“I said, spread your legs.” He wedges his foot between my ankles and nudges my knees apart. The humid air slips between my thighs. “I’ve gotta piss, too.”
He grips his cock and starts to pee, aiming for the bowl between my legs. I’m mortified, frozen in place, and completely transfixed by the veiny monstrosity in his hand.
“See?” he says. “It’s not so hard.”
It takes a second, but hearing him take a piss loosens me up, too. Relief floods through me as the pressure in my bladder dissipates. But that pressure is quickly replaced by embarrassment, and what I can only assume is fear masquerading as arousal. It’s a twisted, almost lightheaded feeling, but it takes everything I have not to reach down and rub my clit.
Art tugs on his cock gently, shaking the last few drops of urine loose before taking a step back. I swear his cock is bigger now than it was a few moments ago.
“I’m going out to smoke a cig,” he says. “Let me know if you want help with dinner.”
At the table, Art watches me: how I twirl my pasta, how I bite and chew. He likes my cooking, and he tells me so. All I can manage is a shy smile in return, as the memory of his giant cock superimposes itself over my thoughts.
"How old are you?" he asks, setting down his fork.
I push my food around my plate. I know he's thirty-nine because he's Nancy's twin.
"I'll be nineteen in November."
“Jesus.” He shakes his head, chuckling to himself. "You in school?"
I nod. "Community college."
“I tried the college thing. Wasn’t for me. I prefer to work with my hands.”
The image of his hand gripping his cock flashes across my mind’s eye. I push the image away, along with my plate.
Art insists on washing the dishes, though I assure him it’s fine to let them soak in the sink until morning. He grabs the dish towel from the rack by the stove and tosses it to me.
“You dry,” he says. I take up the post at his side, drying the plates and silverware as he washes them.
We move in sync, disturbingly smooth considering how off kilter he throws me. I can't get over how handsome he looks clean shaven. He'd be almost pretty if it weren't for the scar across his cheek, and the hardened glint in his eye. He might have gone to prison for theft, but I'm willing to bet he’s broken a few more laws—and other things—while he was locked up.
This is a man with blood on his hands, no doubt about it.
“If Nancy’s your foster mom,” he says, breaking the silence, “does that make me your foster uncle?”
“I don’t think it works like that.”
He hands me a dish to dry that still has a bit of water in it. The water sloshes over the rim and onto my white tank top.
Art stares at the wet spot on my chest and the pink bra showing through. I can't exactly blame him for looking; my double-Ds are hard to miss. It’s the lack of guilt or embarrassment on his part that worries me. It doesn't even occur to him that his attention might make me nervous.
Or, perhaps he knows exactly how uncomfortable it makes me, and he likes it.
I finish drying the dish in my hands and then excuse myself to go do homework. As soon as I shut the door to my bedroom, I immediately feel the urge to touch myself.
Determined to tamp down my arousal, I change into a dry tank top and retrieve some assigned reading from my school bag. Sprawled across my bed, I only make it fifteen or so minutes before the need to masturbate boomerangs back between my thighs.
The words on the page can't hold my interest, not like the memory of Art’s cock. I picture it—so close to my face, close enough that I could've kissed it—and hump the mattress. The indirect pressure on my clit is barel
y enough to tickle. I stuff a pillow between my hips and the bed. Better, but not best.
The best would be if there was nothing in the way of my pleasure.
I wiggle out of my shorts and underwear, then add another pillow to the stack for good measure. I straddle the pillows and start to rock back and forth.
My clit pulses as my pussy throbs.