I’d spent nearly two months acting as if Porter’s condition wasn’t an issue, while in the back of my mind the possibility of him truly being sick festered like an infectious wound. Now that the nightmare was over, it was time, as Porter said, to plan our life together.

With Porter dressed in a new pair of swim shorts and me in a two-piece bikini, we sat on the deck and talked about renting surfboards.

“I’m still processing it,” he said. “It’s crazy. After a scare like that, you look at life completely different. Completely.”

Following my successful cancer treatment, the sky was bluer, trees were greener, and the air smelled fresher. I couldn’t spend enough time outdoors enjoying all of God’s offerings. I bought a bicycle, a pair of running shoes, and a shopping cart filled with running outfits.

Within six months, I was running three days a week and riding my bicycle more than I drove. I focused on my YouTube channel, doing one high-quality video a week. I watched as my followers increased from two hundred thousand to over twenty million.

Everything changed following my recovery.

Everything.

“I know exactly what you’re talking about,” I said. “After my tests came back clean, I kept waiting for the other foot to drop, but it never did. After that, I looked at life as a true gift. My to-do list grew from fifty things to two hundred in about a month.”

“What’s left on it?”

“Two things,” I responded. “There were three the other day, but I think we got one of them resolved.”

“What’s that?” he asked. “I don’t remember you saying anything.”

“One hundred and eighty-four. Rid myself of Luke Westham for good. At one point, I thought I was going to have to move to the Atlantic coast and change my name to Jennifer.”

Porter let out a laugh. “We’ve seen the last of him, believe me. He got embarrassed in front of a room full of people that recognized him. He won’t show his face again. He’s too fucking embarrassed.”

As Porter stated, being embarrassed was going to keep Luke away from me for a lifetime. Yet, I was supposed to agree to try and surf, which would undoubtedly end in me being made a fool of. I hated feeling like I’d been embarrassed. It was what had kept surfing on my to-do list for almost a decade.

“Yeah.” I let out a sigh of relief that I’d been holding in for three years. “I think I’ll draw a line through one eighty-four for sure.”

“So, what’s left on your list?”

“If I can get past these jitters and surf, I’ll be down to one.”

“Which is what?”

I scrunched my nose. “Get a tattoo.”

“What’s kept you from doing that?”

I liked looking at tattoos on other people, even the crappy ones. When it came to place one on my skin, I wanted it to be simple, perfect, and something I’d never get sick of. As much thought as I’d given it over the years, I couldn’t come up with anything that I was comfortable getting.

“Not knowing what I’d want to add to my body that I’d be comfortable keeping forever.”

He finished his champagne. “Have you got any ideas yet?”

“A few,” I said. “Nothing I’m really excited about, though.”

“We’ll have to think about that.” He gazed over the handrail, toward the beach. The mid-day sun had just cleared the deck’s canopy, and the weather was perfect for the beach. “So, do you want to try and surf?”

“Maybe later.”

He closed his eyes and drew a long breath through his nose. “I’m going to relax, then.”

“I’m nervous about falling off the board,” I said.

“You’re falling into water. It doesn’t hurt.”

“It’ll be embarrassing.”

“Only if you let it be.”

“If people see me, it’ll be embarrassing.”

“It’s only embarrassing if you lack self-esteem. It’s not a big deal. Fall off, get back on. Fall off, get back on. Then, one day, you don’t fall off.”

“You don’t get embarrassed, do you?”

“Haven’t yet.”

“Ever fallen off a bike?” I asked.

“Bicycle?”

“Yeah.”

“Many times,” he said.

“Did people see you?”

“Yep.”

“It wasn’t embarrassing?”

“Nope. I didn’t let it be. The difference between me and you is that I don’t give a fuck what people think. Now that we’re getting on with our lives, you should try adopting that philosophy.”

It sounded easy, but it wasn’t. If I fell off the surf board, people would laugh. Then, I’d feel embarrassed. Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone video taped it and posted it on YouTube.

It seemed I couldn’t go anywhere and maintain anonymity.

I stared toward the beach for a moment. Two men paddled out and caught a wave, then rode it back to shore. Neither of them fell off, and no one seemed to care. I wanted to check surfing off my list, but a small part of me feared the inevitable.

After Porter’s release from the doctor, I’d been filled with nervous energy. I was itching to live a life free of restrictions, inhibitions, and the threat of cancer. I glanced in his direction. Still sitting with his eyes closed, he looked peaceful. I, on the other hand, was yearning to do something. Something other than surf.

“Can I play with your dick while you’re relaxing?”

He tilted his head to the side and opened one eye. “If it’ll make you happy.”

I found pleasure in doing anything with Porter. Doing things with Porter’s dick took my pleasure to an entirely different level.

