Drop #81: Soap

There was a bathroom attached to the outside of the old building behind the kitchen. He ducked in to take a leak. It was cramped but he managed not to dribble on his spotless gray suit.

He washed his hands in the tiny, low basin, encountering, for the first time in years, the same blue liquid soap used in the dispensers of his high school bathrooms. The smell triggered memories of teenage masturbation. He’d just discovered it back then, going at it pretty often and hard, and those bathrooms had been his sanctuaries in the act.

He quickly got turned on, unzipping again and searching out his hardened shaft with one hand while sniffing the soap scent off the other. It was a full, creamy arousal; one that crept through the gut and scratched at the hard-to-reach places, and he worked his rod with all the eagerness of a 14-year-old. It came quickly, aggressively and he climaxed hard, convulsing five or six times to expunge a large load. He had to support himself against the wall as it took him, buckling his legs and fogging his mind.

He had forgotten what that type of orgasm felt like. He hadn’t had one in a very long time and suddenly realized why he’d managed one now: while the bulk of his life had become so immersed in love, this act had been devoid of it. Subjects offer different gifts from objects. The two can overlap, sure, but for him, they tended not to.

It took a minute to straighten and clean up. He wiped the evidence off the walls, toilet seat, faucet and mop handle. It was a miracle he hadn’t hit his pants, shoes or shirt. That would have looked bad.

Leaving the small sanctum, he glanced at his watch and hurried up. He checked his appearance one last time in a broken pane of glass he saw on route, then walked quickly towards the entrance, where guests had already gathered.

By E.M. Vireo

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About EM Vireo
flooding the world with fiction

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