FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

It's hot as balls out here.

Toes are sticking to my sandals and the plastic is smacking back against my heel every sweaty step. There's no breeze. All these dainty little trees landscaped up and down this road, and no shade from any one of them. Just here to look pretty.

My A.C.'s busted. Three days til the repairman can come get me, and the weather people on my T.V. reported with all smiles and laughs that this heat wave's on for all week.

“My" A.C.

The one goddamn time I housesit.

Just a flimsy supermarket bag hanging from my hand, swinging cold across my knee, couple boxes of ice cream sandwiches and popsicles rattling inside to get me through this weekend. Electric fan can only go so far. Taking my shorts off immediately back inside can only achieve so much.

Somebody out there better be grateful I put on a bra for this. Make me feel like it's worth the sweat dripping down into my shirt, sticking to my stomach.

Right now it feels like my brain's sticking to my skull in a worse way than human skeletons are supposed to accommodate. Grab the bottom of my shirt and swipe it over my forehead… hope nobody just got a free show, kinda can't care enough if they did.

Little deet-deet from my back pocket, and I can guess from who.

Pull my phone out and the notification is an up-close photo of Momma and Daddy posing in front of a goddamn alpine ski slope. Dressed for it. Grinning. Really, really, genuinely happy.

Their goddamn place that I'm housesitting out here.

Not even dignifying this shit. I just put my phone back in my back pocket before all my finger sweat seeps right into the circuitry.

Just kidding. My butt's sweating even more. Fucked either way.

Something dripping on my toe, actually, wet and cold. Not just sweat. Glance down, and my popsicles are on their way out.

“Fuckin' kill me…."

Almost out of the sun. Almost back. Hop back onto the curb as I cross blocks, and here's me passing the first corner of a pointy cast iron fence gating in the cute little park right across the street from my folks' townhouse.

Raise my free hand to bat against the bars as I pass, but—iron gets hot, too. Never mind.

It's mostly a bunch of flowers and shrubs in the park landscaped all neat and colorful for the so-called upper-middle class in this neighborhood. But the neighbors are colorful, too. Lot of different skin on show around here. Not so much this week. But nice seeing just as many other black and brown people like me on this side of the city as on mine, when they brave this variety of fresh air.

Step back closer to the curb and look both ways before crossing the street again, like a good girl. It's not gonna be some faded douche texting while he's driving that's the death of me today.

I look both ways, but I don't cross yet.

There's a dude here. Like, a guy. There's a prim iron bench bolted into the pavement just next to the park's main gate, and here's a guy sat in the middle of it, facing the road, only other living being down this whole street.

A pokemon kind of guy.

A, um… I'm not good with all the different types. Big long nose. Fluffy white neckpiece—that's gotta suck this time of year. Humantype, two long bulky arms leaned over his two thick fuzzy legs. Hunched away from the hot iron slats behind him, kinda slouched. Squinting across the road like he's focused on something, but nothing's there. Like he's just… waiting.

A Hypno.

I remembered.

Whatever he's waiting for, can't be worth it on a day like this. But he's got this look in his eye like he doesn't notice the heat, or doesn't mind it.

He looks back at me. Still with the squint, with that focus. Kinda intense.

I'm staring.

How long have I been staring?

Don't really feel bad about it, though. Might not be showing it off, but this guy's got to be boiling.

I dig one hand into my bag and rip the tab off the box inside. Pull out the papered outline of a cheri blue popsicle. Offer it.

“At least find some shade," I tell him.

Not a word back from him. Or an emotion. Or blinking. But he raises one meaty hand, and there's a lot of fuzz on his knuckles, too, as they brush against mine while he takes the ice cream. I raise my hand and grab the wrapper, and while he holds tight, I tear it off for him, wet and sticky.

I hold onto the paper, and I'm still just kinda watching him as he lakes a lick. Takes another. Another. Exact same pace for each lick, methodical.

But my sandals smack again as I take a couple steps over, and I toss the paper into the trash can on the other side of his bench.

I've done all I can.

Another glance either way down the road, and now I cross, bag swinging with me. Trudge up three steps onto the porch and twist the knob open—sorry, Momma, I still don't lock the door when I go out. Bad habit.

But I take one glance back across the street before closing it.

Now he's staring at me. Not licking anymore. Just squinting, waiting.

At me.

Whatever. I think you got ghosted, boy.

I nudge the door shut inside with my shoulder, and it gives me back a heavy click. And I've got to get this bag in the freezer, but now I'm standing here a second longer just thinking a minute.

Hypnos. Aren't Hypnos one of the ones who have a thing? Their special thing. Like… a pendulum. That's their thing.

Was he missing his? Or did I just not notice it?

Kinda weird, but it feels more like I can't remember than I just didn't notice.

He had one, right?

Little deet-deet from my pocket.

Don't pull my phone out, but it makes me kinda wonder if I should mention some Hypno hanging out front. Like, ask if that's normal. I don't remember this dude from when else I've come around here. But…

Nah.

Voice in the back of my brain telling me that's the wrong vibe to bring.

Whatever. Just get these into the freezer.

Virginia, by the way.

My name.

And Genna, not Jenny.

I'm not wearing a bra anymore, you know. Or any of the rest of my clothes. And I'm all alone. If somebody were to come over right now and keep me company in this big lonely house, I don't know what I might be willing to do to thank them for it….

God I'm bored.

God it's hot.

Now it's just two more days til air conditioning again.

Lift Daddy's little whale-thing-shaped water pail over his fern he's got hanging by the window, curtains shut while all I'm wearing is my underwear, and I'm concentrating very hard on not pouring too much between the fronds, yeah, yeah, not drowning any of his precious adopted babies. I'm sweating more than I'm pouring here.

Longest weekend of my life.

Should have just kept commuting from my place. Should probably still do that. Head home after these, just take the rail back here tomorrow—but the trip takes so long. I don't wanna fucking commute on my days off, what the hell.

So either I choose that it's just too hot to stay, or I just can't be bothered to leave. Damn.

Yeah, I should go out tonight after all. Maybe I will. After dark, after it cools off, find a cool little bar someplace around here. Could use some of that.

Straighten up, jut one hip, lay a hand on myself, and whip my head back. Like bam. Bite my lip, give this imaginary guy behind me my steamy come hither. He knows what he wants. I know what he likes.

Maybe that could work better if I let my twists down from this bun.

That's not happening.

God I'm horny.

Ever since yesterday, it's been less like I'm just hot, more like I'm hot and bothered. In the extra way. Like I got injected with it.

Guess summertime still does its thing.

Yeah, I should go out later.

Feet sticking to the hardwood floor every step as I get over to the sink and set this pail back in the cabinet underneath, get out the spray bottle instead—spritz bottle, he seriously calls it—for Daddy's cute little bamboo thing.

Should spritz myself, is what needs some spritzing.

Get the bottle out, then grab my phone from the corner of the ottoman on my way back over to the windows, actually. Center my frame, snap a photo of the cute little potted plant all alone and helpless on its accent table. Send that, then a little message:

• this is now a ransom

• i want five mil or i'm gonna spray it, not spritz it

Wait for it.

Stand here a minute, waiting for it. Still boiling.

They're not going skiing every day, are they? Come on. Don't make me that jealous. Don't do that to your own daughter.

Deet-deet, good:

• Genna Do Not spray That One Just Spritz it Please

He earned that.

Spritz his stubby little bamboo cutie, put this bottle back up. Sigh loud and grumpy, that part's important. Dump my phone back next to my crumpled shorts, dump myself back on the sectional where I've got the fan set to blow, and here's sweet relief.

T.V.'s going on with something in front of me, but I forget what I turned it to. Just close my eyes a second, bask in the artificial breeze.

Either go home or go out tonight. Probably my best options. Got to decide.

Kinda want to just masturbate instead, simplify the process. Or take another shower? Both. I can multitask. That'd do me right.

Extra little deet-deet. Lean over, tap the screen back on to check it.

• Genna Did You Just Spray my Lucky bamboo Only spritz it Please

Meh.

