Lately, it's always the same goddamn thing with Joe, the second his eyes crack open: discomfort, a mad pressure in his balls, and Amy's hair tickling like some fucked-up cat whisker. Clock says 3:06 AM, which he can confirm because it's blazing green at him from the damn nightstand, like an accusation. The world outside their shity, little apartment is dark, still, and his dick is somehow harder than the day they met, which was already a banner event. And if he was being honest—that was always a challenge with him—it’s been hard since at least 1:45, the last time he checked the clock. But now, the pressure is making his gut ache.

The room is dark, and Amy's curled in a cute little C-shape, her bare back pressed against him. She's breathing through her mouth, so every exhale is a faint whistle, wet and vulnerable. He lies there listening to her. God, how I love that sound, he says to no one.

Joe never wakes her if he can help it—Amy’s a sweet little succubus when she’s conscious, but if you wake her mid-cycle, she’ll bite your goddamn face off. Sometimes literally. It’s happened. But Joe’s got to move because if he don’t, he’ll piss the sheets, and then she’ll never let me live it down. Last time, she told their neighbors. Twice.

With his hard dick in his hand, he rolls out from behind her and sneaks across the floor in the dark, stubbing his toe on a stray high-heeled boot, cursing under his breath. The place smells like weed and coconut oil and Amy's perfume (Juicy something), and underneath that, the faint stink of sex that seems to coat the furnishings, which is somehow always worse when you haven't showered—but they like it that way.

Bathroom. Joe fumbles for the light and instantly regrets it; the naked bulb is blinding and reveals the mirror, which reveals him: old, skinny, sagging skin, and an erection so obscene it practically eclipses his thighs. You look like a Roman statue, but with cracks and less muscle, he thinks to himself.

Pissing with a boner is the ninth circle of hell. You have to lean way forward, like you’re negotiating a hostage situation with your own dick. After three or four seconds of immense psychic effort, he manages to get the angle right and the piss trickles out in fits. A little splashes on the seat. He thinks about cleaning it, but it's 3:09, and he’s the only one awake, anyway, and he doesn’t want to waste this boner. Fuck that, he says.

The immediate crisis is handled, his cock is still up, throbbing with the kind of urgency that won’t take no for an answer. Normally, this would be a tap-on-Amy’s-shoulder-and-see-what-happens situation, but 1) it’s early, and 2) the last three times he woke her up like that, she told him he owed her “something good,” and “something good” turned out to be letting her peg him in the shower for forty-five minutes. Which, fine, the dude’s not made of stone, but a guy’s got to get his strength back at some point.

So he towels off, wanders into the kitchen, and grabs an ancient Red Bull from the back of the fridge. It hisses at him when he opens it, like it’s also sick of being awake at this goddamn hour. Joe takes a swig and his tongue shrivels; it tastes like melted Sweetarts, only with a topnote of ass.

With just one thing in his head (and a penis still refusing to calm the fuck down), he shuffles over to their computer, flicks on the monitor. The screen burns his retinas into fresh cinders. Their desktop is a minefield of porn folder shortcuts, half-finished erotic essays, and browser tabs from the past 36 hours. He can't remember opening half of them. At this point, he could be sleep-surfing porn and not even know it. There's a beautiful logic to that.

The house is so quiet that the sound of the mouse clicks is almost obscene. He pulls up a browser, then quickly minimizes it when a Facebook notification pings. Some guy from freshman year, inviting him to a reunion he wouldn’t attend if you offered him a blow job. Joe don't care about old friends. Just cares about Amy, about her skin and her lips and the way she moans when he sucks her toes, but right now, mostly, he cares about getting off and not waking her up.

He goes straight to a Reddit page devoted to exactly the kind of depravity he knows will get him through the next five minutes. The posts are all amateur, all ugly lighting and shaved everything, but that’s how he likes it. Real. Messy. There's a video of a dude getting edged by his girlfriend while she reads from the back of a cereal box. He watches it, then goes back to the main page, then watches it again. Fuck, they’re hot, he tells himself.

