Читать книгу Control - Charlotte Stein - Страница 9

I leave a series of messages on his answerphone, but hold out no hope that they’ll reach him. For some reason, I imagine his answering machine as a hand-cranked gramophone-type device, in a house full of similar items.

He probably has a mangle.

Either way, he doesn’t call me back. Instead I get three hundred messages on my answerphone, from Andy. Some of them are dirty. None of them are as dirty as giving Gabe a handjob in the back of my shop. Though the “I want to come in your ass” one skirts extremely close.

I wonder if Gabe would dare to say words like that. I bet he’s never even thought of such an idea, though I’m guessing his erotic romance education is getting him close. I bet it’s making him want to pick up the phone and call me.

All I have to do is wait. Be patient. Don’t force him. Why do I want to force him so badly?

Because I can still smell him on my skin—that sweet clean scent, like pine so strong and fine it’s almost mint. Because when I think of his lean body strung out so taut and trembling against me, I go weak.

Because he needs a push, and maybe some tender loving care. And though I’m not that sort of person—or at least, I don’t think I am—I can at least bake him a lasagna. If there are ulterior motives beneath the lasagna, like dirty fucking and not getting sued, well. At least he’s getting a delicious pasta meal in the bargain.

I still feel foolish, however, when standing outside his overvarnished door, clutching food like some desperate-for-attention old lady. And, somehow, I’m sure he isn’t going to open up. I can practically feel him peering at me through the peephole.

So it’s a shock when the door practically lunges open. I almost take a step back, and then again when I see what sort of state he’s in.

He has the tense harried look of a man who’s about to be punched in the face. Or of a man who’s been forced onto a ride he couldn’t handle, and now he’s about to throw up. His tie is slightly askew. A lick of hair dangles over his broad pale brow.

In his book, I’m pretty sure that’s enough to indicate extreme stress. It makes me glad I brought the lasagna. It also makes me greedy to smooth that hair back into place, which is one of the strangest impulses I’ve ever encountered. I don’t think I’ve ever smoothed a man’s hair back into place before. Like I’m his mother or something!

Why doesn’t it feel like a mother-y sort of thing?

“How did you find me?” he asks, like some gasping maiden, talking to her awful stalker. Though to his credit he seems to realize he sounds like a gasping maiden, and finishes with this: “I mean—what are you here for?”

I come very close to saying to fuck you, but luckily he gets in there before me.

“It’s just that…my apartment is a mess and I…I don’t usually have visitors.”

It comes as no surprise to me at all that his apartment, far from being a mess, is almost unbearably clean and tidy. Reluctance skitters all over him, but he lets me by into the laboratory beyond. The one which he then tidies some more.

Despite the aroma of coffee wafting in from the undoubtedly sterile kitchen, the place smells like him: of that pine-y, soapy thing. And then there’s the tang of furniture polish—of course there is. He’s spraying some right now. On his books. Which are lined on shelves in so rigorous and orderly a fashion, it looks as though they’ve been covered in plastic.

Maybe they have been covered in plastic. The furniture certainly has been, after all. No word of a lie—the furniture is covered in plastic. The couch and chairs are what looks like a lovely and tasteful white and blue striped silk, but they’re still covered in giant condoms.

There’s not a speck of dust to be seen. Everything is at perfect right angles to everything else. Instead of a TV, he has a giant graph, plotting the space used by each item in his living room.

OK—perhaps not that last one. But it’s a close thing.

“What a lovely apartment,” I say, and I think he flinches—as though expecting sarcasm.

“Oh, well, I…” he begins, then gestures halfheartedly at nothing. “I know most men don’t keep things this neat.”

I get the impression that other people have not approved of his lifestyle choices.

“Who cares what most men do?” I say. He looks startled. Clearly the idea of not giving a shit has failed to occur to him.

I try to communicate my not-giving-a-shit-ness to him with just my gaze. Unfortunately, I think I send him extreme horniness, instead. He flushes from collar to eyeballs and looks down quickly, but there’s no respite there. We’re reflected back up at him in his over-polished floors.

I’m afraid to walk on it, this mirror floor. He’s now looking at my shoes and it’s reasonably obvious that he wants to ask me to take them off—but of course he can’t. It makes me wonder how many people he’s had in here, and been too terrified to ask them to remove their footwear.

When he meets my eyes again the flush that had died down returns, and he looks away. It’s like a shove, to the small of my back.

“Was there something you wanted to ask me?” I say, but he goes in a completely unexpected direction. He blurts out, in a rush:

“Did you bring that for me?

Instead of anything about shoes. I don’t know—I give him an inch, and he takes a mile!

