Hunter let out a relieved and exhausted sigh as he shut the door of his hotel suite, tossing his duffel on the floor beside the bed, before flopping back onto the mattress with a groan.
Fuck. He'd never been so tired in his life. Okay, that probably wasn't true, but still...he was fuckin' exhausted. Non-stop promo shit for Wrestlemania, dealing with pissed off fans who called him a racist. Fuck, whatever happened to smart marks, huh? Like he went and wrote his own damn lines and *wanted* to suddenly become the WWE's answer to the KKK. He was getting sick of being called Triple K too.
Putting it from his mind for the moment, he sat up, leaning over to dig in his bag for a pack of cigarettes. He didn't give a damn if this *wasn't* a smoking room, he needed one in the worst way. Finally, with a triumphant grin, he drew out a half-smoked pack of Marlboro's, slipping one between his lips and lighting it.
"Aw damn..." he exhaled loudly, savoring the nicotine. This was what he needed, some frickin' time to himslf, a step off the roller-coaster leading to Wrestlemania and a quiet, relaxing night. No interruptions.
*RIIIING*
Fuck. So much for that plan.
"What?!" voice low and snarling at the intrusion.
"Whoa...what's that tone for, dude?"
Hunter bit back a groan. "There's no tone, Jericho."
Chris snorted on the other end. "Oh, there was *definately* a tone, Trips. You ok?"
"I'm fine. What's up?"
"Well, I *was* gonna see if you wanted to hit the clubs with me and Rocky and Rainbow Brite...but maybe that's not such a good idea, considering your mood."
Hunter growled. "I'm *not* in a mood, dammit! But no, I don't wanna go play designated driver and all-around-keeping-you-assclowns-out-of-trouble guy. Thanks anyway."
Chris said nothing for a second. "That's my word, dude."
"What?"
Chris snorted again. It was really unattractive when he did that. Hunter intended to tell him that one of these days. "Assclown. That's my word. Get your own."
Hunter rolled his eyes. "Here's a word for ya, fuckhead...goodbye." And hung up on the King of the world.
Pausing to take the phone off the hook, just in case Jericho decided to call back and get in the last word, as he was known to do, Hunter settled back against the headboard of the bed, taking long, deep drags of the cigarette.
As he relaxed, and the strain of the day began to dissipate, he gradually became aware of another need, beyond nicotine and a good night's sleep, making itself known. Looking down, he groaned in disgust at the growing hard-on straining his already snug jeans. Oh fer...what was he, 12?? He sighed heavily.
And no outlet for it, either, not that he was in the mood for company at all, even the soft, warm, willing female variety. He vaguely thought of the cute little redhead from the lobby...a ringrat is what the other guys called her type. She was probably still down there...
He shook his head. Nah, no way. He'd never stooped to that level before, he wasn't about to start now. Besides, didn't he *just* say he didn't want company, even her kind of company? Right then.
He looked down once more, sighing. But he still had a little...well, not so little, problem to deal with. It was times like these that he missed the casual arrangement he used to have with Trish. She'd do him right, he'd do her right, she'd get the hell out, all was well. Course, that was before she went and got all stupid in "looo-oove' with that little shit Hurricane. Yep, betcha didn't know that, huh? Odd couple but they're so sickeningly sweet, cavity-inducing in love. Ugh.
Hunter gave a mental shrug. Well, nothing else for it but to take matters into his own hands...so to speak. He stubbed out the cigarette in the potted plant on the nightstand, then reached one hand down, lightly squeezing his hard length through his jeans, tilting his head back to rest against the headboard, eyes closing.
Hmmm...what to fantasize about...he mentally ran down a laundry list of ideas, tossng each aside as he continued to lightly squeeze and stroke himself through the denim. Finally, a grin spread across his face.
Oh yeah...Jenna. He brought up a luscious mental image of the stunning blonde from one of his personal favorites...'Conquest'. Yep, Jenna in nothing but some thigh-high suede boots in the sand...that was good.
Taking his time for once, Hunter squeezed a little harder, then slowly unbuttoned his jeans, lowering the zipper. He tried to slide his hand inside, but found they were too snug, so he tugged them down just far enough so his cock sprang free, landing with a wet *plop* on his lower belly.
He didn't immediately grab it and start stroking, instead lightly brushing his fingertips up the underside, from base to tip, pausing to lightly sweep his thumb across the leaking head, gathering up some of the wetness there and slicking it down the shaft before finally wrapping his fingers firmly around the base.
His breath hissed through his teeth, a contented snarl settling on his hard mouth as he stroked tight once the full length, then back down, letting his fingertips brush his swollen balls in a shiver of sensation. "Oh fuck..." he whispered softly, repeating the tantalizing process several times.
Suddenly feeling warmer than he should in the air-conditioned room, he paused to whip his t-shirt over his head and shuck his jeans the rest of the way off, leaning back finally and returning his hand to his practically throbbing cock.
His eyes clenched shut and he licked his lips, stroking in a slow, rhythmic manner, not too fast, not too slow...just enough to keep him from rushing towards the climax that waited for him. It felt damned good, and he wanted to make it last...for a while at least.
Sliding down a bit on the bed, Hunter reclined on the pillows, continuing his long, slow strokes, head arching slightly as his thumb brushed a particularly sensitive spot just to the left of the head. He lingered there for a moment, brushing and pressing aganst that spot, then resuming his stroking.
He had the mental image of Jenna in his head, but honestly wasn't focusing on it much, too wrapped up in how good his hand felt to really need the added stimulation of the blonde.
Finally, tiring of the restraint, his strokes grew firmer, harder. His throat arched into the pillow beneath him, hair coming loose of it's neat ponytail to cling and wisp across his face and jaw. He gave a low, gutteral groan, hips bucking a little, a shiver running down his arching spine as he writhed a bit with sinuous grace under his own ministrations.
Pumping his fist faster now, Hunter's breath was coming in one long, continuous growl, hissing sharply through his teeth as he neared the edge, groaning low. Muscles worked, rippling strongly in his bicep and forearm, abs strung taut and throat corded as he arched it back.
"Fuck...fuck..." he growled to no one in particular, his hand a blur on his dripping length, beginning to see stars.
Then, suddenly, every muscle in his body went tight, and he let out a low, muffled cry, biting his lower lip hard as he arched up into his hand, releasing a copious string of hot, frothy seed onto his belly and chest, a few stray drops making it as far as his neck and into his hair, now completely disheveled from its restraint.
Going limp, Hunter collapsed back onto the mattress, breathing heavily, slow, lazy after-strokes cajoling the last recalcitrant drops from his rapidly softening cock. A long shudder sliced through him as his fingers accidentaly brushed his over-sensitive head, and he finally let his hand drop away, eyes opening with long, dazed blinks.
A grin spread across his features, easy, calm, relaxed now. He glanced down at himself with a self-depricating smirk, before carefully rising and heading to the bathroom, trying not to drip onto the floor as he rapidly cleaned himself and returned to the bed.
With a tired, but now relaxed, sigh, he reached over to switch off the light, burrowing under the covers.
Oh yeah. Nothing like a little quality time with oneself. He made a mental note to do it a little more often.
