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kiyakotari
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greenjudy and saintsavin have requested it, here's some Darryl masturbation, ala a shower at the Hotel Adlon Kempinski, Unter den Linden 77, Berlin.
Abigail's frown deepens. "You must have hit your head pretty hard."
"I was knocked out." Darryl stands up and goes into the bathroom. "I'm going to take a shower."
"Wait a minute or two until that blood clots!"
Darryl waves his hand over his shoulder at her and shuts the door. He toes off his socks and unbuttons his khaki cargo pants, sliding them down over his hips. He looks at the foggy mirror. Reaches out and wipes his fingertips across it - his face appears in smooth slashes, diagonals of the world peeking through opacity. He turns away from the fragments of his reflection, pulls his boxer briefs down and kicks them off to lie in a little heap of black on the floor against the wall.
He reaches up with his left arm and pulls the tape and cotton ball off of his arm - the skin is red and irritated, but only a small dark spot remains to show that there was a plastic tube in his arm all night long. There's a little bit of red on the cotton, but not much. He drops it onto the tiles at his feet.
He slides his palm across the shower control panel, and already-hot water hisses smoothly on behind the glass bricks that separate the shower from the rest of the room. There are bottles of designer shampoo and conditioner in a basket on the counter, along with individually wrapped bars of soap and containers of body wash. There are even little tubs of creams and lotions. Darryl takes some shampoo and soap, pauses, then grabs a conditioner as well, and steps into the shower. He sets the cleaners on one of the shelves and steps under the spray, bracing his arms against the smooth marble wall. It's chilly under his palms, even after Abigail's shower.
Darryl closes his eyes. The pounding water is torture, hitting his sides. He smiles, eyes still shut, teeth bared. He’s used to pain. Pain is inevitable, part of life. Proof of life.
He slides one hand down the marble, brings it to his stomach and drags the callused tips of his fingers across his skin. Calluses built up by unknown years of holding a gun, of rubber grips rubbing against skin. His ribs ache with the movement of his hand, with each caress of the water as it pulses out of the rotating shower head on the wall. This is a nice hotel, far better than the ones he usually stays in. Not that he picks seedy places, but he doesn't require furnishings like this, either. He can't imagine that anyone requires things like this.
Darryl drops his hand down further, finds the pale, water-slick curls and the length of pinkened, hardening flesh. He feels the shape of it, palm cupped underneath its weight. Wraps his fingers around the base, then slides them up to the tip and pulls the foreskin back. Water falls on the unprotected head, sharp hot droplets, and he shudders at the feeling.
Darryl doesn't do this often. Doesn't actually need it, just like Abigail doesn't really need to stay in a hotel like this one. People do things they don't need all the time. He runs his thumb along the edge of the sheath of skin, calluses catching at it, teasing his nerves. Makes a fist and begins moving it up and down, slowly, then more quickly.
As has been mentioned, he doesn't do this often, but it's been a long couple of days, and he's tense. Abigail's face flashes across his mind, not as she appears now but as she looked in his dream. His hand stutters for a moment, his body feeling suddenly cold despite the hot spray, and the image fades. Like always, Darryl doesn't think of much of anything as he strokes and pulls and jerks on the hard length in his hand. He's efficient about it, doesn't play around, hips moving only the smallest involuntary bit with each pass of his hand. It isn't long before he finishes, stomach tightening and sending bolts of pain along his ribcage as the length in his hand pulses and gives under his fingers. When he's done he takes a moment, head bowed against the tiles, to slow his breathing and heart rate back down, then reaches for the soap, unwraps it, and begins to scrub himself thoroughly. The water washes away the suds and other fluids.
A few minutes later, he rinses the conditioner from his hair and reaches out to the shower controls, turning off the water. The bathroom is full of steam, a fine mist of water droplets billowing and drifting in the air. He walks across the tiles, leaving wet footprints behind him, and opens a cabinet set into the wall. There are stacks of towels inside, white and fluffy and perfect inside their sterile plastic wraps. Darryl pulls one out and rips the package open, ties the towel around his hips and grabs another one to begin drying his hair.
Abigail looks up when he steps out of the bathroom. She's wearing her usual cosmetics now, face artfully glossed and glazed and tinted. If she thinks he took longer than usual in the shower, she doesn't say anything. Maybe she assumes the broken ribs made him go slowly. He doubts it.
greenjudy and saintsavin have requested it, here's some Darryl masturbation, ala a shower at the Hotel Adlon Kempinski, Unter den Linden 77, Berlin.Abigail's frown deepens. "You must have hit your head pretty hard."
