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Your name is NATSUYA OKAZAKI, and fuck, are you pent up.
So, news flash, being locked in a hospital fifty-something stories in the sky, jam-packed full of angsty teen dickwads constantly trying to escape makes it hard to jerk off. The smell of rotting bodies and unwashed hormonal adolescents, watching roaches the size of rats and rats the size of cats scutter across every hallway you’re in, and the despaired cries of clueless kids who MiSs ThEiR fAmiLiEs or whatever is the second-worst environment to whack your weed in. The first-worst being your mother’s house. Shudder…
At first your dick didn’t really come to mind. Because, you know, getting borderline kidnapped by a mildly attractive emo guy kinda takes top priority in one’s mind. But apparently your associate Tolys disagreed.
“Dude, you haven’t jerked off since we got here? At all?” He enunciated very loudly in your ear just a few minutes earlier.
“Nope.” You shrug and lean against the wall. Tolys continues to violate you(r privacy) and you let him because… it’s Tolys, what are you supposed to do? “Not once.”
“Coward,” he snickers and you produce an eye roll so fat and obnoxious it would put Honey Booboo to shame. Your significantly shorter companion crouches down to your level, and you take notice of how his knees buckle just slightly, something that usually happens when– oh god. No way. “I started edging, like, two days ago.”
No fucking way.
Now, Tolys, he’s kind of a porn addict. When he’s not spreading misinformation online he’s masturbating for tedious amounts of time. Even in public a lot of the time, like while he’s working his miserable minimum wage job, the thought of which makes your stomach turn in ways you’re not entirely comfortable acknowledging. Or, the only other time you met him in person, shaking hands with someone who might as well be your god. Shaking cummy paws. Rubbing one out with the fat cats, one could say. At one point he even admitted to “busting” to a low quality screenshot of your mutual ‘friend’ Holland’s ass, because he “looked femoid enough from behind”. But you can’t really blame him. If you weren’t too bummed out all the time to keep your dick hard you’d immerse yourself in a fictional sexverse too. It’s just… really? Right now?
Tolys appears to have noticed your pale face lighting up like an overpriced Christmas tree, and he does that thing you hate-but-also-sorta-kinda-maybe like. His head tilts back and he laughs through a gasp, moaning near the end, as he whispers something to you that shatters your mental block: “Y’know, I’m still going.”
You abscond immediately, storming off to the stairwell, since apparently functioning elevators were out of the budget.
“You’re gross, Tolys,” you call from your spot at the end of the hallway.
“You’re a poser, Natsuh!” is the reply you get in return.
Stupid Tolys. Stupid fucking Tolys. He’s probably just lying since he knows you’re too autistic to read his fatass facial expressions.
You don’t know if this is your intrusive thoughts or whatever made up shit your “therapist” calls your faggy brainwaves, but it needs to stop, because you’re not gay, dicks just make you uncomfortable. Almost too uncomfortable to pull your hoodie over your significantly less limp cock as you trot down like, a twelfth of a flight of stairs. You usually end up around here when you’re overwhelmed with shit. The steps are pretty steep and sunken so you can sit on them with minimal back pain.
Again you press your back into a cold wall, this time absentmindedly running your hands up your baggy pants and taking uncomfortable notice of how your jean-boner (when your pants fold upwards and give the impression of a dick way too girthy to belong to you) has become, in fact, a regular boner. It’s not as hard as it could be, but it’s not the kind you can think about women over the age of 25 and be done with. Your teeth fold over your bottom lip, chapped from the bipolar weather and constant screaming matches with that pink-haired bitch. As a shaking sigh, just barely grounded in your typical bassato tone, escapes your throat, you lean your head back and allow your legs to gradually swing open as your cold hand, which is rapidly warming up, makes clothed contact with your agitated phallus.
Just quickly you come back down to earth and tilt your head up and down to observe the area. Not like you’d realistically have to worry, everyone here travels in a pack, like some corny Pixar movie. But notwithstanding you check anyway.
As expected, no adolescent footsteps writhed with untied shoelaces pipe in to amp up your humiliation. Guess there’s no excuse not to take care of this now.
You push your hand into the fat of your thighs, pushing the bottom of your hand into the strained denim and rubbing deep circles in the general area to the opposite side of your boner, which has grown and taken invasive residence up the thighvage of your left leg. Convenient, because despite being right handed, much like 90% of the population after the consequences of 50s Catholicism, you handle your fragile cargo with your left hand. Holland says it’s a psychological thing, so as to not get jizz on your belongings. But you choose to think of it as basic common sense. Anyways, back to your dick.
Another, even less masculine sigh breaches the containment of your throat. God, how repressed even are you? You can barely even control yourself, moving on immediately to running your skinny fingers up the length of your cock. The tightness of your jeans combined with how fat your thighs are, and the way both your hand and dick are beginning to twitch, makes for a really satisfying rub. Your fingertips feel around for erect veins and when you lay fingerprints on them you stammer without speaking. Hell you could call that noise a moan. If you were fucking stupid, that is.
You begin to draw circles spiraling up the outer length of your dick and the girlish noises only increase in volume and intensity. Biting your lip until you feel like it’s cracking doesn’t suffice so you settle for pushing your face into your jacket’s sleeve and whining into that. As you infringe the purpose of the fly and zipper sewn into your pants your mind wanders, to get the ball rolling faster and faster down the hill that is your newly reignited depravity. Of course the catalyst of this whole thing comes (you’d say something here, but you’re better than that) to mind, your kinda friend’s own poorly timed erection, complete with glazing. As plain weird as you feel for thinking it, you can’t help but wonder if he touches himself like this through his jeans. That gives your hornybrain an idea, and you take your arm down from your face, opting to shove it deep in your pocket, and biting the long-undone collar of your button-down to conceal your noises of arousal. Again your fingertips feel around for a sensitive area, and once your glans are so much as brushed you hunch over and make friction with yourself at an almost alarming pace.
