The Julian in my head drops to his knees behind me. I can almost feel his hands gripping my thighs, his fingertips digginginto my flesh. Then his tongue—God, his tongue—pressing against me, circling that sensitive flesh before pushing inside.
My hips buck involuntarily.
Julian’s tongue delves deeper, his hands reaching around to stroke me while he tastes me. In my fantasy, I’m moaning shamelessly, begging for more, all pretense abandoned.
I picture him rising, pressing his clothed body against my naked back. “Tell me what you want, Elliot,” fantasy Julian demands, his cock hard against me.
“Inside me,” I whisper to my empty apartment. “I want you inside me.”
The imaginary Julian laughs, that infuriating, knowing laugh. He takes his time, making me wait, making me beg. Then, finally, pressing into me, stretching me open, claiming me completely.
Sweat slicks my skin as the fantasy builds. Julian’s hands are in my hair, yanking my head back. Julian’s teeth on my shoulder. Julian’s voice in my ear, telling me how good I feel, how he knew all along what I really wanted.
In my fantasy, his pace quickens, his thrusts becoming more demanding. He grips my hips with bruising force, controlling every movement. I’m completely at his mercy, and the thought makes me harder than I’ve ever been.
“You’re taking me so well,” he would purr. “I knew you would.”
My hand strokes frantically now, pre-cum slicking my palm. I’m so close, teetering on the edge, but something’s holding me back. I need?—
Then Julian’s voice changes in my head, becoming softer but somehow more commanding. “Look at you,” he would whisper. “Such a good boy for me.”
The words hit me like an electric shock.Good boy. Something inside me shatters.
“Fuck! Oh God, fuck!” I cry out, my back arching off the couch as pleasure rips through me. My entire body tenses, wave after wave of intense release washing over me. I’m vaguely aware I’m making a complete mess, but I can’t stop, can’t control it.
Those two simple words—good boy—echo in my mind as I pump myself through the most powerful orgasm I’ve ever experienced. It’s like Julian found a key to something locked deep inside me, something I never knew existed.
“Jesus Christ,” I pant, collapsing back. My chest heaves as I struggle to catch my breath, my body trembling with aftershocks. My boxers are soaked, sticking to my skin.
I throw an arm over my eyes, reality crashing back. What the fuck just happened? I’ve never come that hard in my life, and all because I imagined Julian Frost—arrogant, infuriating Julian Frost—calling me a good boy.
As the waves of pleasure subside, they’re replaced by an icy wave of shame. My breathing slows, but my heartbeat quickens with panic.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I yank my soiled boxers off and ball them up in my fist, disgusted with myself, with the evidence of what I just did. What I just imagined. Who I just imagined.
“Fucking pathetic,” I mutter, and the voice in my head isn’t mine—it’s my mother’s. Sharp and clear as if she’s standing right beside me.
“No son of mine is going to be some disgusting faggot. You hear me, Elliot? Men who do that are broken. Diseased.”
I can almost smell her cigarette smoke; see the way her lip would curl when we’d pass two men holding hands on the street. The memory makes me nauseous.
I stumble to the bathroom, tossing my boxers in the hamper before scrubbing my hands with scalding water, as if I could wash away the thoughts along with the physical evidence. Myreflection in the mirror looks haunted—flushed cheeks, wild eyes. I splash cold water on my face, trying to shock myself back to reality.
This isn’t me. Can’t be me.
Back in my bedroom, I grab my laptop with still-damp hands. My fingers type the URL automatically—a premium porn site I keep a subscription to exactly for moments like this. I click on the first video that appears: some blonde with massive tits riding a muscular guy.
“This is normal,” I whisper, turning up the volume to drown out my thoughts. “This is what I want.”
I force myself to watch as the woman moans dramatically, bouncing up and down. I try to focus on her curves, her breasts, the way she throws her head back in exaggerated pleasure. I need this to work. Need to feel something.
But Julian’s voice still echoes in my head.
“Good boy.”
I slam the laptop shut, my chest tight with panic. It’s getting harder to lie to myself. Harder to deny what my body knows is true.