Page 11 of Grave Dissonance
My cock is a fucking traitor. I should junk punch myself so the little motherfucker knows who’s boss. I had two hot-as-fuck women on my bed tonight and neither one of them stirred any resemblance of passion. The only pussy that’s got my cock saluting like a sailor is covered with Marley’s cum.
My phone dings again.
Marley: Go ahead, Iggy. Lick up that pussy and pretend I’m shooting in your cock-hungry mouth again.
My dick twitches reading the dirty text. Fuck. Who knew Marley could talk like this? Usually when we bang girls, it’s me who takes the lead, but apparently that doesn’t seem to work for either of us anymore.
Marley: Better get to it, bro, you don’t want it to dry up on you.
My skin feels hot. It wouldn’t shock me if I burnt up right here on the spot.
The strain of my raging cock against my jeans has me going out of my damn mind. I should tear into this chick’s pussy until I come. Fuck, I don’t even eat these women out. Never had a desire to put my mouth anywhere near their used cunts, but right now that pussy coated with Marley’s cum looks better than anything I’ve ever seen before. Like a desperate drunk, glaring at a bottle of mouthwash, I fall to my knees.
The girl moans as I lap at every drop of cum on her cunt. Fuck, why is she ruining this for me? “Shut the fuck up,” I moan into her pussy. This one gets the hint and zips her mouth. My eyes shut and I try to convince myself that it’s not a soft pussy I’m lapping at, but Marley’s hard chest.
Another text.
Marley: Good boy, you’re doing a great job cleaning up my mess.
Another text.
This time it’s a picture of him holding his thick, veiny dick. His hand firmly grips his cock right under the head, highlighting the two silver piercings at the tip.
Marley: Imagine it’s shooting directly from my cock into your pathetic cum-loving mouth.
Fuck.
Why is he doing this to me? Why is Marley hell-bent on driving me crazy? My tongue laps at her clit and I’m consumed with her pussy until I’ve gotten the last remnants of Marley’s cum. Once I’m satisfied that it’s all now transferred to my mouth, I rise and stare at the image of my best friend’s perfect dick.
“Get out,” I say to the groupie.
“What?” she asks, her tone shocked. “We’re just getting started.”
“Nah, sweetheart, we’re finished. Now grab your shit andget the fuck out.”
The girl doesn’t beg to stay. She collects her things and adjusts her skirt before scampering out the door. I don’t even bother watching her leave. I fixate my eyes on my phone. It vibrates again with another text.
Marley: When you’re done with the girl, open the box.
I grab the white box and tear into it, revealing a pair of black boxer briefs. My eyes scan them quickly and I take in the wet spot. Jesus fuckin’ Christ, he’s come in them. Before me is a glob of Marley’s delicious sperm. I don’t even wait for the next text as I bring the briefs to my nose, inhaling his scent before I open my lips and clean them with my tongue.
CHAPTER 6
Marley
I’ve been sitting in the stillness of the dark for hours with my brain refusing to shut down so that the peaceful calm of sleep can overtake me. Instead, my mind rages with the constant panic that I fucked up my life by sending some inappropriate texts to my best friend. What the fuck did I do? I know what I did. Some unhinged shit, that’s what. What was I thinking sending those out-of-pocket texts to Iggy?
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
I burnt my skin under a scalding shower. Popped some Ativan to numb my overthinking brain. I even called mytherapist, whom I hadn’t talked to in months. He informed me it was one a.m. and I wired his office ten thousand dollars for an hour of his time. The impromptu session wasn’t any help. He had the audacity to tell me to be honest about my feelings. Motherfucker, I can’t be honest about shit.Hello, that’s why I’m in therapy.I’ve got issues regulating my brain that’s spiraling out of control as we speak.
The reality of therapy is that the patient has to do the work. Processing my brain’s rollercoaster ride for Iggy Donnavan is something I’m not ready for. The only thing I’m aware of is, the weight of the pain in my chest is so heavy I might go into cardiac arrest.
Oh my god, I told him to lick the cum from my used underwear. Why the fuck did I do that? Like I could have brushed the girl off, been a dick. I rather enjoy people assuming I am a prick. It melds well with the entire piece-of-shit rockstar aesthetic. Maybe Iggy will throw my cum-stained boxer briefs at me and call me a sick fuck. Yes, that’s what’s going to happen. He will call me out and the two of us can go back to laughing about this.
What if this makes shit more awkward? Things between Iggy and I are already tense as it is and, unlike him, I don’t have MDMA to fall back on as my perpetual excuse for why I do fucked-up shit. Right now, I wish Ativan had some sort of over-the-top horny side effect.Sorry, bro, my Ativan kicked in and shit got weird.Except why would shit get weird with Iggy and me instead of the groupie that was in front of me in my hotel room?
Jesus Christ, fuck, heroin couldn’t explain this shit away.