Donovan Chronicles: Awakening Ch. 01

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This is my first story on Lit so I look forward to comments and constructive criticism. Caution, this story is a longer read so those of you looking for a quick sex piece should look elsewhere; but if you like a good story, please enjoy.

This is a very touching story about a young man who tries to make the best out of a bad situation. The people he meets along the way through his sexual awakening; and the experiences that define who he will be as a sexual being. Although this is a story about the start of Donovan’s journey; I’m hoping it can be the start of yours as well.

Sitting in a desk near the middle of the room is a young man; you wouldn’t guess by the look of him that today is his eighteenth birthday. His body hunched as he lazily twirls a pencil between his index and middle finger of his right hand; the sight mimicking the sweeping revolutions baton twirlers and drum players at rock concerts do to garner attention. The tip of his pencil sweeps by his right cheek, just barely grazing his light brown hair, casting shadows of it on his vintage green t-shirt. His arm is resting on his left leg, feeling the cold yet soft material of his weathered and worn blue jeans. He leans forward while in his desk so he can more closely examine a picture in a Sports Illustrated magazine depicting screaming fans at a Cavaliers game, his eyes darting over the page. He catches the pencil between his index and ring fingers and slowly tucks a lock of hair that has fallen into his eyesight back in its place; behind his right ear.

He can hear others around him getting restless, the sounds of bags being unzipped, magazines and books being shuffled shut, and an increase in enticing chatter. He tilts his head slightly up and to the right, while his green eyes follow suit to look at the old worn clock hanging slightly above the doorway. The red minute hand of the clock ticking perfectly, circling past the large black numbers as it counts down the time passing by. It is almost 3:00pm and that means summer is about to officially begin, once he gets out of class that is.

He sits up slowly putting his pencil lengthwise between his lips, biting down ever so slightly until he feels his teeth break through the yellow paint, and the faint flavor of smoky wood fills his mouth. He leans over, reaches underneath his desk chair, and grabs from the basket underneath a red and gray backpack. As he lifts it up, he bites harder into the pencil; the tense strain of concentration is cast across his face; the embarrassment of falling is not an option for him. As he places the backpack on his desk, his hand sweeps up and grabs the pencil from his mouth, he can feel the indentations his teeth made as well as the slick saliva left by his lips and tongue. He pulls the magazine out from under his backpack, rolls it up, and stuffs it inside the partial opening left by a damaged zipper, and the frustrated tug that broke it weeks ago.

The bell rings and like a herd of cattle the students rise quickly from their desks, cascading through the classroom as if their very survival depended on them being one of the first through the door. Very faintly, he can hear the shouting of his name, “Donovan, hey Donovan.” The chatter of the students wedged in the doorway trying to escape the prison that has held them so long muffles the voice. It’s hard for him to distinguish the originator; it sounds like his friend Jason yet at the same time reminds him of his ex-girlfriend Stephanie.

Finally, as he rises from his desk, with backpack in tow, the herd cleared the doorway and he hears it again; “Donovan, hey Donovan” No mistaking the voice this time, it was Jason for sure, and he knows all Jason is going to want to do is brag about his family’s vacation to Paris this summer.

“I’m coming, I’m coming hold up a sec would yah” he yells to keep Jason from calling his name like some cliché scene from a sex movie. Donovan looks down at his worn Doc Martins, the shoelace he forgot to tie as he left his final day of Gym class hitting the floor; bouncing to and from the side of his shoe, striking the metal legs of the chairs next to him. As he passes the final row of desks he raises his head up, the presence of Jason startles him; almost seemingly appearing in front of him, as if to deliberately keep him locked up in this social prison.

“Hey man, my parents are getting me my own room in Paris, can you fucking believe that!?” Jason enthusiastically yelps.

“That’s great, but uh, hey what do you need your own room for? Aren’t you going to be in the country side of Paris?”

“Yeah so, so what, you don’t think the country side is going to have girls? What, just because I’m in the country I’m not going to meet some chick that wants to fuck my brains out?” Jason scorns.

“Yeah man, yeah your right; I was just giving you shit bro, that’s pretty cool” Donovan says hesitantly.