Takes a little willpower to bother picking my phone back up, tell him he's too late—

Jingly little chime echoes from the hall. Doorbell.

Toss my phone again, and it better be that my date's two days early.

Ladylike sailor's curse off my breath as my feet stick to the floor again when I stand up. Grab my shorts from the ottoman, grunt and groan the whole journey it takes hiking them back on. Find my shirt, drape myself back to decency, and squeak over to the door.

Thud the deadbolt free, and it only occurs to me I should have checked the peephole first while I'm already tugging the door open.

It's a guy on the porch all right. Shorter dude than me, husky. But not a repairman.

A Hypno.

Shorter than me by several inches. Arms at his sides, and now it's like he's slouching on purpose. He's in the shade this time on the doorstep, but he's squinting up at me anyway, this look in his eyes like I don't know what. Shrewd. Like the guy you're supposed to think is the bad guy in foreign movies.

Fills up the whole porch just standing there, kinda, like he's all I can see.

Is it rude calling someone shrewd?

He raises one hand up toward me, and between those thick fingers is a brand new popsicle, still in its wrapper, dripping down the corner of the paper. Razz berry red.

So… my hand comes off the doorknob, and my fingers brush over his as they wrap around the stick just above where he's holding it. Immediately it drips down my knuckle.

When I told him to find some shade, I didn't mean where I'm at.

Isn't this the same time as I saw him yesterday? Does he have a routine?

My gut is telling me this is weird. I'd call this weird.

But I've got a higher-importance voice in the back of my brain telling me that it's dangerous keeping somebody out in this heat, and that this guy is harmless.

I pull the door open wider and nod inside. His gaze shifts to the hall behind me, then comes back up to mine, like he's double checking.

You think you're interrupting me with some other guy? I ain't that lucky yet, dude.

But he doesn't come on in, so we're just kinda looking at each other. A long awkward pause kinda thing.

Something about him just makes it way too easy to stare too long. Like zoning out.

To be more specific for him: “You wanna come cool off?"

I've already got the idea that his English isn't… great. I don't expect small talk. I just step out of the way.

Now he takes me up on it. The first time I've seen him walk, and he kinda slinks forward, more bobbing his shoulders between steps than swaying any bit. And for all the weight his belly's packed on, he moves silently.

But I guess he does mind the heat.

Something catches a sharp reflection on him as he passes me by, and hey—there's his pendulum. Looped over his neck, tucked over the fluffy white part.

All right, fine, guess I just didn't notice it after all. Makes sense he wouldn't want to hold it all the time.

It's a little more weird thinking about it now, maybe a little gross, but… so much for getting off. Was just looking forward to that.

“Sit in front of the fan," I call after him as I shoulder the door shut. “Air conditioner broke yesterday morning, repair guy can't come fix it for another couple days. Didn't say they were busy or anything. Just sounded like an asshole over the phone."

There's just a short corner from here to the family room, and as I turn it right after him, my current feeling is that maybe I should have at least left my bra somewhere other than the closest arm of the sofa.

That feeling is GODDAMN you, bitch.

My new Hypno friend stares straight at it like I fucking perched it there on exhibit, black and silken, top halves of each cup laced in silhouettes of roses because this morning this bitch right here thought yes, that's the one I'll wear if I feel frisky later.

But he's also standing directly in front of the fan where he's looking at it, and a couple seconds later he's slinking onward toward taking a seat, scooting back into the exact middle of the sectional, cozying himself nice and hunched again. No second glance. T.V.'s already caught his full attention.

So he doesn't see me scooping up my please-fuck-me underwear and tossing it quietly at the staircase, vaguely toward my guest bedroom.

“Just make yourself, like… eighty-five percent at home," I say, red dripping down my wrist. “It's not my place—my mom's and dad's."

Turn for the kitchen to grab a paper towel, navigate around this island where Momma and Daddy got all their pots and pans hanging from big hooks up top like in some magazine. Say they keep it humble, but around this neighborhood the folks are more upper than middle.

Don't exactly need to give a tour, though.

Not that I know if he's listening, but I call back to add, “They're out of town."

I tear the wrapper off my sloppy gift and then mop the mess off my skin, lick the bottom corners before they keep spilling. Really doubt it's poisoned or something, so yeah, I'll just eat it. It's just as cold and sweet as the next one I'm grabbing out of the freezer for my guest—

Oh my god. No. Oh god.

I can't just take my shirt off again now. I have a guest. It's indecent.

What have I wrought.

But slower sticky steps take me back to the couch, and almost fully clothed, I curl one knee over the ottoman and pull myself back into the corner seat a foot away from my company. He's got his hands dumped over his lap, only blinks like every half a minute.

I'm staring.

I pull my knees up and stick both popsicles in one hand, cross my arm over my stomach, slouch back. The fan's got us both covered from here.

I don't know why I'm staring.

It's like getting some kinda song stuck in my head, looking at his weird face. He's got these huge bags under his eyes, wrinkly, but he doesn't look tired. Just a part of this intense focus he's got naturally. Or that he honed. Practiced.

Something sticky slips back down my thumb. It's automatic this time that I lick the red spill clean, give the corner another slurp before it keeps dribbling.

The Hypno's looking at me.

My next look back at him, and there he is staring back at me, expressionless. I didn't even notice his neck twist toward me.

Still got the stick of his popsicle tucked between my pinkie and ring fingers. Give mine another safety slurp, then I prod his pudgy tricep with whatever flavor yellowish-orange is. Mago flavor. I knew that.

“Yours. Got more in the freezer."

He takes it. Already seems like a ritual as he holds on, and I tear the paper away for him. But this time I wrap the torn paper around my handle, catch the leaks before they stick to my fingers again.

Now we actually watch T.V. I don't watch him. He doesn't watch me.

We watch a lady grin and dance around in her underwear on the screen instead, advertising, making fun of me from her air conditioned studio. Commercials.

It's just—it's really easy to look at him.

I bet there's some exact foreign-language word for this feeling.

He holds the stick at a perfect upright angle just an inch from his face, and he's got the same methodical pace for licking now as yesterday: Slup. Wait a few seconds. Slup. Wait exactly three seconds. Slup. Three seconds. Time it. Slup.

I'm mesmerized. Kinda cools me off just watching him beat the heat his own way.

Not my thumb—something dribbles down my wrist this time.

FUCK.

I only hiss out loud. Suck the buildup of melted red juice out from the paper around my stick, lick the extra off my wrist, and now I've got to get back to the rest of my own popsicle. Get back to work on it. Stop staring beside me so much—

Oh my god.

Is that his dick?

Wait, no, literally, is that his dick?

I swear to god there's something pinkish-purple growing from his crotch, poking up through the fur where it wasn't before, and that thing looks dickly as hell. Pushing right out between his thighs, dragging over the sofa.

That's his dick.

Kinda human. But not human. Way too close to human.

Pushing out over the cushion and there's all these little nubs at his tip, round and squishy in a ring around the glans like stubby flower petals. Is that the glans? It's almost flat, just those nubs around the rim. Kinda… porous nubs, on all their tiny tips. Not as pretty as flower petals. More like aquatic. Is he really mammalian? I don't know what aquatic dick looks like.

He's getting erect.

What the hell am I staring at this for?

Why wouldn't I?

He's not stroking it or anything, not touching himself, not even looking at it. Still just licking ice cream and watching the screen and not blinking, totally enraptured by the T.V.

It's still happening. He's still growing.

And he's just licking a popsicle while some underwear commercial catches his eyeballs.

I'm not watching the T.V. anymore.

Same shape as what I've ever seen, about the same girth top to bottom. Fat. But yeah, flat at the tip, just the nubs circling the rim. His shaft's grown out long enough that I can see it stretching and drooping out from some kind of… pouch hidden by his fur. Like, the skin of his shaft sticking to the rim of his pouch for half a second, then popping loose and sliding farther out, getting thicker, stretching the pouch kinda sloppy and wider to make room.

He throbs.

Back to front, it bounces his whole thing. Like waking up, waving hello. Making the nubs pulse.