Unfortunately, I love his mile. I want to run it, right now. I want to shout at him: of course I brought this for you!

But I just give him the barest flicker of a smile, instead, and hold the dish out to him.

“Why don’t you go put it in the oven?”

His shoulders drop a little, but not in disappointment, I’m sure. It looks like relief, and the smile trying to curl the corners of his mouth suggests the same. When he reaches forward—from the waist, rather than actually taking a step closer to me—to take the lasagna, his tongue touches his upper teeth in that sweet and unintentionally lascivious way he has.

Or at least, I’m assuming it’s unintentional. It certainly holds on to unintentional, when he stops halfway to the kitchen and turns—all big chocolate eyes and open mouth and oh my word, does he have little pointed incisors on the bottom row of teeth, too? Like a vampire, in reverse? How lovely he is. How lovely, and unsure of everything.

“Are you…were you going to stay and have some, too?”

He sounds so hopeful that my heart suddenly expands and devours my entire body. I think part of me had intended to punish him in some way for not answering my messages, but oh, that’s not going to happen now. No no no.

I think he’s going to get a treat, instead.

“Sure,” I say. “Why not?”

He smiles properly, then, and when he comes back from the kitchen he even gets real close, to take my coat from me—like a gentleman.

His hands skim my shoulders once I’ve turned for him. They do slightly more than skim, however, when his fingers curl under the collar—I can feel him getting a sneaky stroke of my skin, at the nape of my neck beneath the dark fall of my hair. And then he slides the coat down my arms as slow as humanly possible, knuckles brushing me through my crisp shirt, all the way to the wrists.

Even sweeter and more sensuous than this strange repressed sort of touching: he leans forward and breathes in the scent of my hair. I know he does. I can feel and hear him doing it—just this side of obvious. Just enough so I’ll know, without him having to say. That’s Gabriel.

I turn back around on embarrassingly shaky legs. By this point I’m fairly certain that the barrier he puts up between himself and his desires is making a haze of tension drift between us, and I’m swimming in it. I’m drowning in it.

I think he’s drowning, too. His gaze is foggy and his hair looks mussed, again—he must have straightened his tie in the kitchen, but the echo of that disarray still remains. I watch him fold my coat over his arm and an image floats up behind my eyes—him, putting my coat wherever he’s going to put it. But pressing it to his face before he does so.

“The lasagna will be a while,” he says, voice hoarse and oddly regretful. Though maybe it’s not really so odd, when you consider that my mind has already progressed to him putting my wet knickers to his face, too.

He has to regret all the time we’ve got, all that while, when things like that are probably going to happen. Hell, maybe I’m going to make them happen, and then he can go ahead and not answer my messages for another hundred years.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you—before.”

I think he’s reading my mind.

“I just…I mean, my behavior.

He rolls his eyes, as though his “behavior” was just that mind-boggling.

“I don’t know what came over me. I’m not usually like that.”

I raise one eyebrow, but don’t contradict him. I don’t really have time to—he darts back into the kitchen before I can say another embarrassing word.

Not that I mind. It gives me the opportunity to look around his tart little apartment without his nervous eyes holding me back. The books, in particular, need scrutinizing. I suspect that he doesn’t put his money where his mouth is, and of course I’m proven right:

There isn’t a single smutty book to be seen, on any of his many shelves. There are dry tomes on World War II and tasteful works of contemporary literature—you know, the sort that everybody likes—and the occasional manual on toy-making. But nothing that even feathers against the boundaries of naughtiness.

No one would ever guess that there’s porn in his toilet cistern.

Even if there isn’t, in reality. And I know this, because I check once I’ve invited myself into his immaculate bathroom. The one that’s so immaculate that I bet myself he’ll change the towels after I’ve gone, before washing the entire place down while wearing a biohazard suit.

And no, I’ve not a single clue as to why such an idea thrills me so. Even as I’m laughing to myself, I’m crackling with this strange sort of energy. The compulsion to do him wrong. I mist up the bathroom and write suck my cunt on his pristine mirror, then watch the words dissolve away into a little secret message, just for him.

For when he next has a shower, with all of his clothes on.

Unfortunately for Gabe, I don’t feel like stopping at dirty words. The bathroom is en suite, with one door that leads to his living room, and another that I’m almost deathly certain lets a person through into the Fort Knox of his bedroom. The bedroom that’s almost begging me not to stop at dirty words. The bedroom with the hotel-neat bed, and the weirdly drawn curtains, and the picture of Jesus over the headboard.

OK—not that last one. But even so.

