"Oh my God." She's gripping the pencil so tight her knuckles are bloodless.
"Step three, remember?" I take a step closer to the bed. "I stroke myself while you watch. You agreed to this."
"I thought—" She swallows hard. "I thought you'd just... pose."
"Where's the fun in that?"
Her pencil moves across paper, but it looks like she's not really drawing. She's just making random marks while she tries to process what's happening.
I stroke myself more, twisting my wrist the way I like it. The way I've done dozens of times while thinking about her. But this is better. This is her watching. Actually here.
"You're not drawing," I observe.
"I'm trying." Her words are tight. "But you're?—"
"Distracting?"
"Yes."
"Good."
She makes another frustrated sound. Then, clearly trying to redirect, trying to find some solid ground, she asks, "Are you... I mean, have you always been..."
"Spit it out, Lila."
"So… in your line of work. Have you always been in it? You know, like…"
Ah. She's trying to change the subject. Trying to shift attention away from what I'm doing right in front of her. Cute.
"Since I was born." I keep stroking, keep watching her watch me. "My father was Pakhan before me. Groomed me for it since I could walk."
"And your mother?"
"Dead. Both are." My grip tightens. "Why are you asking about this now?"
"Just curious." But she's not looking at my face anymore. She's looking at my hand. At what I'm doing.
"Liar. You're trying to distract yourself."
"Maybe."
"It's not working, is it?"
"No."
I move closer, right to the edge of the bed. She doesn't tell me to stop this time. She simply watches as I stroke myself inches from where she's sitting.
"Tell me," I say. "In your books. The ones you marked up. Do the men ever do this? Get themselves off while the girl watches?"
She nods, barely. "Sometimes."
"And does it make you wet when you read it?"
"Ivan—"
"Answer the question."
"Yes." The word comes out breathless. "Yes, it does."
