7. Lance
Lance
I’m tangled up in bed with this warm, blurry figure whose face I can’t quite make out.
A hand slides down my stomach, fingers teasing lower until they wrap firmly around my cock, giving me one slow, perfect stroke.
My hips twitch as they lean in close, whispering something hot and low right against my ear.
A thick beard brushes against my neck and jaw, rough and scratchy. Oh, that feels too damn good.
“Beard?” I mumble, half-confused, wanting to pull back and look, but a low moan slips out of me instead and I just melt into the sensation.
I can feel a hand caressing my lower back, until a thick finger slips between my ass cheeks.
A jolt of raw pleasure hits me as it circles my tight rim, teasing it, then it slowly pushes inside.
The stretch burns so good I chase it without thinking, rocking back onto that digit, hips moving before my brain has any say in it. Pleasure cracks open behind my eyes and I sink deeper into it, greedy for every inch of that pressure.
Then it starts to go. The grounding warmth at my back thins. The fullness eases out of me slow, and I grab for it and get nothing. The voice at my ear dissolves mid-syllable. The weight, the warmth, the gravity of the body behind mine, gone, until I’m holding fistfuls of air.
I come up gasping, chest heaving like I’ve just run a code blue, the dream yanked out from under me before anything could finish. My cock is heavy against my stomach, angry red and steel-rod hard. It feels like my body hasn’t caught up yet. It’s still chasing something that isn’t there.
The room is still a bit dark with the sun not quite up yet. My body has me halfway to the edge, only for my own subconscious to yank it all away and leave me blue-balled in the worst way.
I’m aching and I’ve had a shit week. I’m going to fucking take care of it.
I push myself up and cross to the cabinet in the corner.
Deep-shelved, solid wood, the kind of storage built for tools, ammunition, or anything a man decides needs organizing without inviting questions.
The lock combination clicks open under my fingers before I have to think about it.
Pre-Azure Tides Lance would have hesitated.
Current Lance doesn't second-guess himself.
I open the cabinet doors.
Six dildos stare back at me. They stand tall, bases down, arranged by size from left to right on the shelves.
A sommelier’s flight, except the tasting notes are mine alone.
Six in two months since I got back from Trevor’s wedding feels about right for a man who finally stopped pretending he wasn’t curious about this particular thing.
The slim blue dildo I started with, back when I was still treating this like a science experiment.
The medium knotted in shimmering nebula hues.
The curved tentacled with the flexible ridges that taught me a thing or two about angles.
The thick ridged obsidian with writhing texture.
The girthy crystalline with the suction cup base, which was a learning curve in a literal sense, and which lives toward the back because it’s the one I use on the shower tile and it doesn’t get to touch the others.
And at the end, on its own, my current favorite. It sits a little forward on the shelf, a sure tell that it gets pulled out the most lately.
Almost-black silicone, substantial girth.
Nine inches, realistically veined, with a weight that sits heavy in my palm when I lift it.
I don’t think about why this one, or the size of it, or whose it is closest to.
I definitely don’t think about clicking buy at two in the morning and paying for overnight shipping as if that wasn’t an answer in itself.
My body already knows what it can do with this one.
This all started with a patient. He came into the ED with two dildos lodged inside him and the bearing of a man whose weekend had simply gone sideways.
He was probably embarrassed, but he didn’t look like he was in pain.
He looked, for lack of a better word, free.
He was just a guy who’d been doing things for himself and had the misfortune of landing in the ER for it.
The team handled it the way we handle everything with gloves on and faces neutral, not a single raised eyebrow between us.
It was professional, routine, and afterwards I moved on to the next patient.
Except I really didn’t.
That night I got home, poured a drink I didn’t finish, and opened tabs on my phone I had never touched before.
I told myself it was professional curiosity, for research, the same intellectual itch that made me good at my job.
It was just clinical interest in how the human body could accommodate that much, tolerate that much, want that much.
Sure. Intellectual.
Then Azure Tides happened, and I came back knowing and understanding what my body actually wanted, stamped into me as a new piece of information I couldn’t un-learn. One toy led to another, my preferences sharpened fast. Turns out I knew what I liked the minute I stopped refusing to find out.
Two months later, the cabinet had a lock on it.
I’m not ashamed of any of it. I’m private, which is a different thing entirely. Shame would mean there was something to hide from. Privacy just means no one has earned the key.
