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It started out innocent enough. He was cleaning his guns, something he did often to ease his increasingly panicked thoughts. It was like it was the one thing that could calm his mind, from a shout to a whisper. It was a monotonous task, really. Clear the ammo, disassemble the firearm, scrub, wipe down, oil, then reassemble. He could practically do it in his sleep. Still, Dude preferred to be present in the moment, taking in every last detail of each firearm. He’d clean the rifles first, getting the biggest of his weapons out of the way before anything else. He always felt like the bigger the gun, the better it was, but he’d be lying if he said it was sometimes a pain to have to clean them.
Each gun brought a sense of ease to him. Halfway through, he felt much calmer than he did when he started. Then, the more he went through, feeling the cool metal and the weight of it in his hands, he felt warm. More than that, he felt hot. Like it was almost sensual, the way something so dangerous was in pieces in his hands, waiting for him to put it back together. Like the weapon in his hand could do more than simply ease his mind. Dude shifted in his spot on the couch, slightly uncomfortable with the thought.
But the more he tried to shove it down, the more it clawed its way back into the foreground of his mind. His fingers shook slightly as he reassembled the revolver, each piece sliding into place with a satisfying sound. His mind raced, going on and on about how it’d feel to have the cold feeling of gunmetal pressing against his flushed skin. How it’d feel to stare down the barrel of a gun, not for fear for his life, but to feel the rush it’d give him.
How it’d feel to have it in his mouth, the weight of the barrel on his tongue.
He could feel that shudder of arousal snaking its way down his spine, mixing with the coil of shame swirling in his gut. As much as he hated it, it made for an intoxicating experience. There was no denying how desperate he really was. As soon as he’d finished piecing the handgun back together, he set it to the side— gently, as if he could hurt its perfect surface— and slowly, his fingers found the buckle of his belt. His pants felt unbearably tight now. Despite the desperation he felt, Dude opted to take his time, working himself up to the moment he was waiting for. His belt loosened around his waist, falling open with the touch of his heavy hands. Rather than immediately open his fly, he palmed himself through his cargo pants and let out a shaky breath at the sensation.
“God, forgive me,” he whispered under his breath. He knew God wouldn't.
Finally, his fingers met the button of his pants, popping it open and unzipping his fly agonizingly slow. One hand tugged the fabric down, pulling his boxers with it just enough for him to feel the cold air hit his erection, while the other reached for the revolver again. He sucked in a sharp breath. The weight of the gun in his grip felt all the more intoxicating, now that he’s in this position. He wrapped his free hand around his dick with trembling fingers. He twitched in his own grip as he rubbed his thumb over his tip. The sticky pre-cum that was dribbling from his slit smeared over the head and slid across his hot skin with ease. He let out a low groan, squeezing himself gently before stroking his length with practiced precision. That shame he felt was being swallowed whole, devoured by the need to release this tension. He would just have to deal with the consequences later.
Dude raised the gun to his chin. His breath hitched, and his head dropped to rest on the back of the couch. The pace of his hand around his dick quickened slightly, a strangled whine leaving his lips. He felt utterly pathetic. A mess in the comfort of his own home. The anxiety he felt before was long gone now, and the comfort of his weapon had turned into an embarrassing desire. He’d have been thankful that nobody was around to see, if he wasn’t too busy making himself an utter mess. He pressed the revolver flush against his skin and took a moment to savor the feeling of the metal digging in. His hips bucked into his hand in response to the sensation. With every stroke of his hand, it felt like he was coming undone; every moan and grunt escaping him was a testament to his sin.
His mind was clouded with need. He wasn’t thinking straight. He was sure of it. All he could think of was the gun under his chin. And then, as if it were fate, he remembered a thought he had before. He reluctantly pulled the gun away from his skin, already missing the feeling of it— but he knew there was something better. His tired eyes studied the shiny silver color for a moment. It was beautiful. It was deadly. It was everything he could ever need.
His lips parted, and with a breathy moan, he shoved the barrel of the handgun into his mouth. His heart pounded in his chest, his dick throbbing with need. He felt like he could cum right then and there. He felt the weight of it, tasted the metal on his tongue, and it was as if the world came crashing down. His thumb pressed on the hammer of the pistol. With one click, the gun was cocked. Even though there was no ammunition in the cylinder, Dude liked to imagine the risk of it. The idea drove him crazy. He already felt himself salivating over the revolver, his eyes fluttering as his hand squeezed over the head of his cock again. The groan that left his mouth was a pitiful, animalistic sound, desperate for more.
He could feel the tension in his body rising, the coiling in his gut beginning to tighten, and he knew he couldn’t hold back much longer. His breath was shallow and uneven, his mind far too focused on the quick movement of his hand and the way he was drooling over himself with a gun in his mouth. His tongue swirled around the metal and soaked it with his saliva. The trigger felt smooth against his finger, warmed up by the heat of his skin. The risk of the imaginary bullet that might be waiting for him made him tremble with anticipation. As he gasped and moaned, his entire body going rigid as his orgasm began, his hand tensed. His eyes squeezed shut when he heard the click of the gun. He knew he had pulled the trigger.
With a guttural groan, Dude thrusts up into his hand, feeling the ropes of his cum shoot out and fall over his torso. It felt like his entire body was on fire. It was shameful just how hard he had cum, having made a complete mess of himself. His saliva had dribbled down his chin onto his shirt, and now, he’d covered himself in the evidence of his shame. His eyes fluttered open. His chest heaved with each heavy breath, the hand holding the handgun finally dropping to his side. He glanced down at his other hand, now coated with his seed, and he grimaced at the sight.
“Fuck…” he grumbled to himself.
The regret was already seeping in. He knew what he did was dirty. It wasn’t something a ‘holy’ man did. God knew how filthy he was. God knew of his sins. He was no longer paranoid of what could be outside waiting for him, but this time, he had a new concern. He just had no energy to confront it at the moment. He needed to clean himself up.
That, and he needed to clean this gun. Again.