028 "It Belongs To You" by Abraxas 2010-08-06
A knock rattled Sokka.
"What?" He grumbled, groggy, looking left and right. He arose - to realize everything was exposed. "Coming!" Shirts could not be found. Boxers lay where they had been tossed. He grabbed it and struggled, hopping up and down, just to get them up his waist.
Who could it be at that time of night? he wondered - even at a dorm it did not seem right.
Behind the door was - nobody. The hallway was empty and dim and quiet. Except at the end of the passage where a TV played. Maybe a couple of geeks played WoB. A typical Wednesday at BSSU.
I imagined it?
Then - a glimpse revealed it. A bag. Crumpled. Left at the base of the door. And not a clue about who did it.
It was the climax of a night that started with the call. A regular almost mundane event. Who could it be? Zuko loved to tease about Sokka's very special fan. Somebody was obsessed with the Inuit. The strange part was what, exactly, he or she got out of it. That nobody understood.
Anyway...that night it went too far.
That call - and its silence announced what it was.
"Eh, [i+[you, again? Who is this? How do you get off? Is it the sound of my voice calling you a cunt? You sick dumb fuck! Is it that simple? Don't you want to rape my body and everything? My hard, tan body? Ha! Ha! I bet you just wanna look at it - you can't, you can't - and it must be killing you that you can't see it and touch it. But I can touch it. Yeah. Tough it all over. And I mean all over. All over those places you imagine and those places you can't imagine. Even those everyday places. Yeah - there goes the shirt. There you go - you six-pack of awesome! You want it..."
"Yes..."
The voice formed out of a whisper and sounded like a breath instead of a word.
Sokka's own moaning and groaning drowned that reply as a tent grew between his legs.
Oh, well, if it's gonna get hard like that...what's the sense letting it go to waste?
"I got you something my special creepy breathy phone friend. Yeah, I it's all hard and big and it's standing at attention. All eight inches of hard, southern water tribe cock. Don't you want it ramming in and out of your orifices?"
A rumble came through the phone - the sound of male pleasure - echoed by Sokka.
"I'm jacking off - hear it? I'm so so so swollen! Oh, god, I want to explode! Oh, god!"
The phone slipped out of his hands.
"Maybe it went too far..."
All that remained was bag. A brown paper bag. Seared at the edges. It must have been from somebody at the dorm.
There was a note: "it belongs to you," it read.
Sokka tore it asunder - the content tumbled onto his lap - a sock soaked with warm fresh cum.
END
