I felt like shit. And I really hated that.
I could feel Deborah, clawing her way in and out of my head. I could see the pitiful glances I'd been getting from Lynn…no, the pitiful looks I'd been getting from everyone. Even Lysander.
I took another drag of my lit cigarette, trying to forget the way he'd looked earlier. He assumed I needed a babysitter, claiming he wanted to see if I'd eaten. I hadn't eaten yet of course, but that didn't mean I needed him watching me like I was fucking mentally unstable. I didn't have an appetite anyway; a ball of guilt had settled itself nicely in my gut, so food was out. He left after a while, the same look on his face; pity. Fuck.
The last thing I wanted was to be given special treatment from anyone. People go through shit like this all the time, and the sooner everyone started treating me the way they usually did (AKA leaving me the fuck alone), the sooner my life could return to normal. I'd give it a few days before trying school again. I needed time to myself to just…be.
The night dragged on, and I had no intentions of sleeping. I looked at the glass case where I kept my booze. A drink would be fucking amazing right about now…I opened the door, grabbing the first few bottle closest to me, and an empty glass. A few shots of Jagermeister and a very generous screwdriver later, my head was still a mess. But I was floating blissfully above my problems, enjoying the dancing shadows my ceiling fan caused around the room. I had used up the last of my vodka on the screwdriver though. I pouted internally, knowing I would have to get creative if I wanted anymore. My parents had bought that one months ago, and they weren't expected to return for a couple weeks still. My head lolled back on my couch, but I wasn't tired. I began to lazily trail a hand down my chest, pausing to tweak a nipple before continuing to my lower belly. Jerking off was starting to sound really fucking good.
I closed my eyes, sighing as my hand continued its path down to my crotch, teasing myself by running it over my thighs, avoiding the growing bulge in my pants altogether. As I finally let my hand slide gently over my now throbbing cock, an image flashed in my head, a favourite fantasy that had helped me with this same hobby for a couple of months now. As my fingers slid over the zipper, I imagined an elegant hand in place of mine, its long fingers gently prying the fly open with limitless patience, teasing me. When the zipper was finally released, that same beautiful hand wormed its way inside my pants, just touching the head as it began working on my boxers. I groaned then, excited by the light, dexterous touch of the phantom hand.
My jeans and my boxers were now down around my ass, and I enjoyed the sensation of cool leather upholstery against it. I wiggled, my eyes still closed, the hand now beginning to wrap itself around my length, giving lazy but graceful pumps to my throbbing member. I paused in my ministrations, glazed eyes flicking towards the window of my living room. Not that I minded giving the neighbours a show, but I'd rather not worry about prying eyes tonight. I shivered when I thought of my most recent acquistion, stashed away in my bedroom. I tucked my self back into my pants, a "Herculean task", in the words of Lysander. I shuddered at the thought of him, and impatiently made my way to my room.
It was obvious that I made an effort to support this hobby of mine. A bottle of lotion sat waiting on my night stand, but I passed it, instead opening the top drawer to retrieve what waited inside. A bottle of lube, some condoms, and my most recent purchase; a 5-inch dildo which flared at the bottom into a flat, disk-like shape. I shivered looking at it, remembering the first time I had used it. That night had been electric.
I had always been a passionate person, although my temper had a tendency to rule over my other emotions. I was capable of being a kind, thoughtful, and friendly person, it just happened that most of the people I see in every day life either piss me off, don't matter, or fall somewhere in between these criteria. I let very few people in, probably because I have commitment issues or some other pocket psychology bullshit. I blame my parents, and I blame Deborah.
But I was passionate, diving headfirst into my interests, if my music was any indication. Of course, that passion translated itself physically, and the fervor I had for sex superseded my guitar playing. I was very open to exploration, trying most things at least once, often redoing what I liked most. It was about 6 months ago that I had started anal play with myself. Coincidentally, this was about the same window of time that surrounded meeting Lysander, and I think much of my recent exploration was do to the strange but exciting attraction I had to the tall singer.
I still recall the first day I met him, remember finding the notebook on a bench in the garden during one of my smoke breaks.
It was a Wednesday. He had transferred into Sweet Amoris about a week before, but I had yet to speak to him. I remembered seeing the back of his head in the halls, but beyond that, he was just the tall dude in the frilly clothes. But then I found the elegant notebook alone on a bench, and I was positive I knew who it belonged to without even opening it. However, curiosity had won over my instinct to leave it there. I had opened up to the first page of neat, flowing script. The lyrics and poems I found were interesting. Not my personal taste, I was beginning to prefer more cynicism in my music, but they were promising, and they were well composed. So I plucked it up and began searching the school for the new kid, the book nestled under an arm.