The room smells of expensive air freshener, as though he’s been doing bad things in here and needed something to cover them. However, finding what he’s needing to cover proves almost impossible. The wardrobe is imposing and masculine, but there aren’t any dead bodies inside—I know because I open it and find only rows and rows of identical shirts and trousers, with glossy shoes standing beneath.

The drawer at the base yields piles and piles of tank tops—his uniform of choice—while further bedside units are only filled with underwear, most monochrome and dull. I’m not even sure why I would expect anything else, and yet the more I search through his boring things, the sweatier my palms get. The more I anticipate his secret hiding places, his stash of the good stuff; after all, it can’t just be a vice he indulges in while working at my shop.

I stand up, hands on hips. Frustrated and sure he’s going to come in any minute, to make me feel guilty for rummaging through his stuff—though it’s not as though he doesn’t have a right to. This is a terrible invasion of his privacy and I should get guilt-stomped for it, I should feel bad, I’m an awful awful person, to do a thing like—

There’s a drawer beneath his bed. There is a drawer beneath his bed, pretending to hide. I know there is because I had one just like it, and it makes those fat lines in the otherwise smooth underside of the frame. He’s got a valance covering it, but really—he didn’t think such a thing was secret, did he? Like a safe, for his valuables!

I crouch down and drag it out—so sure of myself that when there’s nothing there, my disappointment is total. It’s just more tank tops, more endlessly gray tank tops and so much monochrome that I wonder if the movie of my life has switched from color to black and white.

But oh my lad, you didn’t think you were going to get away with it that easily, did you? Everyone knows that you have to check under the disguising items of clothing, too—like checking the layer of real notes to find the Monopoly money beneath!

And he has more than Monopoly money in his secret safe drawer of naughtiness, I tell you what. He has books, lovely books, of course he does—all the books I had under my own bed, back when I was far too innocent for this sort of stuff. Crimson Silk books, books by authors who disappeared into the wilds of “legitimate” fiction and never returned, books with bad girls on their covers.

He has my favorites: Threesome, The Loner, All Business, World without End. Spines laced with cracks, pages almost falling out. Exotically named authors like Felusia De La Ray. And all the scenes I still remember whenever I close my eyes and my body hums: the yellow scarf and the river and the tennis-playing girls.

I wonder if he remembers the tennis-playing girls. The ones who live on in infamy in my mind, apparently. Though I’m guessing it’s more about the strong female protagonists in all of these books, doing things like writing the word cunt on bathroom mirrors.

Despite the fact that none of those amazing heroines ever do anything like that—mainly because they’re strong and brave and cool. Whereas I’m just wicked and awful, and turned to water by desires I didn’t even know I had five minutes ago.

Plus I jump and my legs don’t want to help me stand, when Gabe finally discovers me and my many, many transgressions. If I was like them I’m sure I wouldn’t feel conflicted about doing this, or nervous about hurting his feelings, and this would definitely be the moment where we continued what I shouldn’t have started back at the shop.

The memory of which makes me stand up, book in hand. He looks angry at first, I think. That line appears between his thick brows; his dark eyes flash even darker. How dare you, that look says, as his hands ball into fists at his sides. Strangely, however, I feel no compulsion to apologize. I feel nothing besides the pulse between my legs, and the insistent buzz of a thousand heroines rattling their way through my mind.

“What are you doing in here?” he says, and the buzz grows louder, stronger.

“Looking through your things, dirty boy,” I reply.

His face drops, the crease-frown and the balled fists forgotten. He blurts out, rather embarrassingly:

“They’re not mine.”

I love him for trying to deny it—it just makes the whole thing so much less awful, somehow. So much more like a game. Now I get to force him to confess.

“Really? Old girlfriend’s, then?”

I can practically see him trying to work out the mathematical probability of such a thing being true. The odds do not look good.

“I’m keeping them here. For a friend.”

“Did you read the books in my store for a friend, too?”

Even in the one-lamp-lit dimness of his bedroom, I can see that blush creeping up his throat. He fidgets, glancing from the book in my hand, to the open drawer, to me, and then back to the book again.

“No…”

“Then what?”

“I haven’t read any of them.”

“Really? Not even this one: ‘Layla enjoys anonymous sex with hot young studs’? Or how about this one?”

I reach down and pick up another—a seedy-looking thing called Breathless.

“This looks fantastic. ‘Before Cathy split up with her husband, she didn’t understand the joy of a hard, healthy cock.’ As opposed to a soft, sickly one I suppose.”

I toss it back into the drawer and have to bite back a laugh when he winces. He’s wincing for his injured, insulted books! As though I really mean it—as though I’m really mocking his taste when I love and sell books like this for a living.

