chuck this whole thing up to an *interesting* life experience. In a few weeks, it will all seem like a funny dream." And as the rest of me heard these soothing words, I felt the lightness of being that often follows a near traumatic moment.
I became me, again.
I left my office, jumped into my car and allowed muscle memory to make all the turns, stops and starts that represent my 13.5 minute drive home. But 43 minutes later, I was still driving and my heart-rate picked up as TCD's rather ordinary house came into view.
Apparently, choices, profound or otherwise, aren't always made with one's brain.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
What the hell am I doing here? Part 2: The Card.
It was a regular sized business card. White. Black letters. No fancy fonts. Barely any information, just some dude's name and his number. I have seen many, many cards in my day, and in terms of cards, this one was nothing.
And yet it radiated power.
It was two days before I rediscovered the card. In the middle of the night, my eyes popped open and some mysterious force drew me to the hamper where, with the limited cognition that normally accompanies 3:34am, I instinctively reached for and found my cum soiled pants from the other day. In the left rear pocket, there it was.
I re-read the bullshit message "He will do what's next." Again, the rush of anger and annoyance, but this time it was mingled with intrigue. I wanted to know who this "He" was... and there was a growing part of me (and not just between my legs) which was beginning to yearn for a "next".
This was the biggest surprise. While I had worked hard to return my life to "normal", my ass had become a pulsing reminder of the man who left his seed inside me. It was never far out of my mind and none of my activities, none of my normally hyper-planned routines, was able to keep my mind in a groove for very long. Worst was at night, with no lights to protect me and no TV to distract me, I was left to my own thoughts... those dark and dangerous thoughts... which verged increasingly on desire. More than once, as I started out of a doze, I found a finger touching my pucker, looking not for entry, but for the feel of cum...
I placed the card on my valet, half hidden to be discreet, but visible enough to get that titillating charge every time I noticed it. And every day, at least twice a day, I paid homage to the growing power of The Card. This homage took the form of picking up the card each day to look at it anew as if, by some further mystery, there would be new words offering new clues. By Day 5, I took to smelling the card for traces of the man who wrote the words. By Day 11, I had studied each individual letter of the man's writing for some secret clue as to their meaning.
On day 17, The Card tricked me and entered my rear pocket. In the middle of an interminable conference call, when I reached for my list of "things to remember to get done on the call", The Card fell out of my pocket and onto the floor. My mouth became dry and my heart started beating more rapidly. I couldn't hear a single word being spoken on the call, only the words "He will do what is next."
It was that simple. I needed to call "him".
With no warning, I hung up on the conference call (thereby cutting off 12 bewildered people midstream in their attempts to kiss my ass) and dialed His number. It rang. Once, three times, eight times... for fuck's sake-- who the hell doesn't have fucking voicemail... 11 times... how many more times should I wait, I asked, knowing all the while I was going to at least 25... maybe 30...
And then, on about the 19th ring, a voice suddenly says: "yeah?"
That was unexpected. "Um... ah... I... well... I got this..."
"Yeah? You got this fucking what?"
"Um... this card."
"Congrats dude, now go fuck yourself with it and leave me the fuck alone."
After 17 fucking days, there was no way I was going to let Him NOT give me some fucking answers and I suddenly found my voice.
"No wait... please. A man gave me a card with your name and number with a note that you would do what's next."
Silence.
"Hello?"
"So... its you. It took you long enough to call, didn't it?"
"Um... yeah. I guess. Wasn't sure I wanted to call."
"But couldn't help it, could you, bitch?"
"I guess not."
"I guess not, SIR."
"What?"
"You will need to call me "sir" if you want to do what's next."
"Um... ok... um... Sir."
"Now bitch, let me tell you something. When a dude don't answer his fucking phone after 90 rings, it usually means the nigga is sleeping or fucking. Since it is the middle of the day, and I ain't no goddamn piece of shit vampire, you should just use that big fucking brain of yours and assume I was fucking. And you know what is funny? I was. I have this twinky cock-whore begging me to breed his tight pussy and here I am with his assjuice dripping off my cock talking to a fucking dumbass. How do you think that makes me feel, bitch?"
"Um... ah..."
"That's 'um sir', you dumb piece of shit. Now here is what we are going to do. You are going to go home, clean your shit up, and I mean really clean your shit up, get dressed in something to give me a boner and get over here in less than an hour. I will then let you lick this boy off my dick and let my dick decide whether you are worth fucking. If, after I cum in your fucking mouth or your pussy, and my dick feels happy, I will 'do what's next'... but nigga, only if you you please me, and that ain't looking good for you right now..."
