| Aya
lay on his bed, in the heat. The bitter, sticky Tokyo summer pressed oppressively
down on him. It was a struggle to breathe, as if the air was a giant, heavy hand,
pressing down on his chest. Listlessly, he turned his head to the side. Three
in the afternoon. What was he supposed to be doing again?
He was ...
Hot.
Lifting his hips, he shoved his pants off. The hair on
his legs prickled as he kicked them to the side. He had already taken his shirt
off when he had come in. It was laying on the floor, still damp from his sweat.
What had he been doing?
He had ...
He brushed his fingers
idly down his chest, giving himself goosebumps despite the heat. He liked it when
his skin tingled like that. It made him feel less hot. He did it again, tracing
random patterns and circles over his chest and abdomen, each hand mirroring the
other. He scraped his fingernails lightly over his nipples, coaxing them into
hard little peaks. They had never been this sensitive before. Each brush of his
hands sent a tiny spark of lust straight to his groin. Wasn’t he supposed to be
doing something? What time was it?
It was ...
Hot.
His skin was slick with sweat. Still, the air only felt more oppressive. The sweat
didn’t evaporate, just tickled its way down his side and soaked into the sheets.
There was no breeze coming from his wide open window.
No, his window
was shut and latched, as usual.
Palms flat, he ran his hands over his
chest, marveling at the feeling of wet skin. It was very soft and smooth. There
was a scar running all the way across his stomach from when ...
From
when ...
There was a small scar on the right side of his stomach, running
parallel to his hip bone, from when he had had appendicitis when he was small.
It was the only scar he could stand to touch. The others were all acquired later,
in a less innocent fashion. He closed his eyes and counted the rest. One, shoulder,
small and smooth and round, bullet wound. Two, right forearm, thin and encircling,
Youji’s wire. Three, left thigh, jagged, bullet wound. Four, right shoulder, from
that prick ...
There was no fourth.
He bent his knees,
spreading his legs a little. He was half hard already. The sweat made his hand
slick, and his cock sprang to life under that soft touch. Creating a tunnel with
his hand, he stroked lightly up and down a few times, until he was aching for
a stronger touch.
Instead of relieving that need, he gently pulled his
foreskin down, exposing the sensitive head. His breath caught in his throat and
his hips arched into the first touch. Tossing his head, he reveled in the feel
of smooth, silky hair brushing his chest. He had always loved his hair; it was
the one thing in his life that only he could change.
That wasn’t right.
His hair wasn’t that long. And he had always hated it, for making him stand out
too much.
His favorite colors were orange and green.
Something
was ...
He didn’t have a favorite color.
He pulled his legs
back farther as his left hand crept down to cup his balls. His right hand kept
up a steady rhythm, just slow enough to prolong his pleasure. He was close, he
knew; it never took very long when he was on his own. When he was with someone
else, though ... A small smile touched his lips.
Where did that thought
come from? He had never -
All of a sudden, his balls tightened, and
he exploded over his hands. The room went negative, dark walls light, white sheets
black. His lips moved silently, whispering something he already couldn’t remember,
and wasn’t sure he understood.
Relaxing his muscles slowly, he turned
halfway onto his side. It was still hot, and now he was sweaty and sticky. He
supposed he should go take a shower.
He supposed ...
The air
was hot and heavy. It felt as though someone was laying on top of him, pressing
close to him, encircling him. He breathed shallowly, trying to move as little
as possible. What time was it? He rolled his eyes toward the clock on the bedside
table. Three thirty in the afternoon.
Wasn’t there something he should
be doing? |
