Wake up hard as hell, my dick tenting the bed sheet like it's trying to pitch a friggin' camp. I peel off the sheet, strip of the PJs, and stare at the ceiling. It’s not even 10, and my room's already an effin’ oven, the damp August heat pressing down on me like a horny priest. An old table fan just pushes the hot air around and fills the room with a static hum.

Everyone’s gone off to their 9-to-5, got the place to myself. I yank my sorry ass outta’ bed, stretch, stagger down the hall, pee, stagger back. The sign on my bedroom door slaps me upside my effin’ head. Gabriel! I stand there a beat, scratchin’ my balls, then go in and flop back down, grab hold of my hard-on, start a slow jerk.

Gabriel, that’s me. To some, Gabby. Gabs to the few friends who think they know me. Nobody really does. Named after my great grandfather. Named after that effin’ angel. I’m anything but. I guess there are a few babes and a few guys that would say I’m an angel, if ya catch my drift.

Twelve years of catholic school and then two years away at college. Design and art. What the fuck was I thinking? Now I'm back in my childhood bedroom in Dorchester, the crucifix above my bed watching me beat off every morning. The irony isn't lost on me. I lay here, guilty as sin, Jesus lookin’ down on me.

The thing about growing up Catholic is that guilt. That guilt follows you everywhere, even into your own head. Especially there. Sister Mary Francis would say I'm going to hell just for the thoughts I had last night—about the guy at the corner store with the tight jeans, and then later, about the girl on the T with the see-through blouse. But hell seems worth it when I'm in the moment, when I'm watching someone's lips wrapped around my cock or when I'm buried deep in someone else's heat or when I’m workin’ my meat like I am now.

And the funny thing about guilt is, it’s kinda’ like the weed I’m about to smoke. In time, exposed to enough of it, you work up a tolerance. Damn, I’ve felt guilty so many times I’ve built up an immunity. Most things, minute, ten max, forget about it. Pleasure trumps anguish every time.

Maybe I was just letting off steam after 12 years of Catholic school. Thing is, left to my own devices, I just can’t resist my vices. I was partying more and studying less. This golden boy crashed and burned. Lost my scholarship. It was time to call it quits. That’s one guilt I can’t shake off. See, I’m not a total asshole!

Enough with the brain yoga, it’s wake-n-bake time! Haulin’ my ass outta bed, I rise and stretch, muscles popping. I grope for my toiletry bag in the top drawer of my desk, then with my dick gripped tight, I drag myself down the hall to the shitter. The cool touch of linoleum against my bare feet is a brief respite from this hellish heat. 

Flick of the switch, the bathroom fan groans to life. I splash some water on my face and size myself up in the mirror—eyes looking like stoplights from too much weed and not enough sleep. Nineteen years old, blonde hair sticking to my forehead, pinkish tan lines from yesterday's trip to the Charles marking my skin.

Unzipping the bag, I fish out my pathetic stash, the discards that I’ve bummed off friends or roaches I’ve snatched. Packing a small pipe with just enough green for a couple of hits, I spark it up. Strokin’ my hard-on, I hold in a lungful of smoke until my head spins before exhaling into the fan's draft. Rinse and repeat, then douse myself with dad’s Old Spice to mask the dank smell. Leaving behind only the hum of the fan as evidence, I tuck away my gear and shuffle off towards breakfast.

In the kitchen, I haul the gallon of milk outta the fridge, take a few gulps to cool down. I make myself a quick breakfast of eggs, Pop-tarts, and iced instant coffee. Sitting at the table, I stare out the window and watch the cars and the people pass by, fantasizing about the day ahead. Unemployment gives you time. Too much of it. After college, I spent a few weeks looking for work before giving up. Now I spend my days wandering the city, secretly hunting for thrills while telling my parents I'm job hunting. They're disappointed but patient. Good Catholics.

After cleaning up, it’s back to the bathroom to brush and wash my face. For a moment, I think about just staying home, getting high, and jerking off. But today feels like it could be something. The heat, the restlessness in my bones, the way my skin seems too tight for my body—it all points to one of those days where somethin’s gotta give.

In my room, I rifle through my drawers for something to wear. It's too damn hot for much. I pull on a pair of cutoff jean shorts, frayed at the edges, so short they’re damn near crawling up my motherfuckin’ ass. Up top, a beat to shit BC tee, the neck stretched out and hanging loose. No underwear. Goin’ commando! I like the feeling of the rough denim against my junk, the possibility of someone catching a glimpse.