I’d see more dicks in one weekend than most girls would see in a lifetime career in the porn industry. Stiff dick pics flooded my inbox, as did five-second-long videos of men stroking themselves.

Porter’s dick stood out from the tens of thousands of dicks that had burned cock-shaped lesions on my corneas over the years. It was long, thick, and as straight as a rocket. I was fascinated by it.

It was the one dick – the only dick – I’d ever seen that was pretty.

I slid off the edge of my chair, duck-walked to his side, and reached into the leg of his shorts. After gripping the semi-soft shaft, I looked him in the eyes.

They were closed.

I stroked his cock gently, fascinated by its ability to grow to four times the original size. In a few strokes, it was as hard as steel. His eyes, however, remained closed.

“Does it hurt?” I asked. “When it’s all bound up in your shorts like that?”

“Nope.”

He was shirtless, shoeless, and freshly shaven. I wanted him to toss the shorts and let me play with his dick. Other than the fact that his cock was hard, he didn’t seem too interested in my little dick game.

“It’s trying to stand up, but it can’t.” With the shaft gripped firmly in my hand, I wiggled it back and forth, watching the peak of the fabric tent move as I did so. “It’s restricted. Like putting on a size two when you need a size six. It can’t feel good.”

“It’s not a big deal,” he said dryly.

I peered into the leg of his shorts. His dick was pointing toward the beach at a forty-five-degree angle, limited in travel by the fabric of his swim shorts, which were stretched to the limit.

“You’re pitching a nylon tent,” I said. “It looks like it hurts.”

He opened one eye. “Okay. It hurts.”

“Does it really?” I asked excitedly.

“No.”

I sighed. “Okay.”

“What do you want me to say, Abby?” he asked. “Dicks aren’t as delicate as you might think. It doesn’t hurt.”

I squeezed it as hard as I could. “What about now?”

“Nope.”

I bent it downward, toward his chair’s seat. When it felt like it was going to snap off in my hands, I stopped. “What about that? That has to hurt.”

“It’s not comfortable,” he said without emotion. “But it doesn’t hurt.”

Frustrated, I released his dick and tugged against the leg of his shorts. “If we’re not going to surf right now, can we take these guys off?”

One eye opened. “Is that what all that was about? You want to take my shorts off? Why didn’t you just ask?”

“That’s not how girls do things. We beat around the bush until the man gets the hint.”

“Fine.” He untied the shorts, wrestled them over his stiff dick, and tossed them aside. Being naked was obviously comfortable for him, because he nonchalantly sat and propped his legs onto the wicker ottoman no differently than if he were clothed. He closed his eyes. “There. Problem solved.”

I was disappointed that I hadn’t suggested he spend all his outside time sans clothes. As I admired his naked beauty, I made a mental note to require that he be naked in the future.

Tanned and covered in muscles from his knees to his neck, he looked like he belonged in the risqué display of the art studio on Beverly Hills Boulevard, in Los Angeles. With a watering mouth and a wandering mind, I shifted my eyes from his rigid dick to the beach, which was a few hundred yards away.

From our second-story vantage point, we could see everything below, but it wasn’t easy for passersby to see us. I looked left, and then right. My neighbor’s homes weren’t as tall as mine, and it was equally impossible for them to see us.

Satisfied that we were secluded enough to allow me to play with his dick without repercussion, I began to stroke it. The velvety smooth skin amazed me, considering what it encompassed was as hard as a Porter’s bulging muscles.

“I really like you,” I whispered.

“You talking to me?” he asked.

“No, I was taking to him.”

“To my cock?”

“I like him,” I said.

With his eyes still closed, he nodded in acknowledgement. “He likes you, too.”

I increased my speed and tightened my grip a little.

“That feels good,” he said under his breath.

I compared my dainty hand to the size of his massive shaft, and soon got lost in the rhythm of providing Porter pleasure.

“I want to watch you come,” I whispered.

“Are you talking to me, or to him?”

“Both of you.”

“Keep doing that, and you’ll get exactly what you’re after.”

The thought of it excited me. I’d never watched cum spurt from the tip of his dick – or any dick, for that matter. If such wayward things were going to occupy our days in the future, my life was truly going to be filled with blessings.

I developed a predictable rhythm, stroking his dick as if it were mine, doing what I felt I’d want done if I were a man. He seemed unaffected by the gesture, which satisfied me and bothered me both. His lack of interest left me feeling like I was doing something wrong, or that my dick stroking skills were mediocre at best.

But. I was free to do as I wished, without fear of repercussion or retribution. He truly didn’t give a fuck. Hell, he could have been asleep for all I knew.

