Chapter 9 Freddie #2
I can’t even say it was because of the alcohol, because I had one drink last night. Russ likes to party, so usually when we go out, I have to play DD. Which is fine, because I know it’s how he lets off steam.
But seeing Nora in that tight little dress…fuck if it didn’t make my damn dick hard because all I could think about was grabbing her damn hips and filling her up.
Which is not what I should be thinking about my brother’s girlfriend…or ex-girlfriend, technically.
But I’d be lying if I said it was the first time I thought those things. In truth, it’s one of my go-to fantasies. I know it’s wrong, but I also know I’m fucked up, so…wrong is kind of my default.
But I also know my boundaries. I know how to keep myself in check, unlike some people in this family.
Like Russ, whose attraction is quite obvious to me, even if it’s not obvious to others.
Still, I can’t shake how seeing her big blue eyes and parted lips, seeing her in need of help, unearthed those long-buried desires within me. Like a switch was flipped, I walked into that abandoned role of Daddy too easily.
She doesn’t know that I was doing anything beyond being hospitable. Friendly.
I’m sure she just thought I was being a stand-up brother—whether she and Brett were together or not. I was just being a good guy.
But for me…it wasn’t just about being a good guy, helping someone in need.
It was so much more than that.
I sigh, trying to push aside the way the thoughts, the memories of last night. Of this morning, when I fought the desire to command her to sit her perfect, round ass down and eat.
To be a good girl.
Good girls get rewards.
I know it’s a dangerous route to go down for sure.
I slipped last night and let it out, and I know she heard me. Those pink cheeks and that subtle gasp told me she definitely heard me and maybe even liked what she heard, which in itself is dangerous.
But she likely doesn’t remember it now. And I need to forget about it.
Except, I can’t. I can’t forget about her bitterness when she said Brett had cheated on her. I can’t forget about Russ’s hands on her wide, perfect hips. I can’t forget about how she parted those plump lips and gasped.
Nor can I forget about hearing her moan through the wall when she was showering.
My cock jumps at the memory as guilt pushes forth.
I was already too worked up from our night—from all the unearthed feelings and trauma dancing in my brain and the fact that I was hard as fuck because she looked like sin itself with those perfect hips and those round, heavy breasts of hers.
I can only imagine with their size, how full and big they would be if she was pregnant.
“Fuck, don’t go there,” I snap at myself because I don’t want to think about that right now. I don’t want to think about the dirty things I let myself think about when I’m alone and in need of release.
I set to trying to clean up the kitchen, if only to focus on something else other than how hard I am at the moment. I need to focus. I need to think about anything else.
I get halfway through the dishes before I realize I’m still hard as a rock, and I need to take care of myself.
It is morning, after all, and usually I jack off first thing in the morning, before I shower, but seeing as this morning was certainly not part of my routine and I was reeling off that need to provide and care for my guest and my brothers…
I realize I haven’t had time this morning to properly milk my cock.
So I regretfully throw down my dishcloth and head for my bedroom, if only to wash myself clean of these unearthed desires and needs I haven’t felt in too long. I tell myself it’s a means to an end. That it doesn’t mean anything.
I head for my toy chest and set about grabbing the things I need.
A jar, my automatic stroker, and one of my expandable silicone cock rings.
It doesn’t take me long to set up, as it usually doesn’t, but this morning I’m moving faster because I’m agitated. I know I won’t be able to focus on anything—cleaning, calling Brett, the gym—until I come.
Because ever since I was forced to come, coming has become an almost unbearable ache.
Especially if I try and ignore the desire.
Which is why most of the time, I milk myself before I start my day, and edge myself through the rest of the day if needed, and then do the same thing before bed.
And on the really rough days, I just put the cage on and take it off before bed.
It helps keep me focused on everything else I need to be focused on.
I’m out of my pajama pants in a matter of seconds and once I’ve got the cock ring around my base, I grab my lube and lather my cock. The feel alone is damn near palpable, and I’m half-tempted to use my hand, but I know this will go quicker with the stroker.
And I want this to be quick. I want to get this over with so I can breathe and focus on what I need to—and that’s calling my brother and getting the full story and figuring out what to do from there.
Especially because I fear Russ is headed for danger if finding him curled around Nora this morning is any indication. Drunk or not, he needs to be careful. We don’t know all the details and the last thing any of us need is Nora feeling like we took advantage of her given the circumstances.
I press my cockhead against the soft opening of my toy and slide my cock in with ease, closing my eyes for a moment as I enjoy the wet, slippery, tight feel.
It’s been seven years since my cock has been inside a woman. I know this isn’t the same, but it’s been so long that I sometimes think if I close my eyes, I can pretend it is. Even when I spent a year hiring subs, I never got close enough to fuck them.
But in the emptiness of my bedroom, in the privacy of my thoughts, I can close my eyes and pretend even if it’s just for a little while, that it’s the same.
So that’s what I do. I close my eyes and start to thrust, slowly, relishing the feel of the ridges and bumps inside the toy. I let my thoughts wander as I often do, once I start to build a rhythm.
I could put on some porn if I wanted, but that usually takes time, and like I said, I want this to be quick. Not drawn out. I need to get this over with. Need to put Nora and my fucked-up fantasies and unearthed desires to rest once and for all.
I thrust my slippery cock into my imagined tight pussy—Nora’s tight pussy—my hips moving of their own accord.
I fall forward, opening my eyes for a moment as I position my toy against my bed, my weight holding it in place so I can thrust deeper.
I brace one leg out on the side of the bed for balance and close my eyes again, imagining it’s not my toy against this bed, but Nora.