I eyeball myself in the mirror on my closet door. The shorts make my package look bigger, my tanned legs look longer. The tee’s loose enough to flex the tan I’ve been frying myself for. I look hot as shit. Fuckable? Hell yeah. I snatch my wallet and keys, cram them into my pocket with a couple crumpled bills I’ve been hoarding. Ain’t much, but it’ll get me through the sloppy-ass day I’ve got lined up.

Out the door, the wet heat hits me like a slap. August in Boston is brutal—humid, sticky, the air thick enough to chew. But I love it. The heat makes me a little looser, a little more desperate. Skimpy clothes stick to skin, revealing shapes usually hidden. Inhibitions melt away in the summer swelter. I love it!

I walk the few blocks to Ashmont station, sweat beading on me, my mind already racing with possibilities. The city is my playground, and I know all the best spots. Like Filene's Basement, where the air conditioning makes nipples hard under thin fabrics, and where sometimes I catch a MILF or some dude watchin’ me as I walk along the racks. Boston Common, where college boys play frisbee shirtless and secretaries eat lunch with their skirts hiked up for relief from the heat. And of course, the Combat Zone—those few blocks downtown where the rules don't apply, where sex is currency and desires aren’t questioned.

The train pulls up, and I get on, feeling the artificial cool of the air conditioning wash over me. I take a seat, spreading my legs just enough to be comfortable, just enough to draw eyes. The car is mostly empty—a mix of housewives headed downtown to shop, and kids like me with nowhere better to be.

My mind drifts to my final destinations: Filene’s first, then the CZ and The Scene, a God forsaken sleazy dump with the cheapest private viewing booths. A quarter gets you five minutes. Last time I was there, I watched a flick where a woman serviced ten men in succession, their faces contorted in pleasure as they took turns with her. Damn, if I didn’t cum twice for just fifty cents! Gobbled up all that nasty fuckin’ cum!

I’m getting a goddamn boner just thinkin’ about it, squirming in my seat, enjoying the pressure of the denim against my stiffening cock. There’s a fucked-up rush I get being horny as hell out in the open, teetering on the edge of polite society and straight-up filth.

Damn train lurches forward, the familiar rattle vibrating up through the vinyl seat and into my tailbone. I settle into a corner seat, the plastic sticky against my bare thighs. The car isn't packed—Tuesday mid-morning means no rush hour crowd—but there's enough people to make what I'm thinking dangerous. That's when I see them, sitting right across from me: two hot honeys, dressed like they just crawled out of a music video. My mouth goes dry, and I feel that familiar tightening in my groin, like a fist slowly closing around my insides.

The train rocks side to side as it picks up speed, the wheels screeching against the rails. The sound should be annoying, but today it feels like the soundtrack to my racing pulse. I shift in my seat, angling my body for a better view of them.

One's a redhead, her hair a copper waterfall down her back, catching the fluorescent lights every time the train jerks. The other's blonde, but not like me—platinum, almost white, cut in one of those new wave styles, shaved on one side, long on the other. They're dressed like Madonna wannabes—the redhead in a black lace top that's practically see-through, her black bra visible underneath, a short denim skirt riding high on tanned thighs. The blonde's in some kind of oversized mesh shirt, slipping off one shoulder to reveal a hot pink bra strap, tight white shorts hugging her ass like they were spray-painted on.

Then it hits me—cum and weed—they fuckin' reek of if. My kinda' girls, I tell myself. Barely noon, these chicks are already partyin'. Maybe they've been up partyin' all night. Or maybe they shacked up with some rando last night and are heading home. As always, my freaky mind sinks to the gutter.

I'm not the only one who's noticed them. An older businessman in a wilting suit keeps glancing over his newspaper. A teen boy with a Walkman has turned down his music, his eyes fixed on them from behind dark sunglasses. But the girls either don't notice or don't care. They exist in their own bubble, a world where they're the sun and we're all just planets in their effin' orbit.

The redhead leans over to whisper something to her friend, her top gaping open. I catch a glimpse of cleavage, the shadow between her breasts dark and inviting. The blonde throws her head back and laughs, the sound cutting through the rattle of the train, her throat a long, elegant line. As she laughs, she places her hand on the redhead's thigh, just below the hem of her skirt, her red-painted nails stark against the tanned skin.

It's innocent, maybe. Just friends being physical. But my mind doesn't do innocent. My mind takes that touch and runs with it, imagining those red nails sliding higher, disappearing under denim, the redhead's breath catching, her legs parting just slightly.