And then he's fully extended in a big droop over the seat cushion, meaty and covered in a sheen and I can see how slick it is.

Deet-deet.

Oh fuck.

Glance at my phone on the corner of the ottoman and the screen's lit up in a new message. I never—goddammit. Bad time. Bad time. Bad time.

Look back over, and my guest finally notices, too. Everything.

But he looks at me.

No expression. He just cranes his neck from toward his dick up toward me. Like no, yeah, I can still see all that, guy.

Then really slowly, he stretches his gaze back around the sofa, looking all the way back toward the kitchen. Then over to the stairs. All around. But he's not taking in the decor, and nowhere keeps his attention long.

His dick throbs again. Back to front, bounces. All the little nubs around his tip bloat with the bounce this time, like stirred in a current. I see it. That is not a human dick.

I don't know how the word even makes it out my mouth, but…

“Bathroom?"

He turns back toward me. No different look on his face now than ever, but he stares at me now. And his attention is caught.

I have to look back up to meet his gaze.

I point down the hall beside the kitchen.

“Second door on the left."

He looks back there.

“The door's open, so you'll just… see it."

He looks back at me. Looks down to his popsicle. Back to me.

Very, very slowly, I switch where I'm holding my stick, and I think maybe it's dripping on me again already—and for some reason I just offer him an empty hand. Toward his ice cream.

He stares back at my hand. Back to my face. Motions the remainder of his snack toward my fingers, and okay, that's what's happening, I take it. I'm doing him a quick favor.

Then his hands find his cushion, and he pushes slow and steady back onto the floor, slinks the way I directed.

Doesn't take any throbbing for his dick to wobble between every other step.

Right before he's past the far corner of the family room where I can still see him, what I see is him getting harder. Saluting. Full mast, and that's definitely another throb before he's out of sight.

I hear him flick the light on, click the door shut.

How long I sit here I don't know. I'm not guessing.

I think I need to… respond, reply to the messages. And wash my hands? They feel really sticky.

Yeah. I should get up. Go take care of them first.

Feet stick to the floor again too, and for some reason I'm trying to walk much much quieter around to the kitchen, and it's in my peripheral thinking that I realize I'm willingly leaving my fan's breeze. But I've got to do what I've got to do.

Just dump both the sticks under the faucet, melt them down, no point finishing these. Then wash my hands. Dry off. Throw away the sticks. All part of a process.

Then scratch under my ear. Just an itch.

Not sure why I'm now pointed toward the hall instead of the sofa, my phone, the fan, the only cool air in the house.

I think my gut is trying to tell me something.

But I've got a voice in my brain trying to tell me something very different, and this is a lot of anxiety figuring out which to listen to.

Don't think I've actively decided which advice to follow when I'm creeping toward the bathroom, not the T.V.

This doesn't feel like me. But… I'm doing it, so maybe it is like me?

Raise my fingers in a backward fist, getting ready to knock, to ask if he's okay, that's what I'm doing—but I don't knock. I just hold my fist in the air, and now I'm the one not blinking. I bare my ear closer to the door.

He's jacking off.

Fan's turned on to mask it, a noisy hum rumbling through the hollow door, but it doesn't hide that fast wet smacking echoing way way louder out to my ear.

This… isn't like me. I think.

Pokemon don't make me horny. And I don't jump on any dick presented before me. And I'm not some size queen, and I don't even like that phrase. It's tacky.

But he was big. Like, thick.

Real life thick. No fair big.

And all I can hear is a wet, heavy, back-and-forth jerking, slick and slimy, and how much can Hypnos ejaculate in one load? Is he gonna turn my parents' bathroom into a splash zone? Is he aiming it into the toilet, into a wad of toilet paper, the bathtub, the hand towel?

This seems really sudden.

Would someone else find this really inappropriate? It's like a thought in the regular part of my brain that won't go away, and right now I kinda want it to. Either inappropriate as in me, listening in, or him—like, his whole deal right now.

Is he using both hands to rub it out? I can't tell. I can hear one hand thumping back against his groin with every tug, at least. He's seriously jacking it. Got to be imagining himself going balls deep in somebody going like that.

I think the heat's doing things to me.

My ear's pressed flat against the door. I swear I don't know how I got this close. One hand balanced next to it, keeping me still and quiet, and I don't want to get caught.

He's speeding up. Not a single groan from him, can't tell how heavy he's breathing, but I've handled dicks enough to recognize when a dude is about to bust a nut. Is he gonna make a face when he cums, show an actual emotion?

I think I'm holding my breath.

He's stopped jacking. I don't hear anything.

Is he cumming? Can't hear him squirting into anything. The towel?

I hear another stroke, wet and stiff. Pause. Another couple sloppy strokes, getting out the last of it. He came. How much? I don't need to know. Shouldn't want to. What am I doing?

God it's hot.

God, I need to go sit back down. Hide. Pretend I just didn't.

Quietly, if my feet weren't still sticking to the goddamn hardwood every step I take. Still trying not to breathe before I've made my escape.

Slide my butt back over the cushion, wrap my knees up to my chest, pretend I can see a single thing flashing by on T.V.

Remember to blink.

Breathe. Deep breaths.

Real-life thoughts come back gradually, but there's not much room for them in my brain right now.

Do Hypnos have a thing?

Not the pendulum. Some other thing, something about them.

Why would a pendulum be their thing anyway?

I don't really know pokemon, I took one class on them in my second semester in uni. My degree is for machine learning. I know Porygon, Pikachu, and Serperior. And Serperior only because it's a brand name. Those are the ones I know.

I don't know. Can't remember. Doesn't matter.

The bathroom door clicks back open, and I even hear him flip the light back off before he leaves. That's good. Conserve electricity. Not that Momma can't afford it. But that's good of him.

Blink. Keep it up. Not a deep breath, just a normal one. Easy.

My guest slinks back around the corner, slips by the fan, and he braces one meaty hand on the edge of the sofa before he slumps back into the middle, just a foot away from me. Squinting, slouching, propping his hands over his lap, all comfy again.

No more dick. Totally retracted. Tucked away again for some rest.

That's good.

He doesn't seem to remember the ice cream I was holding on for him, which is good, too. I'll just grab him another if he… looks at my hand or something.

Nothing suspicious about how much I'm sweating, how hot I can feel my face looks.

I need my phone.

Just lean for it subtly, don't look over for if he notices. Just… tap out that I only spritzed it, okay? So you can drop it already, Daddy. Stop messaging right now.

And now I'm just holding my phone between twiddled thumbs, nothing else to do with it, but sure as hell I'm pretending. Just something to fiddle with. Something else to pay attention to. T.V.'s not doing it.

Is he—?

My guest is watching T.V. again. He doesn't notice. His dick is not back. Good good good, good.

Got both thumbs over my screen like I even know what else I was going to do with this thing. Like about to check the news like a very regular person right now.

Should I mention this development? Call someone?

Why the fuck would I call someone? Nobody will ever hear of this. This is a deathbed secret. And not even then.

My guest remains flaccid. Okay. Now I'm keeping track of that.

So when the sun sets or something, when it's cooling off, is he just gonna go? Is that when I tell him he's got to go, goodbye? Do I tell him he's got to go?

But I'm the one who invited him in. My place or not, he's my guest.

And it is really, seriously hot out. Does he have someplace else to go? Is he sleeping on benches? Don't pokemon just get… let go of sometimes, abandoned?

My gut is telling me that's his problem, and the voice in my brain getting louder is telling me he's my guest, and being someone's guest means something. That means something. That's important to me.

Never really had my own personal guest before. And friends definitely don't count, they can grab their own damn drink.

But really suddenly, it means something to me.

Normally I'd say I've got to trust my gut, always trust my gut, but this time… it feels kinda overruled.

I'm just scrolling past headlines on my phone, yes, checking the news, and he's just watching T.V. Hunched, squinted, not looking at me anymore.

Was he jacking off to something on T.V.? That underwear commercial?

Was he jacking off to me?

Kinda want to… know. Only kinda. I don't need to tell myself I want to know for sure—I can just leave it open.

