There used to be a boy who loved himself more than anyone else ever could, knowing exactly where his allegiance lies and who he wanted to be. He was powerful, but at one point, all power becomes the downfall. There was a time when he thought that he could withstand any burdens and clear any trials so long as he kept his goal in mind and his heart focused on the prize. Yes, BlackStar knew better than anyone else that he could overcome any hardship.
He was a proud boy, training day after day and night after night, never letting up his regime as he build up his endurance. His pumps were the most powerful of them all, drawing out puffs and moans as he tended to himself with his right hand, the muscles more beefy than the left. It was seasoned, he believed, as it could do him no wrong, drafted for the war at the tender age of twelve, truly a veteran of the masses. But there was another rival in town that day, one more tender than his extension.
His fried chicken.
In the afternoon, one of his most favourite hobbies was to perform his ritual in front of the TV, alone with the volume cranked up and the curtains drawn shut. He would have this moment of peace by himself, left alone for at least three to four hours a day, courtesy of the absence of his roommate as she used the time for her own pleasures. But today, Tsubaki had dropped a bucket in front of him earlier that hour, reminding him to not eat too much lest he has no room for dinner. But no one tells BlackStar what to do, and why else would she plop five drumsticks in his reach unless she knew that this would be the maximum that he was allowed? It was destiny. He peeled off the lid with a few fingers, swiping two legs instantly, feeling the grease coat each his bare hands.
His magnificent sea orbs widened and his mouth was salivating, dripping onto the sofa as Tsubaki said her farewells before going back out again. But he didn't hear her, couldn't hear her as the crunch of crispy skin crashed in his ears, his teeth tearing through the armor of deep fried flour. As the oils spread in his mouth, a moan dragged out from his lips. It was just so good, so delicious.
BlackStar worked at the one in his right hand first, uncaring if he appeared barbaric or otherwise. So long as he loved himself, it didn't matter what others thought of him. It just didn't matter, because the only thing that did was himself. He wouldn't have minded if—
Oh, there was his two o'clock show.
The Antique Show rolled their opening credit, finishing just as BlackStar had reached the meat covered by his filthy hands. Just on schedule, he felt the bulge in his pants growing more and more uncomfortable as his package wanted to be delivered. It twitched once, and then twice as BlackStar struggled to finish the chicken in his right hand, licking the bone and stripping it completely of its contents before moving onto his main show. He threw the leg back into the basket, standing instantly to shove his shorts down while he balanced the other untouched chicken in his left hand.
He felt the release of his three inched glory finally emerging from its constraints, the freedom getting to its head as it stiffened even more from the chill of the air. BlackStar couldn't waste another moment. He immediately gripped his limb of divine completeness and holy perfection, biting his bottom lip as he held in a grunt of ecstasy. The chicken grease transferred from his right hand to his dick, making it glisten from the light of the TV.
What a sight, eh Dmitri?
He caressed it lovingly with the tip of his ring finger, rubbing the side of his shaft up and down, the slickness of the warm oil making it easier to slide skin over skin. The smell of musk and deep fried chicken mixed in the air as the host of the show called the first item to be curated up to the screen. BlackStar threw his head back, squinting his eyes open at the chicken still in his left hand.
Should he wait until he finished one thing before moving onto the other? He struggled to control his hand around Dmitri as he thought about his choice, knowing that with each passing second, his regime was also falling behind schedule. The announcer's voice beaconed him to pump faster, but the fragrance of the oils spurred him to lift the chicken up to his lips.