Fuck, this boner's tryin' to escape. Too soon, I choke it back and look away, like a goddamn saint. But then the blonde shifts in her seat, crossing one leg over the other, and I'm drawn back like a magnet. Those shorts? Riding up her ass crack, revealing the curve where thigh meets ass. I’m picturing my face in there, running my tongue along that line, tasting salt and perfume.

The train takes a sharp curve, and everyone sways. The redhead falls against her friend, their shoulders touching, their faces close enough that I can see the blonde's tongue dart out to wet her lips. Are they together? Lovers? Or just friends who know how to put on a show?

It doesn't fuckin’ matter. In my head, they're whatever I want them to be. And right now, I want them to be curious, adventurous, willing to take a random guy—me—into a bathroom stall or a darkened alley and let me worship them. Nah, scratch that. Let's just rip it up right here, right now, in the fuckin’ open, for everyone to see.

My dick is rock hard now, straining against my cutoffs. I'm glad I chose the corner seat, where the angle hides my lap from most of the car. I press my thighs together, trying to create some friction, some relief. But it's not enough. I need more.

The redhead stands up as the train slows for a station, reaching for the overhead bar. Her skirt rises dangerously as she stretches, revealing the bottom curve of her ass cheeks, a hint of white panties. The blonde looks up at her, saying something I can't hear, and then—holy shit—she reaches up and tugs the skirt down, her hand lingering on her friend's hip. Their eyes meet, a silent communication passing between them, charged with something that makes my breath catch.

The doors open, a few people get off, a few get on. The girls stay. So do I, even though this technically woulda’ been my stop if I'm going job hunting like I told Ma. But today isn't about jobs. Today is about following the heat, the want, that feeling in my gut, wherever it leads.

As the train starts moving again, the redhead stays standing, swaying with the motion, one hand on the pole, the other playing with a strand of her hair. The blonde sits below her, her face level with her friend's hips. They're like something out of a Playboy centerfold, posed just right to make men ache.

And I do ache. My balls feel heavy, tight against my body. My cock is throbbing in time with my heartbeat. I can feel the dampness where pre-cum has leaked through my shorts, creating a small dark spot. The danger of being caught only makes me harder.

I let my hand fall casually to my lap, fingers brushing over the bulge in my shorts. The touch sends electric currents up my spine. I do it again, slower this time, pressing down slightly, feeling the shape of myself through the worn denim.

The redhead looks around the car, her gaze sweeping past me without stopping. But the blonde's different. She catches my eye for just a second, her mouth curving in a slight smile before she looks away. Did she see? Does she know what I'm doing? The thought makes my dick jump.

I slide my hand further into my lap, cupping myself fully now. If anyone's looking directly at me, they'll know what I'm doing. But the car's attention is on the girls, not on the scuzzy guy in the corner with his hand in his lap.

The train lurches again, and the redhead almost loses her balance. She laughs, steadying herself against the pole, her body arching in a way that makes her breasts push against the lace of her top. The blonde reaches up to steady her, her hand on the back of her friend's thigh, higher than it needs to be.

In my mind, they're putting on this show for me. In my mind, they know exactly what they're doing to me, to every man in this car. In my mind, later, they'll find me, pull me into an empty car, and let me taste every inch of them.

I'm rubbing myself openly now, my hand moving in slow, deliberate strokes over my shorts. The risk is intoxicating. Anyone could look over. Anyone could call me out, have me arrested. But I can't stop. Not with the redhead now bending down to say something to her friend, her top hanging open, giving me a clear view of her bra, the swell of her breasts pushing against black lace.

The blonde responds by running her hand up her own thigh, adjusting her shorts which have ridden up again. Her fingers linger at the edge of the fabric, and for a wild moment, I think she's going to push them underneath, to touch herself right here on the train. She doesn't, but the possibility is enough to make me throb.

I unbutton my cutoffs, careful to keep the movement small, hidden. The relief is immediate as my cock pushes against my zipper, begging for freedom. I can't take it out—that would be too much, too obvious—but I can slip my hand inside, feel myself skin to skin.

The zipper comes down tooth by tooth, the sound lost in the noise of the train. I slip my hand inside, wrapping my fingers around my shaft. I'm burning hot, already slick at the tip. I start to stroke slowly, my thumb gathering the wetness and spreading it down.

The redhead finally sits back down, next to the blonde, their thighs pressed together. They're looking at a magazine now, something with Madonna on the cover, their heads bent close, shoulders touching. The redhead points at something on the page, and they both laugh. The blonde's hand comes to rest on the redhead's knee, casual, possessive.