Maybe just…

“So—um… you from around here?"

Small talk, yeah, definitely. Mostly for me. I really need either of us to not be completely silent right now.

“You living the vagabond life? Town to town? Know somebody around here?"

Either he doesn't care about the questions or he likes playing the mysterious dude who acknowledges nothing about his past.

He's just watching T.V. Doesn't even glance my way now.

Wait, here—yeah, he glances my way. Just takes a second.

And then he looks right back to the T.V.

He's got fingers—he could make little walking motions or something, sign me an answer if he really wanted.

Or like… nod his head. Shake his head. He's got options.

So now we're just both watching T.V. again, totally silent. I don't have the volume up that high. Don't really want it that high.

More like I'm scrolling around on my phone at—um, articles, I guess. I'm not really… reading any of this stuff.

It's really hard to pay attention to either screen right now.

And it's just… really easy to stare at him. For… I don't know how long for. Minutes? Could be hours.

Don't really try small talk again. Guess he's actually into whatever's on.

Actually—peek back toward the T.V., and it's a soap. Huh.

Well, was. Just switched to commercials.

Oh. And wouldn't you goddamn know it.

First one, here's the same damn lady laughing back at me in her underwear, the same commercial. How many times did this company pay to get in between just one episode? How is that good economics?

Can I get his attention now—?

Oh my god.

Forget small talk, or the commercial. You've got to be shitting me.

Like however long ago it was and he's already getting hard again.

Now I know what to expect, and I'm staring, like this time I'm really staring. Thick shaft pudging back out from him. Shiny. Little more pinkish than purple, like an orchid, healthy glow. Really shiny, still smudged from his last load, I guess. All the little nubs circled around the tip bloat again in his next throb, whole thing just as slick and sweaty. But they look flexible. Like they'll just squish out of the way when it's time for the squeeze. What are those for? What do they feel like?

Oh my god, I need to not think that.

So…all it takes is an underwear commercial to get him hard. Wasn't me. It's just tough for pokemon to control what happens sometimes, sure, and that makes sense to me.

But he's into human women?

He's just as thick this time. He's not slowing down.

But me, I'm not into pokemon. Got into some things in uni, but not interspecies.

I'm just… I don't want to admit it, but some part of me is just making me admit that this dick right in front of me is worth the attention.

Be even weirder if it was attached to a human kinda guy, but holy shit if it was, right?

This is not like me. But… shit.

Oh shit.

He sees me. He's watching me.

How long has he been looking back at me?

I look directly back to my phone, fumble through scrolling further down, totally fixated on this cool thing I'm reading, sorry!

Goddammit.

Is he looking at how red my face is? My fucking heart is pounding. I can't hide it.

Not like he's hiding it.

Cushion next to mine shifts hard, and I don't even want to peek. But I still see in the corner of my eye that he's getting up, slinking back around the sofa. I do not look. I do not. I just hear the bathroom light switch flicking on, the door, the lock clicking shut. And no way in hell do I get up.

Oh my god. Ohhh my god.

How many more times is this gonna happen?

For real, how fast does he build back up? No, not even like that, like, clinically—his balls can't be that huge if they're not swinging free all the time. A dude can only cum so much, he can't just… keep going forever.

Pokemon can't be that different. He's at least got to have to eat a ton after going like this, right? Calories, protein?

Haven't had any of that myself since breakfast. Is he going to stay long enough for lunch, too?

Never mind that a second. Got an encyclopedia right in the palm of my hand right now, one step short of a Pokenav—that's not the one. Pokedex? That's the one. Thinking about looking up this kinda guy.

Trying not to think about a dude jacking his meat in my bathroom, getting ready to blow, ready for another round really soon after the first.

The fan isn't doing anything for me. I'm sweating everywhere. Every inch of my skin is on fire.

Look him up. What am I looking up? Anything, whatever, “hypno."

Top results: “Best 12 local hypnotherapists in your city," “Signs that hypnotherapy may be right for you," “'Hypno' is the first single off of rapper Yung Ya Goos's sophomore album 'Way Sleep On'," who the fuck even.

Could have built a better algorithm myself than this junk.

Come on, “hypno pokemon," gimme.

The hell.

These pictures are way uglier than the dude with me. What the hell, no wonder Hypno's not one of the ones you see fucking everywhere. These dudes are fugly. Feel kinda bad.

Very top text result is from some anything-goes question board: “if i want to put a hypno on my team how much do i have to worry about it mind controlling me?"

Um.

Hey, what now?

Like…

My thumb's just hovering over the link, but I don't click it yet. This really sounds like something I need to know.

But maybe it's not.

Come on. This is just somebody's internet bullshit. Most of the stuff online about pokemon is just the wild myths that trainers spread to make it sound like they've got the most dangerous, riskiest job in the world, like everybody's supposed to respect them for contributing nothing to society. I've got to pay no mind.

I don't need to listen to my gut on this one, either. Not this time.

I'll just… close this tab.

But then why'd I bother even looking him up?

Least it got me off from thinking about his dick.

Bitch… now I'm thinking again.

And there's the door clicking back open, and I hear the bathroom fan coming off, and here's my guest walking back silently to come watch some more T.V. with my cute self.

Just a glance as he rounds the sofa and scoots himself back into his seat, ignoring me. Politely ignoring me, I guess.

Retracted again.

When's the next time it pops out? Done for the day? One more time coming up…?

I need a cold shower.

But he probably does, too.

Right, I'm actually hungry. That's going on. Lunch. Ask him if he's in.

“UM."

Oh god I shrieked it. Goddamn voice cracking. Sure got his fucking attention now.

“You hungry?" I say lower. “Gonna make lunch. Unless you got… dietary restrictions, something."

Same look of nothing he gives me, but he doesn't just meet my eye. He glances at my cheeks, or neck, burning up. Fuck.

Trying to say it higher now than just squeaking, but I tell him, “My mom's diabetic, and she and my dad are both gluten free, so—we got options, I'm saying. Got a lot in the fridge. But I was just gonna heat up some vegetables anyway, if you… eat those. Stir fry."

Wasn't thinking about day drinking before, but I'm starting to think I could really seriously use a glass of something right now. Maybe. Probably not.

“If you don't have somewhere to go. That's your business."

Square in the eye he looks at me again, and I'm not looking away either.

I slide my feet off the ottoman, scoot out my seat, and here he comes with me a little slower. Yup. We're on the same page.

Besides the whole daydreaming-about-his-dick thing.

I don't think that should be normal. But it kinda already feels normal.

As long as I stop blushing so damn much.

Point down the hall right from the kitchen's threshold and say, “Dining room's down there. It's leftovers, so I'll put it in the microwave, just be a few minutes."

Out of the corner of my eye, he's watching me a second. Then he slinks on over to the end of the hall. Lets me do my thing in here by myself. Grab a plate out from the fridge, pull the foil off, stir it some before heating it.

Fan my face with both hands. Breathe. Wipe my wrist over my forehead.

Get the quart of green tea out of the fridge while the food's cooking, something cold to wash it down. Focus on the normal part of the day. Nothing weird about feeding yourself and a plus one.

Why can't I remember his pendulum yesterday?

Like this… blank spot in my memory. I should have spotted it, light should have been glinting right off it out there. It's a noticeable thing.

And why the hell did I make stir fry last night? Totally different subject. It's just a really good question. Hot food in a heat wave?

Least I'm still eating healthy. Keep up on that this time.

Open the cabinet and push up onto my toes, grab the china down, a couple glasses. Pop the microwave open before it dings, scoop out two helpings. Get some silverware.

Consider for a longer moment what I'm feeding him.

I get some chicken substitute out of the fridge too, yes, add some protein to this dish.

Takes a minute carrying all this to the table, and I don't say a word til I've sat down on the opposite side from my guest, him, hunched over in his chair, that nose hanging over his placemat. Over his plate.

He doesn't even look as he takes his glass first, takes a sip, barely tilts his head back for it. Once he's started, he just looks straight forward again. At me.

