A Iny Future

You wouldn't believe the lovely things I want to do before I cum.

When I haven't had time for sex or masturbation for days, or in that sweet first minute of feeling something amazing happen to my cock (including my unusually talented hand but I'm a big fan of mouths too), I think of the most wonderful things I'm going to do to finish myself off.

When I get to share this moment with another man, it's easier: I've 69ed until our faces were smeared with each other's sex, I've watched cum fly wherever my partner wishes it to land, I've happily welcomed people down onto my face so they can clumsily dance their orgasm across my cheeks and in my mouth.

But when I'm alone, my exciting imagination has an off-switch, and depending on how desperate I am for my orgasm it happens 5 seconds before or 2 seconds after. In that moment, a powerful change of mind happens. I become less brave, I become less kinky, I become less horny, I become less creative. I still let myself cum, and I'm pretty damned good at it, but I don't have that last moment of kinky fun that can only happen at the end.

I wish I could. But I can't win an argument with my future, vanilla self. I become him.

I'd tried to win, but I'd given up. I'd tried to order myself to be brave. I'd tried to get into positions where gravity forces certain things to happen before I can change my mind. But the only thing that seems to work is body-doubling: the act of having another person there to be accountable to. And in this case, I'd need someone to enjoy my fantasies and push them to come true.

I gave up.

Everything I describe about this past spring is just weird. I know it. The weirdest thing is the very unique friendship I have with my best friend, that I'd had since highschool. She and I once tried seeing whether the natural chemistry our friends kept telling us about was real, but soon realised we didn't fit -- we didn't get along when we were trying to date. And that was before I realised how much I liked men. We were just a comic duo of sassy and anxious, but we just fucking loved each other. But as friends. And I don't really want to change that.

And yet? I fully realise how bizarre it is that we're so comfortable with each other.

We realised just how comfortable when, during a fancy lunch in a boutique restaurant, we were approached by a couple. They clearly thought we were lovers, and intervened upon our dessert to take a gamble that we were interested in helping them find out just how bisexual they were.

At first we just listened, fascinated and trying desperately not to laugh at them. Their fiendish shyness was adorable. And yet, our looks at each other confirmed how outrageously we were each attracted to one of them respectively.

And so, a moment came, when she snuggled my arm and spoke for both of us that we would love to 'bring some new light into our love-life'. We still thought they were ridiculous, but I was also adamantly on board just to see how deep this rabbit hole went.

So, later that afternoon, while we had found it back in highschool strangely discordant to try to kiss each other or be on dates, it felt perfectly natural to lie upside down with her, our heads beside each other, giggling at each other occasionally while our groins were experimentally worshipped by this vaguely Southern middle-aged little family.

Joan's advice to the woman between her knees seemed less about skill and more about shyness, and soon enough this polite wife was nuzzled impressively and boldly deep into Joan's labia, lapping her up from vagina to clit like you'd clean a plate of dessert. Meanwhile, after a few encouraging words and touches from his wife, the man started letting himself enjoy more and more of my dick at once. He seemed to have an adoring fixation on balls in particular.

Nor did we seem to mind seeing each other's nearby faces stuffed with meat (too impatient to be touched before we were finished off) and we gladly returned their favours before we finished exhausted.

The cute couple ended the session each between our respective knees again. Sitting on a bed beside each other, Joan and I gave these two our shuddering orgasms while they sentimentally held each other's hands. The couple smooched our cum into each other's mouths with romantic gratitude.

Later we got a pitcher of sangria together and giggled about the couple's rapid progress from fumbling around a genital they'd never kissed before to finding the right rhythms to make us actually enjoy ourselves. Hypothesis confirmed that these two were both very very bisexual, and found a way to lean it toward each other.

Kissing dick-breath into your wife's mouth, who knew!

I'm skimming over my retelling of that day, because what our silly horny minds would turn our lives into in the present and over the coming weeks sticks far more explicitly in my mind.

I still feel complicated about that day though. We have a unique friendship that no one would believe is platonic. But after that silly adventure we started really telling each other everything, from funny sex injuries to heartbreaks to extremely specific advice.