He knows Jason is never going to get laid in Paris, he can’t even get laid in Ohio and half of the girls in his class think he’s God’s Kadıköy Escort gift to basketball. The problem is that Jason is a dweeb when it comes to dealing with girls; he attempts to treat them like a basketball, just handle them and expect they do what he wants. Not that Donovan was all that much better when it comes to girls either, he was still a virgin after all; but at least Stephanie let him feel her up after a school dance when her parents were away. Donovan, not wanting to hear another story about how good Paris was going to be says, “Hey, I gotta get my stuff from my locker and get home, Stephanie is s’posed to call me about a party tonight. You gonna come?”

Jason, with a mixed look of sadness and joy says, “Nah man, I got to pack; our flight leaves at like 5am tomorrow”.

Donovan knew he was not going to be able to go and better yet, even if he did there was no party to go to anyways since he hadn’t talked to Stephanie in weeks. “All right bro, have a good trip and don’t forget to tell me about all of the freaky Paris girls you meet” he says with a slight bit of sarcasm. “Oh yeah, you know I’m going to get mine up in Le Paris, Parlez vous francais?” Jason laughs as he heads out the door.

Donovan approaches his locker, puts his backpack down on the floor next to another empty one that rested unused all year. He puts his right hand on the cold plastic dial that has required him to perform the same mundane routine all year so he can have access to a simple, yet small, storage space. With the last spin of the dial landing on 12, and a slight tug of the metal handle, a stark “clank” sound resonates as the door vibrates open. The contents of this locker stared at him five days a week for so many weeks out of the school year. A slight breeze of sweaty cotton hits him in the face as he catches a whiff of the shorts he just removed from his Gym locker earlier in the day. He hastily picks up his backpack and with a quick pull of the zipper opens it up so he can cram the remaining contents in his bag. He bends down on one knee, plunges his hand into this locker, and loads his backpack up with all of its contents. He stands up while zipping his backpack as far as it will go, then grabs the locker door in his right hand; slamming it shut in one swift motion as he proceeds to dart for the exit.

He takes his last step off the stairs that lead out of the school and is hit by a breeze of fresh summer air; suddenly his spirits are lifted, school is finally over; it’s the last time he will touch these steps. He walks across the grass and heads to his left, eventually reaching the sidewalk that will lead him home just a few short blocks away. The heat from the sun radiates off the back of his neck, the light casting a shadow of his body in front of him makes him look heavy. He questions his own physique for a second as he studies his shadow. He’s not as big as it portrays him to be as his body is more slender with form fitting clothes. He can see the first of two crosswalks he must go over before reaching his house and in the distance; he can hear some wailing sounds. Every step he takes closer to the crosswalk he can hear the sounds getting louder; “It’s definitely a cop. I wonder who Jason got into a fight with this time?” he thinks to himself with a slight laugh.

As he reaches the crosswalk, he looks to his left as that’s the direction he believes the sounds of the sirens are coming from. He sees a couple of squad cars in the distance and followed by what looks like to be an ambulance soon after. He contemplates crossing the street, knowing he can make it before they reach him, but he knows the longer he waits, the less chance he has. “Fuck it” Donovan says aloud, he missed his opportunity to cross and now he will just have to wait for them to speed by. The first cop zooms by him spewing behind it a whirlwind of exhaust, kicking up the dust that was sitting on the road moments before. The second squad car passes and within a split second, the ambulance races through the cross walk, the gust of wind as they speed by blows hair into his eyes. The site was amusing to him, as if he was the flag bearer standing at the finish line of some kind of race, and coming in third place was the grand prize of him waiting. Donovan is annoyed that he had to wait for the cars to come by, and even more annoyed at himself for not crossing when he initially had the chance.

He takes his first step into the road as familiarity strikes him again; he can see to his right the old Wilson house and Mr. Wilson outside mowing his lawn in his usual fashion; shorts with black socks and sandals. A couple houses down on the left and he can see the toys spread out in front of the Dolphane house; usually at this time, their eight-year-old daughter Misty is outside playing but today, on this of all days, Misty must be inside. He approaches the next crosswalk and wonders if there is going to be another race he must officiate, surprisingly, he feels let down that there is not; the conflicting emotions puzzle Ataşehir Escort him slightly. He rests his feet on the curb, the stop sign waving by the slight breeze that just went through, “looks clear” Donovan thinks to himself as he crosses the street.