He thinks about her as he spits on his dick and strokes it real slow. I could fuck Amy right now, and she'd probably fuck me right back, but she looks so goddamn peaceful in there, and if I wait for the sun to come up, she'll be in a better mood. If I wait until dawn, she'll probably suck my cock for nothin’ if I ask her nice. There's no downside here.

So he sits in the dark, watching strangers online, happily working his meat.

In the next room, Amy shifts in her sleep and lets out a tiny fart, delicate and birdlike.

He stifles a laugh, swallows the rest of the Red Bull, and waits for his world to wake up as he spits on his cock again and slowly rubs his hard shaft.

He thinks about later. He'll tell Amy about the dream he almost had, the one where she was a monster and he was the snack. She'll love that shit. She'll pretend to bite his neck, and maybe she'll actually do it. Or maybe, naked, she'll make breakfast, then mount him on the couch while reruns play on silent. There's nothing he wants more, except maybe a joint and a clean fucking toilet seat.

But for now, it's just ole Joe, his dick, and the infinite scroll of other people's weirdness. 3:25 AM, and already the best part of his day.

It’s a downward spiral from there, naturally. Sex, and anything related, is the black hole at the center of their universe, and right now, Joe’s the doomed astronaut who can’t resist the gravitational pull. What started as a one-handed Reddit cruise has morphed into a full-on deep dive: bookmarks, old VHS rips, that weird Japanese site. Neither of them is ashamed—by this point, they’ve seen everything, done it all, and if you can’t find the humor in it, you can fuck off and become a fucking priest, or a nun.

Tonight, it’s cum swapping—their favorite indulgence. Don’t know why, but that’s the craving. Maybe it’s the element of surprise—the split second where she looks at the camera, mouth packed and cheeks puffed, and then just goes for it, tongue-to-tongue with some other depraved fucker, both of them grinning and milking the scene. Or maybe it’s just because Amy’s got him trained, Pavlov-style, to think of cum as more than a food group.

He slams through a few “hot wife” compilations, but most are either bad lighting or the dudes are so lousy at it that it shrivels his boner. Next up: some OnlyFans chick who looks like Amy if you squint and add bigger tits. She’s got a boyfriend, and a girlfriend, and the three of them make an art form out of trading spit and jizz. Better, but not quite it. Still, it gets him going.

Joe digs through the drawer next to the couch for the old leather cock strap Amy got him. It’s beautiful: soft blue leather, a little rusted at the snaps, but otherwise prime. Wraps around the base and gives every throb this surgical, clenching pressure, like your dick is getting hugged by a sentient belt. It was a gift, no special occasion, just because she was thinking of him. They were like that with each other.

Click. Pop. Snap. Joe’s hard cock bulges against the new restriction, a livid purple at the head, veins like angry blue worms. There’s a kind of peace in it—a ritual to counter the chaos of the rest of his horny brain. Strap in, zone out, and just watch till something sticks.

But he ain’t done. The real treat is in the bottom drawer: a jet-black butt plug that Joe got Amy. Silicone, maybe four inches long, shaped like an alien tulip. Amy calls it “The Mind Eraser.” Joe lubes it up with a stolen squirt of her coconut moisturizer and settles back into the armchair, thighs spread, eyes flicking between screen and ceiling. His asshole’s tight, but willing—it’s been trained by years of diligent attention. First push, there’s a jolt, a momentary wince. Second push, a hungry stretch, and a hot, humming pressure that radiates straight to the root of his cock.

On screen, a couple is swapping jizz like it’s a magic potion. The girl gets a load from one dude, holds it in her mouth, then passes it straight to some babe, who swallows and kisses her so hard you’d think it was a contest. It’s Amy! She’s not just watching—she’s there, kneeling in the beanbag chair in their living room, lipstick smeared, looking up at him while she milks the cum out of Joe’s cock, then leans forward and lets it into his mouth. He can practically taste it, bitter and sweet, with that tang. The plug moves with every heartbeat, just enough to remind him it’s there.