In retrospect we both probably have better orgasms because of each other. We definitely choose better partners because of each other. And we definitely are more talented at sex because of each other. Not because of things we've ever done to each other, but because of advice and techniques and shared victories. Once I even drew a diagram, colour-coded for what to do where.

And once I just said 'fuck it' and showed her the technique she just wasn't getting. My erection was for myself, not her, but it still surprises me that we're nonchalant enough that she can spend a moment watching me doing a corkscrew handjob on myself and we still don't WANT each other.

But she did thank me later when she tried it on a boy.

With her advice, while I learned a lot about mouths from her, just as often as not it was about overcoming my own nonsense. Including the dissonance between my shyness and my horniness.

So then, one day, in a mostly empty diner forgotten by its neighbourhood, out of earshot of the bored waiter, my smiling friend with the pink cheeks wonderful breasts broad thighs and mischievous eyes casually scribbled in her notebook, recording my kinky wishlist in bubbly-fonted bullet points, and annotating with notes she didn't let me see.

-I want to taste my own cum

-I want to use cum as lube

-I want soft touches all the way to orgasm

-I want to swallow perfectly

-I want to stay kinky after I cum

-I want to be someone's sloppy seconds

She didn't give advice this time. All she said is that she would make very nice things happen for me, but it would only work if I didn't ask questions. I would begin a tiny era of my life where she would tell me to do things and I would never, ever ask why.

She ordered another milkshake and serenely drank half of it before I made up my mind with a very bashful Yes.

"Wizard. Okay, my friend. I'm gonna take care of things. And don't worry, because I know you always worry, this won't make our friendship weird. We're going to go to some weird places hun. But as friends. We won't have sex with each other. By most definitions. This'll be fun for you too. How ya feelin?"

Her first ever instruction to me was not to give my penis any pleasure until her go-ahead.

The next day, she asked me to send her a floormap of my office. That was unsettling.

The day after that, she showed up at my door because she had got me a just-because gift. It was a Bluetooth. Old-fashioned, cheap, probably in her drawer from long ago.

The day after that was Monday. By then I missed cumming by quite a lot.

Joan's second ever instruction was to wear my nicest whitest shirt, the lightest-coloured dress pants I had, no belt, no underwear, and the Bluetooth. Joan's third instruction was to initiate a phone call after I blitzed through my morning work double-time, but not to say a word when I called, not even 'Hello'. But, crucially, I wouldn't mute. She had to hear, I just wasn't supposed to say things. I would just hear her voice and, when applicable, comply.

I phoned her at 10:20, after the kind of office efficiency I knew my boss must never discover I was capable of. I was curious to get started, but pretty nervous for exactly WHAT I was starting, whatever that was. I spent the morning with 10% of an erection and a teeny polkadot of precum on my silver-coloured dress pants.

Joan answered and said,

"Hey babe! Mondays amIright?" She cackled on the other end of the line, clearly very pleased with herself.

"Nervous bud? Don't answer, let's assume you're nervous. Okay let's do this. When there's a reason what I'm asking isn't possible for some reason, or if you decide you don't want to I want you to give a big bored-sounding sigh. That's your signal. Hah, I just realised I gave you a safe-word! Otherwise, mum's the word! You ready for this?"

I did not give a big sigh.

"Do you still trust me with this?"

I did not sigh. I almost wanted to but I held my breath and made myself not.

"Okay babe. Think of something boring because I don't want you traveling with a big obvious hard-on, because you're wearing really bad pants for an erection and commando if you've been good."

She then began a little speech about a little-known rule in soccer and the debate around it. "There, you should be good and bored now. Go to the bathroom. Don't go TO the bathroom, I mean go INTO the bathroom."

As I was most of the way there, looking as casual as possible about the fact that I was on a call only I could hear, I heard her say, "Once you're in there, I want you to find a wedge. You know, the wood thing the janitors use to prop open bathrooms? I hate it when they do that."

I washed my hands casually until the only other person was gone, looked around, and hurriedly found and got one. As casually as possible I put it in my pocket. I didn't have a signal for the affirmative, but she must have heard the clack of wood echo.