"I was knocked out." Darryl stands up and goes into the bathroom. "I'm going to take a shower."
"Wait a minute or two until that blood clots!"
Darryl waves his hand over his shoulder at her and shuts the door. He toes off his socks and unbuttons his khaki cargo pants, sliding them down over his hips. He looks at the foggy mirror. Reaches out and wipes his fingertips across it - his face appears in smooth slashes, diagonals of the world peeking through opacity. He turns away from the fragments of his reflection, pulls his boxer briefs down and kicks them off to lie in a little heap of black on the floor against the wall.
He reaches up with his left arm and pulls the tape and cotton ball off of his arm - the skin is red and irritated, but only a small dark spot remains to show that there was a plastic tube in his arm all night long. There's a little bit of red on the cotton, but not much. He drops it onto the tiles at his feet.
He slides his palm across the shower control panel, and already-hot water hisses smoothly on behind the glass bricks that separate the shower from the rest of the room. There are bottles of designer shampoo and conditioner in a basket on the counter, along with individually wrapped bars of soap and containers of body wash. There are even little tubs of creams and lotions. Darryl takes some shampoo and soap, pauses, then grabs a conditioner as well, and steps into the shower. He sets the cleaners on one of the shelves and steps under the spray, bracing his arms against the smooth marble wall. It's chilly under his palms, even after Abigail's shower.
Darryl closes his eyes. The pounding water is torture, hitting his sides. He smiles, eyes still shut, teeth bared. He’s used to pain. Pain is inevitable, part of life. Proof of life.
He slides one hand down the marble, brings it to his stomach and drags the callused tips of his fingers across his skin. Calluses built up by unknown years of holding a gun, of rubber grips rubbing against skin. His ribs ache with the movement of his hand, with each caress of the water as it pulses out of the rotating shower head on the wall. This is a nice hotel, far better than the ones he usually stays in. Not that he picks seedy places, but he doesn't require furnishings like this, either. He can't imagine that anyone requires things like this.
Darryl drops his hand down further, finds the pale, water-slick curls and the length of pinkened, hardening flesh. He feels the shape of it, palm cupped underneath its weight. Wraps his fingers around the base, then slides them up to the tip and pulls the foreskin back. Water falls on the unprotected head, sharp hot droplets, and he shudders at the feeling.
Darryl doesn't do this often. Doesn't actually need it, just like Abigail doesn't really need to stay in a hotel like this one. People do things they don't need all the time. He runs his thumb along the edge of the sheath of skin, calluses catching at it, teasing his nerves. Makes a fist and begins moving it up and down, slowly, then more quickly.
As has been mentioned, he doesn't do this often, but it's been a long couple of days, and he's tense. Abigail's face flashes across his mind, not as she appears now but as she looked in his dream. His hand stutters for a moment, his body feeling suddenly cold despite the hot spray, and the image fades. Like always, Darryl doesn't think of much of anything as he strokes and pulls and jerks on the hard length in his hand. He's efficient about it, doesn't play around, hips moving only the smallest involuntary bit with each pass of his hand. It isn't long before he finishes, stomach tightening and sending bolts of pain along his ribcage as the length in his hand pulses and gives under his fingers. When he's done he takes a moment, head bowed against the tiles, to slow his breathing and heart rate back down, then reaches for the soap, unwraps it, and begins to scrub himself thoroughly. The water washes away the suds and other fluids.
A few minutes later, he rinses the conditioner from his hair and reaches out to the shower controls, turning off the water. The bathroom is full of steam, a fine mist of water droplets billowing and drifting in the air. He walks across the tiles, leaving wet footprints behind him, and opens a cabinet set into the wall. There are stacks of towels inside, white and fluffy and perfect inside their sterile plastic wraps. Darryl pulls one out and rips the package open, ties the towel around his hips and grabs another one to begin drying his hair.
Abigail looks up when he steps out of the bathroom. She's wearing her usual cosmetics now, face artfully glossed and glazed and tinted. If she thinks he took longer than usual in the shower, she doesn't say anything. Maybe she assumes the broken ribs made him go slowly. He doubts it.