I'm slowly jerking off now, my hand moving steadily in my open shorts. I keep my movements minimal, my expression neutral, like I'm just some guy riding the train, thinking about nothing special. But inside, I'm a storm of need, each stroke bringing me closer to the edge.

The train announces the next stop—Andrew. Three more until Park. I don't have much time. The girls will probably get off there too, I’m guessin’, heading to the common or into the heart of downtown. I need to finish before then, need to see this through.

The redhead shifts in her seat, her skirt rising up again. She doesn't fix it this time, letting it stay hiked up her thighs. The blonde notices, her eyes dropping to her friend's legs, her tongue darting out again to wet her lips. Their faces are so close they could kiss. In my head, they do, their mouths meeting in a slow, deep kiss while their hands explore each other's bodies.

This is driving me fucking wild. I'm close to spillin’ it. My dick’s fully hard, throbbing in my hand, the head of my cock pushing out of my fist with each stroke. I can feel the pressure building at the base of my spine, my balls drawing up tight. I ease off, not wanting to finish yet, wanting to draw this out until the last possible moment.

The train pulls into Broadway. A bunch of townies get on, rowdy and loud, and run down to the other end. In the racket, the blonde looks around again, and this time, her eyes find mine and stay. She sees my arm moving slightly, sees the flush on my face, the parted lips. She knows. Yeah, man, she friggin' knows.

And she smiles—a slow, deliberate curving of her lips that says she approves, that she's enjoying the show as much as I'm enjoying hers. For a heart-stopping moment, we're connected, conspirators in this public act of rebellion.

Then she turns back to her friend, whispering something in her ear. The redhead glances over her shoulder at me, her eyes widening slightly before a smile spreads across her face, too. She giggles, turning back to the blonde, their heads close together as they whisper, occasionally glancing my way.

They know. They both fuckin’ know. And they're watching me, egging me on. The realization is too much. I feel the orgasm building, no stoppin’ it now. I'm trying to keep it in check, stop it, but it's like trying to hold back a tsunami with my dick.

The train pulls into South Station, the suit gets off. Aside from the townies at the other end of the car, we are alone.

Alone, it seems the girls feel free to start showing their real slutty sides. The redhead tosses a leg over the blonde’s, so she spread open. Just those tiny-ass panties barely hiding her mound. Damn, that cameltoe's begging to be fucked, and I see a wet streak running right down the middle.

With a sly, filthy grin, I whispered, “More.”

They smiled, then locked eyes, and bam—the blonde grabbed the redhead, pulling her in. They went at it, mouths wide open, tongues tangling, like, full-on. Holy shit, that made me blow my load. I came, hard, my whole body clenching as I gripped myself. It was so intense, almost painful, and I bit my lip to keep quiet. My eyes were glued to them, and they were watching me, these matching looks of amusement and pure, hot arousal on their faces.

Cum spills over my fingers, soaking through my cutoffs, pooling on the vinyl seat beneath me. More than I expected, too much to contain. A muffled groan escapes me, disguised as a yawn. Fuck, man, it was awesome! The filth, the cum, out in the open on the train in front of these hotties. Wicked awsome!

The aftershocks ripple through me as the train pulls into Washington. One more stop until Park. I button my shorts with shaking hands, aware of the dark, wet stain spreading across the front. There's no hiding it now. Anyone who looks will know exactly what I've done.

The girls stand as the train slows, snatchin’ up their shit. The redhead whispers something to the blonde, who laughs, her eyes flicking to me one last time. She reaches into her purse and tosses me a tampon. “Maybe this’ll help,” she giggles. Then they're moving toward the doors, hips swaying in perfect rhythm, leaving behind a cloud of cheap perfume and missed chance. They look back and laugh.

Train pulls out. There’s just seconds till the next stop. I stay seated, my heart still racing, cum cooling on my skin and soaking into my clothes. The vinyl seat beneath me is smeared with it, a clear, sticky puddle marking my place. Evidence of my vice. I use the tampon to blot it up, but there’s too much.

The train pulls into Park Street as I try to figure out how I'm going to walk through the crowded station with a cum stain the size of a baseball on my shorts. But as the doors open and the girls step out, I find myself standing, following them, drawn by some force I can't resist.

I pull my t-shirt down as far as it will go, trying to cover the evidence, and step onto the platform. The cool air of the station hits me, but does nothing to calm the heat still coursing through my veins, the memory of the blonde's knowing smile burned into my mind.

