Chapter#04

His imagination was his own worst enemy. Picturing her specter hiding in the shadows, waiting to pass judgment, had simply clenched the deal. Now, though, with all of the lights on, she couldn't afford to surface. His panic attack subsiding, he picked up his food and made his way to the kitchen.

Mike consumed his meal while streaming a movie on his computer, leaving the last five slices for tomorrow. The fridge looked painfully bare, occupied by a sole pizza box and a soda bottle. Mike returned to the table, watching for another half an hour as the generic action star did something to confound the villain. His mind kept flipping back and forth to the feel of the pizza girl's breast and his mother's demonic memory.

He pulled out his phone and flipped down to Dr. Gorman in his contacts. He hadn't sat with his therapist in over three years, but the urge to reach out had surfaced. Hands shaking, his thumb hovered over the call button.

"Fuck it." He closed his contact list. His mother was dead, the past was the past, and he needed to get over it. Years of being told that arousal was natural, that everybody did it, that it was okay to fantasize. He closed his eyes, recalling the cute appearance of Dana the pizza girl. He unleashed the memory of her scent, the firmness of her breast, the surprised expression she had made when he had tipped her eight bucks extra. It was probably the same face she made during her first orgasm, or perhaps when her lover's lips first touched the nipples of her firm breast...

That did it. His body was back in full swing, he was back in control. Well, almost. The urge to watch p**n to help get off was strong, but Dr. Gorman had reminded him that p**n could be too much of an escapist fantasy. It was better for him to visualize on his own; he was less likely to panic in bed with a real woman. However, p**n wasn't so much the issue, but rather location.

He was in a stranger's house with a major hard on. Technically, he could jerk off in the hallway for all anybody cared, but just because the house was now his didn't mean it was home. It definitely didn't feel safe.

Mike closed his computer and proceeded up to the bedroom. He could take care of his own needs in there. That wasn't much different than a hotel room, or new apartment, really. The more he told himself these things, the more he was ready to get off. Stepping into the room, he took one look at the bed and shuddered. Beds were sometimes just as bad, and today was no different.

"Why am I so fucking damaged?" He shouted to the walls. They had no answer for him. Instead, he stormed into the bathroom and turned on the sink, splashing cool water on his face. Staring in the mirror, he watched the cool drops fall down his cheeks, his eyes suddenly on the giant bathtub.

The bathroom's contoured walls prevented anyone in the tub from seeing anything but the bathroom. Remembering how well he fit in it earlier, and seeing how isolated it was, he knew it would work.

Turning on the water, he watched as the basin filled quite quickly. Obviously, his great aunt had found a way to trick out the water pressure. Beth had told him that they paid a cleaning service to turn everything over, which meant that clean towels were already hanging near the tub. He stripped down in the bedroom, throwing his clothes on the nearby dresser.

Walking into the bathroom, he caught sight of his own naked figure in the mirror. His body was lean (he really didn't eat too much), and marred with massive scars on the right. They went all the way from his thigh to under his armpit, crossing chaotically. They were a reminder of the fatal accident that had taken his mother, one final mark for her to leave behind. One girlfriend had told him they made him look like a badass, but he couldn't be certain she wasn't just saying that to make him feel better.

Mike thumbed through the playlist on his phone and found one he liked. The water was just right, and he carefully slid into the tub. The whole inner surface had a texture that helped prevent him from slipping. A nearby washrag was soaked in hot water and he placed it across his eyes and forehead. Drowning out the world with water and music, he let his hands explore.

One hand slid across the head of his penis while the other one tugged gently at the skin beneath the head. He let both hands slide down the shaft with plenty of room to spare between them. A former girlfriend had once told him (upon breaking up) that a dick like his was a waste, because no girl ever got to use it.

"Fuck," Mike muttered to himself. He only found the courage to do this once every few weeks, which meant that he was always extra sensitive. He ran his thumb gently over the head, flinching at the sudden intrusion of pleasure. He pictured the delivery girl in his mind, running his fingers down and across her slender hips, hearing her moan as he leaned in to suck on her neck. In his mind, he slid his hands underneath her shirt to play with her nipples, watching as she slid down the length of his body to take him in her mouth.

The mind was a tricky thing. Mike let his brain rewind. This time, she was in a hurry, but she desperately needed to get fucked. Sliding her pants down, he took her roughly from behind, her soaking pussy squeezing hard on his dick. His mind tossed and turned over both possibilities, allowing him the luxury of both fantasies.

Grabbing the root of his cock, he squeezed hard. He felt the pressure slowly build inside, and his fantasies took hold as he felt a warm mouth engulf his cock, sucking it in hard.