I licked the tip of his dick as I stroked it, circling my tongue around the swollen tip. Then, I wrapped my full lips around the head, encompassing it fully. I knew having my mouth on his cock drove him crazy, and that was exactly what I hoped for. After another minute or so of sucking and licking, I lifted my head.

“Are you going to come for me?”

“He is,” Porter breathed.

I continued my pace, licking and kissing as I stroked the entire length from base to tip. After a long period of forcing my mouth over the head and onto the shaft, his back arched a little. Then, a little more.

The thought of seeing him come was wreaking havoc on me. Tingling in all the right places and driven by a passion to satisfy the man I loved, I maintained my pace, hoping for an end result that pleased him deeply.

His breathing became labored. Excited for the grand finale, I sat up straight and fixed my eyes on the tip.

With his eyes closed and his hands dangling loosely at his sides, Porter continued his expression of indifference. It fascinated me that he could maintain such an emotionless position on the outside but be brimming with sexual excitement on the inside.

“I’m going to lose it in a minute,” he whispered. “Fuck this is hot.”

“Come for me, baby,” I said softly.

I nudged my purse to the side in hope of getting a better view of the fountain of cum that was sure to blow from the tip at any moment. Then, a light bulb illuminated in my feeble mind. I reached into my purse, grabbed my phone, and opened Instagram’s Boomerang app.

With his cock in one hand and my phone in the other, I waited to start my ten-second recording of Porter’s climax.

As his breathing changed to choppy and unpredictable, I stroked with one hand, and pointed my phone with the other. His hips raised, lifting his ass from the seat cushion. Then, the muscles in his legs flexed.

Excited beyond belief, I pressed the record button.

Two seconds into my rudimentary pornographic production, a stream of cum shot from the tip of his dick. Another followed. Watching through the phone’s screen, I grinned from ear to ear, knowing I satisfied my man to no end – and that caught every morsel of the climactic ending on film.

When I lowered the phone, Porter was giving me a side-eyed look. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Oh,” I gasped. “I thought you were sleeping, or whatever.”

“Relaxing,” he breathed. “I was relaxing.”

“I was just.” I released his dick and raised my phone. “I was making a Boomerang.”

“A video of me busting a nut?”

“Uhhm.” I grinned. “Yeah.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t be putting that shit on Instagram.”

Instagram had a strict policy against nudity, which included Boomerang videos of skinny women in sundresses jacking off musclebound hunks with big dicks.

A shame, but true.

“They won’t let me,” I said. “It’s porn. It’s for personal use. Just for me. I’ll pleasure myself while watching it.”

He lowered himself onto the seat cushion. “That was pretty awesome, by the way.”

“Getting a handy at noon?”

“Yep.” He crossed his arms and closed his eyes. “After you give me a kiss, and I take a little nap. I’ll be ready to surf.”

I leaned over and kissed him, thankful that our relationship was so open and loving that I could choke his cock for research purposes and not have to worry about him taking exception to my ridiculous idea. My future with Porter was an open book, limited by nothing more than our imaginations, and my imagination was vast.

After repositioning myself beside his chair, I touched my phone’s screen with my thumb and started the Boomerang, which was nothing more than a ten-second video on loop.

On the video, Porter’s abs and chest were visible in the background, as was my hand stroking his cock. Two seconds into it, cum blasted from the tip, twice. Then, it repeated itself.

It was the most awesome, no-nonsense piece of pornography to ever exist. Brief, and to the point. I watched it play, repeatedly, a dozen times. I loved satisfying him sexually, and the video stood of proof of my abilities.

“UPS delivery,” a voice said from my left side.

“OhmyGod!” I screeched, nearly jumping out of my skin.

I hadn’t even heard him come up the steps. A mere five feet from us, the UPS delivery man stood with a box in his hands.

Without opening his eyes or covering his still semi-rigid dick, Porter raised his left hand and pointed at the space beside his chair. “Leave it right there.”

“Need a signature, Sir.”

“Got a pen?” Porter asked.

“You can sign with the stylus.”

Naked as the day he was born, Porter leaned forward, opened his eyes, and accepted the electronic signature pad. After signing it, he stood and handed the device to the stone-faced delivery man.

The man handed Porter a brown box. “Have a nice day.”

“I’m in the process of it,” Porter replied with a nod.

While my phone continued to re-play the money shot video, I gawked at the transaction in disbelief. Only Porter could do such a thing without an ounce of emotion or sliver of embarrassment.

He handed me the box. “If I can do that without turning red, you can try and surf. All it requires is a little confidence. You’re a badass, Abby. Get out there, get on a board, and be a badass.”

Porter had a way of building my confidence through compliments. Two years in our future, I’d be overflowing with self-assurance, I was sure of it. I grinned at the possibilities that were on our relationship’s horizon.

“Fine,” I said. “Let’s go check another one off the list.”