I clutch at my cutoffs as I stumble out of the train, my palm pressed against the wet stain like I'm stemming blood from a wound. Park Street Station's a maze of bodies, all pushing and shoving, and I keep my head down, paranoid that everyone can see what I just did. The evidence is right there, a dark bloom of shame against faded denim, still warm and sticky beneath my fingers. I need somewhere to hide, to clean up, to become invisible again—but the moment I step out of the station, Boston slaps me with a wall of heat so thick it feels like walking into soup.

The August sun beats down on the concrete, creating shimmering mirages above the pavement. Sweat immediately beads on my forehead, trickling down my temples and neck. The moisture on my shorts is already drying in crusty patches, gluing my sack to my jeans, that pull when I move. Each step is a reminder of what I just did, a sticky memory of pleasure now tainted.

I snake through the crowd on Tremont, keeping one hand casually positioned over the stain. Office workers on lunch breaks, tourists with maps and cameras, students with backpacks—everyone's moving with purpose, too focused on their own discomfort in the heat to notice mine. Still, I feel exposed, branded, as if those two girls from the train phoned ahead and told everyone to watch out for the pervert with cum-stained shorts.

I hang a right onto Winter Street, heading toward Downtown Crossing. The buildings provide strips of shade that offer brief respite from the sun. A woman in a business suit passes me, her blouse dark with sweat between her shoulder blades, her face set in a grimace of determination. I catch a guy checking me out—mid-twenties, tight polo shirt, designer sunglasses pushed up into his carefully styled hair. He holds my gaze for a beat too long, a half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Any other day, I might stop, might start a conversation that would lead somewhere dark and satisfying. But not with these shorts, not now.

I reach Filene's and push through the revolving door, stepping into blessed air conditioning. The cold hits my sweat-slick skin like a slap, raising goosebumps on my arms and making my nipples harden beneath my thin t-shirt. I take a deep breath of processed, chilled air and feel my pulse begin to slow.

Filene's Basement is my destination—down the escalator, away from the bright lights and perfume counters of the main floor. The basement is where they keep the discount merchandise, the overflow, the items that didn't sell upstairs or from other stores, just laid out for bargain hunters. It's also darker, cooler, more crowded. A place where I can blend in, where I can let the stain on my shorts dry completely before venturing back into the heat.

But first, I have to work my way past all these perfume counters to the men's room at the back of the store. I pause and take a few deep breaths. Makeup slathered MILFs everywhere, giving me the once-over, smirking at the fucked-up kid with glued-together shorts and a guilty look. One of them, spilling over in a low-cut blouse, smellin’ like roses and fancy soap, dolled up like a porn star, gives me a smile that sends a jolt straight to my spent dick. “Can I help you?” she purrs, her voice dripping with suggestion.

Fuck, she’s hot! She's got that statuesque look, a mane of feathered hair and legs that go all the way up. She waits for an answer, eyebrows arched, her head cocked to the side like she knows she's derailed my plans. I try to focus, but all I can see are those legs, how they’d wrap around me, how that mouth would feel. I stammer something about needing the restroom, and she points, fingernails long and red.

But I'm not moving. Not yet. My feet are glued to the spot because this chick is just standing there, watching me with a smirk that says she knows exactly what she's doing. The way she looks, the way she smells, it all makes me forget why I’m even here, makes me forget my own damn name. I hesitate, torn between the pulsing need she’s stirred and my shorts glued to my sack with crusty cum.

She's about to say something more, but I snap out of it, smile, and blurt out a thanks. I make it past the counters and into a quieter section of the store. The smell of perfume gradually fades. I find the restroom door, a blessed sight, the little man symbol promising relief. It's empty—thank friggin' God! I grab a bunch of paper towels from the dispenser, soak some with water, and lock myself in a stall.

Haulin’ off my rank tee, I sling it over the wall, then peel down my sticky cutoffs, gritting my teeth as my sack unsticks with a painful yank. The stain's spread like a Rorschach test, a godless mess of shame and horniness. I clean up as best I can, wiping down with the wet towels, trying to look less like a poster child for a misquided puberty. Finally, the piss I've been holding comes out in a long, agonizing stream. I moan with relief.

I drop down the toilet seat and sit, my naked ass feeling the cool porcelain. Leaning back, I spread my legs and enjoy the feeling of my exposed, naked skin. Suddenly, the rest of the world doesn't exist—no moms, no cock-blocking grandmas, no teasing bitches. Just me, cooling off in the Filene’s john. My dick, hard again, stands straight and proud. I stroke it, slowly at first, enjoying the cool air on my naked skin.