Now he’s on fire! Joe edges himself with the expertise of a grandmaster. Slow strokes, thumb circling the head, then nothing for a minute, then a quick two-fingered jerk to keep the blood up. At the absolute peak, he lets off and just sits, soul vibrating, letting the ache wash through his balls and up his spine. If edging were an Olympic sport, he’d be Michael Fucking Phelps.

Time becomes irrelevant. At some point, the Red Bull's drunk, and he switches to tap water. It tastes like pennies and pool water. The plug is still in, and the cock strap has become a natural extension of himself. He’s leaking pre-cum in small drops. This is the part he likes best—when the brain signals are white noise and the body is just a shrieking nerve ending, begging for mercy.

Somewhere around 4:30, Joe sees Amy’s shadow pass in the hallway. She doesn’t come in. Probably peeing, or maybe she sleepwalked to the kitchen for leftovers. She once ate an entire sleeve of Oreos without waking, and blamed Joe for it the next morning. This is true love.

Joe checks the clock. 4:42. Balls are so blue they’re basically indigo. For a minute, he considers just finishing—taking the edge off, shooting a load into his hand, licking it up, calling it a night. But there’s something better about holding it. Denying yourself, so the next time you fuck it’s like you’re a loaded weapon, cocked and ready to blow through drywall. Amy will appreciate it, he thinks. Knows she always does.

Joe snaps the browser shut, stands up (slowly, because the butt plug is now officially part of his internal landscape), and shuffles over to the ragged couch. The old Ikea cushions are perfectly molded to his shape, and the armrest is the right height for propping his knees up. He leaves the plug in, just to see if he can sleep with it. Challenge mode. Wonders if it’ll do something to his dreams.

The apartment is cold, dark, and quiet. He lays back, cock still strapped tight, yanks the scratchy, cum stained blanket over himself, and closes his eyes. The ache in his balls is so good it’s almost holy.

Later, when she’s up, he thinks he’ll see what Amy wants. She might fuck me silly, or make me edge again for her amusement. She might just laugh and lick the cum off my lips. Whatever. I’m ready for her. Dreamland, here I come. It takes forever to fall asleep, but when he does, he’s grinning.

Somebody once told me that dreams are just the mind's way of vomiting up the stuff you don't have the balls to think about when you're awake. If that's true, then Joe’s mind is the exorcist, and tonight's dream is the pea soup.

Ole Joe knows it's a dream right away because his mom is there, but not really his mom, more like the suggestion of his mom—her hair, her voice, the way she used to yell at him for not wearing underwear under his gym shorts. But then she morphs into his fifth-grade teacher, and then his old roommate from the college dorms, and then it's just this blank, headless body, standing in the hallway, blocking the light. He tries to move, but he’s rooted to the floor, naked except for the cock strap and the invisible butt plug, which feels huge, intrusive, and, in weird dream logic, completely normal.

A body steps up behind him. It's not threatening—there's no fear, just this electric expectation, the sense that whatever happens next is exactly what he wanted all along. Strong hands circle his waist, rough and callused, but not in a scary way. Familiar. They pull him back into this plush, giving chest. He can feel the breath, hot and ragged, on the back of his neck.

The pressure behind intensifies. He feels the plug shift, grow, morph into something alive—a cock, obviously, thick and insistent, spearing in past the tight ring of muscle, all the way to the hilt. It hurts, but it hurts good, with that pulsing ache that says keep going, don’t stop, you’ll regret it if you do.

Hands come up, trace over his ribs, pinch both nipples at once with the precision of a musician tuning an instrument. He wants to moan, but all that comes out is this choked whimper. The faceless lover bites his shoulder, not quite drawing blood, but close. His cock is swollen, the strap keeping it rock hard and purple. It feels like the skin might split, like the head might just explode and spray everywhere.

Then, shift. Another body in front of him, this one all curves and lips and wild black hair. She drops to her knees (the floor is cloud-soft, maybe marshmallow, maybe carpet, maybe just nothing), and takes his cock in her mouth. Not a tease—a full inhale, nose to root, like she’s trying to climb inside him through his dick. Her lipstick stains his shaft a bright, cartoon red. Her eyes are green, catlike, and fixed on him, daring him to last.

