Abigail’s Pet Project

At most I slept for three hours. I awoke painfully hard. The delicious torture of cialis is that you can feel asexual and yet sport an iron hard erection which coaxes you like an evil spirit to take up once again your lubricant and begin to stroke. And so I did.

I do not know that I can continue to follow the strictures of the day laid down by Abigail in her guidelines for I am a most selfish addict wanting more or less only those things that send me most readily into sexual delirium as my behaviour herein attests.

I slept, if I slept, for I have dim recollections of blurred wakening throughout, from three until a quarter to six then stroked for two hours in bed unrelenting, staring at a fashion catalog imagining them as acolytes of Abigail policing my every moment tempting me to wander further down into the darkness. The hot sticky darkness.

It is a small wonder that I resisted the temptation to cram that most enormous of phallic likenesses that lays nightly beside me deep and hard into my throat. Don’t think I didn’t consider it. Again and again. And at a quarter to eight after two hours of uninterrupted stroking, the last hour of which had been edging to the brink of orgasm and back, over and over and over, to the point wherein the last fifteen minutes I had focussed on getting right to the edge and then instead of releasing my cock and allowing my hunger to deflate I had kept a soft but firm grip on my cock and moved it incredibly slowly up the shaft pouring in just enough stimulation to maintain my teetering balance on the edge of oblivion so that I could feel my prostate gland held in a state of near implosion second after second after second and finally distraught with the knowledge that I was now too far sunk in the molten tar of my ravening sexual appetite to ever leave my bed this day, get myself to work, I moved a fraction of a moment too long, or gripped fractionally too hard and my heads simultaneously detonated, one blacking out momentarily as the other other violently spasmed over and over and over… striking my chin, my neck, my neck, my belly, my belly, my belly and finally there rock hard oozing …oozing … my panting the illusions of my lust fading with every pulse of my blood in my veins, the panic of my asexual self ripping free of its bonds and ripping me bodily from my bed.

But even five minutes later as I dashed about the room cursing my weakness, trying desperately to make up for wicked lost time, even eight minutes later as I stood in the bathroom finally pissing, it, that fount of evil, that cock, stood erect, mocking my guilt. You know who you are. What you are. I am a very bad man indeed that rages beneath a thin skein of normalcy and calm. A thickly veined and angry cock inside a slumbering, harmless soft one. I am not worth anyone’s time but my own, and even barely that.

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