Even though I know the play area is empty, I still spare it a glance. “I enjoy voyeurism.”
“Like, watching people?”
“Specifically . . .” Now I’m feeling shy. Me, Orlando Oakham-Goodwin, feeling shy! “Watching guys masturbate. But I mean, it needs to be fully consensual both ways. I don’t want any flashers or anything. I enjoy knowing that the guy is doing it just for me. Putting on a show. I also like—though it doesn’t need to be—but I like it when it’s semi-public. Like no one else exceptme can see, but the potential’s there for someone to accidentally walk by or . . .”
Harry absentmindedly palms the front of his shorts. “That’s . . . yeah, that’s hot. Not gonna lie there.”
“I also like it when a guy basically can’t control himself around me, like I’m so hot he has to have me right then and there. Drag me back to the bedroom, or fuck me against a tree, and then fuck off. I like to feel used.”
I’m not sure what Harry will make of my last statement. It’s perhaps a little more than I wanted to reveal about myself, but Harry’s breathing is heavier than it was a moment ago, and the heart rate on his Google Pixel watch is peaking up in the eighties when it’d been hovering around sixty-five for most of the night.
I can’t tell him that more than anything, it’s the validation I crave. The knowledge that someone is so overcome with lust for me they’re willing to jeopardise the good things they have in their life. The thought that someone chooses me.
Though maybe he already understands this.
He checks around the beer garden. There are still people enjoying drinks closer to the pub walls where the strings of festoon lights are doing a better job at illuminating the space, but they’re not looking over at us in the corner.
Abruptly, he swings his legs over the bench and stands. “Come on.” His voice is gruffer than it was a moment ago, more urgent, and he grabs my hand and tugs me to my feet. He pulls me through a gap in the yew trees to the denser, blacker trees just beyond the pub boundary.
“Do you mean like this?” he says, unbuttoning his shorts and zipping down the fly slowly.
He maintains eye contact, and I realise he’s giving me time to refuse. I don’t because I’m already locked in. Instead, I kiss him. Encourage him.
Harry breaks the kiss to whine into my mouth, and when I look down, his erect cock is in his hand. Precum beads at the head, and he stops his slow stroking. Again, I think he’s waiting for consent.
“You can’t control yourself around me, remember? I’m so fucking hot that you need to touch yourself just at the thought of me.” I don’t even care if we have to roleplay this. He’s the first guy who’s ever bothered to find out what I like, let alone indulge me. “You need me to see exactly what I do to you.”
“Okay, yeah.” He resumes his slow strokes. “Should I boss you around a bit? Like . . . what do you want me to do?”
Damn, he’s so fucking cute.
“Use me. Do what you need to do to get off.”
He doesn’t answer with words. He kisses me and then applies pressure to my shoulder, forcing me downwards, but he doesn’t push into my mouth like most guys would. Instead, he threads the fingers of one hand into the back of my hair and continues to stroke himself with the other.
Harry’s movements start slowly, but they build as he continues to fuck his hand right in front of my face. His breath catches, and he peels his eyes open and looks down at me.
“Oh, fuck,” he says as though he’s forgotten I was here all along, then he lowers his voice to a whisper. “You’re so fucking beautiful. I literally can’t believe this is happening right now. To me. Oh my god.”
Yes, yes, thank you. Those are all the correct words.
He stems his own cries by attempting to clamp his lips together, sometimes with his teeth, sometimes by jamming his own forearm into his mouth. Every so often, a deep-throated moan escapes into the otherwise silent forest, echoing through the darkness.
Harry’s magnificent. His shirt is hitched up over his belly, and I can see the V of his pelvic muscles and the veins tracking down into his groin. His shorts hang open in the middle, his underpants bunched around mid-thigh. I might not masturbate often, but I’m definitely saving this image into my bank in case I do.
He’s closing in on that peak. His breath hitches, and his movements become erratic, frantic, desperate. His moans turn into pathetic little whimpers as he struggles to take in enough oxygen.
“I’m gonna come on your face,” he says. “I mean, if that’s okay?”
To answer his question, I part my lips and stick my tongue out.
“Oh my god!” he cries, and his hot release splashes over me. It pools in the crease between my nose and cheek and gushes into my mouth and down my chin.
Harry kneels in front of me, his junk still hanging out of his shorts. “Holy fuck. I may have lived a sheltered upbringing, but that was the single most hottest moment of my life. You look fucking stunning with my cum all over your face, by the way.”
“Take a picture,” I say, accidentally spitting his own jizz all over him.
“Oh my god, can I?” The question must be rhetorical because he’s already taking his phone out of his back pocket.
