faggot in a dress

As soon as he came, his relief was replaced by nausea. His eyes no longer set on the pixelated scene, he glanced down at his thighs and drooped cock. There was no continuum, no link between his feverish desire the moment before and his shame now. The girl bound on the screen was telling the interviewer how well the shoot went, how much she enjoyed being fucked violently by eight men. He assumed they put this part in to ease the said guilt, it never did. He could see she enjoyed it. It wasn’t that. It just never did.

He needed to piss. His palms were open and webbed, his t shirt and jacket still covering his torso, his bottom half was hairy and bare. Except for his socks. He searched the room for something to wipe his hands on, giving up he rose and poked his head out of the hallway. Seeing the coast was clear he ran towards the bathroom. Hands airborne he refused to touch anything, including his own cock that swung aimlessly hitting the tops of his thighs. He winced each time, willing his anatomy to recede.

He showered vigorously, fuck the toilet, he thought. He knew Jenny pissed in the shower anyway, she wouldn’t mind if he did. How would she know anyway. She couldn’t know, he’d use extra shower gel to hide the stench. He dried himself avoiding his own reflection, eyes lowered he dressed quickly, realizing he had no pants to put on he wrapped his towel around his waist. Faggot. He laughed. He remembered his brother liked to call him that after a shower. Faggot in a dress...