Box

12

Trudy Lake.

There’s an art to givin’ a good hand job.

Most girls concentrate on the shaft, and feel they need to expend a great deal of energy.

They’re wrong.

In my experience, the sweet spots are the head of the penis, and the balls. It’s probably eighty percent head, twenty percent balls. You’d be amazed how fast I can get a guy off by rhythmically ticklin’ his balls and massagin’ just the head of his penis.

Dr. Box is no exception.

I didn’t put a clock to it, but let’s just say I was shocked to have him explode in less than a minute. And when I say explode…

“This has never happened to me before,” he gasps. “I bet you could water an acre of land in ten seconds using nothing more than your hand and a garden hose!”

This, from a guy who got kicked in the nuts twenty minutes ago. Not once, but twice.

“How’d you do that?” Dr. Box gasped.

“Was it really all that special?”

“Are you kidding?” He turns on the overhead light and says, “Look at the car’s interior. If terrorists blew up a dairy they couldn’t do this much damage!”

He’s not lying. If sperm were shrapnel, we’d be dead. Skilled as I am with my hands, I’m a bit taken back by the extent of the coverage. I mean, what type of circus freak has this type of orgasm?

Should I be afraid?

He says, “Honestly. You’re so young. How could you possibly be that good?”

I’d rather not tell him I’ve had three years of practice jackin’ off my brother.

I decide to say, “I think it happened like that because we fit so well together.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

“Why is that, do you suppose?”

“Do you want me to spend time thinkin’ on it now, or do you have somethin’ I can clean this up with?”

“I only brought the one beach towel. And Scooter’s using it.”

“I think we’d need two beach towels for this job,” I say. Then add, “Oh, shit!”

“What’s wrong?”

I point at the monster truck barreling down the road, headed right for us.

“What the hell is that?” he says.

“Darrell.”