So close

by BRK

 No matter what he does John can’t seem to climax, and it’s really starting to be a problem. How can he fix this?

Added: Apr 2022 2,628 words 1,919 views 4.5 stars (4 votes) This story was commissioned via Patreon Vignette Party.

J

John was hard. Again.

Inwardly, he groaned. He couldn’t take much more of this. Why had he had to turn on the TV? Every show, every commercial, every promo now seemed stocked with men meant to trigger his libido. Web pages, too. Delivery guys. Even his own reflection was doing him in. Was it him? Or was the world slowly ratcheting up his slow torment, every day cruelly escalating his desperate need to cum, just once, just fucking once…!

Plus, he was running out of lube. He snorted at the sheer bathos of it all. His towering, epic need to finally, euphorically orgasm, undercut by his dwindling supply of extra-slick Boy Butter.

He prowled the apartment restlessly, feeling caged, as the heat of his arousal rose in him. Could he even go to the corner pharmacy like this? The clerks would see it in his eyes regardless of whether he managed to hide his raging erection, even before he handed over the KY or Vaseline or whatever they had. Throwing in a bag of Cheetos and a Coke Zero wouldn’t hide the fact that he’d come here for lube, just lube, the wank-grease that he needed more than food or sleep.

Going to the store would be a mistake anyway, because he knew there would be at least one guy in the place that would send him reeling with desire. Fit and handsome, with a gentle smile and thick arms and a round, tight butt to turn his knees to jelly and make him crazy with a need to cum. Just the smirk of the knowing cashier could do it to him, he knew—he was that weak, that susceptible now. Especially if it was that twunk with the dark blue hair and the guyliner, the one with the tiny unicorn tattoo low on his neck, just peeking out of his stripey uniform shirt.

He found himself in his bedroom, gazing down at the extra-large plastic tube lying almost spent on his nightstand, the cap messily replaced after his last heartbreaking attempt: a long, futile wank to relieve his morning wood, aborted after an agonizing hour only by a viciously cold shower that, in the end, had barely made his treacherous junk subside for the space of a single morning.

Lube. It was down to this. He’d almost made it this far, only for a lack of dick-slick to make his desperation go critical.

He kind of wished he were his old college roommate right now. It had been his first sight of an uncut cock, thick and long and heavy, hairy balls dangling casually behind it, and John had just stared at it while Will grinned at him, proud and unabashed. Heck, Will had even demonstrated a few times how he didn’t need any slick to rub one out, just the slow, sensuous strokes of his own hand as his generous foreskin slid rhythmically over his wide, pert cockhead…

John growled as his straining dick tried to get even harder.

He gripped himself helplessly through his precum-stained boxer-briefs, the squeeze sending a pleasant, anticipatory tremor all through him. He felt slightly dizzy, like he hadn’t eaten in days, but it wasn’t food that was the problem. Fuck, it had been ages. A month? Five weeks? He hadn’t gotten anything done in a while. The deadline for his third novel loomed close, and yet, more and more all he could think of was his dick, of jerking and jerking and stroking and constantly thinking of dick and not cumming, not once, not even the tiniest spurt.

His balls ached, hot and swollen, like they’d recklessly built up all the cum he hadn’t released. Vats of the stuff, packed to capacity and brimming with hot seed, ready to spectacularly discharge the moment he broke through his unsurpassable cum-barrier. But then, his whole body felt that way. He could almost imagine endless, burning cum coursing through his veins now… his heart pumping liters upon liters of white-hot jizz through his fevered system… cum filling the space behind his eyes, surging up his throat… so much steaming spunk just under the surface of his smooth, lust-saturated, utterly wanton flesh, begging for a catastrophic, blissful, geyser-eruption release that would not come.

He sat on the edge of the bed, hating himself, hating that one fateful decision that had put him in this state. It wasn’t just his tightly circumcised cock that made him wish he were someone else. He huffed a laugh. Will wouldn’t have gotten himself in this kind of mess, he thought bitterly.