“And what about this one?” I start, but he stops me, this time. He lunges forward and snatches it out of my hand, clutching it to him like it’s his dying lovechild.

“Don’t,” he says. “Don’t say any more about them. There’s nothing wrong with it, all right? I just like them.”

He doesn’t sound so sure, however. About the nothing wrong part, I mean.

“Tell me what you like about them, then,” I say, and his expression confirms my assessment of what he really thinks is right and wrong.

“The psychological depth,” he tries, but he doesn’t seem convinced. I think he needs some convincing. I think he needs some help, from me.

“All right. Then why don’t you read out some psychological depth to me.”

His eyes freeze in place, wide and staring.

“I’m sure that Gemma Golightly you’ve got in your hand has plenty of choice moments.”

Words are definitely trying to push against his pouty lips, but they’re not making it out. Instead he shakes his head in this slow, almost resigned sort of way.

“Go ahead,” I say. “Open it up and read something out to me.”

At first I’m sure he’s going to outright refuse. But he surprises me—he bends his head to read with barely another word or look.

I notice that he opens the book carefully, which makes the cracks on all of the spines something of a mystery. Until I consider what he must look like, clutching a book in one hand with the other on his cock. You don’t typically think about spine cracks when busy masturbating to some psychological depth.

‘“Kelly Matheson liked nothing better than a…she…when she went to work the next day.

He frantically rifles through pages, searching for the cracks in between what I know is steamy, steamy sex.

‘“She told him without hesitation: it was him who had done this to her. He made her want to stop being prim and proper, and claw at him like a wild animal. Her puss—her…she.

More rifling. His face looks so hot, I’m sure it would burn me if I reached out and touched it.

“Why don’t you just skip to the part where she has a threesome with those two hot gay guys?”

His gaze flicks up to me, bright and feverish already.

“I can’t read that part aloud.”

“So you know what I’m talking about, right? The bit where she gets fucked while the other guy fucks the guy on top of her. Right?”

His voice comes out wavery and oddly robotic.

“I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”

“Or how about the part where she makes him lick her pussy on that dirty staircase that leads up to her apartment? Oh, I like that bit. She’s so good at describing all the juicy details—the way his tongue thrums back and forth over her clit, the way he begs her to let him come, the way she gets so hot all over—are you hot all over, right now?”

“I feel lukewarm, actually. Almost cold, in truth.”

“Such a liar. You know what I said about lying to your boss. I think I’m going to have to punish you, now.”

God, those heroines would be so proud of me! He swallows, again—looks to the book for inspiration. I really doubt he’s going to find anything lukewarm there, though, I’ve got to say.

“Aren’t I already being punished?” he asks, bless his heart.

I crouch, to find something even worse for him to read.

That seedy one by Barry Haydon, perhaps.

But while there, I find something much, much better. I can hear him protesting from somewhere above me, but he doesn’t try to snatch anything away from my greedy grasp. He just waits, probably paralyzed with mortification, as I stand back up with something absolutely astonishing in my hands.

I could almost believe that he really did have a girlfriend who left all of this here. Because for the life of me, I can’t imagine Gabriel going into Ann Summers to buy a sex toy.

He groans and his eyes flutter closed, briefly. But despite this humiliation—or maybe because of it—something is pushing at the front of his trousers.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” I tell him. “I have one just like it.”

It’s true. I do. A little pink toy—a real back to basics sort of thing. The kind of gift you get when you buy five books from certain online stores, maybe. I can just see him hunched over a computer, eagerly picking smut so that he can get something that buzzes neatly against the head of his cock or just behind his balls or something more, something else—good God, who knows?

“I’ve never used it. I don’t use it—for anything.”

“Are you sure? Because I wouldn’t want to discover that you’re lying to me, again.”

Panic wrestles with his features.

“No—I’m not. I would never use that thing to—I don’t. I don’t.”

“To what?”

“What?”

“You said to. You would never use that thing to. To what?”

He runs an addled hand through his hair, then smooths it back down again.

“To…you know.”

“To bring yourself off?”

“Yes, exactly. Exactly.”

He sounds relieved to have been given the answer. I’ve no idea why. Someone else is at the helm, now, and apparently she is a hardass.

“By…what? Rubbing it over your nipples? Pressing it to your stiff dick?”

“No! No, I don’t use it to…do what you said.”

“So if I put this in my mouth, I won’t taste you all over it?”

He rolls his eyes skyward.

“Don’t put it in your mouth.”

“It smells like you. It smells like come,” I tell him, though it doesn’t really at all—it smells like antiseptic and soap and plastic. But he blunders into the trap, anyway.

