Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
LobsterShorts: That you have a hot dick.
SinnerThree: God, no, definitely say it. That’s what got me distracted ;)
LobsterShorts: Good. Send another vid. I wanna see more.
SinnerThree: Are you jacking yours right now?
LobsterShorts: Obvs.
I smile at the phone. He’s gotten bolder and bolder with every chat, every naughty message. And it’s been a while since he’s disappeared on me. Lately, he’s coming back for more almost instantly, instead of hiding because of his guilt. I…don’t think he feels guilty about this anymore.
Since I can’t record myself and read his messages at the same time, I rely on my brain to provide the stimulation I need. I picture Lobsterman kneeling between my legs, his head bobbing over me. His lips are wrapped tightly around my dick, tongue scraping the entire length each time he takes me deep. I picture my fingers tangling in his hair—can they tangle there? Is it long? Buzzed? I realize I’ve never thought to ask. And right now I don’t care to. Fine. There’s enough hair for my fingers to grasp, to tug on as I thrust my hips and fuck his mouth.
Hoarse breaths provide the soundtrack for my dirty video. A grunt. A torturous moan as my mind conjures up the image of me coming in Lobster’s mouth and him greedily swallowing every drop.
I explode in real life, nearly dropping the phone as the climax rips through me. As it is, the camera work is severely lacking in skill, because I’m shuddering and groaning too hard to keep the phone steady. I guess that cameraman job on the set of Martin Scorsese’s next film is out—and yet judging by Lobster’s response to my masterpiece, I just created an Academy Award winner.
LobsterShorts: Fuuuuuuuuuuuck.
LobsterShorts: Do you even realize how goddamn sexy that was?
I can’t answer, because my body has sunk into the mattress. My limbs are jelly from the orgasm, and my abs are sticky from it.
I finally catch my breath just as a video message from him fills our chat. I find the strength to click on it, and in a heartbeat I’m back to being breathless. It’s not even ten seconds long, but it’s enough to make me semi-hard again, which I would’ve thought impossible.
Biting my lip, I watch as his strong fist works his dick. I listen to the husky moan he lets out as he comes.
My pulse is racing as I type a shaky message.
SinnerThree: Okay. Jesus. Enough is enough, dude. We need to fuck. In person. Like, ASAP.
LobsterShorts: January 4th, remember?
SinnerThree: Promise you won’t bail on me? Because, fuck, I need this.
LobsterShorts: I won’t bail. I need this, too.
It doesn’t escape me that he wrote “I”, and not “we.” Which makes me wonder if his girlfriend is no longer part of this equation.
But he squashes that notion by adding, My gf and I got a suite at the Grand Windsor. So. Saturday, around nine o’clock?
Um. Yes, please. I just have to figure out how to make this happen without missing work. Saturday nights at Jill’s are huge money. Maybe I can start at midnight instead of ten? But that’s assuming three hours is enough time for all the fucking I have planned.
I’ll figure something out, though. I always do.
SinnerThree: I’ll be there.
Make a Wish, Honey
Keaton
Leaving paradise and returning to “blizzard land,” as Sinner calls it, isn’t something I’d normally be pumped about, but I’d rather sleep naked on a bed of snow than spend even five more seconds with my father.
He was insufferable this entire trip, constantly needling me about the finance internship at his company. And when he wasn’t applying the job pressure, he was harassing me about the Alpha Delt presidency, offering “suggestions” about how to sway votes.
Needless to say, I’m happy to be home as I breathe in the frigid January air after stepping off the family jet. My folks are spending another week in Costa Rica, so I had the plane to myself on the flight back to Connecticut. Gave me plenty of time to think about tomorrow night.
D-Day. Or rather, T-Night. The threesome. The big ménage a trois.
Am I nervous? Yes. Excited? Also yes. Terrified?
Maybe a bit.
I have no idea what to expect. My girlfriend claimed that the idea of me touching a dude and vice versa turns her on, but what if it has the opposite effect in real life? What if she freaks out when faced with the reality of it? What if I freak out?
Even after a five-hour flight, during which I was alone with my thoughts, my mind is still racing as I go through customs and grab an Uber at the airport. And it’s still racing when I wake up late the next morning. Saturday morning.
AKA T-Day.
It’s Annika’s birthday, you idiot. Don’t forget that part.
Oh, right. I’m getting ahead of myself here.
I reach for my phone and call my girlfriend.