She’s bobbing, tongue swirling, hand working what she can’t fit in her mouth. Every suck sends a tremor through his whole body. The faceless one behind is still pumping into his ass, slow and relentless, never letting up for a second. Their rhythm matches hers, this animal duet, and he’s just a flesh instrument, played to the edge.

She pops her mouth off and grins, a thick string of spit hanging from her lip. “You gonna cum for me?” she asks, except the voice is Amy’s, warm and throaty. “You gonna fill me up, you fucking dirty fuck?”

Joe tries to answer, but the cock behind him slams in even deeper, and he can only nod, whimper, beg with his eyes. She wraps her lips around the head again and sucks, cheeks hollowing, and it’s too much. Balls seize. Body goes rigid.

He cums hard—so hard he almost blacks out. It feels endless, wave after wave, flooding her mouth, dripping down her chin and onto her tits. Joe keeps cumming, like it will never end, and she keeps swallowing, like she can’t get enough. Then, when it ends, she leans up and kisses him, forcing his cum back into his open mouth. It’s bitter and slick, exactly like the stuff he tasted in the video, but better, because it’s his.

The faceless body behind him tightens its arms around his chest and keeps fucking, but the pressure recedes, the scene goes fuzzy, and the last thing Joe sees is Amy’s face, grinning, licking the last drop from her lips.

Joe wakes up with a start, still rock hard, the plug wedged inside him and the cock strap strangling his junk. His heart is racing. His mouth is full of spit, but it tastes like salt and Red Bull and desire. There’s a ringing in his ears, more like a buzz, not the usual tinnitus.

He checks the clock. 5:03. The world is a dull grey, and Amy is nowhere in sight.

He wonders if she’s having the same dream.

The first thing ole Joe feels is warmth—wet, pulsing, and not a goddamn thing like a dream. It’s realer, messier, and almost confusing in that groggy, pre-dawn way where you’re not sure which reality you just crashed into. The second thing he feels is pressure, an ache in his balls that’s both a leftover from the early morning edge-fest and a brand-new, now-or-never demand for release.

Joe opens my eyes. Amy’s on the floor, kneeling between his thighs, hair a mess of tangles and dark roots, lips wrapped tight around his hard cock. She’s naked, nipples pebble-hard and pink, ass pointed up so her pussy is practically begging for an early breakfast. The fucking sun isn’t even up yet, and she’s already swallowing half his shaft. One hand is wrapped around the base, fingers slick with spit, sliding up and down like a pro, and the other’s wrapped over his ass, fingers pumping the plug in and out.

“Man, I think I've fuckin died and gone to heaven!” he croaks.

Amy grins without letting him go, eyes glittering up at him through a curtain of unwashed hair. Her lips stretch around the head, tongue flicking the ridge with all the evil genius of someone who’s been doing this since forever. Which, for Amy, is probably true.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she mumbles, mouth still part full, before diving down again. She deep-throats him to the hilt—an insane, anatomical feat considering his morning wood is straight-up dangerous right now. The cock strap has his veins bulging, the plug is still jammed up my ass, and it’s like every nerve ending in his body has just filed an HR complaint.

She pulls up, letting the tip pop out with a faint smack, and wipes her chin. “You left your toys on,” she says, grinning. “What, you think you could edge all night and not share?”

He thinks, mumbles a grunt, but then thinks better of it and doesn’t answer. He just groans and tilts his head back, because fuck, he’s waited hours for this. Amy laughs, raspy and full of sinful intent, and goes back to work. Her hands massage his thighs, occasionally sneaking up to play with his balls, then further back to twist the plug. When she does, his hips jerk and toes curl.

“Fucking stay still,” she commands, voice a low, hungry growl. “You’ll mess up my timing.”

Joe does as he’s told. She alternates—long, slow sucks with quick, savage bobs—building him right to the brink, then backing off. At one point, she reaches up and pinches his nipple so hard his vision goes out. He barely hears her, but she’s muttering dirty shit, “God, you’re so fucking hot like this. Just leaking. I can taste you already.”