My turn for silence.
"You still there, bitch? If so, listen carefully cause I am only gonna say this once: If you are not here in exactly one hour at 4:16pm, I will not open the door and this whole 'adventure' of yours is over. Got it, papi?"
He hung up before I choked out the last of my articulate "um's".
(To be continued)
And yet it radiated power.
It was two days before I rediscovered the card. In the middle of the night, my eyes popped open and some mysterious force drew me to the hamper where, with the limited cognition that normally accompanies 3:34am, I instinctively reached for and found my cum soiled pants from the other day. In the left rear pocket, there it was.
I re-read the bullshit message "He will do what's next." Again, the rush of anger and annoyance, but this time it was mingled with intrigue. I wanted to know who this "He" was... and there was a growing part of me (and not just between my legs) which was beginning to yearn for a "next".
This was the biggest surprise. While I had worked hard to return my life to "normal", my ass had become a pulsing reminder of the man who left his seed inside me. It was never far out of my mind and none of my activities, none of my normally hyper-planned routines, was able to keep my mind in a groove for very long. Worst was at night, with no lights to protect me and no TV to distract me, I was left to my own thoughts... those dark and dangerous thoughts... which verged increasingly on desire. More than once, as I started out of a doze, I found a finger touching my pucker, looking not for entry, but for the feel of cum...
I placed the card on my valet, half hidden to be discreet, but visible enough to get that titillating charge every time I noticed it. And every day, at least twice a day, I paid homage to the growing power of The Card. This homage took the form of picking up the card each day to look at it anew as if, by some further mystery, there would be new words offering new clues. By Day 5, I took to smelling the card for traces of the man who wrote the words. By Day 11, I had studied each individual letter of the man's writing for some secret clue as to their meaning.
On day 17, The Card tricked me and entered my rear pocket. In the middle of an interminable conference call, when I reached for my list of "things to remember to get done on the call", The Card fell out of my pocket and onto the floor. My mouth became dry and my heart started beating more rapidly. I couldn't hear a single word being spoken on the call, only the words "He will do what is next."
It was that simple. I needed to call "him".
With no warning, I hung up on the conference call (thereby cutting off 12 bewildered people midstream in their attempts to kiss my ass) and dialed His number. It rang. Once, three times, eight times... for fuck's sake-- who the hell doesn't have fucking voicemail... 11 times... how many more times should I wait, I asked, knowing all the while I was going to at least 25... maybe 30...
And then, on about the 19th ring, a voice suddenly says: "yeah?"
That was unexpected. "Um... ah... I... well... I got this..."
"Yeah? You got this fucking what?"
"Um... this card."
"Congrats dude, now go fuck yourself with it and leave me the fuck alone."
After 17 fucking days, there was no way I was going to let Him NOT give me some fucking answers and I suddenly found my voice.
"No wait... please. A man gave me a card with your name and number with a note that you would do what's next."
Silence.
"Hello?"
"So... its you. It took you long enough to call, didn't it?"
"Um... yeah. I guess. Wasn't sure I wanted to call."
"But couldn't help it, could you, bitch?"
"I guess not."
"I guess not, SIR."
"What?"
"You will need to call me "sir" if you want to do what's next."
"Um... ok... um... Sir."
"Now bitch, let me tell you something. When a dude don't answer his fucking phone after 90 rings, it usually means the nigga is sleeping or fucking. Since it is the middle of the day, and I ain't no goddamn piece of shit vampire, you should just use that big fucking brain of yours and assume I was fucking. And you know what is funny? I was. I have this twinky cock-whore begging me to breed his tight pussy and here I am with his assjuice dripping off my cock talking to a fucking dumbass. How do you think that makes me feel, bitch?"
"Um... ah..."
"That's 'um sir', you dumb piece of shit. Now here is what we are going to do. You are going to go home, clean your shit up, and I mean really clean your shit up, get dressed in something to give me a boner and get over here in less than an hour. I will then let you lick this boy off my dick and let my dick decide whether you are worth fucking. If, after I cum in your fucking mouth or your pussy, and my dick feels happy, I will 'do what's next'... but nigga, only if you you please me, and that ain't looking good for you right now..."
My turn for silence.
"You still there, bitch? If so, listen carefully cause I am only gonna say this once: If you are not here in exactly one hour at 4:16pm, I will not open the door and this whole 'adventure' of yours is over. Got it, papi?"
He hung up before I choked out the last of my articulate "um's".
