Pre-Assignment

Posted June 21, 2012

Challenge: Writing in a male POV.

Boobs. That was all I saw. Boobs, boobs, and more boobs. Emmett took "this is my side of the room and that's your side of the room" really seriously. I had a picture of Mount Rushmore my sister had forced her way in putting up, which I was just too lazy to take down, and Emmett had naked women, which he beat off to every night. This I know. He was in no way ashamed to masturbate with another person in the room. Which made up for the fact that I was way too ashamed to admit I heard him.

It wasn't that my side of the room was better than his side of the room. In fact, I had taken the pleasure of seeking sexual gratification with my hand on the rare occasion Emmett traveled home for the weekend and on the days class let out early, and I had used the variety of different boobs plastered across the way as inspiration.

So it wasn't that the boobs were a problem. It was that they just weren't the boobs I wanted to see, and at three o'clock in the morning with a test in Biology the next day, this proved to be a major problem.

The boobs I wanted to see weren't as large or as meaty as the women displayed on Emmett's wall. They were the exact opposite. Small. Kind of pointy. Emmett would call them mosquito bites rather than boobs. I called them boobs, because that was what they were … and well they were pretty nice boobs, in my opinion.

I wasn't exactly sure when I started thinking they were nice boobs. The person the boobs were attached to, I'd know my entire life—the part that counts, anyway—and even just last year, I didn't think there was anything special about her boobs. Nothing about them changed in any drastic way. It was just all the sudden they were nice boobs.

To be honest, I was a little worried about it at first. How could my preferences just suddenly change with no warning? But then I saw that Jasper had grown boobs—or man boobs as Emmett likes to say—over the summer, and I was actually slightly horrified, so I felt a little bit better.

Thinking back, the day the boobs became nice was probably the day I walked into the lounge area and caught the person the boobs were attached to making out with Mike Newton on the couch. I wasn't in love with this girl. She was the annoying kid next door that always tagged along with me and my friends until my sister became more interesting. When she got older, I'd admit she wasn't bad looking. I just never thought of her in that way.

But it was one thing to see her being lazy as fuck on my couch back at home, and another thing to see her allowing some dude to stick his hand up her shirt and fondle a kiwi. I'd acted like any other big brother would do and pulled the fucker off of her before he scampered like some scared little puppy down the hall. She'd yelled at me, but I didn't give a shit.

Actually, I didn't remember anything past where she said, "If a guy wants to touch my tit, it's my choice to let him to or not."

My focus had dropped down to her boobs after that, and then all I could think about was how Newton's palm had perfectly encompassed the entire mass of one boob, and then I was wondering if my palm would do the same, and then I found out that if I thought about that scene hard enough in my mind, I could just barely see a bit of side boob. And, well, with that and the way she was jumping around all angry-like causing her boobs to have just the tiniest of bounce, I was fucking hard.

Hard. For the girl who used to pick her boogers and shove them in my face. Un-fucking-real.

Suffice to say, that conversation hadn't ended well. I was too distracted trying to not look at her boobs and attempting to hide the fact that I had a major tent pitching. She got even angrier, socked me a good one, and disappeared into her room.

Two days later, I was still thinking about her boobs. Worst of all, at random moments of the day, I'd think of her boobs andNewton, and that just made me angry rather than horny, and whatever hard-on I was sporting deflated faster than a balloon.

Fortunately—or unfortunately—Newton wasn't on my mind now. Just her boobs and how nice they were. And I was hard, but that was no surprise there. I'd come to the realization that whenever her boobs popped into my mind, pouty penis down there would jump up like any other happy fucker.

I just knew that I if I were to slap one out, I'd fall asleep like a fucking baby, but that goes back to the point that the roommate was sleeping just five feet away and masturbation just couldn't be an option. At least, that was the thought two hours ago. I started wondering what color of nipples the boobs would have. Would they be a light pink? Or a dark brown? And then I started thinking about how big the nipples would be. Small and sharp? Or big and round. And then I was so hard that it was actually painful, and before I knew it, I had one hand down my pants.

I was gripping and sliding when I finally came to my senses. Emmett wake up, hear what I was doing, and I'd never live it down, so I mentally told my hand to stop, but by then, my hand practically had a mind of its own. It felt so good going up and down, and where my brain was telling it to halt, my penis was saying, "If you stop, I'll cut off each and everyone of your fingers in a slow and painful manner, and then we'll both suffer for the rest of our lives."

And by the time my brain and penis stopped fighting, it was just too late that even my brain joined the bandwagon. First, it countered that it was three o'clock in the morning, and Emmett was probably so deeply sleeping a freight train wouldn't even wake him. Second, it decided to throw pictures of those nice pointy little boobs at me, and any leftover thought of stopping just vanished like that.

I was a total fucking goner, but if I thought that was the last of it, I was so completely wrong.

Along with the boobs, the mouth came as well with juicy lips wrapped around my cockhead while the boobs rubbed against my thighs. The back and ass played a minor role where they both curved sensuously up into the air.

"Fuck." I moaned, gripping my penis harder and moving my hand faster. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Rub the head. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke.

And then the vagina got a starring role with me on my back and her straddling that oh-so-happy-place, but then straddling turned into penetrating, which turned into bouncing, which turned into a really happy Edward. Her boobs bounced along with her as if they didn't want to be left behind, up and down, but then they started going around in circles and that was even better.

"Jesus," I cried out, turning my head to muffle it in my pillow, but then I saw Emmett's face shiny with drool, and my penis deflated just a little bit, and I couldn't have that, so I turned my face back to the ceiling and bit my lip instead. Which was a poor fucking substitute.

Around and around her boobs went, and up and down my hand went. Over and over and just a tiniest bit harder, and I was so fucking close to coming. My wrist was beginning to hurt, my abs were sore from clenching, and there was so much pressure on my face, I didn't have to see to know I was red in the cheeks.

When she squeezed her nipples—which fluctuated between small and pink to big and brown to small and round to big and pointy—I knew I was ready to come. When she grabbed my hands and made me fondle her boobs along with those ever-changing nipples, I did come. Hard and fast and sticky in an overall disgustingly loud manner, ending it all on a moan of her name.

"Bella."

Euphoric and sleepy and so ready to greet Mr. Sandman, I closed my eyes with a content smile plastered across my face.

"Dude … did you just spank the monkey with me in the room?"

Fuuuuuuuuuuccccccckkkkk.

"Um … no."

"You still have your hand down your pants, man."

I paused. "I'm not exactly sure what to say to you right now."

Emmett yawned and turned to face the wall. "Don't worry about it. I'm going back to sleep. Just know that I'm giving you hell tomorrow."

Motherfucking boobs. It was all their fault.

If you were interested, the word (singular and plural) "boobs" shows up 36 times in 1,500 words.