She’s a trainer - you could make an appointment.” “Yeah - maybe…” Jake said, taking another swig. That night I got home late, slightly drunk...from all the rum. As on every night I spent with Jake, I found my mind consumed by images of him - his handsome face, soft lips against mine, the taut swell of his biceps, the way his package looked covered in the thin nylon of his soccer shorts. Lying back on my bed, I spat on my hand and began to stroke my aching cock. But tonight was slightly. Tick.60 seconds in a minute. Count down the seconds until the sharp, awful pain? or try to think about something else?Don't think about the needles. About waiting for them. About the cold, clinical smell of the alcohol pad.Don't let the fear build. Only a few seconds of pain. That's all it will be.Don't panic and thrash uselessly in the tight, carefully-fastened restraints. Don't cry and feel the horriblness of the foam ball preventing any protests.Tick.Tick.Tick.Don't count the minutes.. More

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