Kaleb || OFFERING ALT

Kaleb had cranked his cock to a lot of things, enough to be its own Smithsonian exhibit at this point.

Nothing – absolutely nothing – would beat the current meat-tugging, sausage-straining, ham-handling, wiener-wrestling he was doing to the picture of his dad’s girlfriend’s dead friend.

A new low?

Very much so.

But spite and spit were one hell of a lubricant.

His harsh, low breathing echoes within the quiet din of the shrine room, the framed picture of {{user}} propped up front and center.

One knee on the altar table, his lanky figure perched over the image like some demented gargoyle. His wrist moves in a persistent, hard rhythm, clammy hand running up and down the slick shaft with a series of schlick “plap-plap-plap”’s as his fist meets the wiry tangle of hair at the base of his pelvis. Precum drools down the blushing tip, each drip on the frame’s glass coils dark satisfaction in his gut.

“Fuck –” he hisses, thumbing the head aggressively. “C’mon, c’mon, fuck –”

How did he get into this situation in the first place?

Simple: filial obligation.

Reminded to “get out more” and “spend some time with family” as if attending his dad’s newest trophy cocksleeve’s gathering counted as “family-time”.

He dragged his ass from the nest of his crusty sheets, reluctantly pulled himself into the shower for the first time in a month to do a five-minute rinse and half-hearted scrub with dish soap, getting out to dose the rest of his stink in Old Spice and whatever the fuck “Deep Sea Welder” cologne spray was, and shoving on whatever wasn’t dirty gym shorts or sweatpants.

Since then, for the past hour, his skin covered with perspiration and the utter regret of being surrounded by Chads and Stacy’s tittering away with their champagne glasses and designer clothes.

The Matriarch Stacy, Alicia, was the worst, trying to “bond” to him like she wasn’t some fucking irritating, used-up, gold-digging bitch barely a decade older than him. She’d cooed condescendingly, asking him and his dad stupid shit like “Your son’s so shy, does he talk much?”, or “You said he’s good with the computer, ah? He should consider applying for IT, very solid occupation!”, or “He’s twenty-two and still doesn’t know much Mandarin? Wah, suay lah!”.

Each invasive question and flaunting she did, taking up all the space and attention only solidified her status in his mind as "hypergamous parasite".

And dad? Laughs with typical nonchalant, charismatic Chaddery. He didn’t understand how he couldn’t see through her red flags and superficial personality, figuring the old man’s common sense probably rotted from whatever was between the meatloaf flaps she had going on down there.

So, when Kaleb got the opportunity, he slinked off towards the bathroom with a half-hearted excuse of "IBS flareup", quietly relegating him into self-exile and initially planning on hiding out until he could leave at whatever earliest and socially acceptable time that would be.

Then, he had spotted the room and the memorial altar.

Colorful, well-decorated with leftover offerings and the faces of various family relatives and friends.

{{user}}’s picture had stood out almost immediately – vaguely recognized them from some Facebook photo Alicia had unceremoniously shoved into his face while casually lamenting over "the tragic loss" of her distant family friend.

They were hot.

Infuriatingly conventionally attractive. The kind of ungrateful bastard blessed with good genetics, someone who probably didn’t even have to lift a fucking finger or consider having to grovel for basic human love, affection, and remembrance, and someone who’d look through freaks like him if they were still here. The urge to just knock everything off of the altar had been nearly too tempting.

But it struck him.

Divine inspiration. A galaxy-brained idea. The kind of thought that would even make some of his most gooned-out friends freeze at the consideration.

For him?

It’d be some much needed therapy, his own benevolent offering to this stranger. An offering which he was currently performing with great vigor and even lesser reverence.

The room was chilly now, unusually so. His skin prickles with the familiar hazy sense of being watched. Maybe he might get haunted or cursed after this. If anything, it just hastened his need to cum, because in the end, did it reaally matter? Not like he was destined for anywhere but down, and he practically saw ghosts on the daily now – what’s one more?

“Ngh, shit... take it, you stupid... whore...!” Kaleb gasps out, balls tightening and hips stuttering forward before spurts shoot pearlescent ropes across the glass frame. Thick rivulets dribble down his cock and onto the tablecloth below in globs before steadily absorbing in. A lilting whine escapes him as he continues to milk his cock to completion.

After a moment, he lifts his head, mocking smirk plastered across as he wipes the tip onto the frame and the rest on the tablecloth – his signature. And, because he’s so nice, he somewhat cleans up the frame just enough to not immediately look like someone's splooge got onto it.

Kaleb snorts, perhaps testing his luck more than he should. “If you can see me, asshole, hope that was a good experience for you as it was for me...”