Lubin’ up with spit, I start to work myself harder. My mind races with images: the blonde with the knowing smile, that leggy chick with the perfume, the redhead tossing me a tampon. It’s an X-rated highlight reel, looping back to my first porn crush, Tracy Adams. I imagine her as she arches her back, huge tits in the air, moaning my friggin’ name. Tracy's mouth on my cock, taking me in deep, her warm, wet lips wrapped around me. I close my eyes, the pressure building, pushing me toward the edge.

I get lost in the fantasy, lost in the cool air on my warm body, the feel of my hand working fast and desperate. Tracy riding me, her hair flying, her lips forming an O. My pulse is loud in my ears, racing, and it's like the whole world is about to explode. I go faster, harder, my grip tight. God, I’m so close. I'm hovering at the edge, panting, my fist a blur on my cock.

Breathe deep, slow it down, let the pressure back off, I tell myself. I picture Tracy, her tits bouncing, that wide-eyed look when she sees my load ready to shoot. She grins, disappears from view. I let out a gasp. I'm not gonna hold much longer. I stop, let my hand rest on my sac, slick with spit and sweat.

Taking a couple breaths, I try to hold it down. My sac tightens, and Tracy's back, riding me harder, faster. I can see her tits through a sheer bra, perfect, huge, nipples barely covered. The fantasy's thick, so real I can friggin’ smell her. I start again, beatin’ it slow n’ easy, creepin’ toward the edge. I picture that leggy chick from the perfume counter, biting her lip, watchin’ me go off. I’m back with Tracy, back on the train, back in my bedroom, endless loops of lust and images, the whole world gone except for the beat in my ears and the tightness in my balls. So wild, so fuckin’ close, no holding back....and I stop again, edging, hard cock’s screamin’ with need.

I pant, feel my cock throb. I stroke and stop again, closing my eyes. I lose myself to the pictures in my head, fantasies, and memories at the same time. Tracy arches, ready to take it, purring my name, waiting for my load. Lips in a perfect O, tits jumping, pussy soaked. She’s my first, my fave, the one I’ve always wanted, and she knows how friggin’ close I am. I'm shuddering, knees weak, not gonna stop this time. Her face blurs with other faces: the blonde watching me on the train, that hot babe in the store, all of them blowing me, riding me, getting me off. I'm pushing hard again, pulsing with the beat in my ears, too close to stop, past the point of carin’.

Breathing heavy, I lose myself completely. I need to cum, need to let go, need relief. I hang on for the last possible second then...fuck...YES...I lose it. It's like a dam breaking, pressure exploding, my cock and chest and brain all going off at once. My body shakes, all those teasing sluts are there with me, and I blow my load. Almost fuckin’ scream, lost in the slap of air and the wet of my hand.

Fuck, I cum hard, my whole body shakin’, sweet pleasure shooting through every nerve. I almost lose my balance, almost slide off the seat. Jizz flies everywhere, splattering the stall wall, the floor, my arms and chest. Pinching my foreskin, I contain the last of it, and feel the pressure as it builds up.

After the tremors die down and I'm done shooting my wad, I dump the load in my hand. It's thick, white, and glistening, like some unholy pudding. I don't hesitate, bring my hand to my mouth and suck down that warm, salty slime, savoring every last drop.

Here comes that pathetic minute of guilt. Fuck, Gabs, I say to myself. You made a mess of it again. You’ve wasted time. Look at yourself. Blah, blah, blah!

Get over yourself, man! I lean back, relax, watch my hard dick slowly soften. God, that felt so fuckin’ good! Using my hand, I wipe myself off best I can and swallow the cum, think about how happy my dick makes me. Then I slip on the shorts, sling the tee around my neck, and head for the sinks.

Running the cold water, I splash some on my chest and pits, then wipe off, leaving a mess all around me. Once I’m done, I slip the wrinkled tee on.

Back in my clothes, I check myself in the mirror. The reflection is pure scumbag: hair wild, cheeks flushed, t-shirt clinging to sweat-damp skin. I slick my hair back with water, the way I remember Tracy Adams doing with cum in one of her movies. Less obvious now, almost human.

A dad walks in with his kid and flashes me a dirty look. Distracted by me, he heads for the stall I was in and slips on my splattered jizz, letting out an angry FUCK! I almost burst out laughin’.

