I suppose when you receive the fourth email hassling you to release part 2, you kinda have no choice. Honestly, the line was plotted out the morning I had the dream, but laziness is me, so yeah, dereliction happened. Anyway, here's part 2. Written with the lovely True Colors - Faux Fix playing in the background. If you guys want more, lemme know and I'll release weekly rather than yearly. Otherwise, tell me how garbage it is and I will abandon it entirely like a bad habit, because God and his angels know I groaned and cried and had to force myself to write this, bahaha.
*****
How does bad become good? How do you erase the past and carry on a clean slate when demons greet you in the mirror?
How do you sleep at night?
I don't.
Dimitri bit down on a groan, the sound caged behind grated teeth. Hand coiled around his exhausted length, he pounded away fiercely beneath the showerhead. Pounded despite the needle pricks of pain, for soon pleasure would spill through their crevice. He stood with his other hand pressed to the shower's siding, calves depleted of energy, muscles numb from the once-hot-now-cold spray of water, and mind dancing the line of comprehension, strung up by the wire in the pouring rain.
His cock pulsed, throbbing for release or a means to an end of the self-inflicted assault, his fingers curling against the glass. With a warning grip, pain slithered up the base of his length, clenching his abdomen as waves rocked through him. Still, nothing would free his mind of her. No matter how tight he squeezed, how unforgiving his jerks became.
If she were with him now, beneath the shower sprays with nothing shielding her from him . . . He swallowed the roil of sick need, blinking rapidly as his vision disconnected at the edges, his hands moving harder, faster. His breaths hitched in agonized recollection. Her tits had been a notch above the perfect fit in his hands, urging him to squeeze, her ass teasing his cock trapped behind the material until he was absolutely certain he would erupt in his pants and expose what little self control he truly had.
If she were with him now, those distraught curls slick and dripping down her gentle cheekbones, that natural dark tint to the rims of her eyes as she gazed up at him, lips slightly parted, droplets gliding over them, he would be lost. Oblivion. Her body his for the taking. He would drive into her until her image reformed, from demure and innocent to confused and gracefully broken. And even then, it would never be enough.
Even now, as he wrung his length until his breaths ejected sharp as razors, until the foggy white semen spurted from his tip onto the shower's stormy tiles at his feet, thoughts of her left an appetite in his head, his chest, beneath his skin.
Fucking maddening. Legitimately
disturbing
how ingrained into his brain that female was. She existed in the nuances of his day, forefront of his thoughts, and her voice—that low, subtle purr only insecure things made, drowned out the noise of his everyday thoughts. It made functioning without a damn hard-on to accompany him impossible.
Such as now. He balled his hands into fists and put them to the shower's glass door, slowly resting his head against the pane. His cock was retreating gradually into its sheath, flaccid and misleading. Hung and dormant, as if, in minutes, it wouldn't be raging again. As if
he
wouldn't be raging again.
He couldn't tutor her. What part of him rationalized the thought into a probable reality? Having that female here, in his territory. Where he ate, pissed and slept. Where society did not impose on his fantasies. The perfect concoction for disaster.
The problem persisted past this, however. A deeper analysis told him where the root of the situation lay.
How do you erase the past and carry on a clean slate when demons greet you in the mirror?
Beyond Miss Larson's profuse stutters, rabbit-like jitters and meek foundation, she had an artist's eye. All the bad he had done in his life, his past—how long had he sat in the basement, crafting a mask acceptable for society? Testing out the plastic smiles and carving his defects from his eyes? Just to have this little . . . little colored princess from the states swirl into his life, and look at his mask—and see right through it. She knew what he was, what existed behind the beauty, and when she looked up at him, those permanent, dark shadows encasing her eyes, enunciating their stark intelligence . . .
A hard throb attempted to move through the dim pain of his cock, but it hung lifeless for the time being, already depleted by the recurring thoughts of her.
The moment he stepped from the shower, the laughter from outside the bathroom brought him pause. Those plebs, friends he hadn't had over in . . . was it three years now? The cutting edge of their brusque jubilation always played the role of lifesaver, preventing him from sinking to the bottomless abyss of his personal perdition.
He toweled himself dry, listening as Donnie made the vulgar suggestion of what his co-manager could cradle his nutsack with. The circulating groans said the verbiage was too explicit. But honestly, Dimitri felt it was just what he needed to clear his head of her. He could stop wondering what she was doing, what expression claimed her face this exact moment, the thoughts swimming in the ocean of her. Or if she was thinking about him. Because clearly he was seventeen and had yet to graduate high school. What next? Eager to know if she had e-mailed him yet? It wasn't like he had his phone turned up as loud as it could go and posted on the sink's charging dock.
It was consuming.
It wasn't going to continue.
He grimaced as he dried his member, the head raw and sensitive, reminding him that the session in the shower had been one of many today.
Not going to continue.
He dressed in slacks and a loose t-shirt, discarding the towel into the hamper. His guys may have thought he was a foppish oddball for showering right in the middle of a redundant card game, but had they taken note of the tint of his pants, maybe it would not have been objected.
He removed his contacts and rubbed at his eyes, preferring the purple-green blotches behind his lids over the pulling features of Miss Larson. Unhooking the phone from the dock, he navigated to the university's mail page. He had to tell her the offer was cancelled. A no fly. This was supposed to be a winter break, and while he wholly intended to spend it perfecting his portraiture projects down in his gallery, he did need a break from
her.
He opened the door to a cool draft and the uproarious party in the other room. They were seated at the kitchen's ceramic, marble-encrusted island. Bottle caps lay beside a pizza box that hadn't been there before. It was only Donnie, Nathan and Viktor, but already, thirty minutes away and his spot was taken over with snack bags, empty beer bottles and swaddled up napkins. That's right, he'd forgotten they were allergic to cleanliness.
"We ordered pizza," was the first thing Nathan said, a slice between his fingers. He shoved half of it down, using his free arm to push all of the trash to the edge of the table. Problem clearly solved in his eyes, he nodded for Dimitri to sit. "Viktor was just saying we never get to hang out like this. He started getting emotional. We ordered pizza to quell his aching heart."
No doubt, they used his credit card. Not that he cared as he sat at the junk-infused island, typing in Miss Larson's e-mail address.
"Can you believe Gavin had the temerity to hand my position down to Big Tits Ruth?" Viktor asked, trying to rein him into the conversation.
"No. What. Really." Drimitri stared at his phone, then started with the formal 'Hello Miss Larson,' then erased the greeting portion. Much better.