The leaves from the Javane house hang above the sidewalk always requiring him to duck down; how he wishes he wasn’t six feet tall anymore, this walk was so much easier when he was younger, when he was only five foot four. He can see his house now on the left, the light blue color of the siding; and black shudders he remembers painting last summer, still looking as though they’re dripping with wet paint.

Donovan makes a quick turn on his heals to head down his own personal sidewalk, the only sidewalk in the neighborhood that required his manual labor every winter. His is the only sidewalk that has to be shoveled every day before he can go to school and then needs to be shoveled when he gets home from school. He does all this knowing it is part of his allowance; the only money he can earn as his parents have yet to buy him a car, or even allow him to use their car although he passed his driver’s license test a year ago. As he approaches the front door, he pulls the backpack off his right shoulder and dangles it just inches from the ground. He reaches out his left hand and grabs the handle, with a slight bend of his thumb and a forward leaning motion with his body the door opens as it usually does. Nobody locks their doors in this neighborhood when they’re home, and his family doesn’t lock the door when they leave either.

He enters through the doorway and swings his right arm forward launching his backpack down the hallway as his left hand swings behind him to shut the door with just enough force to proclaim his arrival to his parents. The backpack hits the floor and slides forward until it hits and rests right beside a small table nestled against the wall in the small hallway. As he approaches the table, he notices the old brass lamp is on; and underneath the light, what appears to be a note. He bends over slightly to read what it says, recognizing his father’s writing is easy.


Mom and I have a surprise for you when we get home that is very moving. Hope you can wait without it driving you mad.

Love – Dad

“Holy shit, I’m getting a fucking car!” Donovan enthusiastically says aloud. He suddenly becomes overwhelmed with joy, could this be the best day of his life? Could today not only be the last day of school, the start of summer, his eighteenth birthday and be the start of his freedom? He runs into the adjacent room and jumps over the couch landing firmly seated with his legs tucked underneath him to his right side. He reaches towards the coffee table, grabs the Direct TV remote and quickly turns on the flat screen his parents bought for a family Christmas present this past year. A couple of thumb presses later, the TV is on, and he is tuning to channel 501, HBO, the start of the premium movie channels. He scans the list of what is currently playing until he stumbles upon a movie he recognizes for having heavy amounts of sex scenes. “Sliver, I remember this movie; it has that one blonde chick and this guy owns the building and has cameras in every room and it has tons of sex in it” Donovan thinks to himself. “It’s only half way through, that means this is when the sex scenes start to happen,” he continues. He looks over to his left and sees that the curtains are drawn slightly, his heart starts racing; “what could make this day any better than to have a release” he thinks to himself.

He gets up off the couch and heads to the other side of the room where a box of tissues are; grabs three sheets and then heads back towards the couch. He neatly places the tissues to his left and the remote to his right. He knows he can quickly change the channel if his parents arrive if he has the remote within quick grabbing distance. He hits select on the remote and the TV flickers; Sliver is suddenly playing on the screen, the sound of the music and lead characters kissing is very loud. He turns the volume down to just audible levels so he can hear if his parents come home and in case he is not quick enough; so they won’t notice screaming and then some weird music when the channel does change.

He unbuttons his pants and grabs his zipper; he can already feel his dick starting to grow from the excitement of what he is about to do, his pulse is quickening, and it looks as though Sharon Stone is starting to take off her clothes. The sound of his zipper opening is deafened by the heavy breathing heard through the TV speakers; the vibrations of the teeth separating as he pulls them apart sends chills through him. He reaches through the opening in his boxers and pulls out his half-erect cock. His right hand wraps around it as he starts to move his thumb in circular motions, pressing firmly but not too hard on the top of his shaft. He can feel himself growing in his hand; each caressing motion with his thumb sends Maltepe Escort a wave of pleasure through him.

