NOAH
I scrubbed at the marble sink for a full three minutes, convinced that my skin was glowing with the neon sign of just-had-bathroom-jerk off session.
My reflection looked back at me like a startled deer that had just survived a landslide. My lips were a little tender from where it was sucked on and grazed, my hair was a bird's nest of "Cassian-grip" flyaways, and my chinos felt like they were made of sandpaper against my oversensitized skin.
Worst of all, the plug was still there. It wasn't going crazy, but it felt heavy... a solid, shameful anchor that made every step I took feel like a deliberate act of treason against my own dignity.
"Compose yourself, Noah," I hissed at the mirror. "You are a professional. You are an assistant. You are… currently leaking into your underwear. Okay, maybe don't focus on that part."
I straightened my shirt, took a shaky breath, and headed back out into the bright, judgmental Spanish sun.