(To be continued)
Friday, July 30, 2010
What the hell am I doing here? (Part 1)
Of course, my presence here is just about as mysterious as everything else in this descent into sexual debauchery. I used to be this conservative looking preppy banker. No real hints in my growing up that I wanted anything other than tight blond pussy (ok, maybe with a pinch of ass...), a big house in Greenwich, two dogs, three kids and vacations in Aspen and East Hampton. I never prided myself on originality, just raw determination and the thrill of constant achievement. While life had not always been easy, it had offered me almost everything I had ever imagined wanting. The world was my oyster and I was determined to suck it all down.
So why am I shaving my asshole right now? And why have I started to refer to my ass as my "pussy" or my "cunt"? And for God's sake, why oh why would I ever want to stick a plastic hose in my ass and fill it with water?
What has happened to me?
I am in a hotel in the middle of nowhere meticulously preparing myself for E, according to the detailed instructions he left me the first time we were together. As he was departing my room that first day, he had leaned over my still naked body lightly ran his finger tips from between my shoulder blades down to my crack and softly uttered a few simple directives for the next time we meet.
"You will not have any hair here... or here... and less here."
"You will start working out with a real trainer to build up these and these... I don't like skinny"
"You don't need to bring any more of these... they are for pussies."
"And I want this to be tighter, wetter and ready to take me straight in the next time."
I felt humiliated, being touched like an animal and "appraised" so coldly by a man I hardly knew. Who the fuck did he think he was? And why the hell would I ever want to listen to this fucker? But whatever my brain may have been trying to tell me was over-ruled by the growing stiffness I felt in my otherwise completely ignored cock.
"Yes sir" I uttered for the first of many times.
"Oh yeah" he said as he walked to the door, "one more thing..." and as he opened the door, he casually withdrew a card from his rear pocket and flicked it in my general direction as the door closed behind him. No further explanation.
Stunned by all the events leading up to that moment, I stared at the little card unable to move. I could still feel the trails of his light touch on my body as he given my orders. And now I began to feel the rest of me as well. A slight ache in my throat, scratches on my buttocks, bruises on my shoulders and chafing on my face from where it had been held down on the heavily embroidered pillows. And soon thereafter, the throbbing inside me began.
Oh my god. I had just been fucking fucked by a fucking man. What the hell happened? And not just fucked, but I mean really fucked... by this older guy I had never met before and who had somehow overwhelmed my better judgment as I cruised for a twink online and somehow had gotten into my head and controlled me like some sort of fucking Jedi. Somehow, he had me naked and splayed out on the bed begging him to fuck me. But despite all my begging protestations to fuck me safe, he simply grunted no and forced his himself into me with no fucking rubber. And I couldn't believe the fucker dumped his fucking load right into my ass. What the fuck??!!
I didn't want to move. To move would be to admit this had all happened and it wasn't some sort of sick fucking dream. Movement would have verified that I wasn't imagining the squishy feeling inside my ass. Movement would have allowed me to feel the soreness in my back and butt from where he held me down as he pounded himself inside me.
But as the feelings slowly returned to my body, so too did my cognition of where I needed to be and how late I already was. I forced myself to sit up and immediately wish I hadn't. Now there was no doubt that I had just allowed a man to place his penis inside my ass. I could barely clench the muscles of my previously tight ass, but as I tried, I felt a trace of his cum dribble out and soak the sheet where I sat. I stood up... or rather tried... but my legs had trouble supporting my weight. I limped towards the pile of my clothes which had been rudely heaped into a corner of the bathroom and thru only the miracle of muscle memory, managed to pull on my boxers and t-shirt, allowing me temporarily to believe I was still my old self because I looked familiar in the bathroom mirror.
I paused before leaving the bathroom, briefly considering what to do with my ass. Having never been fucked raw before, it occurred to me I had no idea what to do next. Should I sit and push his cum out? Should I douche again? Could I bear to face the indignation of his wad pouring from my ass? But what would happen if I did nothing? Thinking wasn't coming easily for me, however, and I felt my watch tugging me out of the room and into my pants and shoes.
As I walked towards the door, I saw the card E had left for me still sitting on the floor. I approached it nervously, with a mix of anticipatory dread and inconvenient longing. On the card was simply a name and a phone number. But on the other side, were perfectly formed block letters, presumably written by E: "He will do what's next".
What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Jesus Christ, give me a break... That fucker certainly thinks a lot of himself.
I stuck the card into my pocket and walked out into the bright daylight to look for my car. As I drove back to my office and my normal life re-asserted its hold on me, I started to relax back into the comforts of my life's routines. I remembered my evening bike ride that afternoon, the cocktail party later that night, and the hope that Lori would be there. I sighed deeply and felt my whole body relax into my driver's seat, thinking to myself "everything will be ok".
