Discipline
His mouth's on me, tongue in my sheath, while his fiancée's lip balm watches like a camera from her nightstand. He sucks cock like he's ashamed of it.
He's nestled up like I'm his boyfriend, snoozing, looking like he fell asleep with a face-peel on. When he shifts, crusty white flakes snow down on my dark chest. Don't know his name. A coyote jock, mid-twenties. But last night he slid a hand down my pants before I clocked his species. The nightstand near him has a phone charger, a noise machine, and a scent diffuser. The one near me has a jewelry box, hair ties, and a pink tin of lip balm.
He stirs. Stirring becomes groping. Grinding. His eyes crack open to start the morning staring down my barrel. He whimpers, and I grip his head. He wants me to push him in, hold him down, call him a bitch. Instead I keep him there until he paws needily at my thigh.
"Wife?" I ask. "Girlfriend?"
He flinches. Ears back, he nods. "...fiancée."
What is this, the fourth time? Seventh? I don't do it on purpose. When I move to get up, he jolts. "Wait." As I step away his hand grips my stubby tail and the sharp pinch nearly bowls me over. He recoils when I whirl on him, but then he scrambles closer and my head rolls back.
His mouth's on me, tongue in my sheath, while his fiancée's lip balm watches like a camera from her nightstand. He sucks cock like he's ashamed of it. He's got no discipline. I could get better head in a Home Depot parking lot, but I blew two loads on his face last night and another in his mouth right now, hand on my sheath so my knot doesn't pop out. "You cum so much," he says, sputtering and coughing. He's looking right up at me and I'm looking at the door. "Holy shit."
The movies make storming out look badass. My half-sheathed dick nearly pops a seam in my briefs. As I push by a stack of folded-up cardboard boxes on my way out, I'm still tugging my shirt on. No one well-adjusted trembles like that when they grope you through your sweatpants at two in the morning. I guess they don't strut commando through the park to catch folks staring, either.
Ex-fiancee, he writes hours later. We broke up last night. Days go by. I'm on the couch in sweatpants at two in the morning, commando. The cursor blinks, waiting for me to type. I picture the flood of white from his mouth when he said, "Holy shit," staring cross-eyed down my dick like it's the only thing that matters. The cursor blinks. "You cum so much."