She’s right. He’s drooling pre-cum like a broken faucet, and she laps it up, swirling it around her mouth before swallowing with this theatrical “ahh” that sounds so hot it makes him want to marry her. All of him is a trembling mess, sweat beading on his face, hands gripping the edge of the couch so hard his knuckles pop.

“You gonna fucking cum?” she says, licking a shiny bead off the tip. “Tell me you’re gonna cum for me, Joe.”

“Yeah, babe,” he gasps. “Please. Fuck. Just—”

She shoves her mouth down again, hard enough that her nose buries in his wrinkled skin. Her tongue wriggles underneath, and at the same time, she yanks on the cock strap and fucks the plug even deeper with her other hand. His brain short-circuits. He feels the orgasm punch through him, gut-deep and violent, the kind of load you only get when you’ve denied yourself for hours.

Amy holds it there, throat rippling, as spurt after spurt fills her mouth. She looks up at him, eyes wide and shining, as if she’s accepted his challenge. No chance in hell she’ll hold it all, Joe thinks. He watches the muscles in her neck flex, her mouth struggle to hold it all in. She lets go with a final pop and sits back, mouth full, bulging, a dribble of white at the corner of her mouth runs down her chin.

She doesn’t swallow. Instead, she climbs onto the couch, straddles his chest, and grabs his face in both hands. Her skin is electric, goosebumps everywhere, pussy lips glistening just above his stomach.

“You know what I want,” she says with her eyes, lips still sealed around his cum. She holds his jaw open, fingers on his chin, and leans in. Joe opens wide, obedient.

She lets some cum trickle out, slow and heavy, pooling on his tongue before she stops. Joe knows what she wants; they’ve done this hundreds of times. With their eyes locked, he shows her what he’s got in his filthy mouth before closing it and swallowing with a loud gulp. When he’s done, he licks his lips clean before opening his mouth and sticking his tongue out to show her what a good boy he’s been.

Amy smiles, then lets the rest of the cum and spit drip down so filthily, running a line from his chest to his waiting mouth. She licks her lips before she shoves her tongue inside his mouth and kisses him hard, full-on. It tastes like salt and Amy and everything that’s ever been right in my world. The kiss goes on forever, her tongue wrestling with his, their spit and his jizz mixing into something so raw it’s sacramental.

She finally pulls back, breathless, a string of white connecting their lips. She licks her teeth, still holding his face. “God, you’re such a fucking whore,” she whispers.

Joe smiles, knowing she means it as a compliment. He tries to say something, but she kisses him again, rougher this time, and pushes her hips forward so her wet pussy lands right on his thigh. She rubs herself hard against him, moaning into his mouth. He reaches up, grabs her ass, and holds her there. He can taste himself on her, on him, everywhere.

She sits up, eyes glazed. “Fuck. I needed that. You edge again without me, I’ll handcuff you to the fucking radiator.”

Joe grins, out of breath, and pulls her down for another kiss. This time, it’s softer, and she melts into him, full-body contact, tits pressed flat against his chest, her cunt leaking slick onto his thigh.

I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone more than in this exact moment, thought Joe, covered in his own cum and Amy’s spit, with her tongue in his mouth and her hands in his hair. The world could end, and I’d die happy.

Done, Amy finally flops sideways onto the couch, head on his shoulder, hair wild and sticky. Joe wraps an arm around her, the plug still lodged in his ass, the tight leather strap biting the bare flesh, and just breathed her in.

They lay like that, quiet and buzzing, for a long time.

After a while, the thumping in Joe’s chest slows down. Amy just breathes on him, hair tickling his chin, fingers drawing circles in the cum and spit drying on his ribcage. Joe could lie like that forever, but Amy, shit, when she’s worked up, she ain’t one for sentiment. Eventually, she stretches, yawns, and props her chin on his chest so she can look him in the eye.

“Morning, slut,” she says, grinning like she won the goddamn lottery.

Joe licks his lips, still tasting the last traces. “Morning, babe.”

