My first orgasm was the same as they usually are. It took a longer period than usual, maybe... building it up; letting it go. But, in the end, it was nothing special (although orgasms are, by design, special). Functional, operative, relaxing. Just as it should be.
My second orgasm was different. I didn't need to have another one - not in the same afternoon; certainly not within the same hour. But I wasn't doing anything else... and so, with less effort, I brought myself to orgasm again. Self-indulgent, greedy, lusty. Sinful.
The Irish Ladd in the room next door to us - while being a good housemate (read: quiet,; not intrusive; doesn't watch The Phantom Menace at 3am on maximum volume; gave me some chocolate once) - has questionable taste in music, although I wouldn't call it awful. It's just not very inspired: Meaghan Trainor, Sam Smith, Will Green. It usually doesn't bother me that much... but when I'm lying on my back with my fingers wrapped around my shaft, working my foreskin back and forth while both slick with precum and sticky with lust, I really don't need to hear the latest Adele soundalike.
He had the radio on. This is unusual; he's usually spooling through his drab-music-digital-Rolodex. But, this time, he was getting ready to go out and had on some commercial music station. The DJ's inane chatter popped up between songs and, somehow, blended into the general mulch of noise. I tuned it out, surrounded myself in a bubble. The words, the sounds, the soft whoosh of air through the windows, the gentle patter of the shower... they all faded into insignificance, still there but not distracting, like the gentle bubbling of a brook or the distant chirrup of birds in the forest.
And so came my second climax, with my trousers slack around my ankles, my T-shirt pulled up over my chest, and my fingers drumming absently against my stomach as I allowed myself to drift off while the cum slowly crept down my sides (lazy boy!). Greed, in some cases, certainly feels good.
I eventually roused myself, cleaned up and got back to whatever I was doing at the time, at which point I realised I'd just masturbated to the voice of a commercial radio's DJ and my housemate getting ready for a night out, and a small part of me died.