Cry Havoc

Chapter 2
Impulse

Chapter Description: from Book One: Domination

monday 18 september - 7:00 AM

Troy “Impulse” Delvecchio admired his nude form in the bathroom mirror. It was a daily ritual to which he had grown rather accustomed over the years. The teenager fancied his build akin to the famously flawless statues sculpted by “those ancient dudes,” and his cylinders ran at all hours on the fuel of knowing that, beneath his muscle shirt and leather jacket and blue jeans, pulsated the perfect form of a 17-year-old so comprehensive in its masculinity that well-defined men many years Troy’s senior looked like little boys by comparison.

A chiseled jawbone above broad shoulders. Pectorals that quite obviously tensed and relaxed with every inhalation and exhalation. Six-pack abs which Impulse dutifully maintained with a daily battery of one hundred crunches. Not one square inch of any of this was sullied by whispers of body hair that would only detract from the production the teen was putting on for salivating girls and resentful guys alike, save for the happy trail connecting the boy’s navel to his groin... home of the star of the show.

Impulse’s cock was patently enormous. Flaccid, it dangled between his concrete thighs, a length of thick, rubbery meat that was shorn weekly of stray hairs and from which was suspended a pair of balls similar in size and firmness to two hard-boiled jumbo eggs. Testicles of such girth commanded required regular emptying; without the relief of a couple daily orgasms, the boy’s trademark impulsivity lapsed into a mental state that practically breathed down the neck of total resplendent psychosis.

He deftly turned his head to the right and kissed one bulging bicep, allowing his eyes to flutter shut as if he were teasing and tickling the delicate flesh of one of his many, many female conquests. He thrust the tip of his tongue outward from between his lips and pressed its velvety moistness to his own skin. With his free hand, Impulse pet the topside of his dick with the rigid bones of his fingers, increasing his rate of breathing as blood gradually pumped to his crotch and saturated the spongelike tissues of his genitals.

Impulse sported nine inches fully erect, and, with his rod extending perpendicularly in front of him, the boy grew flush and began to sweat. He dragged his nose along his outstretched upper arm while a bead of crystal-clear pre-cum developed at the slit of his throbbing, aching member. In a way, Impulse concluded subconsciously, he was envious. He was envious of all those girls who had been granted the privilege of bringing him to erection and then orgasm. He wondered how honored they must have felt as they struggled to wrap their pert, bubbly lips around Impulse’s considerable girth. He grunted and tensed as he considered all of those rapturous, actualizing moments-- all of those instances wherein he saw fit to bless his wanting feminine peers with seemingly-ceaseless jets of hot, salty spunk. They were begging for it. He saw it in their eyes. And, as he filled their stomachs with his seed, he felt like more of a man than during any other circumstance. Except, perhaps, when he extricated his wilting organ from the very mouth that had serviced him, sending his charge off with a dismissive glare and an unqualified directive never to speak to him again, lest he expose her for the obvious wanton tramp she would have been perpetually fated to become under cover of locker room privacy.

He was masturbating, and feverishly, at that. He switched from making out with his prized muscles to toying with his stiffening nipples. Lines of sticky pre-cum oozed from Impulse’s cock and dribbled onto the floor, leaving a reflective puddle of lust to coalesce and expand between his toes. What didn’t drip onto the tile of the bathroom floor, Impulse slid along the length of his shaft, gloving his beating penis in slick, natural lubricant. His balls were boiling. He felt his sphincter seal up. He crossed the point of no return and reflexively bit his bottom lip.

Impulse allowed himself to gasp audibly when he came. He had no intention of shortchanging himself in any of the classic idioms-- he never shot into a sock, and he refused to blow his load in any predefined direction. He sought to cause disorder, to capitulate to chaos. The world had been constituted to accommodate him and the whims in which he bathed. He prided himself on giving his ejaculate free reign to land where it may.

Everybody loves a good orgasm, but scant few people savor every minute moment of it to the pathological degree Impulse tended to entertain. He thrust forward. Thick, hot ribbons of cum shot from the cannon between his legs and splattered unceremoniously against the bathroom mirror. He gave his image a facial, lining the reflective glass in the steaming, alkaline contents of his testicles. He thrust forward again. Pearlescent ooze ejected in great bursts from his body and marked the faux-marble vanity as the teenager’s undisputed territory. It seemed to Impulse that the cavalcade would never end.

But it did. Troy Delvecchio inhaled loudly, shamelessly, as his ejaculation at last demoted itself to a mere collection of reflexive trickles. As soon as the teenager successfully endeavored to gather his breath, he resigned himself to the unenviable task of cleaning his surroundings with the dirty clothes of which he had divested himself prior to his morning shower. He collected his cum in the fabric and deposited the handful of clothes into a nearby hamper.

Minutes later, Impulse could be found scrambling to garb himself in his leathery, cacophonous Tigers “uniform.” He knew he was going to be late in getting to school.

Priorities, priorities, he rationalized with a wry smile.

to be continued