Page 109 of Slap Shot
And if she let me join?
I’d make it so good for her.
I could be gentle. Rough. I could fuck her like I hated her or I could make love to her and kiss her soft and sweet. I’d get on my knees and beg, or I’d ask her to say please if that’s what she liked.
I’d call her perfect. I’d tell her how well she was doing, how pretty she is when she’s taking two of my fingers then three.
I would do anything she wanted.
When a soft “Oh” echoes through the wall, pre-cum leaks from the tip of my cock.
I’m not going to last long. Not when there’s a bump against the wall, and I pretend it’s either her head or her hand. Not when another “Fuck” comes next, followed by a gasp.
Christ.
This is the best kind of torture.
I grip my cock tighter. I jerk up and down. There’s no rhyme or reason to my movements except to match the pace of her toy. I’m going straight to hell, but I can’t find it in myself to care.
I’d rather be a sinner with her than a saint with anyone else.
I’m straining to hear what other sounds she makes. I’m greedy for more of her and trying to commit the noises to memory, so in the off chance I everdoget to touch her again, I can make sure I’m doing it right.
I’m not going to let a toy be better than me.
I rub my thumb through the pre-cum and coat my length with it. My strokes turn sloppy and uncoordinated, and I want to get there at the same time as her. I want to fall over the edge to the sounds of her orgasm. And when the vibrator clicks up to the next speed and she pants out a strangled “fuck, yes,” I lose it.
I bite my collar, tempted to yell out her name. My hips lift off the bed and warm, sticky cum covers my hand. It runs down my still-hard length, and a soft groan sneaks out of me at the vision of Madeline helping me clean up. Her tongue at the base of my shaft and finding out how deep she can take me down her throat.
“Goddamn,” I whisper.
I fumble with the lamp next to my bed. When I turn on the light, the mess in front of me is downright embarrassing. I’ve never come like this before. My entire body is hot and prickly as I shove my pants all the way off and use them to wipe my hands.
I should be ashamed.
I should go to church on Sunday and repent for my transgressions.
But I don’t want to.
Madeline makes me want to be unbelievably bad, and maybe it’s time I deserve to be something other than good.
I drop my head on the pillow and stare at the ceiling. I feel weightless and a little drunk even though I haven’t touched a sip of alcohol. My shirt is halfway up my stomach, my skin is splotchy, and it takes a good five minutes before my breathing returns to normal.
On her side of the wall, there’s a satisfied hum. A deep sigh and gentle giggle.
She liked that.
So did I, but I’m pretty sure telling your roommate you got off tothemgetting off goes against some moral cohabitation code.
I can never,evermention this.
To anyone.
Even if it was the best orgasm of my life.
Suppressing one more groan, I clean up my stomach and toss my pants in the laundry basket. I stand, needing to shower and use the bathroom. I wish I could get a lobotomy to forget the last ten minutes—I am so pathetic—but I also wish I had a way to hear her come again.
Friends, I remind myself in the shower as I picture her blissfully content in her bed.