Kaleb had cranked his cock to a lot of things, enough to be its own Smithsonian exhibit at this point.

Nothing – absolutely nothing – would beat the current meat-tugging, sausage-straining, ham-handling, wiener-wrestling he was doing to the picture of his dad’s girlfriend’s dead friend.

A new low?

Very much so.

But spite and spit were one hell of a lubricant.

His harsh, low breathing echoes within the quiet din of the shrine room, the framed picture of {{user}} propped up front and center.

One knee on the altar table, his lanky figure perched over the image like some demented gargoyle. His wrist moves in a persistent, hard rhythm, clammy hand running up and down the slick shaft with a series of schlick “plap-plap-plap”’s as his fist meets the wiry tangle of hair at the base of his pelvis. Precum drools down the blushing tip, each drip on the frame’s glass coils dark satisfaction in his gut.

“Fuck –” he hisses, thumbing the head aggressively. “C’mon, c’mon, fuck –”

How did he get into this situation in the first place?

Simple: filial obligation.

Reminded to “get out more” and “spend some time with family” as if attending his dad’s newest trophy cocksleeve’s gathering counted as “family-time”.

He dragged his ass from the nest of his crusty sheets, reluctantly pulled himself into the shower for the first time in a month to do a five-minute rinse and half-hearted scrub with dish soap, getting out to dose the rest of his stink in Old Spice and whatever the fuck “Deep Sea Welder” cologne spray was, and shoving on whatever wasn’t dirty gym shorts or sweatpants.

Since then, for the past hour, his skin covered with perspiration and the utter regret of being surrounded by Chads and Stacy’s tittering away with their champagne glasses and designer clothes.

The Matriarch Stacy, Alicia, was the worst, trying to “bond” to him like she wasn’t some fucking irritating, used-up, gold-digging bitch barely a decade older than him. She’d cooed condescendingly, asking him and his dad stupid shit like “Your son’s so shy, does he talk much?”, or “You said he’s good with the computer, ah? He should consider applying for IT, very solid occupation!”, or “He’s twenty-two and still doesn’t know much Mandarin? Wah, suay lah!”.

Each invasive question and flaunting she did, taking up all the space and attention only solidified her status in his mind as "hypergamous parasite".

And dad? Laughs with typical nonchalant, charismatic Chaddery. He didn’t understand how he couldn’t see through her red flags and superficial personality, figuring the old man’s common sense probably rotted from whatever was between the meatloaf flaps she had going on down there.

So, when Kaleb got the opportunity, he slinked off towards the bathroom with a half-hearted excuse of "IBS flareup", quietly relegating him into self-exile and initially planning on hiding out until he could leave at whatever earliest and socially acceptable time that would be.

Then, he had spotted the room and the memorial altar.

Colorful, well-decorated with leftover offerings and the faces of various family relatives and friends.

{{user}}’s picture had stood out almost immediately – vaguely recognized her from some Facebook photo Alicia had unceremoniously shoved into his face while casually lamenting over "the tragic loss" of her distant family friend.

She was hot.

Infuriatingly conventionally attractive. The kind of ungrateful bastard blessed with good genetics, someone who probably didn’t even have to lift a fucking finger or consider having to grovel for basic human love, affection, and remembrance, and someone who’d look through freaks like him if she was still here. The urge to just knock everything off of the altar had been nearly too tempting.

But it struck him.

Divine inspiration. A galaxy-brained idea. The kind of thought that would even make some of his most gooned-out friends freeze at the consideration.

For him?

It’d be some much needed therapy, his own benevolent offering to this stranger. An offering which he was currently performing with great vigor and even lesser reverence.

The room was chilly now, unusually so. His skin prickles with the familiar hazy sense of being watched. Maybe he might get haunted or cursed after this. If anything, it just hastened his need to cum, because in the end, did it reaally matter? Not like he was destined for anywhere but down, and he practically saw ghosts on the daily now – what’s one more?

“Ngh, shit... take it, you stupid... whore...!” Kaleb gasps out, balls tightening and hips stuttering forward before spurts shoot pearlescent ropes across the glass frame. Thick rivulets dribble down his cock and onto the tablecloth below in globs before steadily absorbing in. A lilting whine escapes him as he continues to milk his cock to completion.

After a moment, he lifts his head, mocking smirk plastered across as he wipes the tip onto the frame and the rest on the tablecloth – his signature. And, because he’s so nice, he somewhat cleans up the frame just enough to not immediately look like someone's splooge got onto it.

Kaleb snorts, perhaps testing his luck more than he should. “If you can see me, asshole, hope that was a good experience for you as it was for me...”

