I gave myself an early mark from work the other day and sauntered home half an hour before my usual departure time. The Drummer’s car was in the driveway and the front door was unlocked; he usually greets me at the car if he’s home and I idly wondered where he was.
Of course, he was where one would expect a man at home by himself when his partner isn’t due home for the foreseeable future: on the floor lying against the lounge suite with pants by his side, cock in his hand and a vibrator in his anus, wanking in synch with some porn starlet on the computer taking a gigantic phallus up her bottom.
In fantasyland, I’m sure a woman entering the front door after a long day, shoulders bearing the weight of the world and hands gripping the evening’s dinner, would drop everything and dive to her man’s cock, wanting nothing more than contributing to his pleasure. Nope. I looked, looked again to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating, said hi and went about unpacking the groceries. Perishables need to be refrigerated as soon as possible after purchase.
He was still going when I returned to the lounge room and asked me to rub his balls. Okay, I’m not completely heartless, even when I’m several steps behind someone else’s state of arousal.
I almost screamed for an ambulance when I reached down and saw the smeared and bloody mess around his balls and anus. I was sure he was haemorrhaging but was too full of distracting feel-good sensations to notice that he appeared to be bleeding to death.
He didn’t share my state of panic.
“It’s just that cherry-flavoured lube you don’t use, darling.”
Oh, I remember that stuff. Vile shit. Tastes like cherry-flavoured bronchitis medicine mixed with battery acid.