She eyes the cock strap, then his dick, which is still a solid snake, and then arches an eyebrow. “Still hard?” she says, and it’s not really a question.

“Kind of never went down,” he admits. Joe was always like that, could keep his cock hard all day long if he put his mind to it, which he often did. And still, now, as old as he was, he could somehow manage to keep it up.

Amy shakes her head, feigning disgust. “Obsessed. Absolute cum-obsessed whore.”

She plants a kiss on his nipple, another on his sternum, then slithers over till she’s got her hips parked right over his. Joe can feel her shaved pussy—already soaking, hot, and sticky—slip down over his cock, which rises instantly to meet her. She’s not subtle about it, either; she grabs the shaft, lines it up, and lowers herself till he’s balls deep, the plug still filling his ass, the cock strap biting with every little move.

“Perfect fit,” she murmurs, sitting all the way down, rocking her hips in slow, lazy circles. “Mmm. I should patent this.” And she giggles, that naughty, girly giggle she likes to do.

They don’t even bother fucking. Just lie there, hard cock swallowed by her soft, warm cunt, her arms on his shoulders. It’s not about the next orgasm—it’s about the stretch, the pressure, the rightness of it—the connection. The way her sweat soaks into his skin, the way their legs tangle, the way her clit pulses against his pelvic bone every time she shifts.

She leans down, presses her mouth to his ear, whispers, “You know I love you, right?”

It catches Joe off guard, makes him smile. “Yeah,” he says, “I know. Even if I’m a degenerate.”

“Especially because,” she whispers, and then she clamps down, just for a second, so his cock throbs like it’s going to explode. Then she relaxes, and they settle into the kind of perfect, full-body cuddle that most people would sell their souls for.

The sun creeps up, turning the living room gold. Outside, the city starts to rumble, but in here, it’s quiet, safe, warm. Ole Joe shuts his eyes, and Amy does too, and the last thing he feels before he drifts off is her lips on my neck, her pussy wrapped tight around him, her breath matching his.

If I die now, I win, Joe thought to himself

The next morning, the street outside Joe’s apartment was crawling with cop cars, paramedics, and a city coroner in a windbreaker, shuffling in and out like it was just another Thursday, which, for them, it was. A nurse, Jenny, sat in a black and white, holding a Styrofoam cup and blinking at the noise and the lights like maybe she could out-stare the morning. She’d given her statement three times already. And here she was with this cop, having to say it all over again.

“Take your time,” he said. His nametag said “A. GARZA,” and he leaned on the open door, arms folded, watching the parade of rubberneckers and bagels-on-the-go with a look halfway between bored and fatigued.

“I showed up for his wellness check. 9 AM on the dot, like always. Ring the bell, nothing. Call his phone, nothing. So I let myself in.” She shook her head. “Jesus. That smile on his face. I’ll never forget it. Guy had the nicest smile, you know?”

The cop scribbled in his notepad, nodded. “You knew him well?”

She grinned. “Joe? Yeah. I guess. He told me I was his favorite nurse because…” She stops, not wanting to say too much. “Because they were a couple of free spirits, and…” She fights to hold back the tears.

“They?” Garza frowned.

“Yeah. Him and his, ah, gal, Amy. She died two weeks ago. It was sudden like. An aneurysm, they said. They’d been together sixty years. Cremated her Monday. A couple of days ago, I took ole Joe to where they first kissed, so he could scatter her ashes. You hear about these kinds of things, don’t you, you know? Where one…, dies…, and the other…” She stops, cries.

Garza answered by clearing his throat and staring at his shoes.

“She called him, Joey. Still. Like they were kids. Held hands when they walked. They were…”

Garza wipes his eyes, fidgets.

Jenny smiled, then reached out and put her hand on his thigh, firm. “You’re a good listener, officer.”

He looked down, startled, then at her wrist—the blue leather strap, the one she fiddled with when he first arrived. “Is that a—” he started.

“Joe gave it to me,” she said, twisting it so he could see the initials burned in: A + J. “He said Amy gave it to him. Said it was magical.”