The Cycle

He'd been clean before. But there hadn't been many moments where he'd stepped out of the shower, and the world had said, " Finally, welcome, we've been waiting for you!" This is not to say he was a dirty person, but there's something about that day, when he stepped out of the cold shower, to a hot summer day, just a mile or so from the beach, that he felt good. And I mean the kind of good where his cock swelled without touching.

He loved the feeling of wielding his heft, he'd move it to and fro, swaying his hips, savouring the pull of gravity and the attraction to the earth, of being one with it. He'd let the feeling build up from the root of his cock, swirl about his balls, feel the goosebumps creep up on the skin of his belly. All the while, the weight would get heavier and heavier. His penis would get meatier, more solid, rubbing against his inner thighs. His hands would run slowly up his thighs, feeling his asshole tingle and clench as some instinct in him pushed him to clench. In and out, in ... out, inline with his breathing.

His deep breaths would pull the cold air from the world around him and bring it deep within him to stoke the coals that had just started burning bright within him. It was a wonder if he could keep his fingers away from the offending appendage, sometimes he would, choosing instead to nurture the warm coals of his arousal. So that it may colour his interactions throughout the day.

He didn't today, instead, he brought his hands up the soft skin of his inner thighs, scratching, with his too trim nails. He whimpered, begging someone, anyone, himself for more. He would, of course, oblige.

His hands were large, soft, but he could never quite moisturize enough to get rid of all the callouses, so he squeezed a decadent dollop of oil from his nightstand, legs apart swinging his slowly hardening member like a pendulum. One handed, he wrung, spreading the cool oil to his palm, the other he gripped tight onto something. Already, he was occupied with his penis, the heat of it, the blood moving lazily along its veins, the promise of it.

At a certain point, he whispered softly to himself, "Oh god', as his eagerness travelled through his taint and caught in his belly. Then, anchored against something firm with his other hand, he brought his palm, slick, oiled, against the head of his penis. A shiver travelled, up his shins, flowing along the back of his thighs, into his ass. It travelled through, right into the head of his penis, prompting another shiver. He stood there, caught in a virtuous, perfect cycle, getting harder, pulsing, slowly but surely straightening from a lazy pendulum into a solid, fragrant, flag.

He slid his hands down, along the underside of his shaft, squeezing his balls, feeling the heavy load they carried on that warm summer day, and passed them, briefly massaging his taint with a groan. Back up, he got to his shaft and began to stroke.

Wrapping his hand just below the head, he pulled down, then up, and let his heavily lidded eyes focus on his audience. He watched eyes follow the motion of his stroke. Her breathes matched his rhythm, even as he got faster. He felt his ass clench in need. He saw her start to almost hyperventilate. She stumbled on nothing, falling back against the wall in picture of flaring nostrils and hands grabbing at nothing.

As his hands got faster, her hands approached her own sex, digging through layers of cloth. Her hands, claws, almost tore at herself. Sweat dripped down his brow, down the curve of his back as he wrung that thing from deep within himself. His eyes stung with sweat, he kept them open, locked onto his audience.

It came almost too fast to see, almost painfully, like whatever he was chasing, he'd suddenly caught. With a cry, his knees buckled, his core muscles, already burning, shivered as he slid against the wall, shooting his seed, spurt after spurt onto his writhing partner.

He was blissful, blank. Now he'd been scoured clean, on the inside. Often on days like this, he would sit on the cold floor, swimming in happy chemicals, until he became cognizant of his drying sweat and cum. He might take another shower, he might be seduced again, by the cool air, and the heavy meat swaying between his legs.

Right then, he was still mired in the new colours of the world, and in the soft mewling of his partner, as she shivered in the throes of her own orgasm.