I'm staring back at him. Kinda feeling around for my fork. There it is.

Itadakimasu. Bon appetit. I'm cultured.

He takes a bite after I do, and he doesn't even chew loudly. Can barely hear a crunch.

Is he gonna get hard under the table?

I'm not gonna look, I'm just thinking about it is all. Just following the pattern. Is he gonna get up halfway through for the bathroom, and that's when I see he's full steam again? Bouncing, throbbing, dripping?

It's like I'm expecting a lot from him all of a sudden. Dudes just can't go that often. I know.

But for real… is he getting hard under the table right now?

I kinda wanna hear it thump against the underside. I wanna hear it. Make my plate shake with the impact.

Kinda thing doesn't really happen in real life, but that'd be… hot? Dammit. That'd be pretty hot.

He takes a bigger drink of his tea, and between that and his meal, I can't tell what he thinks of it. Loves it, likes it, hates it, who knows. But he eats about the same pace I do.

Kinda eating automatically. I'm not paying attention to how fast I go.

He still hasn't gotten up to go jack off.

But I can wait.

Until it's whenever longer later, and it hasn't happened, and our forks are both scraping the china for our last little bites.

Quicker lunch than I thought it'd be today.

I'm up out of my chair first, setting my plate over his, clanking the glasses on top of those.

“Can gargle in the, um… bathroom, if you want. I'm just gonna go rinse these real quick."

Don't even consciously mean to as my gaze darts toward his groin, and I can't even see it at this angle. His chair is still pushed forward. Can't tell what's up.

He's looking at me.

He saw me staring.

“I'll grab us some more snacks…."

I go.

Dump the plates under the faucet's stream and scrub. Blink a lot. Don't even need to clean much, I'm chucking these in the dishwasher anyway. But my hands need to do something.

There's the bathroom door creaking nearly shut again, I hear it over the water. If he takes more than a minute in there—I kinda wonder if he will. That'd be… never mind.

Dry my hands and get a couple vanilla sandwiches out of the freezer, and—

He's already slinking back around the sofa, dumping himself back in his seat. Eyeballs on the screen. I guess. Can't see his face from here.

I forgot to turn the T.V. off.

Guess it doesn't matter.

Whatever.

Sink one knee back over the ottoman and slide back vaguely next to him, press myself into the corner.

Now I don't know what I'm waiting for.

Nudge his shoulder with the wrapper.

“Yours."

He looks my way, slowly takes the sandwich. And just holds it there still in my reach, just looking at me with it.

Guy, that isn't the kind of wrapper I'm gonna tear off for you.

I just give him a look back.

He brings his other hand over, gets the idea, fumbles it open himself with all his thick fingers. I already unwrapped mine. Whatever channel we're on has switched over from the drama block to sitcoms. Take one big bite and my teeth sink into cold sugar, and at this point I know my eyes just light up.

At the T.V.

Because commercials just came back on.

And I need to know.

No lying to myself that my breath's caught in my throat, and I want it. Come on. Show me a pretty lady dancing around in expensive underwear, make me wanna buy that shit. Give us a show. Prove I need some of that underwear, make me a convert. Come on.

His eyes are back on the screen now too. He's munching and he's watching. Come on.

Ads for other shows on the network. Fuck off with that, you think I'm tuned in here because I'm invested in any your shows before seven p.m.?

Ad for a goddamn travel agency. Don't even kid me. I'll already be taking a sick day to be here for the A.C., I don't have that time. And I've got a guest here with other interests. Come on.

Oh my god.

There she is. It's really back on. Here it is.

He's looking at her. I'm looking half at him, half at the T.V., making sure he doesn't catch me peeping.

But looking at her, damn, yeah, she takes care of herself. Got those buttery smooth bronze legs, freshly shaved, and her bra's pretty close to that one I got already, actually. Hell yes. Represent, lady.

My Hypno guest's copping a look all he likes. I see him looking her up and down, his gaze shifting depending where the camera goes. He's not subtle. Yeah, um, blatantly, he's admiring all he likes.

Come on, guy. Come on.

Yes? You feeling it?

Oh my god.

Yes he is, what the hell.

Sitting there squinting at the screen with this look I'm still figuring out, and I see that flowery pink meat sneaking out from his crotch again, and come on, can this guy really go this many times? For real? Not just kinda ready for another round, he's getting hard again.

I'm staring. Even if he catches me again… I don't know how I could stop.

See those little nubs all around his tip bloat another second with a brand new throb, big and bouncy, that shaft getting thick again the longer it slides out…

Tugging my knees tighter against each other. Swallowing a lump down my throat, holding myself back from biting my lip. Kinda trying not to look—like exactly how I look. Just…

Shit, he's getting ready. Doesn't even look at me. One hand on the edge of the cushion, pulling himself off, gonna go flush his load down the toilet or something.

There's a hand on his wrist all of a sudden, pausing him.

It's, um, mine.

And now he gives me that look back. Stays on the sofa with me a second here.

“Don't have to get up," I tell him. Kinda whisper it.

I just…

I really wanna see.

“If you do it that often, you can just… stay here."

I really wanna see this guy jack off. I wanna watch it.

“You're a guest, so… I don't mind."

His dick throbs. And he sees me look right at it before I catch back up to his eye level.

I let him go.

And it takes him a second, he looks me deep in the eye, squints kinda slighter—but he scoots back in his seat.

And he doesn't really look back to the T.V.

He does hand his ice cream my way, and I just sort of take it.

But he doesn't really stop watching me.

I sit up a little straighter.

He really is a guest. Like that voice mostly in the back of my brain I've been listening to so far telling me that it's the actual right thing to do, to make sure he feels very very welcome to keep up whatever his routine is here. Like as long as I'm still accepting him here, I'm accepting all of him. Feeling eighty-five percent at home is feeling very at home, and I want that out of my guest.

He's a pokemon. I'm in my right mind. I don't wanna fuck him.

I just wanna watch him squirt his whole load while he's fantasizing about how deep he's got himself plowed into somebody.

He wraps one hand nice and thick around himself, and there's just this feeling in my brain or maybe it's my gut or somewhere that I am a good host. One hundred percent on that. Or like it's a voice moving to the front of my brain telling me I'm a good girl for this.

Guess I really did get into some things back in school.

God I'm hot.

He stretches his fingers tight just underneath the tip, gives himself a real squeeze. Gives himself a slow, hard rub, slides his fist down, squeezes that slick skin taut for the couple inches he fondles. All the little nubs at the tip kinda get tugged back with him, and then he squeezes his fist back forward and his whole dick throbs firm in his clutches, root to tip, like it's not kidding around.

I can smell it now.

Faint scent of drying semen. Sweat. It's kinda… hanging in the air now. I'm watching him stroke back and forth slow and steady, and it's not really up to me whether or not I'm mostly breathing in the smell of his dick.

Breathing in his musk, I guess. Getting into my head.

God, I'm sweating.

First drop of his precum. Beading up at the slit in the middle of that flat tip, but growing wider, shiny, drooling lower under its own weight. Slipping down to the bottom of the ring of nubs, catching between a couple, and it glistens there. Kinda… pretty.

His fist rubs long and hard back toward it, and one fat fuzzy thumb swipes over it from above, stretching it back for lube. And now he's wet. Tip oozing freely, and one hand jacking up and down and twisting a little bit back and forth, thumb and forefinger squeezed into a ring giving his girth near the tip some extra love, then slipping that pre back for layering on the sheen.

Been with some big guys before, couple of them bigger, but come onnn, what's with this one? Like some Hypno of all dudes has me enraptured. I am enraptured. Like I want the… privilege.

“I can, um…"

Huh?

“I could help. If you want. Take a turn, y'know? Since you… do it this often."

Oh, right.

Really want to be a good host, so I'm saying that.

He hasn't stopped looking me in the eye. But now that I'm looking back up at his, I can't turn away from him. From his expression. He's barely breathing heavier. I feel like I can't blink.

Already squinting, but his gaze tightens on me.

Shivers all down my spine. Like now he's really checking me out. Kinda… intimidating. In a good way?

