The thought of that makes me cringe. The heat in my veins starts to curdle.
Jesus, imagine if he knew how I’ve been thinking of him.
“I won’t do it again,” I whisper.
“You won’t do it again?” He chuckles cruelly. “Now that I don’t believe. From what I can tell, you struggle to go for more than a few hours without a hand in your pants.”
I don’t answer. I don’t know what to say, least of all because what he’s saying is true. “I-I’ll go to sleep now.”
“You’re not doing a damn thing unless I tell you to do it.”
I was already starting to roll over onto my side. I stop moving when he talks, stuck awkwardly mid-movement. I don’t understand what he means, but I feel like I’ve been hit with a stun gun. I can’t move.
“Did I tell you to move your hand?”
I assume the question is rhetorical, so I don’t answer.
“I didn’t, did I?” His voice is changing again. It’s lower and even more raspy than it was before. It sounds thick as it reverberates through his larynx. It reverberates through me too, it feels like a soft touch, a ghost of a hand traveling slowly down my belly. “You have your cock in your hand?”
I don’t answer, but I glance down to find my hand has indeed found its way back to my dick.
“Wrap your fist around it. Nice and tight. Right near the base.”
I do as he says. I follow his instructions to the letter. Blood rushes south. I was already hard. Fear made me harder. Hearing him telling me to touch myself has me so hard, there’s a real possibility of steel breaking through skin.
“Stroke,” he barks. I react immediately, breathlessly doing as he says. “Slowly!”
A soft, sad whimper leaves me.
“Slow strokes only. Squeeze that pole at the root and drag your hand up to the tip. Do it now…Do it again…” I do as he says. I do exactly what he tells me to do. “Again. Slowly. Don’t back up when you get to the head. Make a hard fist. Squeeze the tip as hard as you squeezed the root.”
I do it. I do it hard, like he said. I bite down hard on my bottom lip, trying desperately to stop the sound that’s threatening to escape as I grind my palm over my sensitive tip. I fail. The whimper that leaves me isn’t sad. It isn’t soft either.
It might be my imagination, but I swear to God I can feel him smiling on the other side of the wall that separates us. I can feel his eyes darken and his lips draw back in that sexy half-smile he does when he thinks no-one’s looking.
I keep stroking slowly until he tells me to speed up. My brain goes blank. I lose all ability to think for myself. I do as he says, nothing more, nothing less. My thighs are clenched and my forearm is feeling the strain. I don’t stop. I don’t speed up. I do it until I’m close. So close, I can taste it.
It’s right there.
Just a few more strokes.
Three more…
Two…
“Stop!”
“What?”
“You heard me. I said stop. Hands off your prick.” I let out a long, mournful whine, clamping my lips together to drown it out. “Reach down and run your fingertips along the underside of your balls. Run them up and down your seam.”
“Wha…?” I try again.
“Do it.”
I do. The sensation is so intense, my eyes roll back in my head. My neck arches and my mouth falls open.
“Bet they’re full, huh? Bet they’re pulled up tight against you. Bet they’re swollen and aching.”