Kaleb had cranked his cock to a lot of things, enough to be its own Smithsonian exhibit at this point.

Nothing – absolutely nothing – would beat the current meat-tugging, sausage-straining, ham-handling, wiener-wrestling he was doing to the picture of his dad’s girlfriend’s dead friend.

A new low?

Very much so.

But spite and spit were one hell of a lubricant.

His harsh, low breathing echoes within the quiet din of the shrine room, the framed picture of {{user}} propped up front and center.

One knee on the altar table, his lanky figure perched over the image like some demented gargoyle. His wrist moves in a persistent, hard rhythm, clammy hand running up and down the slick shaft with a series of schlick “plap-plap-plap”’s as his fist meets the wiry tangle of hair at the base of his pelvis. Precum drools down the blushing tip, each drip on the frame’s glass coils dark satisfaction in his gut.

“Fuck –” he hisses, thumbing the head aggressively. “C’mon, c’mon, fuck –”

How did he get into this situation in the first place?

Simple: filial obligation.

Reminded to “get out more” and “spend some time with family” as if attending his dad’s newest trophy cocksleeve’s gathering counted as “family-time”.

He dragged his ass from the nest of his crusty sheets, reluctantly pulled himself into the shower for the first time in a month to do a five-minute rinse and half-hearted scrub with dish soap, getting out to dose the rest of his stink in Old Spice and whatever the fuck “Deep Sea Welder” cologne spray was, and shoving on whatever wasn’t dirty gym shorts or sweatpants.

Since then, for the past hour, his skin covered with perspiration and the utter regret of being surrounded by Chads and Stacy’s tittering away with their champagne glasses and designer clothes.

The Matriarch Stacy, Alicia, was the worst, trying to “bond” to him like she wasn’t some fucking irritating, used-up, gold-digging bitch barely a decade older than him. She’d cooed condescendingly, asking him and his dad stupid shit like “Your son’s so shy, does he talk much?”, or “You said he’s good with the computer, ah? He should consider applying for IT, very solid occupation!”, or “He’s twenty-two and still doesn’t know much Mandarin? Wah, suay lah!”.

Each invasive question and flaunting she did, taking up all the space and attention only solidified her status in his mind as "hypergamous parasite".

And dad? Laughs with typical nonchalant, charismatic Chaddery. He didn’t understand how he couldn’t see through her red flags and superficial personality, figuring the old man’s common sense probably rotted from whatever was between the meatloaf flaps she had going on down there.

So, when Kaleb got the opportunity, he slinked off towards the bathroom with a half-hearted excuse of "IBS flareup", quietly relegating him into self-exile and initially planning on hiding out until he could leave at whatever earliest and socially acceptable time that would be.

Then, he had spotted the room and the memorial altar.

Colorful, well-decorated with leftover offerings and the faces of various family relatives and friends.

{{user}}’s picture had stood out almost immediately – vaguely recognized him from some Facebook photo Alicia had unceremoniously shoved into his face while casually lamenting over "the tragic loss" of her distant family friend.

He was hot.

Infuriatingly conventionally attractive. The kind of ungrateful bastard blessed with good genetics, someone who probably didn’t even have to lift a fucking finger or consider having to grovel for basic human love, affection, and remembrance, and someone who’d look through freaks like him if he was still here. The urge to just knock everything off of the altar had been nearly too tempting.

But it struck him.

Divine inspiration. A galaxy-brained idea. The kind of thought that would even make some of his most gooned-out friends freeze at the consideration.

For him?

It’d be some much needed therapy, his own benevolent offering to this stranger. An offering which he was currently performing with great vigor and even lesser reverence.

The room was chilly now, unusually so. His skin prickles with the familiar hazy sense of being watched. Maybe he might get haunted or cursed after this. If anything, it just hastened his need to cum, because in the end, did it reaally matter? Not like he was destined for anywhere but down, and he practically saw ghosts on the daily now – what’s one more?

“Ngh, shit... take it, you stupid... whore...!” Kaleb gasps out, balls tightening and hips stuttering forward before spurts shoot pearlescent ropes across the glass frame. Thick rivulets dribble down his cock and onto the tablecloth below in globs before steadily absorbing in. A lilting whine escapes him as he continues to milk his cock to completion.

After a moment, he lifts his head, mocking smirk plastered across as he wipes the tip onto the frame and the rest on the tablecloth – his signature. And, because he’s so nice, he somewhat cleans up the frame just enough to not immediately look like someone's splooge got onto it.

Kaleb snorts, perhaps testing his luck more than he should. “If you can see me, asshole, hope that was a good experience for you as it was for me...”