It’s not that I don’t get plenty of pussy outside of this little experiment in exhibitionism. With the way the magazines keep voting me as the Sexiest Man of the Year, I have so many offers to fuck, that frankly, it feels a little unfair to the other actors out there.
But the babe in the Bradford…
She’s something else.
Something special.
Because as much as she watches me…
I get to watch her right back.
Poor thing probably doesn’t even know it, either.
I stroke my big, thick cock for her there in the window, clenching my shaft tight in my fist. I’m telling myself that it’s fine, the way I look at her through my blinds.
She’s watching me. I’m watching her.
Two way transaction. Mutual benefits.
And if she didn’t want to be watched, I figure she’d probably either close her curtains or put on more clothes, for fuck’s sake. But it’s the darkest part of me—the part that thinks she might not realize at all—that takes over as I stroke my cock for her.
That’s the thought that makes me come.
I blow my load all over my fucking window. It’s a lot—creamy and thick and enough to fill three shot glasses, if anyone was so inclined. Shit, I bet the babe at the Bradford is inclined.
Especially with the way she presses her palm against her own window when I jizz for her. She fucking wants me. And I fucking want her.
But for that to happen…I need her to come to me.
To me, and then for me.
Over and over and over again.
Three
Quinn
I need to get out of my fucking apartment—and fast.
The biggest problem I’ve found with my post-CEO life is time. Too much of it and not enough to do with it all. If I had a husband or a family, it wouldn’t be an issue.
But I don’t. I just have The Dick across the street at the Birmingham and way too much time to obsess over it.
Sure, I go to the gym. I work out until I’m exhausted, thinking maybe I’ll be too worn out to touch myself while I watch it when I get home.
I think about how, maybe this time, I’ll go home and watch television like a normal person instead. Doesn’t even have to be anything high brow. Home Shopping Network or one of those shows about one of those families with shitload of kids.
I think about watching a Felix Fitzgerald movie, maybe. Not one of his good ones—no, I’ll put on one of those trashy action movies the studios love booking him on. Eighty minutes of explosions, quips, catchphrases and leggy blondes swooning over his bulging pecs—and it always is leggy blondes, even though I think he’d look a lot better with a petite brunette.
For no particular reason except that’s what I am, of course.
That was the plan earlier.
Fat load of good that did me.
No, instead I’m looking at a load of a different kind.
The cum drips deliciously down the window pane, and I press my hand up against the glass so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t break. I don’t want to just touch the window with my hand, though. No, what my entire body is telling me to do is lean forward and lick my own window with my fucking tongue.