He closed his eyes, but his head was full of hard cock. His own hard cock, thick and veiny, looming huge in his mind, a rigid, phallic monolith that radiated hunger and heat. Other cocks, myriads of hard men, floated faintly around it, barely-perceived satellites of this mighty, all-powerful prick. The building need of weeks of unrelease had slowly made it the focus of all attention, all desire, all action. He could sense it, smell it, feel its heat even in his mindspace. Its urgent demand to be touched, stroked, forced into release imposed itself on every recess of his mind.

Was that what was needed? Did he have to bash through his bonds with sheer willpower, like an action hero screwing up his nerve confront the personal demons holding him back, just in time for the big fight scene? Was that the secret? Would willpower alone force his own big, explosive climax at long last?

He had to stroke. The necessity was overpowering and unendurable.

Gritting his teeth, he angrily shucked his boxer-briefs, kicking them away to a corner while his rigid erection sprang wetly in to a painful, vertical monument to his unslakable ardor, precum spattering over his worn blue pocket tee. Grabbing up the tube on the nightstand he pulled off the cap and eked out a smear of slick onto his palm. He tried to gee himself up to a state of unstoppable determination. He could do this. He could do this. He had to do this.

Unable to hold back anymore he wrapped his hand around his hard dick and moaned aloud from lewd, toe-curling pleasure. Maybe that was the lucky part, or maybe it was the worst of it, but no matter how much abuse his cock took, no matter how many hours he flogged his adamantine erection, every time he slid his hand around his warm, rigid shaft felt like the first time he’d ever been touched. His shivered hard, pulse quickening as he began to stroke, each slide of his barely-lubed hand sending tides of constant ecstasy through him.

It was a curse, he thought. A gift and a curse. He’d just started, and he was already panting. A bead of sweat slid down his temple, his brow prickling with heat.

Focus, he thought. He had to focus. He stroked a little faster, picturing his determination as a tank plowing through buildings, cement walls, dikes holding back lakes of boiling jizz. He was letting nothing stop him. He would cum. He would cum.

He stroked, twisting his hand, sending untold pleasure through every inch of him. His balls were thick and heavy, tingling from the stimulation he was giving himself, and he clutched them with his other hand, making himself moan again. He felt close, so close… just like he had every damned time he’d jerked himself for the last five weeks. Every time he felt his proximity to the edge, a galloping horse that would never stop, never release him, never let him feel the true mind-breaking euphoria of orgasm, not now, maybe not ever again—

Banging broke into his stroke-haze. Someone at the door. His heart stuttered, but he kept on stroking, unrelenting. He’d been at it for a while—an hour? Two? He wasn’t sure. His hand felt rough on his dick, the lube thickened and overtaxed. There might be enough in the tube to reslick his—

More banging. He started, annoyed and anxious at the same time. Had he ordered something? He didn’t think there were any Amazon deliveries pending. Who could it be?

The banging stopped, and a tense, waiting pause filled the apartment. He crept to the front door, dick still in hand, his dirty tee shirt the only item of clothing on him. He felt embarrassed, like he’d been reduced from civilized man to utter savage. “Who’s there?” he called through the door, trying to sound like the don’t-mess-with-me guy he definitely wasn’t.

“Open the door, John,” said a familiar voice from the other side.

Six different emotions washed over him. He hesitated, then turned the deadbolt and opened the door, peering around it cautiously while he tried to position himself so his bottom half was hidden behind it.

There he was. Sebastian, his ex, still as handsome as ever, dapper in a high-end navy pea coat and dark jeans. His rakish good looks were as arresting as always, the kind of swoonworthy, high-cheekboned permastubble man’s man whose face and untrained, natural physique were perfect for modeling cologne in menswear magazines or making yachting look like something you wanted to try, if he was there, too.

His eyes, though, were all John ever really saw anymore. Their brightness glittered instantly in the center of his being, filling his mind with a brilliant crystal-blue light…

Impossibly, his dick stiffened further in his hand, and his balls churned, reacting animalistically to their favorite person. John forced himself to concentrate, making himself sneer, though all he wanted was to pull the beautiful, smirking man once more into his apartment, into his life, into his bed, his betrayals be damned.

“What are you doing here, Seb?” he heard himself say, as if from a distance.

Seb smiled his cockiest smile. “Would you believe,” he said, his resonant voice subsuming John’s thoughts like it always had, “I was in the middle of fucking my new boyfriend this morning—Steve, he’s a personal trainer, he’d make you hard in a second—and I suddenly remembered the… condition I’d left you in?”

