Logical Conclusion

[amuly]

Title: Logical Conclusion
Pairing: Bertrand Russell/himself
Word Count: 663
Rating: R
Summary: After a long day of working on the Principia Mathematica, Bertrand Russell does the only logical thing to relieve his stress.
Warnings: masturbation, improper use of ink
A/N: This was written for analia_the_1st  over at my prompt fill (which there's still 3 open slots, if anyone wants to prompt me...). I'm cross-posting it to my Philosophy Fanfiction Community,symposium_love . I mention this because GUYS. There is a severe lack of LOVE OF PHILOSOPHY PORN on the internet. And this saddens me. So if you're a math, logic, or philosophy nut, get your ass over there and write me some ridiculous, pun-tastic philosophy porn. Please? ;___;

 

With a groan Bertrand threw down his fountain pen, rubbing his eyes with his aching hand. He was supposed to have these pages to Whitehead three weeks ago. Some foundation-builder he was. It had taken him a half a page just to prove one and one equaled two. If such a simple statement took so long, how long would proving the solid basis of all mathematics take? How many more pages upon pages would he have to write, abusing his poor hand until it cramped and curled like it was doing now?

Bertrand stretched his legs out before him and his arms over his head, back popping satisfyingly as he did. With a groan he let his long limbs curl back into their previous positions in his chair, hands plopping down onto his lap.

Absently Bertrand adjusted himself in his trousers as he contemplated the page in front of him. Penis still uncomfortably squished in his trousers, Bertrand less absently adjusted himself, trying to yank it down his leg. Almost taking him by surprise, he felt himself begin to harden slightly.

Well. Bertrand glanced down at himself, before coming to an easy decision. He'd been working on a single proof for two and a half days straight. He obviously needed to release some tension. And such methods had proven themselves to achieve such a release in the past. Who was he to deny such logic?

With a sigh, Bertrand opened his trousers and pushed his hand in, stroking his penis languidly. Beneath his efficient ministrations, Bertrand found it was almost like he was transferring the stiffness from his fingers to his penis, as the flaccid member slowly swelled and the movement of his curled fist came more easily.

Squeezing his erection almost lazily, Bertrand glanced around for something a sight more sophisticated than spit to ease his hand. He spotted his inkwell, considering it for a moment. He glanced between it and his veiny, leaking erection, considering the possibility. His wife was off with her boyfriend at the summer home, and wouldn't be back for weeks. And Bertrand certainly wasn't planning on entertaining any female company while he continued to work on these pages. As he thought, his thumb swiped precome from the tip of his erection, wiping it down his shaft. Bertrand sighed, pushing his hips up more eagerly into his slightly slicked fist. Decision made, then. He needed some more of that slick wetness to properly fuck his hand. The logic was unavoidable.

Still stroking himself with his right hand, Bertrand snatched his inkwell up from his desk with his left. He paused for just a moment in his ministrations to pour a half-palmful of ink into his right hand, setting the inkwell back down on his desk. When he wrapped his now suitably wet fist around his erection, Bertrand's head fell back against his armchair with a thump, eyes fluttering shut. Yes. That felt better. Now he was fucking up into a tight, wet heat, instead of the dry friction of his hand. Bertrand squeezed his erection harder, mouth falling open as he fucked his fist. Sparks flew behind his eyes as arousal coiled low in his belly. Such sound logic, he had: deciding to take a break from his work to do this, deciding to use ink as a lubricant. All carefully laid premises, leading inexorably towards a perfectly deductive conclusion...

Bertrand shot into his hand, hips stuttering upward as his stomach twitched and contracted with orgasm. He gasped, eyes snapping open as he watched the pearlescent liquid mix with the dark ink smeared all over his penis and hand. Groaning loudly in the quiet of his study, Bertrand shook his flagging erection, squeezing and pumping and wringing the last few aftershocks of ejaculate from his system.

He let his hand fall from his penis with a groan, ignoring that he was staining his trousers with ink and semen. There'd be time enough to worry about such worldly matters later. For now, it was back to work.