My college sent students home because of COVID-19. With a roommate, I rarely had any privacy, so aside from having to deal with my parents most of the day, I relished the nightly opportunities afforded by a room to myself: lights off, no pants. The ceiling fan breeze excited my aching erection. I'd almost gotten used to the pain of letting it build up, almost like it made the release that much sweeter. But I couldn't stand the shame: the shame of sneaking to a dorm-room stall to splash my cum against the porcelain. I needed more opportunities to ease the tension. And fewer reasons to hate myself for doing it.
One night, laying on my bed watching porn, I got a text from my step-sister, Taylor, with a picture of her sitting on the floor, touching herself over her panties. Her porcelain breasts were bursting out of a slightly too-small bra. One arm lifted them up while the other hand lay flat on the ground, propping her up in a pinup position, long legs reaching out of frame from her tight, black skirt which was pulled up over her thick hips. She bit the side of her lip and her eyes were half closed in an expression of ecstasy. From the angle, and the way it wasn't vertical, I could tell it wasn't a selfie; someone else took the photo.
As soon as I opened the pic and realized what it was, my balls contracted. Euphoria washed over and blinded me as thick ropes arched onto my chest. Twice. Three times. Then a couple more. When I regained my composure, I felt a similar guilt to when I'd tell my roommate I was going on a walk only to sneak into a bathroom stall. (God, I wish people weren't so freaked out and I could be honest about my condition.) I felt even worse when, after cleaning up, I saw a dozen messages saying things like, "OMG im so sorry" and "that wasnt for you" and "Stevie, don't tell ANYONE." I couldn't believe I'd just done that, but it wasn't my fault: it just happened.
I didn't respond to any of the messages. I just didn't know what to say. And besides, Taylor wasn't the kind of person to worry about something that much. She'd be at a party later that night, despite the mass quarantines, and forget she'd sent the picture. Come to think of it, why should I feel bad when she won't give it a second thought? I didn't do anything wrong, after all. I was too backed up. I know guys say that, but I have a doctor's note; I literally couldn't control what happened.
So why did I feel guilty?
I tried going to sleep and forgetting what happened, not letting it get to me, because, obviously, it wasn't anything to worry about. But that picture was imprinted into my skull and, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get it out.
I don't know when I finally fell asleep but suddenly the sun was shining behind the curtains and I could smell bacon. Mom yelled at me to come down. Don't know why she wouldn't text or call my phone. Or maybe she had texted and it was silent? I glanced at my phone, charging on the nightstand. I couldn't bear to check and see if Taylor had sent anymore messages, so I just left it and headed downstairs.
"Morning, sleepyhead." Mom stood at the stove and flipped an omelet.
"Morning." I sat on a bar stool at the island in the middle of the kitchen while dad was at the kitchen table. His nose was in the newspaper, otherwise I'd worry about hiding my morning wood. I'd been trying to wake up early to relieve myself but missed that opportunity this morning. Would have to wait until my shower.
"Did you get my text?" Mom asked.
And here I was thinking they were luddites. "I didn't look at my phone."
"Ha!" Dad said, straight-faced, turning a page of the paper. "Thought you kids were all addicted."
"Don't let him bother you." She set a plate in front of me with an omelet, bacon strips, and buttery biscuits.
