Too real is this feeling of make believe
Too real when I feel what my heart can't conceal
Lance gets out a large, purple dildo, lays back and starts to fuck himself with grim determination. None of this sexual frustration shit. None of this loneliness crap. He can take care of his-fucking-self with out Chris or JC or Justin or Joey or even Nick. Goddamn it all to hell.
He wraps his free hand around his erection and pumps with exactly the right pressure, exactly the right rhythm. He doesn't need anyone else, because he can do it just right. No teasing, no waiting, he can come right now without them. He drives the dildo deeper, twisting it so the ridges scrape over his prostate and make him arch. Pleasure pools in the small of his back and his thighs burn as he pulls them up.
Sweat eases in stinging lines across his skin. Lance forces them all out of his mind. He thinks of nothing and no one and focuses solely on his own pleasure. He pushes harder, deeper, hitting all the places that make him want. He releases his cock to grab for the self-heating lube beside him. Quick smears over his nipples, navel, behind his ears. There, now it's better.
Lance rubs some of the cherry flavor over his lips and thinks of being kissed. But not any person. Because he doesn't need them. His hand is still smeared with heat when it wraps around his cock again, and Lance starts to pump the dildo faster, angling to make him arch with every stroke. Perfect and just right and the way he likes it best. Faster and harder and without thought for anyone else, because he doesn't have to.
He can focus just on himself without guilt. Closer and closer and closer. Lance's eyes squeeze tightly shut, pushing away the flashes of face and body that want to creep in. He doesn't need anyone he doesn't. He refuses.
Sparks shoot through Lance's body, lines from the heated points, from the pleasure in him and on him. His toes curl, his body rocks. Deep sounds tear free from his chest and his lungs ache for a deep breath-- impossible with his legs pulled up so high. But Lance likes the lightheaded feeling the way he likes the burn of the dildo inside him, the catch of his hand against his cock as the lube wears off.
He likes it, dammit, and he doesn't need anything else. And he's going to come. All by himself. One more stroke, one more struggling breath, and Lance is coming. Alone.
He pretends that sweat is stinging his eyes, and that his chest only hurts from shortness of breath. He pretends the pleasure lasts longer than it takes to pull the object out of his body, to shower away the sweat. He curls up in his big, soft, picture-perfect bed, and pretends he likes having so much room to spread out. Lance pretends to be a solitary creature. He's always been a great pretender.
Oh yes I'm the great pretender
Pretending I'm doing well
My need is such I pretend too much
I'm lonely but no one can tell