He is almost fully hard now, his hand just large enough to form a nice grip as he gives himself a slight tug. He can feel the skin of his dick gliding over the muscle that lay beneath it; every pull makes him harder and harder until it feels as though it is made of some indestructible material. As he pulls his hand off his cock the shear strength of his hard-on makes it snap towards his stomach. He lifts his right hand up to his face, rolling his tongue around inside his mouth as his light sucking causes his lips to purse, gathering saliva that still has the faint flavor of wood from the pencil he bit into a half hour earlier. He cups his hand under his lips and dribbles out a wad of spit the size of a quarter, the natural lubrication of his spit is sticky and slick at the same time. He closes his hand and uses the inside of his fingers to rub his palm, every time his fingers graze his palms they move easier and easier. He takes his hand and wraps it around his cock one more time, rotating his wrists from side to side making sure his spit coats his entire shaft for less friction.

He slowly moves his clinched fist up his swollen cock until it reaches the brim of his cock head, then immediately and quickly he pulls his hand down to the base of his dick, his pinky finger making slight contact with his right nut. He then slowly pulls his hand up again while watching Sharon Stone straddle Steven Baldwin, catching a glimpse of her exposed pussy. He starts to move his hand faster, each time releasing his grip on the downward motions and then tightening it back up as he reaches the large mushroom shaped head of his pulsating cock. He can feel himself getting close, but becomes distracted by the increased friction as his spit starts to dry out. His mind is frantic; he wants to put more lube into his hand but doesn’t want to stop jerking, if he stops, he might lose some of the momentum he has built up. He closes his eyes slightly as his stomach starts to feel queasy; his legs start to stretch out underneath the coffee table while his toes wiggle in his shoes. He starts to tighten his body, making his hard-on and stroking motions even more vigorous. He takes his left hand and gently grabs his balls while stroking slowly, with each stroke he gently pulls his sack down. While his left hand is waiting to pull his sack down the back of his left thumb is pressing against the underside of his shaft, the feeling resonates up to his tip, making his hole drip small amounts of pre-cum.

He quickly tilts his head to the right, swings his hand up and forcibly spits into his palm, he closes his eyes fully and begins stroking again with a tighter grip. He can feel himself on the brink; he wants to hold it, he wants to savor the feeling, but knows he needs to finish before his parents get home; the moaning coming from the TV helps fulfill a fantasy that he is there. He shortens up the strokes and focuses on the underside of his circumcised cock head while quickening the tugging motions to his ball sack. He can feel his forefinger gliding over the underside of his cock head and as such can feel his cock head moving past his forefinger. He starts to make upward motions with his hand as it moves up to his head, maximizing the effect of his clinched fist rubbing the bottom of his fleshy helmet.

He extends his forefinger with each tug, letting the side of it slide up the underside of his head until it hits the pre-cum leaking from his hole before forming a fist again on the downward strokes. He begins to get flushed in the face, his stomach muscles seem to be contracting all by themselves, his PC muscle flexing uncontrollably. His legs begin to tingle, as his breathing becomes sporadic and heavy; suddenly every part of his body seems to be alive with pleasure. His hand griping his cock tightly at the base, he can feel the warmth of his seed leaving his scrotum and traveling through his dick.

He gives himself a firm tug on his sack as his cock head spews globs of spunk into the air, his legs fully outstretched as his toes spread as far as possible in his shoes. His body begins to tremble as his pelvis begins thrusting upward with every spurt escaping his engorged mushroom tip, gobs of sperm landing on his clenched hand, falling onto his thumb and forefinger that still squeeze his sack.

He can feel the heat from every glob of his seed landing on him; he can feel it running down the back of his knuckles as his right hand is still clenched in a fist around his dick. He squeezes his cock harder; milking the remaining white paste and watches it spill out of his hole. He relaxes his once tense body and releases the grip of both hands from his slowly retreating testicles and shrinking cock.

He takes his left hand and grabs the tissues, one at a time he wipes off his right hand, his knuckles, his palms and the shaft of his now limp cock. He takes the wad of tissues, folds them in half, places them in his right hand, and proceeds to wipe off the few drops that landed while tugging his sack. While bending and twisting his cock to get it back into his pants and boxers the underside of it grazes the zipper, the sensitivity of his cock makes it slightly painful.

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