"Okay now get into a stall, close it, and take off your socks. Put your shoes back on without them."

I did. Getting a bit confused about where this could possibly be going. A wedge and socks. How imaginative are this woman's fetishes?

I just left the bathroom with socks and a wedge in my pockets, feeling like an idiot. I'm guessing the sounds of keyboards and Zoom jingles hinted that I was back.

"Okay. Once you hear no one is near your cubicle, completely empty your pockets, of everything. Except the wedge! Wallet, keys, socks, all of it goes in one of your little drawers you probably have, or your bag or something."

She waited a moment.

"Okay get a bottle of sanitizer, one you can carry." She waited a moment. "Aaaand, when no one is really looking your way, casually walk to Room 125A. Look bored, don't look, y'know, purposeful."

She must have read the map carefully. She was sending me to the room behind the Printer Room. Even the printer room was hardly ever used anymore, no one wants printouts anymore, so the room full of extra letterhead and toner was long-deserted.

I'm guessing she heard the door close and the light turn on.

"Excellent. Please put the wedge in the door. It will act like a lock. Now listen, hon, I'm going to give you these instructions bit by bit, so we're going to live in the present moment, okay? I think you've guessed you're about to touch yourself."

I didn't sigh.

"You have a plausible excuse to be in there, people can't come in, you can hear people entering the next room before they enter this one, you're not wearing a belt, so you can stealthily button up again without that jangle. Don't hang up either. Did I mention that part? Shit did I forget? Yep I'm staying while you do it. I might touch myself too, I haven't decided. Is that okay hun?"

My breath shuddered. I held my breath so it didn't sound like a bored sigh.

Joan giggled. "Okay that's a Yes Ma'am. Love it. Okay trust me about this. I'll give you the deets soon, but I'd like your pants at ankle level please!"

I couldn't even hear the office sounds from in here. I gave an experimental outside-voice "Hello??" and waited a second. No one was close enough to hear.

"Nice touch."

I sighed, but caught myself before it sounded like a signal. Considering how obvious my erection was in my silver-coloured dress pants, it was hardly less subtle for me to pull them off. But of course it was different. There, in that workplace setting, I was about to go from Inappropriate to Illegal.

As I knew Joan realised, the element of someone I cared about being in real-time with me made boldness easier, or at least harder to avoid. She was my enabler of stupidity.

And yet? In the diner a few days ago I was already desperately interested in release. Now, I was seconds away from a substantial precum stain on silver pants.

And so I brought my underwear below my knees.

And my erection dangled in an office.

"GO on..."

How did she know.

But in retrospect? Of course she knew. As I let my fingers touch my shaft in the paper room I whispered gasps, the first aroused touch in a week, after a week of pent-up excitement, worry, and need. My breath was simply disorderly as my right hand did a slow figure-8 corkscrew in dangerous circumstances and my left hand tickled the line down my testicles.

My foreskin twisted along down my head and twisted along back up, slipping atop slick meat underneath. I tried not to let myself speed up or squeeze hard. I heard distant sounds of ringing phones as I masturbated in the ink-scented room.

I listened as hard as I could, so every progression of pleasure surprised me, brought me back, to the fact that I was giving myself sex in public, surrounded by distant people I disliked.

"That's fantastic. Okay I can hear you breathing. You're already not far from something. Don't think about it, just keep going. TRUST me, keep going, all the way to the end, and don't go strong, fast gentle strokes. Don't worry about a thing, I've got a plan. I've gotchu."

I forgot about planning and hazards, I just (eventually) let my friend hear my whispered orgasm as I listened to her groans. My friend clearly enjoyed my drawn-out session with myself.

It was at this moment I would normally logistically prepare for what to do with my cum afterwards but I had been told not to think. It was my next instruction from my trusted friend on the phone, who was clearly masturbating.

So, embracing the crazy and trusting my friend for no good reason at all, I abandoned practicality and ignored my body's request to catch a sudden flow of piping hot liquid as it dirtied the front of my cockhead and many fingers. This release also freed me from merely whispering.