Imagine her bent over, that round ass and wet, pink pussy glistening for me.
I let myself wonder what that would look like.
Would her lips be thick and pink? Would her clit be big and swollen, like her perfect breasts? Would she cry out when I stretched her with my thick cock?
Would she be able to take me?
I imagine slipping my cock between her wet, warm folds. My balls pull tight and I brace one hand on the bed as I pick up my pace. I thrust into her, harder. Faster.
I imagine her heavy breasts hanging, my hands finding them with ease as I tease her nipples until they’re stiff peaks. Imagine wrapping my mouth around them and tasting her flavor. I bet she’d taste sweet.
Oh, fuck.
I imagine my lips trailing down her body, imagine watching my cock disappear inside of her, her stomach bulging just the slightest from my thrusts. Imagine how her pussy would stretch for my thick cock.
And because I’m a fucked-up asshole, I imagine telling her I’m going to come. Begging her to get off of me because if she doesn’t I’m going to fill her full of my cum.
I tense as my cock throbs, my balls tightening. I want to stop, because I don’t want to come. Not like this, but…I need to come.
I need to come so fucking bad, right now, and I love it as much as I hate it.
I grab my stroker and without a second thought, I bring it up as I climb onto my bed, onto all fours, and fuck it harder. I imagine grabbing onto her hips, my hands running over her sides.
“I’m going to come,” I breathe out, knowing in the sanctuary of my bedroom, alone, no one can hear me.
One heavy thrust and I pull my hips back and the stroker falls on the bed. I close my eyes as I try to push the fantasy away, the image of Nora holding me down as I beg her to let me go, but she doesn’t.
In my thoughts, she never lets me go.
She pins me with her thighs, her hands on my chest as her lips find mine as she begs me to fill her.
“I want you to come inside me,” she begs. “Please, Daddy…”
“We can’t, please…I’m going to—”
Tears pool in my eyes as my shoulders and my entire body tenses.
“It’s okay…” she whispers. “Just let go.”
Those words make me as ashamed as they do aroused.
Just let go.
Give me what I want.
In my mind, her mouth covers my cry as I come undone. But in reality, I barely have time to grab my stroker and reposition it as my balls draw tight and my orgasm comes like a hurricane. I hurry and grab my glass jar and get it underneath me just as the first spurt of cum shoots out.
I close my eyes, my body going numb as my limbs turn to Jell-O.
I come hard. Harder than I usually do, that’s for sure.
I suck in a breath and open my eyes, staring down at my cock as it continues to pulse and spurt cum against the inside of the jar.
With my free hand, I pump my shaft lazily as I continue to come.
When I’m finally done, when I catch my breath and my dick has softened, I pull the jar away and look at what I’ve done.
Shame and guilt hit me as they always do, when I see my wasted cum. I try my hardest to push the thoughts away, the guilt and shame that festers every day when I do this.
It’s a waste.
It’s all a waste.
Because I have no one. No one but myself and these voices in my brain and the truth that I’m never going to have anyone to fill. I’m never going to get the chance to be a dad or a husband. I should just accept that.
I head for the bathroom, needing to cleanse myself of my fucked-up fantasies, and my fucked-up traumas. I don’t need a therapist to tell me how messed I am. I do a bang-up job on my own.
This is why you can’t be with someone. No one will ever understand.
I turn the hot water on and don’t waste time as I wash myself of my guilty thoughts and wasted cum.
But I know I’ll never truly be clean.
When I get out, I make my way to my room and get dressed before seeing that my mother texted me while I was in the shower.
I bring up her text, noting that she wants me to come over to help with dragging out her fall decor since it’s in the attic and she’s claustrophobic and my dad’s off on a business trip.
I shoot her a text that I’ll be over within the hour, and before I put my phone down, I see Brett’s text thread. The last text from him was weeks ago, when he said he was coming home from a game in Michigan. I haven’t heard from him since. Not that we talk often, but still.
I debate calling him. The nagging part of me needs to know the truth about him and Nora.
I just…need to know.
So I call him. The phone rings twice before he picks up.
“What?” he asks, his voice labored and heavy like he’s in the middle of a workout.
“Hey, I uh…need to talk to you about something.”
“Fuck, baby, not now I—” I hear him say, and then I hear it. A giggle.
“Are you with Nora right now?” I ask, panic lacing me.
“Who?” he asks, as if he doesn’t even know who she is. As if he wasn’t dating her for the last year.
Nora who?
Anger flares within me as I hear the giggling voice along with another feminine voice in the background telling him to hang up.
“What the fuck, Brett?” I demand.
But he just says, “Can’t talk right now, bro. Little busy.”
And that’s when I hear his heavy grunt and curse, and I hang up the phone. I nearly throw it across the room because the anger that festers in me is palpable.
I know he wasn’t with her.
He was with someone else—two someones from the sound of it.
I called my brother to ask about his breakup and he was fucking two other women and didn’t even seem to know who Nora was.
Maybe he was drunk. Or high. I don’t fucking know.
But even so…drunk, high, or sober, how do you forget a woman you were supposed to love? A woman who would have done anything for you?
That fucking bastard.
I shove my phone in my pocket, not wanting to think about what I just heard. What I now know to be the truth.
My brother isn’t just an asshole. He’s a cheating asshole who doesn’t deserve a woman like Eleanor Brighton.
I grab my keys, needing to get away from here, needing to get my mind off wanting to strangle my brother with my fucking bare hands.
I’m pretty sure my mother would kill me if I killed her firstborn in a fit of rage.
So I head to my Lexus and floor it over to my mother’s, hoping the distraction will be enough to soothe my nerves and my anger.