His meaty fingers loosen, and way too slowly, he lifts his sticky hand away from his dick.

Looking at me.

I'm not just staring. Oh god. I'm leaning closer. Pulling my legs down, shifting onto my knees. Setting our snacks on the floor a second or whatever, hoping mostly this sweat doesn't drip right off my chin.

Push my hand closer, kinda… hover my fingers around him, trying to take that plunge. Haven't even grabbed him yet, but, um, my hands are way smaller than his. Like how they would be with a human kinda guy, most of them.

Can't even explain to myself why I really really like that.

I give him a squeeze.

God he's hot.

Instantly my fingers are all sticky. His pre is warm all slimed across the shaft. I wrap my hand far as I can around him, and for sure I can't reach nearly as wide as he can. There's one long twisted vein pumping directly under my fingertips and I swear it's wider than the ones in my arm.

I need to put in extra effort than he would. I will. I wanna.

He's counting on me now.

Press my smaller fist up gently toward the tip, start jacking him back and forth the same pace he was going, slow and steady, and there's a low kinda huff out his nose. A snort. Blows across the back of my hand like a breeze, but it sends those shivers all the way back up my spine.

It's one thing watching him stroke himself right in front of me, but it's an experience feeling his heartbeat pulsing through his dick while I'm tugging him tight as I can.

I don't want to blink. My shirt is soaked. Kinda wanna toss it.

I won't, though! I won't.

All the rest of him fuzzy top to bottom, but right here, he's just long and smooth. Little bit rough. Firm as hell. Some part of my brain still trying not to pay attention or admit it, but no, come on, this guy is built to go hard and fast. There's no special pokemon kinda way this guy's got to bone down. He just fucks. Don't lie. Hands gripping somebody's hips, pinning them over a table or somewhere, and whoever it is that gets it has to stop pretending they didn't just scream out their own orgasm to the whole neighborhood while some Hypno's got them deep dicked.

What?

Bitch, do not think that.

Swear to god now it's like somebody else is thinking for me.

He reaches one of those bigger hands over my wrist. It's loose, but he's holding me now, and I hold back a second here. Glance up at him and he's still breathing a little faster, but he's eyeing me up and down the whole way, taking me in, staying hard. Because he's into human women, and, right… I'm not wearing a bra. Kinda poking through my shirt here.

“Too hard? Or slow? You want me to stop…?"

His meaty fingers wrap firmer over my wrist. Pulls me lower, pulls me back up. Directs me to keep going, and I keep going. But he doesn't pull his hand away from me.

Just wants to touch me. My warmth under his hand, and his twitching drooling hot mess under mine.

He's my guest. If touching me is getting him closer to shooting his spunk, emptying that next load, then he better.

My face is so hot. And all the rest of me. He throbs hard right under my fingers, and I have to swallow something back, but I just keep stroking him. Getting him closer. Tighter.

His hand firms back up over me and he pulls me one more time, slides me all the way up to his tip, keeps that firm hold on me while my fingers graze all those nubs. They're just as soft as they look. Squishy, harmless, but just as hot as the rest of his dick.

I guess I just… rub my thumb over the slit, scoop fresh warm ooze back toward my hand. His grip loosens again, and I stroke back down his shaft, and here I am applying fresh lube. Still keeping an extra tight squeeze around his shaft between my thumb and forefinger, just how I'm more and more sure he likes it.

I'm learning. He's teaching me. I'm gonna remember.

He's all I can smell. The kinda mixture my brain won't let me ignore. And all it can make me think of is just how much I'll get when he blows the real deal—my whole nose clogged just with the smell of semen, thick, dense.

Like his dick's taking up all my senses one by one.

Taste?

I guess he'd be into that, so… that's not fucking him, we'll see, maybe we'll get there.

Where's he going to blow? All over the floor? Not happening.

Maybe just my hand, and I can kinda catch it, or…

That's not what's important right now. Get there first, get him that fist-clenching teeth-gritting orgasm he needs. Get him there, then figure it out. Be the good host, the good girl.

Now he lets go of my wrist, and he takes my other hand. And while I'm still jacking him he bundles my palm over his glans.

Do I just hold it? Is he… is this how he wants to cum?

He just keeps a solid grip, squeezes my hand enough so I'm forced to squeeze on him, my palm kissing tight against the whole flat tip, over every single nub.

Got it. I squeeze him. I keep a tight grip on his crown in one hand and stroke him just right with the other, give his root a nice rub, keep him all slick and sweaty.

Two-handed job after all. No goofing around.

One more throb just as good as the last, and oh my god, the nubs bloat into my palm and stick. They bloat up to an airtight seal and I swear to god they suction to my wet skin.

Just another second or two or something before they all slim back down and let me go, but like...

When he cums, how long do they stick for? Like… be real, is this a mating thing?

This is a mating thing.

Thrust in to the very last inch and he bloats up, and come on, not one drop escapes. Every single squirt, no spillage, exactly where he planned to dump it all along. Wherever he wanted to dump it.

I don't need to think about that inside me.

It's like there's no way that can be me thinking about that, that's not how I operate.

But I am thinking about it.

And he's getting close to nutting. Every few breaths out his nose is a quick snort, getting to the edge. His knuckles are getting tight.

I don't think it's going to get easier not thinking about it after I've got a batch of hot fresh batter gunked all between my fingers, dripping down my wrist, clogging me up.

This was a bad idea. It was and it is.

I'm not stopping, though.

Somehow I really really want to catch his load all over me. Feel the weight. See it myself.

My heart's trying to pound out of my ribs right now. My breath is so shaky. From just a handjob, for real? Like I'm excited for him.

I just want him to cum really hard.

Come on.

His hips are twitching like he's holding back from humping, and he's rolling his head back over the seat, snorting, and his fat hand's tugged tight above mine, making me hold on to the head. He's rock hard.

Stroke back toward the tip with my other hand, give him an extra tight rub right there, back and forth, squeeze it out, come on.

His dick pulses. He twitches, snorts louder.

I'm staring.

I'm holding on. Rubbing, rub it out, come on.

He throbs. All the nubs flare up and suction to my hand, and I'm not going anywhere.

First shot squirts right into my palm with a force. Warm. Warmer than outside. Slathers over my naked skin sticky and dense—and I just swallow hard, can't even think yet. One more shot, and I swear I hear it—that little squelch, jizz squirting into more jizz.

Third shot, and um, my hand's getting full. Can't pull it away. Getting inseminated.

But his hand pulls away. Grabs back at my wrist, just grabbing for something to hold on to, keep himself steady.

Not even thinking about it consciously anymore as I keep rubbing the end of his rigid shaft, squeeze it all out hot and tight. Milk him. I think I'm blushing way too hard.

This much is his third ejaculation today.

Can't really process it. This is a lot.

Still throbbing between my fingers, twitching. Bucking his hips a little, giving my hands a ride, grinding out another squirt, another two.

My hand is full. But he's still creaming me. I can still feel the semen pooling up, drooling all over my skin, sticking.

One more gooey shot into my hand and the seal breaks.

It's this loud sucking sound, this sloppy pop from the top edge of his freed bloated nubs, and an ivory shot of jizz squirts free straight out between my fingers, shooting and slopping down over the back of my hand.

Pokemon semen dribbling down between all my fingers now, dangling off the bottom of my hand and swinging free slick and beady, and I'm craning my neck over to watch it happen.

My neck is kinda sore…? My back is. Lot of leaning over for this. But I'm not complaining.

Now I can really smell it, truly. Kinda like… heavy like gasoline? Like love it or hate it, no in between, and I kinda really like it. That's gonna stick in my skull a while.

No kidding, it's wafting over my tongue. I can sort of taste it. That's… really thick.

My Hypno guest huffs through his nose like he's catching his breath, leaned way back over the sofa, face to the ceiling, and he lets go of me. Just another tiny shot of cream leaking out now while I rub the last of it out, make sure he's spilled every drop.

Holy shit.

I jacked him off.

He came like a geyser. I was just fantasizing that would happen.