But even as those words formed in my brain, I felt a small torrent of E's cum work itself out of my relaxing hole and soaking straight through to my pants...
(To be continued)
So why am I shaving my asshole right now? And why have I started to refer to my ass as my "pussy" or my "cunt"? And for God's sake, why oh why would I ever want to stick a plastic hose in my ass and fill it with water?
What has happened to me?
I am in a hotel in the middle of nowhere meticulously preparing myself for E, according to the detailed instructions he left me the first time we were together. As he was departing my room that first day, he had leaned over my still naked body lightly ran his finger tips from between my shoulder blades down to my crack and softly uttered a few simple directives for the next time we meet.
"You will not have any hair here... or here... and less here."
"You will start working out with a real trainer to build up these and these... I don't like skinny"
"You don't need to bring any more of these... they are for pussies."
"And I want this to be tighter, wetter and ready to take me straight in the next time."
I felt humiliated, being touched like an animal and "appraised" so coldly by a man I hardly knew. Who the fuck did he think he was? And why the hell would I ever want to listen to this fucker? But whatever my brain may have been trying to tell me was over-ruled by the growing stiffness I felt in my otherwise completely ignored cock.
"Yes sir" I uttered for the first of many times.
"Oh yeah" he said as he walked to the door, "one more thing..." and as he opened the door, he casually withdrew a card from his rear pocket and flicked it in my general direction as the door closed behind him. No further explanation.
Stunned by all the events leading up to that moment, I stared at the little card unable to move. I could still feel the trails of his light touch on my body as he given my orders. And now I began to feel the rest of me as well. A slight ache in my throat, scratches on my buttocks, bruises on my shoulders and chafing on my face from where it had been held down on the heavily embroidered pillows. And soon thereafter, the throbbing inside me began.
Oh my god. I had just been fucking fucked by a fucking man. What the hell happened? And not just fucked, but I mean really fucked... by this older guy I had never met before and who had somehow overwhelmed my better judgment as I cruised for a twink online and somehow had gotten into my head and controlled me like some sort of fucking Jedi. Somehow, he had me naked and splayed out on the bed begging him to fuck me. But despite all my begging protestations to fuck me safe, he simply grunted no and forced his himself into me with no fucking rubber. And I couldn't believe the fucker dumped his fucking load right into my ass. What the fuck??!!
I didn't want to move. To move would be to admit this had all happened and it wasn't some sort of sick fucking dream. Movement would have verified that I wasn't imagining the squishy feeling inside my ass. Movement would have allowed me to feel the soreness in my back and butt from where he held me down as he pounded himself inside me.
But as the feelings slowly returned to my body, so too did my cognition of where I needed to be and how late I already was. I forced myself to sit up and immediately wish I hadn't. Now there was no doubt that I had just allowed a man to place his penis inside my ass. I could barely clench the muscles of my previously tight ass, but as I tried, I felt a trace of his cum dribble out and soak the sheet where I sat. I stood up... or rather tried... but my legs had trouble supporting my weight. I limped towards the pile of my clothes which had been rudely heaped into a corner of the bathroom and thru only the miracle of muscle memory, managed to pull on my boxers and t-shirt, allowing me temporarily to believe I was still my old self because I looked familiar in the bathroom mirror.
I paused before leaving the bathroom, briefly considering what to do with my ass. Having never been fucked raw before, it occurred to me I had no idea what to do next. Should I sit and push his cum out? Should I douche again? Could I bear to face the indignation of his wad pouring from my ass? But what would happen if I did nothing? Thinking wasn't coming easily for me, however, and I felt my watch tugging me out of the room and into my pants and shoes.
As I walked towards the door, I saw the card E had left for me still sitting on the floor. I approached it nervously, with a mix of anticipatory dread and inconvenient longing. On the card was simply a name and a phone number. But on the other side, were perfectly formed block letters, presumably written by E: "He will do what's next".
What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Jesus Christ, give me a break... That fucker certainly thinks a lot of himself.
I stuck the card into my pocket and walked out into the bright daylight to look for my car. As I drove back to my office and my normal life re-asserted its hold on me, I started to relax back into the comforts of my life's routines. I remembered my evening bike ride that afternoon, the cocktail party later that night, and the hope that Lori would be there. I sighed deeply and felt my whole body relax into my driver's seat, thinking to myself "everything will be ok".
But even as those words formed in my brain, I felt a small torrent of E's cum work itself out of my relaxing hole and soaking straight through to my pants...
(To be continued)
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