Of course he would believe it. He believed everything Seb told him, whether he wanted to or not. He hated it and craved it at the same time.

He tightened his concentration, sweating with the effort of it. Behind the door, he stroked himself slowly, too turned on by the sight of this man and the power he had over him. “Why are you here?” he made himself ask again.

Seb just smiled. “Are you going to let me in?” he asked.

John opened the door, and Seb stepped into the apartment they’d shared grandly, like an honored guest and not the cocky, backstabbing ex he was. He moved into the living room, casually pulling off his coat and setting it on the back of an armchair, revealing a pristine white crewneck underneath. John followed him, stroking helplessly.

Seb stood in front of the brown leather couch, raising his sculpted brows expectantly. Swallowing hard in chagrin and anticipation, John moved to sit in front of him, sliding his hand up and down relentlessly on his unflagging erection. Seb smiled and unzipped his fly, hauling out his big, flaccid dick.

“The sooner you help me,” Seb said in his reverberating voice, “the sooner you’ll find the release you need.”

Some part of John wanted to resist. This man deserved a lot of things from John, none of them pleasant, and a blow job certainly wasn’t one of them. But… there was nothing he could do. Seb was right, after all. He had to do this if he was going to find his own climax at last. He should be grateful, really. Seb had come here, just for this, and he sure hadn’t had to.

John took the hefty, soft phallus into his mouth, stimulating it to hardness with his lips and tongue. Seb was mostly a shower, so this already-big cock didn’t get much bigger, but at full turgidity it filled his mouth almost exactly right, and he got to work using all the tricks he knew Seb loved to make him cum as quickly and powerfully as he could. Before long he could feel Seb responding, becoming more and more aroused. “Yes,” Seb said, pushing his dick harder into John’s mouth, shoving it over his lips and lolling tongue and into his throat. “Yes, baby, you are so good at this.”

Inwardly, John preened at the praise. He redoubled his efforts, and soon Seb was moaning happily, making the sounds he made when he was close. John felt excitement building in him, because he knew this was it. His own intense, endless closeness was finally going to crack. It was going to happen!

Seb grunted, and suddenly John’s mouth was filling with bitter spunk. He swallowed it eagerly, not because he wanted it but because of what it meant for him. Seb came hard, spurting against John’s throat, and John took it, lapping at Seb’s cock to complete his pleasure. Then, as soon as Seb had released his last drop, he felt it. His own climax, finally.

He pulled off Seb and fell back on the couch, just in time to start gushing enormous jets of cum all over himself, the couch, the carpet beyond. His face was covered with spunk, his shirt became soaked, and still he kept cumming, each eruption flooding him with impossible pleasure.

Finally, he subsided, panting hard. He was sweaty, wrecked, covered in cum, and completely blissed. He stared up at Seb, who was smirking down at him, very pleased with himself.

His dick was already tucked away, John noticed vaguely through his shimmering euphoria. He was going to leave again. Would he do it, before he went? He had to, right?

He stared into those blue eyes, mentally begging his ex to say the words that would release him, undoing the edict that had originally been mere sex-play between them. Say it, he pleaded in his mind. Say, “John, you can cum without me.” Say it. Please?

Seb’s smile widened, as if he knew exactly what John was thinking. “This was fun,” he said, those blue eyes glittering deep in the recesses of John’s mind. “I can definitely pencil this in every so often. I’m helpful that way,” he added, tauntingly.

John was still awash in pleasure, and though this prospect sounded good—another orgasm like this—there was something he wanted to object to about it. As he struggled with this, Seb bent and picked up his coat, draping it over one arm. He caught John’s eye and winked. “See you in a month?” he said, his cocksure tone making it clear he was only pretending to ask.

Before John could respond Seb had already swept out of the apartment and was gone, the sound of the heavy front door thudding closed in the quiet apartment punctuating John’s newly dictated future: four more weeks of desperate, urgent arousal until he finally, spectacularly, came again, like he just had, a dozen orgasms all at once.

John stood with a sigh, peeling his sodden shirt off him and heading for the shower, wondering as went—and not for the first time—whether he was blessed or cursed.

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