He’s done this before.
The friction is unreal.
He knows how to make a man feel good.
His breathing is hot and ragged, his hand is so greedy, so practiced, so right.
I want to call him a brat, to tell him that he has no idea what he’s doing to me, but the truth is, he does—he knows exactly how to turn me inside out with a single touch.
For a second, I’m convinced he’s going to take it further, to undo my belt, rip me open, and jerk me off right here in the alley. But instead he stops and just holds my dick, not moving, not letting go. Just allowing the weight of what he’s doing to vibrate between us.
Every part of my body is buzzing, all my old rules collapsing under the weight of that one hand.
I close my eyes, and let myself have this, just for a minute. Because after this, who knows what will happen. But for now, I'm not alone, and that's enough.
“Do you want more?”
I nod, our skin rubbing together because I can’t make the words come out of my mouth.
“Do you know what that means?”
I repeat the action.
“Are you ready to let a guy make you come?”
“I wantyouto make me come.”
Carey drops to his knees without hesitation.
He’s at my fly, popping the button and yanking at the zipper. Rough, but not clumsy. Like he’s done it a thousand times before.
He takes my dick in his hand, wraps his fist around the base, and drags upwards.
It’s slow at first, his thumb working the underside. And then he does this thing, this twisting motion at the head that makes my knees shake and my hips punch forward like I’m a puppet being controlled. And I guess that’s exactly what I am.
I’ve been jerked off before, hundreds of times probably. But this… this isn’t a hand job. It’s a statement.
It’s not gentle, not even slightly. But nothing he’s ever done has been soft.
He spits on me, pumps a few times, then spits again.
The noises coming from me are shameful. Then I hear the tiniest whimper, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s mine as well.
Carey huffs out a laugh, and it makes me feel the most unhinged I’ve ever felt. I’m literally coming apart in the hands of the man at my feet.
He’s watching my face, not my dick, and that’s so much worse.
This is what I’ve fantasized about.
This is what I’ve wanted, someone to control me on an otherworldly level.
I feel so fucking free.
One of his hands is braced against my thigh, splayed open. The other is jerking my cock, obscene and slow; his fingers working every inch of me like he needs to commit it to memory. Like he knows this can never happen again.
Right now, though? I have no shame.
Let someone find us.
