Maybe it was stupid, but all he could think about lately was how much he wanted sex. But he wasn't going to pressure his boyfriend. No, he would never. He wasn't ready for that, himself, anyways. But he needed something. He wasn't going to cheat on his boyfriend, never in his life, so that left him to one thing.
His hand.
So he locked his door and turned out his lights, laying down on his bed. He began the best way he knew how. He slowly undressed, apart from his underwear, caressing his pale skin and pretending the hands were a little rougher. Guitar-calloused. Tanner. He knew what those hands felt like because earlier that day, he did feel them roaming his tummy just lightly. But what would those hand feel like teasing his rosebud nipples, making them hard along with something much more important?
He decided it would feel quite nice.
He stroked his thumb over his right nipple, giving it a light pinch. He gasped with a quiet, breathy moan, jerking slightly. After a couple minutes of that, his hand trailed down to the waistband of his briefs, threading briefly through the fine hairs of his happy trail. He slid one finger, then two under the waistband, tracing back and forth and just teasing himself. He breathed the name of who those phantom fingers belonged to, his cock growing to its full hardness and almost bursting of its confines.
He needed relief.
Slowly, he slid down his deep purple briefs, working them down his legs and kicking them off of his ankles. He waited until he heard the soft, muted thud upon the floor before reaching to that forbidden area once more. His hands caressed each of his milky white thighs, growing closer and closer to the straining erection that was almost flipped onto his tummy.
Minutes later, he allowed himself to touch.
It had been awhile since the last time. He'd been caught up in the drama of everyday life, and he'd neglected himself. He knew the building need for a release inside of him wasn't helping matters. So he took it slowly, fingertips ghosting up and down the length of his arousal.
He shivered.
And so he allowed himself the satisfaction of a stronger touch. He wrapped his hand around his cock, letting out a mewl at the immediate friction. He began to stroke, to pump, to press and encircle and flick his wrist and drive himself insane with desire.
The room became hotter.
His actions became faster, panting shallower. His whines and whimpers and moans filled the room in a sweet, breathy symphony. And he, slowly but surely, began to reach his release. He doubled the pace, the heat coiling in his stomach almost too much to bear.
He trembled.
His heart raced, and he sweat. He grew closer and closer to his release, craving the feeling of his orgasm crashing over him in waves.
He whimpered.
One, two, three more pumps, and he was gone.
He came. He came hard on his hand, his torso, the bed sheets. He stroked himself through his climax, heaving for breath and whimpering.
He let out a breathy sigh, curling up in a ball.
He would have to clean it up, but he was so tired.
"Blaine," he breathed, eyes closing.
And he slept.
