1. Hendricks
HENDRICKS
I’m in the master shower in my Iron Ridge house. I squirt some body wash in my hand and begin to stroke my cock.
I like things in order. Consistency fosters excellence. Whenever I complete a commission, I go to my closest property, unpack my go-bag, and store my weapons. Then I shower and complete the final step in the decompression protocol: sex.
Adrenaline doesn’t disappear when the job ends. It lingers. Your pulse stays elevated, and your body keeps waiting for the next threat. Some guys drink. Some pick fights. I have sex. It’s efficient—faster than waiting three days for my nervous system to catch up.
Dating apps simplify things. A few messages. An address. An hour later, the adrenaline has somewhere to go, and by morning we’re strangers again.
Clean. Uncomplicated. I prefer it that way.
But I haven’t used any apps in five weeks, so here I am, jacking off in my shower at 0100 after completing another recovery.
It’s a problem.
Not the recovery—the recovery was easy. Completed in two days, no witnesses, no complications that required cleanup. The client's daughter is back with her family. The men who took her aren't coming back from where I left them.
I don't think about them.
I never think about them.
Instead, I’m thinking about things I shouldn’t be. A person, actually—the reason I haven’t had sex in weeks.
I grip my erection, squeezing it as I shuttle my fist up and down its length. The body wash is a poor substitute for genuine wetness. I grit my teeth, trying to finish.
It’s not working. It’s not enough.
I close my eyes, not wanting to picture the reason I haven’t been able to swipe right and get laid, but it’s futile, just like it has been every other time I’ve gotten myself off since I met her. Her walled-off hazel eyes flash behind my eyelids, that mocking tilt to her lips.
I want to rub my cock on those lips. I want to push it between them and hear her gasp around me.
My grip tightens. I rub faster, letting the thought take hold instead of fighting it.
I want her on her knees. I want to fist my hand in her hair and guide her mouth onto me, watch those eyes water as she takes me deeper. I want to feel her throat work around the head of my cock, want to hear the wet, obscene sounds she'd make sucking on me.
My pulse kicks up as I imagine pulling out, watching the string of saliva connect her lips to my cock.
I'd wipe it across her mouth, smear it on her cheek.
Then I'd haul her up and bend her over, spread her ass with both hands and touch her cunt to see if she's wet.
I want to know if sucking my cock gets her off.
I stroke harder, my breathing stark in the enclosed space.
In my mind, I push into her without warning. No preamble, no working her open—just my cock driving into her in one thrust. I want to feel her clench around me, want to hear her cry out. I want to fuck her until she's shaking, until she can't form words, until the only sound she makes is my name.
My hand moves faster. The slick friction is almost enough now.
Almost.
I imagine her bent over my bed, ass in the air, taking everything I give her. I'd grip her hips and pull her back onto me with each thrust. I want to watch my cock disappear into her, watch her cunt stretch around me. I want to see her come apart, feel her tighten and pulse as she comes.
The pressure builds at the base of my spine.
My balls draw up tight. In my mind, I flip her over and spread her thighs wide and fuck into her again.
I want to watch those guarded eyes go hazy and unfocused—I want to make her lose control.
I want to break through every wall she's ever built and make her feel it, make her feel me.
My rhythm becomes erratic. The orgasm coils tighter, inevitable, as I imagine coming inside her. Filling her. Marking her. Making her mine in the most primitive, undeniable way possible.
I brace myself against the tiled wall, pressing my lips together to keep from calling her name. But as my orgasm rips through me, I hear it loud and bright in my head. Mandy.