He shot this much semen on his third go in one day? On me? With my help?

I was fantasizing this would happen…?

Oh god, it's dribbling.

Let go of his shaft and cup my other hand beneath his glans, catch more thick spill before it leaks onto the sectional or the floor, but holy shit this is a lot. This is a hell of a load. I can't just—

God, that's heavy in my nostrils. Can't smell anything else.

His nubs come free from my skin all at once with another pop as they shrink, and careful careful careful I lower both my soaked, creamy hands underneath, pool up all the semen.

I just give him another minute here, let him drool a little longer. Let those last beady strings drip into me, not the cushion.

His dick's not going soft yet.

Not doing anything, not throbbing anymore, but goddamn. And I'm just here on my knees beside him, catching his cum for him, burning up.

Think I might have really caught fire if the fan wasn't still going through all this.

Now he's just chilling in that same breeze, still resting his head back, not giving me a second look after he's done. Breathing easier, and just about now, okay, he's retracting. No more drooling.

Just… got to get to the sink next, I guess. Walk slowly.

Kinda have to elbow the handle up for the faucet to get running. And even with the water going, I'm letting his cum leak out from between my hands like… it just takes a second for it to want to spiral down the drain at all, even with the force of the water. Like it's still resisting going anywhere, wants to stick around. It's like washing away some oil. Taking work.

And I'm staring at it go.

Then, um, wash my hands with soap. Grab a paper towel.

That cold water really helped.

Wiping my hands on my way back to the sofa, wiping the sweat off my face, and probably I'm about to—

He's asleep.

Guess he went all out after all. Eyes shut nice and gentle, and he's snoring softly, breathing normal again. Lean a little farther over the back of my corner seat to get a look at him, and yeah, he's retracted now.

And there's the FUCKING ice cream I left on the floor all melted now.

Dump those in the trash and wipe that shit up.

But I guess he's staying for a while. I'm on board. Hope he has a really good nap, wakes up all nice and refreshed for later.

And I…

I guess I'll watch some T.V. for real for now. Keep in front of my fan with him.

Good plan.

Not exactly a power napper, turns out.

Two hours going at it, and this guy's definitely feeling at home. Mission accomplished, apparently.

But at this point, god, I need a shower.

I should, yeah. He's fine here, clearly.

Long as he's not gone by the time I get out. Really want to make sure he knows he can stay the night if that's what he wants. Make sure we're still on the same page.

Scoot out from my seat for the third or however many times without jostling his, and I sneak upstairs to the guest bath, close the door behind me.

Get this damn shirt off already. Worry about a fresh outfit later.

Feel that cool water all over my skin finally. Can't wash my hair today, got my shower cap on, doesn't matter. Wash my face with cool clean water and I'm rejuvenated.

Wash my face, and now I'm kinda thinking again. Just standing here giving these events another thought, stream running down my back.

Mind control…?

I just…

I don't really know what to think about that.

I don't know if I really want to think about that.

Even if… it feels like I should? Like my gut telling me to go grab my phone again, pull that tab back up. Something I need to know.

But I don't want to.

No, okay, think about it: how would that even work? I guess he's a psychic kinda pokemon, that sounds right. Wouldn't I feel myself fighting for control with him or something? And I'm not fighting, so… I still feel myself here, doing what I'm doing.

I'm just trying to help him out, kinda. Don't think “being a good host" would get by as an excuse on someone else, but it still sounds right to me.

Kinda getting a lot too hot and bothered around him now, maybe.

But at this point, that has to be natural. Pokemon or not, I was jacking off a dude. My brain's in fuck mode.

Damn. That's what I wanna think about.

Or not.

Really don't want to masturbate thinking about a pokemon doing me right, so let's not. Nah. Let's don't.

Just lather and rinse. Clean up.

Find some porn later tonight that gets me in the right kinda mood, the right train of thought. Something where nobody talks, ruins it all.

Where's my—

Are they out of clean towels in here?

Kill me.

Shivering for the first time today running around for something to dry off with while I'm dripping wet in the wrong way, but at least no guests are waiting in the hall up here to peep on me naked.

Well…

Decide later if I'm disappointed or not.

Pull a shirt back over my head, check myself in the mirror in my guest bedroom. Fresh again. No frizzies in my twists, still looking good.

Couple frizzies. Fix those before bed.

Would it be weird if I just didn't wear any shorts downstairs?

Just my regular underwear, not my sexy pair.

Maybe that could be totally normal. Still hot in here, already goddamn sweating again. Got no reason to think he'd mind, wouldn't make him uncomfortable. Might help him get hard one more time tonight.

Damn. That'd be something.

Wouldn't surprise me anymore though.

It's my place right now anyway, basically, so him being a guest goes both ways—I get to walk around a little more naked if that's what I want, and those are just the rules. He's just got to deal.

I better go check on him. See if he's up, make sure he hasn't left.

Make sure he feels well attended.

Come back downstairs quietly again just in case, hand trailing down the rail at my side, and I'm already peeking around to check when I'm down far enough.

Still asleep. Leaning back in the same place I left him, maybe snoring, and the T.V.'s back on to some news segment.

Guess he got a lot out of his system today, lucky guy.

God I hope he stays the night.

Huh?

I mean if he wants to. Might have somewhere he's got to get going, that's life, I know, I know.

Really glad he's in no hurry.

Make my way over and lean over the back of the sofa beside him, getting my face back in on this fan…

Yeah. Kinda like the look of his sleeping face, too. Two hours I got a look at it, but it's still… my kinda face? His bags look bigger with his eyes closed. Peaceful. Like he's got to collect all that energy again that he needs for his intensity.

He was never exactly cute, was he? I'd get weird looks if I called him cute. But he's all right.

But like…

Why didn't I notice that pendulum the first time?

For real.

If he was this tired, he won't mind me getting a better look at it right now, try to jog my—

Oh shit.

He's awake.

He's awake and grabbing my wrist and looking right back at me in my face. Didn't even touch the thing yet, two inches out of reach, my fingers outstretched.

Light sleeper, I guess.

I don't know how long he doesn't blink. Or how long I don't.

My shirt was already draped pretty low under my neckline, and now it's kinda hanging really loose while I'm leaned in toward him like this.

He doesn't let go, but I don't pull away.

“Got any left?" I say. “That you want to, um… get out?"

Huh?

No, crashing here, I was just going to ask if he—I didn't—shit.

I guess that wasn't what I was going to say.

I didn't think I was thinking about his dick again.

“I'll help, if you want some more help."

Kinda not looking him in the eye right now. Somewhere lower. I'm definitely thinking about his dick again. And I know he sees me, but now I'm just…

Not like he can answer. But I look back into that squint, and those eyes are seriously intense.

And I feel like I get the answer he's giving.

Two talking heads on the T.V. in suits, no commercial handy to help out my guest, but I push back off the back of the sofa, and I come around the side.

I don't sit in the corner piece.

I'm finding a soft landing on the hardwood, on my knees, between his.

Fan's not quite blowing on me, but I can handle sweating down here for now. Right here, um—I guess I don't mind.

Really wanna make sure he doesn't have to go anywhere without getting himself nice and empty first, if he does have to go anywhere.

Just one more time. This guy's got it in him. I see that look in his eyes, and—wow.

He looks a lot bigger from down here. Like… all of him.

I feel seriously small right now. He's got leverage. Lot of opportunity over me.

Snake my hands up between his thighs, make myself a little cozier in this heatbox, and I just want to make sure he knows I'll take care of him.

“Lemme know how I'm doing, okay?"

Stare straight up into those big, slimmed eyes, and I could look into those for a long time from where he's got me.

“Make sure it's good for you, do what you need…."

Not really sure if I'm mumbling to him or to me.

But there's a deep pink crown nudging out right in front of my face right now, dragging out over the cushion, and I've definitely got another big workload to get to.

Four times.

This guy is unstoppable.

The thought breezes by me of giving a kiss, but… I just brush my fingers over the glans on its way closer toward me, slick and smooth and musky. My nose is already twitching, for sure. Just give him a little squeeze right past the nubs, coax him out longer. Make sure he's comfortable.