I found him near classroom B, noticeably upset about something. His brow was furrowed, his fingers restlessly tapping at his sides, and as I came up behind him, I heard the agitated grumbling under his breath. I cleared my throat, but he didn't seem to notice me. I coughed loudly, and this time I saw him jump in surprise, his back straightening into his admirable posture.
"Hey, I think this is yours," I said, both amused and annoyed by this person. He turned towards me, and we looked at each other for the first time. His mismatched eyes met my grey ones, and I felt a thrill run from my head to my toes, catching along various points in my spine until my whole body was tingling. I sucked a breath in, hoping he didn't recognize it for the poorly disguised gasp that it was.
He was absolutely beautiful. Framing his eyes were black and white tresses, feathering lightly over his face and down to his shoulder. His eyebrows sat elegantly above his eyes, setting them off even more. The golden amber colour of his right eye gleamed, and gave him the same majestic and regal quality that a lion has. But it was the jade green eye on his left that really held me. It was like looking through the dark green haze of a forest, holding the same mystery and quiet beauty of the wilderness. My eyes took in the rest of his face through peripheral vision only, so transfixed was I by his unusual but striking gaze. I noted the straight elegance of his nose, and took in the full lips of his mouth when he began to speak.
"I beg your pardon?" He said, the low and velvety timbre of his voice sending a new wave of shivers through my body. He quirked one of those eyebrows of his, and I snapped back to reality, realizing that I'd been staring like a moron.
"This notebook; it's yours, isn't it?" I said, holding the mentioned book up to eye level. "I found it in the garden."
He let out a small gasp of pleasure, a sound which I greedily memorized and locked away for future use. "Thank you! I was worried I'd lost it for good this time," he said, reaching to take it into his own hand. I looked at that hand, and like the rest of him, found it beautiful. It was large, but graceful, the fingers tapering like a pianist's. Unexpectedly, an image of that hand wrapped around my dick flashed through my mind, and I froze from the inexplicable heat that coursed through my body in answer.
I cleared my throat, trying to remember how to swallow, before speaking. "Sorry if it was private, I cracked it open to see who it belonged to. I read some of your writing," I said, and I noticed immediately his demeanor shift, almost as if he was preparing himself for ridicule. "I liked it," I added quickly, not liking the kicked-puppy look he had going. A look of surprise crossed his face, but then he smiled, and I felt a strange fluttery sensation in the pit of my stomach.
"Do your write as well?" he asked, his soft voice coloured with excitement.
"No, not really," I said, thinking back to my failed attempts at writing lyrics. Lysander looked a little disappointed at that. "I play the guitar," I explained. "I'm better at coming up with music then the words that go with 'em." Lysander looked at me, but really looked at me, you know? Like he hadn't really seen me until then. I squirmed under his scrutiny, hoping I measured up to whatever scale he was measuring me on.
"Are you in a band?" He asked then. Inwardly, I cringed.
"Was. We sort of…had a falling out," I said, thinking back to Deborah, and how she dumped me and my guitar.
Lysander nodded, a thoughtful look on his face. He seemed to come to some sort of conclusion, though, for he asked me if I'd "be willing to accompany him to a small concert downtown." He had some friends playing at a bar, some small indie shithole I never would have dreamed of going to before. But I looked at Lysander, saw hope in those goddamned beautiful mismatched eyes of his, and agreed to go.
After the concert, which sounded better than I thought it would, Lysander led me to the back room to meet the band. It was amid the small talk and general well-wishery that this tall guy sauntered up to Lysander and casually threw an arm over his broad shoulders. I watched their exchange silently, trying to peg down the relationship between the two.
"So, you with the red-headed guy now? If I had known you were into that, I'd woulda dyed my hair."
I froze, looking at Lysander. I noticed his slight blush, and the way he sort of melded into the tall dude's side, like he'd been there and closer a hundred times before. And then it clicked.
"No no, Bryce, we're just friends from school," Lysander said, waving a graceful hand dismissively. "He plays the guitar."
"It's a shame; he's pretty fucking hot." The tall dude, Bryce, was looking at me, running his eyes over my body with a predatory stare. But then I looked at Lysander, who looked both embarrassed and a little…disappointed? I smirked, hoping to lighten the mood the only way I knew how: my anti-drug, good ol' sarcasm.
