Maisy

Chapter 5: Jon

I didn't know how to turn it off.  It has become debilitating. It was like trying to hold down the lid to a blender that's on the verge of exploding.  You’re pressing down, with all your might, as the contents within whip and spin and you know if you let up it will just go everywhere, so you keep pressing down as the blade gyrates and vibrates your core as you panic, because if you loosen your grip, a tiny bit, for one second, you'll be left with this incredible mess.  But, out of your control, the liquid rises, and presses against you, and a bit leaks down the side, like a bulging tear, and you just wait for the whole thing to end. But it doesn't end, it keeps continuing, because, as I said, I don't know how to turn it off.

She was in the room next door and I sat on my bed thinking, if I drew my knuckles against her door, would she answer?  No, I wouldn't knock, I wouldn't dare, but if I did, what would she say?

I think she'd say, oh hey, come in.

And I'd go in and she would put her little hand on my chest and she would say, I've been waiting for you.

My groin throbbed, and I dug my fists into my eyes, I was such a creep, god, such a creep.

But it didn't matter, my mind wouldn't stop, I couldn't fathom it stopping, although I knew, more desperately than one could imagine, that it needed to.

She'd look at me with those phenomenal eyes, and I'd say something to make her smile, and she'd touch my face, and tell me it was okay, she wasn't breakable, I could touch her.

"Fuuuuckkkk," I whispered out loud, adjusting my hardness through my sweatpants, imagining her pushing me towards the bed, straddling me like before, pressing her body into mine.

I closed my eyes hard and laid back on the bed, putting my fingers on my chest as she had before, recalling her eyes as she sat on my lap, how they were eager and so vulnerable as she said my name, and she’d say my name now.  And she would draw her hands down my chest as I drew my hands down mine.

She’d grasp me, as I grasped myself, and moan in my ear.  I imagined her body, as she bounded around on stage, so lively and aware as I stroked myself.  My cock was thick and awful, her precious little hands would never come near it, the roughness of my dry fist caused almost as much pain as pleasure.  I sank into the breadth of her lips, her mouth on mine, my hand on her breast, or between her legs, I shuttered, punishing my thoughts with my arid hand. 

I remembered how she said, I touched you, leaving her mouth in a little ‘o’, and I came in my hand like a bitter joke, because I was only deluding myself.  She would never touch me, I would never let her, and with more of a sob than an enjoyment, my muscles rumbled to an end.