You take to using your index and thumb fingers and sort-of twisting the very tip of your dick, bobbing the very meat of it in your quickly tightening boxers, and it feels, fittingly, orgasmic. Your leg begins instinctively bouncing at the feeling of burning pleasure, which, remember that feeling you got from your palm and your thighs? Yeah? Doubles that. Hell, triples it, even. It’s like fucking the tightest ass of the most virgin slut your titilated brainfog can muster up an oxymoron for. It’s probably the fact that you haven’t touched yourself in ages but god this feels amazing.
Switching to using three fingertips and furiously sliding them over any part of your dick that gives you the begging go-ahead, you feel a little drop of precum slide out of your overly engrossed tip and you double over in the pleasure, allowing your jaw to slack and for a loud, guttural groan to slip out, shivering and echoing as your body does.
You feel it. You’re nearing an orgasm, probably a messy one. You should probably do something about that, or so the little bits of rationality left in you whisper, totally ruining the fun. So you do, in fact, do something about it. Your movements, while still deep and desperate, slow immensely. It’s moderate, measured. You won’t stop cold in your tracks, but you’ll do the next best thing. You’re going to do that whole thing again, hopefully not moani– exhaling loud enough to summon the whole damn oasis to your safe haven.
Just momentarily your trembling hand exits your pocket, not bothering to stuff the inside back into the inside, and unzips your jeans, letting your dick to spring free, contained only by the paper-thin fabric of your black boxers, now bleached with white precum. You like the burning sensation that comes with palming through denim, again, for reasons you don’t know how to acknowledge, but nothing beats doing it pointlessly-clothed. God what are you even saying at this point? …don’t know, don’t care, time to masturbate. Good call, hormonemaxxer.
Your position on the stairs changes too. Now you’re leaning snugly between the step and the wall, back arched in a heterosexual manner with your right leg resting up on the stair above for easier access, both for your hand and eyes. Seeing your dick pulsing and leaking the way it is while you cup it in your palm, the sight being a perfect illustration for how you feel with bursts of fluttering heat jolting down your entire body, implores you to speed this whole thing up a little bit.
Tugging your dick through your underwear is something you typically do without really thinking, like to play with yourself rather than masturbate, as little sense as that makes. But at the moment all of your attention is on your touch, and man does it feel a hundred times better when you actually try. You pull your meat upright and allow it to take up more space in your boxers; you always forget how long and skinny it is, the dripping head pushing through the slit in the front of this ruined pair as little translucent strings of pre taper out of your hole and stream down your tent. But you won’t let your dick out just yet. Rather you reach out and grab the length in your fist and rapidly vibrate your hand there, using the warm wet gauzy material as a fucked up fleshlight.
In a raunchy display of no longer giving a shit, the corners of your lips turn up in a perverted smirk as the staggering pleasure becomes overwhelming. A tiny sliver of saliva hangs from your mouth, which you hadn’t even realized was salivating until now, while your hand starts to pump bead after bead of precum out of your tip, firmly pulling the layer that is the boxer material up and down your length, from stretching the skin of the base to closing your fingers over the leakage. The second you really squeeze one particular piece of your cock, the outer area just under the head, your legs momentarily slam in on one another, just your knees managing to touch before you force them back open to hyperfocus on that spot. Do female g-spots exist on dicks? Because the way you reel back and choke out a giddy moan-laugh after pressing your thumb into it, you could’ve sworn you found your clitoris.
Immediately you repeat one of your earlier masturbatory actions, taking three fingers and vibrating them there, while your other hand clenches the base and pushes your thumb where that spot would be above your balls, and holy fuck. Yet again you lose all control, waves of primal lust washing over you like a tsunami, crashing down and taking out any restraint your broken brain had left. More and more sounds and deliriously aroused noises are breathed out, as your fingers shakily carry out their orders to the best of their abilities, despite your body absolutely falling apart. With each desperate pant your hips jerk forward into the warmth of your hands, and the croon of your back roundens. Are your eyes watering from pleasure or pain from not having blinked in five minutes? Who even knows at this point?
You get that intense feeling in your gut again. It almost hurts how badly you need to cum.
“Haah- fuck, oh god, ohhh god.” Uttering gibberish under your breath is all you can do as you teeter on the edge, closer and closer to cumming… in your pants. Oh, you should probably fix that.
In your lust-brained haze you realize, oh shit, you’re about to cum in your pants. Before you can react your vision goes white while hot semen floods your boxers. A panicked whimper arises from your throat as you jam the flap down and let your dick spring fully out. Strings upon strings erupt from your bouncing cock, your thighs convulsing violently. You mumble a final, “ohhhh godddd…” as you grab your sensitive dick and milk every last glob of cum out that you can.
A minute passes as you regain your grasp on reality. Incoherent thoughts cross your mind, but a couple stand out. A), you’re cold. B), there is so much cum on your pants. And shirt. And stomach, somehow? You can’t tell if the wetness on your face is jizz, tears, or sweat. Why the fuck did you do that? You’re a mess. You somehow look worse than you feel.
C), you are… really tired. So tired that you can hardly lift your arms to stuff your flaccid joystick back in your cummy console case. Laying here covered in your own ball juice with your dick out is beyond risky. And really gross. And it’s been like, ten minutes, someone could come up here. But resting for a second can’t hurt. Can it?
Nah…
Probably not…