That’s my sign to exit. I beeline it to the escalator, running my hand along the rubber handrail, feeling the vibration through my palm. At the bottom, I'm greeted by racks of men's shirts, rows of trousers, tables piled with sweaters no one needs in this heat. A few determined shoppers riffle through the merchandise, hunting for deals. A bored saleswoman arranges a display of ties, her eyes vacant, her movements mechanical.

I wander through the men's section, pretending to browse. I pick up a shirt, check the price tag, put it back. Run my fingers along a rack of jackets, pausing at a navy blazer that looks like something a politician would wear. I'm killing time, waiting for my shorts to dry, but also building up to what I really came for.

After ten minutes of aimless browsing, I casually make my way toward the back of the store, where the lighting is dimmer and the merchandise more intimate. The lingerie section of Filene's Basement isn't large or particularly well-stocked, but it's always been a fascination for me. Racks of bras in every size and color, tables of panties wrapped in plastic, mannequin torsos modeling teddies and slips—all at discount prices that make them accessible to secretaries, housewives, and rando pervs like me who want to feel sexy without breaking the bank.

Today, the section is nearly empty. An elderly woman browses a rack of nightgowns, her glasses perched on the end of her nose as she examines the price tags. And then I see them—a young couple, barely twenty, standing awkwardly by a display of Frederick's of Hollywood panties that have been marked down 80%.

She's so fuckable. Petite little angel, with mousy brown hair cut in a bob that frames a heart-shaped face. Her sundress is simple, yellow with tiny white flowers, cinched at the waist with a belt, the hemline hitting just above her knees. Nothing provocative about it, but something in the way she stands—slightly pigeon-toed, her shoulders hunched forward as if to minimize her breasts—makes heat pool in my groin again. Looking around at the sexy shit, she seems a bit uneasy, like she's never been in a place like this. But there's also a hint of dirty excitement in her gaze, like she's dying to try it all on.

Her boyfriend hovers behind her, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his face a mask of discomfort. He's tall and gangly, with messy hair and glasses, dressed in khaki shorts and a button-up shirt with sweat stains under the arms. He shifts from foot to foot, eyes darting around as if afraid someone from work might see him standing among racks of women's underwear.

I pretend to examine a display of men's undershirts that's been inexplicably placed at the edge of the lingerie section. From here, I can watch them without being obvious. The girl picks up a pair of red satin panties with black lace trim, examining them with a mixture of curiosity and embarrassment. She glances at her boyfriend, who offers a weak smile and a shrug that seems to say, "If you want them."

She puts them back, moves on to a pair in electric blue. Her fingers trace the fabric, and I imagine those same fingers tracing my skin, curious, tentative. The boyfriend checks his watch, sighs loudly. I dislike him immediately. If she were mine, I'd encourage her, help her pick out something that would make her feel beautiful, then peel it off her with my teeth later.

"I'm going upstairs to check out the electronics," I hear him say, his voice carrying in the quiet of the basement. "Come find me when you're done." A quick kiss and he’s outta’ there.

Relief washes over her face as he walks away. Alone now, she seems both more relaxed and more vulnerable. Wasting no time, she walks over to a table of panties, then glances around as if to make sure no one's watching. She makes like she’s lookin’ shit over, working her way along, till she’s at the corner. She scopes things out, then press her mound against the corner. A look of pleasure and release spreads across her face as she slowly slides her mound over the edge.

Damn, seeing her there like that? Total mindfuck. This sweet-looking thing, all hot and bothered, ready to get down and dirty. Usually, it's those dudes, dragging their chicks in, wanting them to dress like cheap whores. The girls just gotta suck it up and wear whatever the fuck the guy picks. But this? This was the flip side. That dude who bolted looked like he'd rather be sucking on exhaust fumes.

Fuckin' A, that girl's got it goin' on. Knows exactly how to handle her business. I'm tellin' ya, I can see her now, back at her place, dolled up like a porn star, legs wide open, slammin' a dildo deep into her soaking cunt.

She moves to a rack of bras, running her fingers along the hangers, pausing at a black lace demi-cup. She checks the size, then glances around again to make sure no one's watching before taking it off the rack.

I shuffle my perverted ass over to some men's robes, figurin’ they’d give a bit of cover and disguise my pervy intentions. This rack's got a prime view of her bouncing around the lingerie, and, holy hell, it's working wonders. My dick's doing the cha-cha against my jeans, rubbing up against the crusty-ass fabric like it's trying to drill a hole. I'm practically leaking pre-cum just watching her size up those bras, imagining how they'd look filled out....and then ripped off. I'm about to blow a gasket right here.

