Then I hear it: the shower starting, and almost immediately, a groan that sounds like it's being ripped from his soul. The wet sound of his fist on his cock, fast and desperate. He's jerking himself off, finally letting go when I can't see him, can't touch him, can't share in his pleasure.
He had to lock a door between us to let himself come.
My chest aches worse than the soreness between my legs. He fucked me for an hour, made me come three times, had my pussy clenching around his cock, and he couldn't let himself finish with me there.
What kind of trauma makes a man need privacy from his own pleasure?
I gather my clothes with shaking hands, slip out of his room. Back in my own bed, I can still feel him: the phantom stretch of his cock, the bruises from his fingers, the beard burn on my inner thighs. My pussy throbs with satisfied soreness.
But I'm emptier than before.
Through the wall, silence.
But I know he's awake. Men who lock themselves in bathrooms to come don't sleep easy.
Good.
Let him lie there thinking about how my pussy felt around his cock. Let him remember how I screamed his name. Because this isn't over.
Nico Rosetti might be able to control his body, but I saw the truth when he was inside me: the way his hands shook when he first touched me, the way his breath caught when I clenched around him, that split second when his eyes went wild before he locked it down.
He wants to let go. He just doesn't know how.
Lucky for him, I'm very good at making men lose control. I've spent eight years perfecting the art of destruction, usually my own, but tonight changed things. Tonight I discovered something better than self-destruction: breaking down the walls of a man who thinks discipline can protect him from feeling.
Even soldiers who count their orgasms like pull-ups.
Tomorrow, I'm going to make him come while he's still inside me. Make him lose that perfect control. Make him give me everything: not just his cock, not just his tactical precision, but the messy, desperate, human parts he keeps locked away.
And when he does, when he finally does, I'll be the one who makes him break.
13 - Nico
Nearly three in the morning, and the water is scalding but it’s not hot enough. Nothing is enough. Not four hundred pull-ups. Not cold water. Not the discipline I’ve spent a lifetime building. Nothing has been enough since she knocked on my door in those pajama shorts that barely covered her perfect ass.
I brace one hand against the tile, the other finally wrapping around my aching cock. I've been hard since she appeared in my doorway, nipples visible through that thin tank top, honey eyes dark with want. Stayed hard while I buried my face between her thighs and made her scream. Stayed hard through every orgasm I gave her, my cock throbbing painfully while I denied myself. Stayed hard when I pulled out of her tight, perfect pussy without finishing, my body screaming at me to thrust back inside, to lose control, to claim her completely.
Now, alone behind a locked door, I grip myself with desperate need.
The first stroke is rough, punishing. Pre-cum leaks from the tip, making my hand slick as I work my shaft. This isn't pleasure, it's survival. But the moment I touch myself, the memories assault me.
Her at my door, those silk shorts clinging to her hips.
Christ. The way she looked at me. Like I was everything she needed.
I stroke faster, rougher, remembering how she kissed me, desperate and hungry, her tongue sliding against mine whileshe pressed her barely-covered pussy against my cock through my sweatpants. I could feel how wet she was even through the layers. Could smell her arousal, sweet and intoxicating.
The monster in my chest wanted to shove those shorts aside and fuck her against the door. Wanted to grip her throat while I pounded into her, wanted to make her take every inch while she clawed at my back. Wanted to fill her with my cum until it dripped down her thighs.
Instead, I gave her control. Technique. Kept the real hunger caged.
My hand moves faster, grip tightening. Another memory floods in: on my knees between her spread legs, her pussy glistening in the low light. That first taste, fuck. Sweet and salty and purely her. I wanted to devour her. Wanted to spread her wider, hold her down, eat her until she sobbed. Wanted to make her come on my tongue over and over until she begged me to stop.
Her clit was so sensitive, swelling under my tongue as I circled it, flicked it, sucked it between my lips. The sounds she made, desperate little whimpers and moans that went straight to my cock. When I pushed two fingers inside her, she was so tight, so wet, clenching around me like her pussy was trying to pull me deeper.
"Nico, please, I need…"
She needed my cock. I knew it. Could feel it in the way her hips bucked against my face, seeking more. But I just curled my fingers, found that spot that made her whole body arch, and made her come on my tongue instead. Made her scream my name while I drank her down, while my cock leaked pre-cum in my sweatpants, untouched and aching.