I take out my favorite dildo and set my phone on the small tripod on the dresser.
I adjust the angle so the camera catches everything from the ribs down.
I carry the toy over to the open space on the hardwood floor near the foot of the bed.
The suction cup locks onto the wood with a satisfying click.
I check the frame one more time. The shot is good.
It will show my thighs spread wide, my cock, and the way my hole stretches around the thick silicone when I take it.
There are times that my head gets into the frame, my expression of pleasuring myself all captured on camera, but I don’t bother editing it out.
That’s exactly what I want to watch later.
I press record.
I slick myself open with practiced fingers, breath steady, then coat the toy generously.
When I ease down onto it, the stretch hits hard.
My body opens around the thick head. It then takes more, inch by slow inch, until I’m completely seated.
The fullness presses against every sensitive spot inside me.
I rock forward, testing what the angle gives me, until my cock twitches and starts to leak against my stomach.
The camera keeps running, silent witness to the way my thighs start to shake, and my mouth drops open on a ragged exhale.
My mind starts to drift, filling in the gaps my reality is missing.
A tangible body behind me instead of empty air. Strong hands gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks, guiding every movement, controlling the pace.
I just let the images build, but frustration starts creeping in because I can’t quite hit my prostate consistently.
I want this so badly it’s making me desperate.
I want someone who knows what they’re doing to just take over and make me feel this without me having to work so hard for it.
Someone whose hands I already know the shape of.
The thought sharpens without warning. George.
I ride harder, chasing the angle that lights me up from the inside, one hand working my cock in tight, steady pulls while the other grips the base of the toy to keep it right where I need it.
Pleasure pushes tighter and deeper until it snaps.
I come hard across my stomach and chest, thick ropes of cum painting my skin in messy streaks that run down toward my ribs.
My thighs shake violently and a rough sound tears out of me as my body clamps down around the silicone again and again.
It rips up from my core instead of just my cock, leaving me wrecked and panting on the hardwood floor.
I stop the recording with a shaky hand. The morning light has shifted while I was lost in it.
My limbs feel loose and heavy, wrung out in the best way.
I grab a towel from the chair nearby and wipe the worst of the mess off my stomach and chest, then carefully lift myself off the dildo.
My hole feels swollen and sensitive. I give the toy a quick wipe and set it aside.
Sleep tugs at me, so I drag myself back into bed, pull the sheet over my spent body, and let my eyes close.
The knocking starts a few minutes later, patient, familiar, and completely relentless. Only one person on earth knocks like that.
I drag myself up, still fuzzy, and trip over a textbook that skids across the hardwood with a loud scrape. I walk toward the front door still blinking away the last traces of that stolen moment, one hand scrubbing at my eyes. I yank the door open.
The man I conjured up in my brain during that early-morning grind is here in the flesh.
“No. Go away.”
George stands there with his toolbox in his good hand.
His eyes drop immediately to the very obvious tent in my gray shorts, taking in the full, rigid shape of my cock and the tell-tale wet spot darkening the fabric at the tip.
For one long second, he stares, then he jerks his gaze back up to my face so fast it is almost audible, his cheeks flushing a bright, guilty pink.
If he only knew what made me so pink earlier when I was riding something nearly as big as him, I should also have the same reaction as he does now.
“Your car’s been making that noise,” he says, voice a little too loud and strained, like the words have to fight their way out.
“I know. I’ve been ignoring it.” I drop one hand casually over my lap, palm pressing against the rigid length, but there is no hiding the bulge or the way my cock twitches once under the sudden attention. I try to keep my face neutral, as if this is any other normal morning.
George clears his throat and shifts the toolbox to his other hand before remembering the splint and switching it back. He fixes his stare on a point just over my shoulder. “Yeah, I heard it when you pulled up the other day. Pop the hood.”
“George, your hand is still in a splint.”
He lifts the injured hand and flexes the fingers that stick out. “Works fine. Pop the hood.”
“It is nine o’clock on my day off,” I complain like a brat.
“So go back to sleep. I will work out here.” He says it like it is the most reasonable suggestion in the world, as if fixing my car in the apartment parking lot while I nap is perfectly normal behavior.
I stare at him for a moment, fuzzy and frustrated and still feeling the echo of what I was doing before he showed up. I reach for my keys in the console table drawer and toss them in his direction. He catches them with his good hand.
“Give me five minutes,” I say.