Peter's Little Peter

Breakfast Boner

For the first time since "the incident" I wake up feeling good. Actually, I wake up feeling good and hard.

Morning wood, or as I like to call it, my breakfast boner, is normal. In fact, Coach Krieger told our health class that morning erections are as common as night-farts. I can't give Coach Krieger much credit for tact, but the comment stuck, and it's one of the only things he's ever said that's actually made me feel better about my body. Go figure. 

Anyway, this particular breakfast boner has Audrey's name written all over it. I can't get her out of my mind. And the more I think about her, the harder it gets. So I do what comes naturally. But as I reach under my elastic waistband and grab my dick, two conflicting thoughts collide in my mind.

One thought is amazing. It's Audrey. She's naked. And I'm naked. Well, I can't see myself exactly. But in the thought, I'm there with her and we're naked together. We might be on a cloud. Or just a really comfy bed, I'm not sure. But we're having sex. Oh yes! We. Are. Having. Sex. Or maybe we're about to have sex. I'm not really sure, because how is a virgin supposed to know how sex feels? But we're close. That's the point. We're very close. Danger close. And her nakedness is this amazing, all-consuming thought that's just so warm and glowing, and all I can think is how much I want to lose myself in her curves. In fact, it's so powerful that I can almost smell the perfume she wore on our date. And I know that if I can just hold this thought in my mind for another thirty seconds - OK, fifteen seconds - the breakfast boner will be no more.

But then there's this other thought that maybe I'm being disrespectful. Like I'm somehow using Audrey to rub one out. OK, I'm definitely using Audrey to rub one out. I've done this before, done it about a billion times since puberty started. But this is the first time that I've ever fantasized about a girl I know, and it seems weird. Because maybe the real-life Audrey would be grossed out or offended to learn that there's this fantasy version of her living in my head, and that the fantasy Audrey has stripped off her clothes, which is something the real Audrey didn't do.

None of this stops me from jerking it, because putting the breaks on a stroke session is about as realistic as me having an orgy with all the meme girls. I can't stop, and they'll never start. But I blame the collision of these two thoughts for what happens next. Because in this condition, once I get to thinking, my mind can go anywhere. 

In my head, the fantasy Audrey says something in a dirty voice about wanting me in her mouth. Which sounds amazing! And so the mental image shifts. Suddenly, we're in her car and her mouth is heading straight for my lap. She's still naked. And I'm still naked. And even though we're both seated next to each other and she's leaning across the center console, I can feel both of her boobs dangling in front of me. So that's weird because the physics of the fantasy don't quite work, but hey, my hands on her boobs, so who cares? Also, winning! 

Then my focus shifts and I imagine the moment she takes me in her mouth. And again, the physics are off, because my head tilts up to the roof of the car in ecstasy, but somehow I don't see the roof of the car. I see Audrey swallow my penis. And of course all of this feels amazing, which is kind of a stretch because I don't really know what it would feel like to get a blowjob, but I've spent a lot of time thinking about it, and I've come to the conclusion that it must be the best thing on Earth. And somehow that assumption is enough to make it feel amazing, both in my fantasy and all over my body in real life. 

But then I'm in her mouth, and for some reason Audrey is still talking. She's talking about that weird French movie we saw. But it's not her dialogue that's the problem. The problem is that for some reason, my tiny dick has made an appearance in this fantasy. I don't know how that could happen because it's a fantasy, which means I could've gone with anything. I could've given myself an monster-dong like the porno movie guys. In my head, I could've given Audrey all the length and girth a size queen could want. I could be jerking it to an image of Audrey topless, telling me how big and fantastic my dick is. Heck, it's a fantasy. I could've imagined Audrey in a gold bikini with those Princess Leia danishes, even though Audrey has a buzzcut in real life. And I could be a swashbuckling space pirate named Dong Solo.

Except I didn't imagine any of that. I imagined my worst nightmare. I imagined my dick in Audrey's mouth, and I'm so small, like tooth-pick small, that she can keep talking like I'm not even there. And that's a pretty demoralizing thought when you're trying to rub out a breakfast boner. So I try to put my personal predicament out of my mind by thinking about Audrey's boobs.

She has great boobs. I noticed them the first time we met at Coffee Fix. She was wearing this white V-neck t-shirt and a black bra. Her boobs formed this triangle of cleavage that looked like an invitation to paradise. That image has been burned in my mind ever since we met, even though I swear I tried not to stare. But as I think about that image, I remember the bra from our date, specifically how the clasp felt so alien to me. Truth is, if Audrey hadn't pulled away in that moment, I certainly would've spent the next fifteen minutes fumbling with her bra without any success. And now, for some reason, that fear of fumbling inadequacy has crept into my fantasy.

I'm still stroking as hard and fast as I can, but I can feel my tiny penis soften ever so slightly. And suddenly, I know that I can't think about Audrey, not if I want to take care of this breakfast boner. So I search my spank bank, but it's a desperate search, like trying to solve ten really complicated algebra equations in the final minute before the teacher yells pencils down.

So, maybe that's why I land on an image of Becky Spade. She's wearing her cheerleader outfit, which is supposedly every guy's fantasy. But cheerleaders don't do it for me. And Becky Spade is especially unappealing, because she's just standing there glaring at me, like she's mad that she has to watch me jerk off. And I guess I'm not crazy about that idea either. But she says, "Hurry up, pencil-dick," and for some reason I listen to her. And the more she seems annoyed and disgusted by me, the harder I seem to get. Which doesn't feel good. But it does seem to work. So I stroke and I stroke, all the while thinking about the fantasy - or should I say nightmare? - of Becky Spade mocking me and my tiny dick. It doesn't take long before I finish in a sad explosion of shame. 

Which is a terrible way to start the day. Because if you hate yourself before you even get out bed, odds are, your day is only going to get worse. And my day is about to get a lot worse. Because, even though I don't realize it as I climb out of bed to face the world, I'm about to get punched in the face by the quarterback of the football team, Nick "the dick" Spears.  

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Seems like Peter's thoughts are getting the best of him. Any advice? 🗣

Sounds like Peter's day is about to get a lot worse. What do you think will happen? 🥊

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