I need my small comforts to ease me into the day. An early morning wank usually does the trick. Nothing quite like a firm and steady grip on your manhood to remind you of the good things in life. Can’t tell you the last time an actual woman felt compelled to grip it for me. Well, actually I can, because I don’t even have to raise a finger to indicate the number.
Still carrying myself at half mast from my morning wood, it doesn’t take much of a prompt to get myself to full salute. Fast and eager for climax is my approach on this particular morning. Who gives a fuck about the journey, I just want to get to the destination. Ladies and gentlemen, now arriving at Dublin airport is a big wad of cum, preserved magnificently upon a Kleenex for your viewing pleasure. See how it shines like a pearl.
With the first necessity of the day complete, I pick myself up out of bed and stare into the standing mirror. If the ladies could see this they would be screaming my name and begging for a piece. The name is Aaron Walsh by the way, if any of you ladies feel the need to scream it as I proceed with this tale of horror. You may not like me by the end of it, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have some fun along the way, right? I am taking the time to narrate this bitch after all.
Now, here is where I destroy those fantasies of you throwing yourself at me by describing the reality of what I see and my social circumstances. Well, for starters, I can’t see shit without my glasses so let’s put those on that mental image of yours. Are you feeling the love yet? If you are thinking hideous monstrosities that make my eyes look far bigger than they actually are then you are not too far off – stick with that image!
The eyes that are magnified so much; they’re blue. They’re kind of an icy-cold blue and rather dull. Definitely not that Photoshopped, film star blue that resembles a sparkling oasis. More the ‘Oh fuck, I feel sad!’ kind of blue. It adds to that miserable looking thing that medical books call a face. Pale and puffy, this isn’t a face that you want to kiss, and go expecting smiles from it either. It’d only scare the children. My hair is something that you could cook chips on. Just a black, greasy mass that obeys no master. As for height and frame, they are both woefully average. I have some love handles, but who doesn’t enjoy a deep fried Mars bar every now and then?
Still think you could fuck me? Did I tell you that I live with my mum and my sister and I’m twenty-nine years old? How about now – wanna fuck? Thought so. You’re not alone in that judgement. There will be no marriage, kids or picket white fences in my future, but what sane person wants all that mundanity anyway? When it comes to ladies and queers I’m a strictly no-fly zone. Probably doesn’t help that I creep the shit out of anyone I come in contact with. Yup, I’m one of those heebie-jeebies guys. Everybody knows at least one. I’ll hold that eye contact a little too long, I’ll sniff your hair when you’re not looking, and I’d probably parade around in your underwear if given the chance.
As for my circumstances, I’m not exactly happy with where my life is going, so don’t judge me too harshly. It’s not like I’m the first guy forced to live with his mother as an adult. Bitch still makes me a packed lunch though, so there is that.
Another erection. It’s the gift that keeps on giving. Is it fucked up that I was telling you about my mother when that happened? Freud would have a field day with that one. I guess I could squeeze out another one for the road.
Let’s see; need a mental image. Jennifer Lawrence naked as the day she was born, thighs spread and begging me to take her right then and there. Yeah, I think that should do it. Although it probably won’t be the image that I finish on. Dozens of faces will flash past my imagination before the lucky winner gets the big finish. It’s a rolodex of sexy faces and hot bodies and, just like flying in Peter Pan, all you have to do is think happy thoughts.
Again I go with the fast and eager method. I’m all about results. It always seems to take longer on a second pass, but is often twice as nice for the effort. I lean against my computer table and start masturbating vigorously, but my hand starts cramping up, not yet fully recovered from the first ejaculation. You’d think that doing this every day since puberty would give me the hand and forearm muscles of an Olympian weight lifter but no, here I am fighting through, like always. Maybe if I changed hands it would help. I leave poor old lefty on the bench enough as it is. I give it a try, but switching hands is like cheating on your wife with her sister while she’s watching; it just doesn’t feel right. I switch back to my right, which is still cramping, but I’m a masturbation warrior, damn it. There is a knock on the door. Perfect, just perfect.
“I’m fucking busy!” I shout, the perspiration on my brow a testament to that fact.
“Breakfast is ready!”
Yay, my mother talking to me while I’m stroking – that ought to help.
“I’ll be down in a minute!”
She knocks again.
“What!?”
“You’ll be late for work!”
“I said I’ll be down in a minute!”
“Don’t forget to put out the bins when you come home tonight.”
“Uh-huh…”
Almost there. Hopefully she shuts the fuck up by the time I squirt. I hear the sound of her footsteps moving away. There is a God.
“Oh Aaron, I need to take your dirty laundry for the wash.”
Shit! Did I lock that door? If not, her paying attention to that yellow ‘DO NOT DISTURB’ sign on the door is my only hope. Turns out it’s not locked, and her attention has moved past signs to dirty laundry. Not enough time to tuck and hide. In fact, it’s time to explode and stain another Kleenex right as she walks into the room.
“What are you doing?”
The only answer she gets is a sound in between someone having a satisfying cup of tea and a cow being violently raped. A sort of ‘Mooahh!” if you will. Yes, I’m sure your cum noise is soooo much better.
“Oh my God! That’s disgusting!” she gasps in horror.
What a drama queen. It’s not like she’s the first woman to ever walk in on her son masturbating. Granted, most of those mothers probably didn’t get to see their twenty-nine-year-old son’s O face up close, but you get the point.
“Haven’t you heard of privacy!?”
“Um…”
She turns and leaves the laundry behind. I would bet that this incident was about to be locked away in the deepest, darkest vault of her mind, never to be brought up again. Some things are best forgotten for the sake of comfort when you live under the same roof.
As for me, it was not the ideal way to bust one’s nut, but it’s done now and there is no going back. I am as happy as I’m going to get, despite some early morning embarrassment. It is much easier to cope with a dead fish than a stiff wooden log. With that thought in mind, my jeans slide on with ease. It hangs to the left in case you were wondering.
MORBID THOUGHTS
Aaron Walsh is a psychopath. For years he has kept that fact hidden, but one bad day is about to bring it all out into the open. When Jane Flannery walks into his computer repair store, he becomes obsessed. He wants to know every detail about her life. Unfortunately for Jane, Aaron already has everything he needs to accomplish that goal. Her computer. Jane is in great danger and she doesn't even know it yet.
Available from Amazon.
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Killing Angels Page 24