He snorts, scootches closer. Angles his knees wider around me and pushes closer up his seat, dangles his full erection just an inch away from my face, and he gives me all the space I need to work with here. He's comfortable. Truly.

Kinda points his groin higher in the motion, too, gives me a better angle at his undercarriage so I can get some work in on his—

Oh shit.

Yeah, there they are. His balls.

Not totally big, not huge, actually. Maybe a little above average sort of package. Bulging some, definitely, pretty sure I can tell they've still got some juice packed away, and they're wrinkly and fuzzy and wiry, like all the scraggly hair on them is short but thick. But it doesn't look like they really dangle, so they're tucked away pretty close below his dick, totally hidden for anybody who's not already in a good position for deepthroating him.

Not that that's the plan right here.

I'm just doing my part to get him some more relief. This is just another favor.

So I wrap one hand a little farther down, rub him toward his root, and he bobs hard and wet. Really good view of his twitching from here, won't lie. My other hand, I reach a little lower down and give his sac some tender affection, make sure he's churned up nice and holy SHIT.

These are heavy. What the fuck? He's fucking packed.

Pretty sure I'm gawking at his balls right now while he's watching. Fondling them both in the palm of my hand, all the wiry fur scratching at my skin like it wants to leave a hickey, and oh my god, no wonder he's got so many loads to blow. Holy shit. He must get backed up all the time, these are dense. I swear to god I can feel the sperm squirming around in here.

Not really. Obviously. But this is real.

I'm really actually doing him a favor. He needs to bust a nut again tonight, no question, I'm doing this. It's not up for debate.

Firm up the fist I've got around his root, and start stroking for real now, give him a tight grip. Caress him way gentler on his sac, squeezing slower and softer, encourage one last load extra thick out of him.

Come on, boys. He needs an eruption. Bubble that cream to the surface.

And my handie's got him bobbing in a really good rhythm. Feels like my mouth should be dryer than it really is. Like he's just waving his scent up and down in front of me, and I know he's got a good look at how close I'm watching his exact motion.

At the rate I'm going, starting to feel like it'd be kinda rude not to at least give him a kiss.

Just to make him feel extra welcome. Just so he's got that extra thick load out tonight.

Stroke him wider now, back to front, front to back, tugging loose skin and tight veins under my fingers whichever way I go. Little pre dribbling out the tip, shiny and clear, and… god that's pretty.

Watching it slip down the glans while I'm jacking him, throbbing. Don't know why I'm transfixed. Slipping down to the nubs, catching between the bottom two while they're bloated. Dangling off the edge now, shaking and swinging, beady and crystal clear—

And it splats onto my cheek.

Warm string of pre beaded between my face and his dick, whole strand shimmering in the corner of my eye, connecting us. And I'm okay with that?

I mean, yeah. My hands are both busy on his junk, I'm not just going to take a break and wipe it off.

Just… scoop my thumb back over the tip, scoop his slick pre back with me. Right, get him lubed. The string pops halfway back down his shaft and recoils down my jaw like a snapped rubber band, just leaving a long thin gooey strand down my skin.

It's really warm.

Kinda makes me feel like I'm doing a really good job.

One meaty, fuzzy hand touches down on my head, and his other on my wrist again. Look back up at him, and he snorts, breathing heavy down at me.

“Good?" I say, beneath him.

Just because I'm pretty sure he loves the view.

“Just let it all out whenever you're ready," I say. “I can, um—"

Shit.

Where was I planning on catching on all this again?

“Um."

Either he splashes all over my face, or I'm gargling Hypno cum before I make it back to the sink.

And I just took a shower, for whatever good it did.

So I close the distance and just give him a kiss, let that say it for me.

And now my mouth's been on his dick, and I can't just pretend I didn't just do that. But if he's blowing in my mouth this time, guess that's just got to be a normal thing I have to get used to right now.

He's really wet on the tip. I pull back and there's another string dangling between my lips and his slit, drooling it out thicker like now he's got to be building up extra to shoot into my cheeks.

His balls are tensing. Pretty sure we're getting close to his happy ending now.

God, my hand working his balls is the sweatiest part of my body right now. I'm dripping. He's dripping down me. Heavy as hell.

Even if he can go again after all this, this is definitely it for now. His dick has got to be going raw. Even this kinda guy needs a break.

“Whenever you're ready. I'll catch it, don't worry."

The pre tugging on my lip vibrates through the whisper, but it doesn't break. Feel the other strand stuck on my cheek like it's got nowhere to be in a hurry. It's really warm.

One more snort from up top, and his hand on my head clenches just above my temple, just holding on. Not messing with my hair, which, good. His other hand keeps shifting between either of my wrists, just looking for somewhere on me in reach to keep touching.

I'm calm, I swear, but my heart is going wild again without me.

He throbs. He really throbs, snorts. His balls are twitching, swirling around thick and hot inside for sure. His hips rock a little, holding back from humping something.

Oh hell. I'm opening my mouth. Giving him one last kiss, the one that matters—

He grabs my head with both hands and pulls me back, not forward.

My fist wrapped around the middle of his shaft gives me the first and only warning as he throbs rigid and deep, and I've got about half a second to close my eyes before the first shot squirts hard and wet over my mouth and cheeks.

Splashes over my eyelids.

Drenches my face.

Next squirt comes less than a second after, and I'm just… apparently I'm kneeling here braced for a faceful of cum, getting splattered.

Another heavy snort somewhere above me, fat fuzzy thumbs holding on tight by my forehead, and I get a thick shot right on my lips, coating me in semen.

Can't see it coming. I can only smell it. My hand's going automatic back near his tip, rubbing him out slower and gentler, but every next little squirt is a surprise wherever it lands, and it's already running down my neck.

No way do I try pulling out of his grip.

A whole glob of his jizz drips down off my jaw, and okay, his cum is now on my breasts. Under and over my shirt.

Guess he took “catch it" a different way.

But I did him right, apparently. Got a pretty good handle on his entire package now.

One more rope spurting over my nose, dripping and gooping, and he's really all I can smell this time.

Kinda tough breathing through my nose, so… I just open my mouth a little, breathe deep. A little glob trickles over my tongue, and I don't know if it's instinctive or on purpose that I roll it into my cheeks and swallow. Hard. Takes some effort even with the buildup of my own drool.

It's sour. Not bitter.

And it doesn't feel like I'm choking on battery acid like with my last ex who ate nothing but pizza.

And I really love sour.

Kinda listening attentively to that voice in my brain while it's telling me that blowjobs are now on the menu.

Kinda really nice to remember I have a fun voice like this after six years of university.

Few more strokes around the crown getting the last short ropes squirting over my face, and I give his balls a sweaty squeeze goodbye before dragging my hand out from underneath.

Yeah. Thick load. Hot layer of semen that's burning me up all over.

“You can crash here tonight, if you want…."

This exact moment I remember to tell him.

He's really got to be enjoying the view now, not that I can see. That's a scene just for him.

Did I just cross a line?

Not even the facial—truly, also the facial—but swallowing pokemon cum.

I'd rather keep thinking that I'm just being a fantastic host. Poor guy's got buckets to blow, and I don't want him getting pent up while I'm the one looking out for him. We're not boning down.

Something about this is still kinda weird, but… not bad. Gut still won't shut up with this nagging feeling, but I think I've got a better sense higher up to listen to right now.

But this has got to be it for today. For his dick's sake.

Wipe the cum off my eyelids with my slick, sweaty fingers, and I open my eyes very carefully. All good. And my first glance is straight up, just to get a look back at him.

He's slouched back deep into the cushion, staring at the ceiling, chest rolling for every deep breath he takes.

Guess he's probably okay calling cut for today, too.

I've got to, um… wash up. Change shirts.

Wipe up the floor again.

Check my hair.

Grab a dry pair of underwear, too.

Don't think I'm going to shower again today. Kinda… let the scent linger on me. Let me smell it the rest of the night, kinda daydream. Forget about everything else. Doesn't really matter.

God it's hot.