Gareth stared at his own cock.
It was over.
Whatever his body had been doing for the last several hours had concluded — not with dignity, not with the clean resolution he associated with the whole exercise when it was managed properly — but with the limp, aching finality of something that had been asked to perform past its reasonable limits and had filed a formal complaint.
His balls hurt.
He sat in his chair with the complaint acknowledged and unresolved, the tissues scattered on the desk around him like the aftermath of a very small, very private catastrophe, and he breathed through his nose and looked at nothing.
Then he smacked the laptop.
Not the keyboard — the lid, the flat palm-strike of a man closing a door he should have closed two hours ago — and the screen went dark and the last image it had been showing disappeared and he breathed again.
"'What kind of porn—'" He stopped. Rubbed his forehead with both hands. "'What was that.'"
He sat there.
