now he was just happy enough to be screwing around online. He preferred the drag-and-drop of his online fantasy civilisation to the tap-tap-tap of his phone’s version. His fingers were too big and the pen-thingy gave his hand cramp, and Marco had figured out it was playtime whenever Seth put his hand on the phone. He’d been trying to text earlier that day and the recipient thought he was having a stroke, with the way the cat kept hitting send.
The cat lounged on the sofa, tail flicking and eyes glaring as he enjoyed a good sulk. With the third instance of ‘I’ve got the eye of the tiger, a fighter, dancing through the fire’ Seth had taken the rare and drastic measure of shutting the window, preventing Marco’s usual evening jaunt, and vengeance would no doubt be taken at 3 a.m. with a slap to the face.
Leaning back in his chair, Seth swivelled back and forth as he looked at the clock. Only 9.30 p.m. Quiet time didn’t start until 10 p.m. He couldn’t go up there after her just yet. The music wasn’t so loud to be a nuisance, and he couldn’t be a dick and tell her to turn it off just because that kind of music made him want to bury the claw end of his hammer in his skull.
And, to make it worse, he hadn’t had a smoke all day. That alone would have been enough to push him over the top – or in front of traffic.
His gaze went to the blue and green abstract painting over the sofa, the one Rita had done during her attempt to become an artist.
He knew what she’d say.
Stressed, Wolfman? Well, you know the cure for that, don’t you?
It wasn’t as good as the original cure, but it would do. He got up and went to the bedroom. As soon as he opened the window, Marco bolted through the door, bounced off the bed, then made his exit to chase mice or battle the Joker or whatever Marco did when he was sprung free.
Seth left the window open just enough to let the cat through, then closed the bedroom door behind him and hoped he’d hear the cat scratch before the destruction of his pillow cases started.
Back in the living room, he closed the curtains, then loosened the drawstring on his fleece pants. He pushed everything down to mid-thigh, dropped in front of the computer and went to his favourite porn site.
Getting his cock out was easy. Getting it hard – not so much.
He tipped his head back and closed his eyes, but he could still hear the subtle thump coming from above.
I can’t get an erection listening to this, he thought, and cast a dubious look at the threesome on screen about to get friendly. I can’t listen to that, either.
He kicked off his pants and went back into the bedroom, where he grabbed the orange earplugs from the nightstand and the small bottle of lube next to it.
If you’re smart, Wolfman, you’ll keep it in your pants for a while longer and see if you can get one of your playmates to come over.
Yet he wasn’t so interested in his playmates after the whole thing with Evie and Ryan. He had enjoyed the intensity that went with doing something a little taboo, and all he got with hook-ups was something wet to put his dick in.
And so, once he stuffed the earplugs in, he slicked his hand and closed his eyes once more to scroll through his short roster of past lovers.
Rita? God, Rita was at her best when she was in control, straddling him and bucking like crazy.
Yet he didn’t linger on Rita. It would get him off, no doubt, but afterwards he’d be left with that hollow feeling that would keep him up all night.
Instead, he conjured Evie. She didn’t have the same bag of tricks as Rita, but she’d been insatiable. She liked it with a little bit more push and shove, and she liked being talked dirty to.
She also came with the bonus of Ryan, whom Seth only liked part of the time but who could suck cock like no one else.
He couldn’t linger on Evie or Ryan too long, either, he discovered as he started to lose his hard-on. Thinking of the couple who used to play in the two apartments above his, he was reminded once more of his solitary state.
He tilted his head back to the scene on his screen. Like most porn, the focus was on the woman. Blonde. Pouty lips. Big blue eyes. A little like…
He groaned and cranked his wrist faster.
April.
‘Now we’re talking,’ he murmured to himself and picked up the pace.
Not that he wanted to become that grizzled old landlord who got an erection every time he thought of his hot young tenant, but it was hard not to when she was so damned cute.
The sundress she wore had been bad enough, but getting a look at that tiny robe…
God bless that fucking cat. When she was holding Marco, her robe was open just a little. Nice tits. Fantastic tits.
And that blush, like she had been doing something really naughty before he came up the fire escape.
He slowed his strokes, picturing her puckering those plump lips around the head, eyes on his as she took him deeper, then speeded up as he imagined that messy hair spilling everywhere as she bucked on top of him.
Or I’d fuck her half-dressed, he thought to himself as he jerked his slippery length faster. I’d put her down on the edge of the bed, pull down her panties, open her legs and tease her a little, then turn her over and make her scream.
His balls tightening, Seth gripped harder. He imagined her squeezing her trembling thighs together as she came. He lifted his hips, and euphoria raced through his body as he came. One hot spurt after another landed on his thighs and he kept jerking until there was no more.
Gasping, he sprawled out in the chair and stared at the ceiling. Through the beat of his pulse filling his head, he was vaguely aware of the music above.
‘God damn,’ he murmured breathlessly. ‘Taylor fucking Swift.’
He grabbed a tissue from the box by the computer and dabbed away the milky fluid he’d left on himself, then groaned as he made a couple of attempts to get up. Once he was in the bathroom, he stripped and took a quick shower.
Marco, draped across the windowsill, eyed Seth with contempt when he entered the bedroom to put his pants back on, then followed into the living room. The cat zoomed to the dining table, and Seth followed and surveyed the neat stacks laid out across the surface.
This was the last thing he wanted to do tonight, but the project had become his go-to for the past two weeks, especially when he was hit with a nicotine fit. There were sixteen piles of photos so far, organised by date. Thankfully Rita had been pretty disciplined about marking the month and year on the back of the pictures, which made his job easier.
It had been her project, to tell the truth. Before she’d gotten too sick to get out of bed or off the couch, his wife had started to pull out the plastic bins on the bookcase. Rita didn’t have any regrets in the end, but when she was in hospice care she had a teary moment that she never got to sort and scan all those pictures.
‘It was important to me,’ she’d said when he told her not to worry about a bunch of pictures. ‘I wanted to have them all on one of those digital frames