"Jesus, Lysander, you could have at least pretended to think it over. Now you've gone an' hurt my feelings." The two laughed, but Lysander still looked at me with unnerving intensity for the rest of the evening.
It was those goddamned eyes of his that did it, I think.
From the moment I got home, desire had raced through my veins with alarming intensity. I managed to make it to the couch before my shaky legs gave way. Beyond the point of caring about windows and nosy neighbours, I reached for the straining button of my pants with clumsy hands. Feverishly, I ripped open my jeans, freeing my erection. I sighed with relief, able to catch my breath for a moment now that the tight and painful confines around my dick had been removed. My reprise was short lived, however, and my straining cock was pulsing hugely in my forgotten hand. I closed my eyes, and began making rhythmic tugs with my heated flesh. An image of an elegant hand flashed in my mind, and I pictured it replacing my own, gently running delicate fingers over my head, following the prominent vein to the base. I groaned loudly, and finished a few seconds later, picturing now a pair of eyes: one gold, the other a brilliant green.
I had used and reused similar images for months now, sometimes imagining those eyes looking up at me from where Lysander was sucking me off, or to his fingers gently running over my ass while he worked me off with the other hand. I couldn't explain the fantasies. Before I met Lysander, I'd only ever felt an attraction to chicks; I was a proud boob man. But there was something about Lysander, he seemed to rub me all the right ways without any of the superficial, provocative-porn star bullshit I'd come to know from the few girls I'd had relationships with. Sometimes all it could take was an accidental brush of his hands on my arm, and it was like electricity was thrumming through my body. It was because of this reaction that I tried to keep physical contact limited; both afraid to reveal how much I liked it, and worried that too much contact would dull my reaction.
My mind returned to the present, where I was beginning to prepare myself. I squeezed a generous amount of lube into my hand, smearing some over my head and down the shaft, giving a few hard tugs as I pictured Lysander in my place. I saved most of the lube on my hand however, and reached behind to my waiting entrance. I groaned quietly, biting my lip as my- Lysander's finger began moving in small circles around my tight hole, prodding curiously ever once in awhile, keeping me on my toes. I leaned my head into my pillow, my ass high in the air as a finger was finally inserted. It pumped in and out a few times before a second was added. I moaned at the widening intrusion, enjoying the almost painful sting as my skin was stretched out. The fingers increased their pace, and by the time the third finger was added, I was ready for the dildo. With impatient hands, I ripped open a condom wrapper, and pinching the reservoir tip out of habit, rolled it down the shaft to the base. I squirted more lube into my hand, and eyes closing yet again, pretended that it was Lysander's own cock I was now running my slippery hand over. Although he's probably bigger than this. I shivered at that thought, knowing I had larger options still to try. But I had wanted to start out small, and work my way to bigger things so I wouldn't hurt myself. Last thing I needed was an ass injury bogging me down at school.
The dildo now thoroughly coated with lube, I held it vertically on my mattress, a small phallic skyscraper in the middle of my bed. Then with shaking legs, I maneuvered myself over top of it, pausing when I felt the tip of it prodding at my eager entrance. Securing the base against the bed with one hand, I took my neglected dick in my other hand, pumping it a few times before I began my slow descent onto the dildo. I groaned out as I felt it filling me, unyielding and alien inside. When I felt the base of it resting against my ass, I paused, letting my body stretch out to accommodate it. I pumped my hand again while I waited, keeping my excitement high. When I felt I was ready, I lifted myself slowly, before dropping down again. Immediately I was rewarded with a thrilling sensation as it rocketed up inside me, and I began a slow pace that built steadily. I closed my eyes, my attention now fully on keeping my rhythm, and on the image I formed in my head of Lysander beneath me, eyes dark and heavy lidded as I rode him. I imagined his small choking cries, remembering the small sound of pleasure he had made months before when I returned his notebook. I shifted slightly, and the dildo rubbed against my prostate on my next slide down. I bit my tongue, nearly screaming at the overwhelming sensation. I immediately lifted myself again, pausing momentarily to enjoy the expression I had conjured up for Lysander; heated, desperate. Begging me to continue. I slammed down immediately, brushing the same spot again and again.
"Aaaugh, fuuuuuck!" I came violently, picturing over and over again Lysander's face as he came with me, beautiful eyes rolling up into his head as the spasms overtook him.
I stood up slowly, my heart still pounding in my ears as I carefully removed the condom and threw it in the garbage. I put my things away, knowing I'd most likely be using them again tomorrow. I lay in bed, lazily throwing an arm over my eyes, and drifted to sleep.