She holds the bra up, giving herself the once-over, like she’s judging her She holds the bra up, giving herself the once-over, like she’s judging her own goods. Without her boyfriend, she’s got a totally different vibe. She seems more confident, more willing to explore. I can see her fondling her tits as she makes like she’s checkin’ the fit. She puts the black bra back and selects a red one instead, repeating the process. I imagine her back in some dark corner of the basement, strippin’ and trying it on, standing in front of the mirror in nothing but the red bra and matching panties, her skin pale against the bright-ass fabric.

My mind takes off and starts runnin' wild. I imagine walkin' by, seeing her bare-assed and vulnerable. She gasps, tries to cover herself, but I'm already there beside her. She starts to protest, but something in my eyes stops her. In her eyes, I see my own lust reflected back, the want that's been building all day as she fingered lace and satin, imagining herself as someone bolder, with someone bolder, someone who can give her what she wants, give her something her boyfriend can’t.

In this twisted fantasy, I ain't sayin' shit. Words'd ruin the moment. Instead, I sink to my knees before her, on the dirty, littered floor. Her breath catches as I run my hands up the backs of her skinny calves, feeling the smooth skin, and the light dusting of hair she missed when shaving. My fingers reach the sensitive skin behind her knees, and she shudders, one hand flying out to steady herself against the wall.

I look up at her, asking permission with my eyes. She swallows hard, then nods almost imperceptibly. That's all I need. My hands continue their journey upward, tracing the curve of her thighs, feeling the muscles tense beneath my touch. I reach the edge of the red panties and run my finger along the elastic, watching goosebumps rise on her skin, feeling her shiver.

Real slow and deliberate, like I'm unwrappin' a goddamn present, I hook my fingers and start pullin' those fuckers down. She steps out of ‘em one foot at a time, leaving them crumpled on the floor beside my knees. I lean forward, pressing my face against the soft skin of her lower belly, breathing in the scent of her—soap and sweat and arousal. My hands circle around to cup her ass, feeling the firm roundness, pulling her closer to my mouth.

The first touch of my tongue against her makes her gasp, her hands flying to my hair, gripping tight as if to anchor herself. I lick slowly, deliberately, savoring the taste of her, the heat of her. She's already wet, already wanting this, wanting me. I find her clit with the tip of my tongue and circle it gently, feeling her thighs begin to tremble on either side of my head.

Her pitiful boyfriend is forgotten. The store is forgotten. There's only this—my mouth on her, her hands in my hair, the small, desperate sounds she's tryin’ hard to squelch. I slide my hands up to her waist, then higher, pullin’ the cups of the red bra down to free her breasts. They're small but perfect, the nipples hard and dark against her pale skin. I reach up to roll one between my fingers as my tongue continues its work below.

Fuckin’ little slut gets into it. She spreads her legs wider, givin’ me better access, and I take full advantage, plunging my tongue deeper between those silky, wet folds. She snaps, lets out a strangled yelp, and her hips start raging out of control, slamming into me like she’s possessed.

I can feel her getting closer, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. I slide one finger inside her, then two, curling them upward to hit that spot that I know will drive her wild. She's soaking wet, her muscles clenching around my fingers as I thrust them in and out. I can feel her orgasm building, her whole body tensing up as she gets closer and closer.

I’m sucking on her swollen clit like a goddamn starving baby latched onto a nipple, only this is way, way better. Babe’s grinding hard against my face, like she’s fuckin’ it, achin’ to get off. I let her have it, slurp on that hard, little nub, matching her rhythm. Her breathing changes, becomes more ragged, more desperate. She's close, so close—

"Excuse me?"

The voice bursts my fantasy. I blink, disoriented, to find a saleswoman standing a few feet away, her expression a mixture of concern and suspicion. "Can I help you find something?"

I realize I've been standing motionless at the rack of robes for God knows how long, staring at that young chick who is now eyeing a display of slips, completely unaware of the elaborate porno I've worked up around her. The hard-on in my shorts is obvious, the stain probably still visible if you know what to look for.

"N-no," I stammer, feeling heat rush to my cheeks. "Just, ah..., browsing. Doin’ some early Christmas shoppin’."

The chick's eyes narrow a bit, given’ me that angry hen look. She nods and moves away, keeping me in her peripheral vision. I take that as my cue to leave. Turning quickly, I head towards the exit, my fantasy girl already forgotten as embarrassment floods through me.