There was then a moment, coming back to my senses, when my entire stroking hand was coated with a lot of caught cum. And it wouldn't be caught for long. I abandoned my shaft to start turning it over to prevent it from falling, even as more appeared to join it. My other hand caught the cascading stream reaching my testicles, and I caught the last emergence with my first, thoroughly coated hand as I finally slowly realised what should have been obvious to me minutes, even days ago.

"Okay hun you're ready to hear the truth."

My breath must have sounded both anxious and happy.

"You either haven't noticed something or you've been lovely and brave. Your pockets are empty. You don't even have socks or underwear for emergency solutions. The only path to a washroom, Kleenex box, paper towel, sink, anything, is out among the bureaucrats. You can't wipe this on your easily-stained clothes either. And I think walking out there with soiled printer paper will make you even more obvious. Guess what my lovely guy. There is exactly one thing you can do about what sounds like it was QUITE a lot of jizz. Don't mind me, I'm just going to circle my angry clit as you think about it."

I stared at my spider-web hand. It was still warm, but not for long. I stared at the door, and could detect distant chatter and typing. Through my left ear I heard little gasps and whimpers slowly getting higher pitch.

My hand was becoming cooler. Damn it, she was right. She had already beaten me. And the best time to do something about it was when it was brand new and the orgasm was still subsiding, but the second-best time was right now. Damn it. Okay. Damn it. Gosh. Damn her. Wow. Am I doing this?

I heard her groan louder as my anxious breath became more noticeable.

Damn it.

I looked at my fingers again. There was webbing between three of my fingers, and a large glob on one.

I closed my eyes as I cast my finger into my mouth, but quickly opened them again as I felt things sliding down my moving hand, my instincts activating to catch it. So I had to watch my cum enter my mouth.

It slipped right along my tongue, painting taste across from front to back. I nose-breathed hard as I clustered my fingers together and made myself dog-lap my own hand. She could tell. What more was obvious to her was the final moment, when I felt my penis have a gob of aftershock. She must have heard the pleasure of it in my shudders, and then more suckling sounds.

So I listened to my platonic friend orgasm as she realised I chose to drink more than I had to. It was a torrent of brief low growls and shuddering whimpers and sounds of thankful sighs as I suckled. I nearly forgot that she was the only one allowed to be truly loud.

We both spent a moment recovering.

"Okay, guess what hun. That's the least evil idea I've come up with. Oh, and each one will be long enough between that you'll be even hungrier than this. Oh! I should ask this upfront. Is it okay if I hook you up with someone? Trust me, sayyessayyessayyes... Say yes while you clean up and put on your pants, you're filthy!!" She cackled.

It was still careful work to button myself up without a noticeable stain.

Six days later. She hadn't mentioned anything more about a sex partner.

I went through a whole process with her in Bluetooth, going to a website, downloading a program, creating a dummy account, joining certain servers. It took a while, but then her instructions became more interesting.

"Okay babe. This platform is not organised by location, like some. It's organised by interest. This one's for chubby men and enjoyers of, and for some reason they're the loveliest queer men. And it's designed to be super-anonymous. Do you see that Chat Room? Do you see all the cam icons? Every one of them is a man masturbating, and they're all watching each other. They're horny ABOUT each other. The rest of them are too scared to be seen, or they're watching somewhere where they can't just get naked. Okay, you have to be fast. It's probably full right now, but wait for it -- wait for it -- as soon as it's not full, click the button."

It took about a minute, with a couple of failures, but eventually I heard a sound effect that I'm sure she did too. Instantly my giant computer screen filled up with regular looking guys, all of them pointing their webcams or phones at the eager service they were providing their own shafts. All of them had code names. I know it wasn't ground-breaking, this isn't new technology, but she was right: something about the organisation of this felt really anonymous. They could be from New Zealand for all I know. Even if one of them were neighbours, there was nothing identifying, just pulled out cocks and naked tummies.

"Okay hun. You're free and anonymous. You don't know these guys, right? Okay don't acknowledge me, but keep the Bluetooth on. Bring your webcam closer to you. Okay, turn on your mic."

I realised now I had never ever given her the Bored Sigh signal, but I pressed the microphone button on the screen. It had a sound effect so I know she heard.