Technically, I’m not supposed to be interacting with him, but I can’t fulfill his fantasy without it. It’s not enough to instruct him via text. I mean, yes, he needs that. It makes him hyperaware. Paranoid. Excited. But it’s too cold and distant. Elias needs a hand on his arm, a voice in his ear. He needs a face and body to shape his fantasy—and the only person allowed in that role is me.
I wish I had a camera in his apartment. I can tell he’s progressing with the plugs, obeying my orders. I can see it in the increasingly feverish look, in the way he’s breaking from the mold he’s made for himself. Today, day three, he was biting his lip during our conversation. I don’t think he even realized it.
Each day, I’ve watched Elias leave his apartment building struggling to adjust to what’s inside him. But I wish I could witness that first moment as he pushes a new, larger plug into himself. I wish I could see his face as he’s stretched wider and deeper. I bet he bites his lip like he did during our conversation. I bet he shudders as his cock stiffens.
The first two days, I watched him walk home, enjoying his shaky desperation, but tonight it’s not enough. As I’ve edged him, I’ve edged myself, and I need some kind of release, even if it’s not my own. That, I won’t get until the end.
So I’m not watching him walk home tonight. I’m waiting in the utility closet on his floor. I’m a little worried, which surprises me. I don’t usually worry about other people. But I don’t want anything to happen to Elias, and I’m not there to stalk him, to haunt him, to protect him from all the monsters other than me.
If he’s not home soon, I’ll have to hunt him down—along with anyone who’s dared touch him.
He’s mine.
I’m allowed to think like that right now, in this role.
I’m struggling at the moment, however. This closet smells like a weird but familiar mix of mustiness and bleach. Being closed in here, in the dark, has my mind going to bad places. I don’t let thoughts form, not concretely, but my skin feels tight.
Where the hell is Elias?
Footsteps tromp and a door slams, but I know that’s not him. He would never move like that.
Then I hear a light, uneven tread. I hear a low, almost inaudible whine, and I close my eyes as the bad thoughts fade away and my mind is filled only with Elias.
I’ve left the utility closet door unlatched. I ease it open a few inches to peer out. I’m across the hall from his apartment, a few doors down. I have a good view when he staggers to his door. He knows he’s alone now, that the hallway is empty. He’s trying to be quiet, but he’s not hiding the way his body is rocking.
My view is from behind. His jeans are too loose to really show the curve of his ass, so I have to imagine it, the round globes, the cleft between, the plug that’s stretching him inside. He’s hunched over, fumbling with his keys.
My cock throbs as I watch him. I have to close my eyes—Ihave to—but when I open them again, Elias is already disappearing into his apartment.
There’s not much time—he was too far gone—so I slip out of the closet and move quickly and silently to his door. I’m exposed in the hallway, but the light is dim and there are no cameras. And if anyone sees me, if I have to, I’ll kill them. I won’t miss this for anything.
I put my ear to Elias’s door. It’s flimsy, a mere illusion of privacy. I can hear him gasping on the other side of it. I can hear his moan of relief as he gets his hand on himself.
Waves of arousal roll through my body as I listen to him masturbate. He’s nearly crying. He needs me. I could go to him, help him. But not yet.
He’s loud. Each cry is bitten off like he’s trying to be quiet but can’t. What is he picturing? How hard is he stroking himself? Is he clenching on the plug? I hate that I can’t see, that I don’t know.
Soon, though.
Soon.
For now, this exquisite torture will have to be enough. As he nears his orgasm, my fingers flex against the hollow door between us. My cock throbs in the confines of my jeans.
When he comes with a sharp cry, my body convulses against the door, and my cock kicks, stiff and unrelieved, against my fly.
Elias starts crying after. It’s ugly and lonely and desperate.
Soon, baby. Soon.
***
I’m halfway through the deli’s terrible coffee and Elias hasn’t yet seen me. He’s helping bring new inventory into the bodega’s storeroom, so it’s not his fault but it’s still very irritating, especially given that today he’s using the last, largest plug.
I want to text him, but he could emerge at any moment and see me. I have to content myself with reading the messages on my burner phone.
I had intended to use it only to command him, but last night after I got home, his cries were still echoing in my head. They were transmuting, twisting up with other things. I was feeling them from the inside instead of the outside, and I needed things back in their place. So, pacing around my living room, I sent him a message.
Are you in bed or on the floor?
