24
Marcus woke up the next morning feeling strange. It wasn't an unexpected invasion of covid, but even so, he couldn't quite put his finger on why he didn't feel normal.
He thought he might be missing Miss Christy. It had been less than 24 hours since their last contact, when Miss Christy texted Marcus an image of her butthole that sent Marcus into complete overdrive, but Marcus hadn't responded, and there'd been no further communication from Miss Christy.
He wasn't sure what to do to help himself feel better, but he tried to put it aside as he got ready for work. The day was uneventful. He worked, he came home, he ate dinner, drank a few beers, played video games, and went to bed.
Miss Christy was rarely far from his thoughts. Marcus absolutely loved spending time with her. He loved just hanging out with her, just being in her presence, just talking with her, almost as much as he loved being sexual with her. He felt like he was getting to know another soul -- a warm, intelligent, precious, and incredibly fuckable soul. The only thing about Alex that ever intruded on Marcus's thoughts was his big dick.
A few more uneventful days came and went. The weekend arrived, and Marcus slept in bigtime on Saturday morning. He ate breakfast for lunch and spent most of the afternoon alone reading books. Around sunset, he headed to the skate park. He spent some time hanging out with his buddies, drinking beer and getting stoned. As night started to fall and the community floodlights ignited, he got talking with a cute skater chick he'd seen there before. They talked for a while and shared a joint. She led him to the toilet block, unzipped his baggy shorts and blew him in the men's room. As his orgasm began building up, he thought of Miss Christy bending over in a tight skirt as she looked back at him. He pulled his dick out of the skater chick's mouth and came all over her face.
As Marcus returned to the halfpipe, his buddies knew what'd gone down. High fives. His buddies didn't know he was bisexual. Not that it mattered, he thought they probably wouldn't have cared anyway. Shit like that don't matter as long as you're getting something from somewhere.
The group kept talking trash and drinking beers, enjoying the night. Marcus's phone vibrated. There was a message.
Miss Christy.
'Hey boi, how's your Saturday night?'
As soon as Marcus noticed it was Miss Christy, he turned to his buddies and muttered "hey I gotta take this". He excused himself from the group. He walked away from the floodlights into the semi-darkness. 'Not bad Miss Christy. Just hanging with some friends drinking some beers. What about you?'
'I'm OK. Just enjoying a glass or three of wine. Couldn't help noticing I didn't hear back from you the other day. Did you like the photo I sent you?'
Marcus knew she'd eventually ask, and he knew he should've had a good answer prepared. He didn't. He fumbled. Badly. 'I got it while I was at work.' As soon as he sent it, he wished he could kick himself repeatedly in the balls. So fucking dumb.
There was no immediate response from Miss Christy. He stood, phone in hand, for a few minutes. He willed her to respond. Nothing happened. He glanced over towards his friends. They were standing right near him, but mentally, Marcus was so far away they might as well have been in a different universe.
He eventually returned to the group near the halfpipe, but his mood had darkened considerably. The chick who blew him earlier had cleaned herself up and was now talking to people in a different group. Marcus glanced over at her, but she didn't notice.
Marcus grew sad and eventually decided to call it a night. He knew he'd said the wrong thing to Miss Christy; he may have even upset her. He wondered if Miss Christy had deliberately sent the pic to him during work hours as a bit of a thrill, but his response to her made it seem like the image was unwelcome.
She might even be crying right now. He'd fucked up so bad.
After farewelling his buddies, he skated home. His plan for the rest of his Saturday night was to get monumentally wasted.
*
Marcus wanted to call her, but he didn't have the courage or the capacity to explain and apologise. He didn't have the balls to tell Miss Christy that what he'd said didn't come across how he meant it. He wanted to tell her 'I got it while I was at work ... and it was the sexiest image I've ever seen in my life. The internet could disappear tomorrow and all the world's creativity and art and knowledge and pornography could go burn with it, but the picture you sent me yesterday would be all I'd ever need forever. No, that's not completely true. I'd also love to have a picture of your beautiful face so I could look at your lovely eyes and smile. I tried so fucking hard to concentrate on work, but as soon as I saw the message was from you, I knew I had to see it, and the safest place to open it was in the bathroom. It felt so dangerous. I mean, I could've gotten into big trouble if I got busted fapping at work, but it felt so hot. If I got busted jerking off to you and got fired I wouldn't have cared, it would've been so worth it. When I opened the pic, it felt like you'd set my dick on fire. I love your ass, I love your pussy and I love your mind. I love everything else about you. I loved how you fucked me at the movies. I love being with you. I love how I feel when I'm with you. You make me feel special. You make me feel worthwhile. You make me feel alive. I'm ya boi 4evs.'
Not now. The damage was done, but the agony was in not knowing how much damage he'd done. And in the back of his mind, he wondered if sending a message like this would end up swapping one set of problems for another.
He retrieved his bong from the cupboard, packed a fat cone and ripped it. He went to the refrigerator and opened a beer. He set the beer on his bedside table and booted his laptop.
Tomorrow was Sunday. There'd be no work. He wasn't tired.
Now was a time for forgetting. It was a time for mental distance. It was a time for psychological escape.
It was a time for porn, and his laptop was ready to deliver.
Miss Christy entered his thoughts and he pushed her away.
He packed another cone and sucked it down.
So fucking stoned.
*
25
Pornography was like a thin, bright white light that guided him to safety in his moment of distress.
His mouth felt dry. The beer on his bedside table was useful; he swallowed half of it like water.
'Show me', thought Marcus, as if communicating directly with the porniverse. 'Guide me. I'm yours. I surrender. Make me hard. Get me off. Help me forget. Let me escape.'
Porn forgave him his immediate transgressions. He finished the rest of his beer.
He watched plastic women with oiled fake tits and assholes gaped wide parading across his laptop screen. He watched as they grabbed their fat ass cheeks, prising them apart so cameras could zoom in and gaze straight up their cracks. He watched sopping wet cunts getting split by long, fat cocks. He watched dudes sucking on fat dicks like it was their last meal. He watched women eating the asses of other women and he watched gallons of cum sprayed everywhere.
He got hard, but he felt outside himself, it was almost like an out of body experience. He didn't care about anything. Everything he watched kept his dick up, but his attention span was smashed to hell.
He stared blankly at the screen as the hurricane of porn assaulted his eyeballs, his eardrums and his consciousness. He was inside the vortex for an hour and a half. Eventually he came, but it felt hollow and completely unsatisfying.