“Oh God, does it?”

My sex shivers and pulses. The image of him wanking all over this pink plastic, hot streaks of come covering its surface—it’s too much.

“What a liar you are,” I say, and he moans helplessly.

“You know what liars have to do, don’t you? Spread their legs.”

He’s sweating. I can see it gleaming on his upper lip. His cock has created all sorts of right angles in his trousers and he’s practically squirming on the spot, but I don’t blame him—only this new me is holding the real me up. The real me wants to faint beneath the pressure of this almighty arousal.

The arousal that’s made me so wet I can feel it trickling into the crack of my arse.

“What are you waiting for? Spread them.”

He glances at the bed and I understand immediately why—he thinks I mean get on the bed and spread your legs, like an eager slut. It makes me wish I had meant that, briefly, before I turn back to the matter at hand.

“No—just stand with your feet apart. Really, Gabriel—you’re usually so good at taking direction.”

He shuffles and makes this adorable little clucking noise at himself, the way people do when they’ve just fumbled something really easy and obvious. Then he just stands there and waits, and waits, for me to make my next move.

For some reason I’m certain that when I turn the base of this little ridiculous pink thing, it won’t buzz to life. There’ll be no batteries in it, he’s never used it, it was a free toy for girls who buy books that are only meant for them.

But I’m wrong. It hums away merrily the moment I turn it on, and I feel his mortification press against my skin, sticky and delicious. It presses again when I step forward and whisper as close as I can get to his ear: show me where you touch yourself with it.

Of course he won’t, I know he won’t, but I also know that he doesn’t have to say it at all. The little shuttered gasp he lets out when I pass the thrumming tip over his shoulder and down the inside of his arm gives me all the information I need.

He likes it everywhere.

I let it slide down his suddenly very thin tank top, clinging briefly to the poly-blend before finding that little hard nub—the one that’s pressing eagerly against the material. So easily worked up, so sensitive—he gasps again when I let the vibrator trail over the jumping muscles of his stomach and ever down, down, down.

He knows where this is going to end up, I’m sure he does—he’s vibrating too, with tension. And when I get to the twisted heavy shape of his cock, pressed tight against the material of his trousers, he lets out a low groan that makes my clit ache in sympathy.

I don’t even have to get the vibrator that close. Just a light slide around his upper thigh, a twist beneath the buckle of his belt, and he sucks his lower lip into his mouth. He mmmpfs for me.

“Does that feel good?” I ask, but only to be cruel.

Before taking pity on him and inching that maddening buzz over the thick shape of his prick, through his trousers.

His eyes close. I don’t think he knows he’s rocking his hips toward me and my devilish little sex toy, but either way he’s doing it, and he doesn’t stop—not even when I pull back.

“Is this what you do when you’re alone?” I ask, and this time he surprises me. He answers in a broken gasp, “Yes.”

I don’t think such a simple word has ever had this profound an effect on me. The urge to push my hand inside my knickers threatens to overwhelm me and I suddenly need that buzz all over my body, right now.

“What about here? Do you touch yourself here?”

I press the vibrator to his balls, firmly. Almost like an admonishment, I think, though he doesn’t take it as such. He widens his stance, instead—almost unconsciously.

“Maybe,” he says. “Maybe a little.”

“I bet it feels so good buzzing you all over when you’ve got your hand on your cock, am I right?”

Before he can reply, I push said buzzing thing right between his spread legs.

He moans helplessly before I’ve even got it pressed tight to his flesh—his trousers are pulled taut and I have to work to get it in there, to get it flush against his perineum. But when I do finally get it, when I rub the thing nice and firm in the place he clearly likes it, he grunts and shivers.

His face is a picture of lust, hanging and absent, no longer looking away but looming over me. I missed out, the last time, on seeing him all body-shocked like this, but I revel in it now. His slick lips, parting. Those low lids lying heavy over his deep chocolate eyes. The way I can almost see his sighs wavering out of him.

And then beneath it all that steady buzz, prickling through my fingers as though it’s already on my clit. Already sinking into my slick cunt.

“Is this what you do?” I ask, as I trail it back over the hump of his balls again.

“I don’t remember,” he replies, but he still jerks forward, when I suddenly remove that nagging pleasure.

“If you tell me, maybe I’ll keep doing it,” I say. “Maybe I’ll unzip your trousers and run this thing all over the slippery tip of your cock. What do you say?”

He says unnnhhh, apparently.

“Or maybe I’ll just stop it altogether.”

I take a step back, and his expression snaps to attention automatically. He even reaches a hand out, as though he’s going to dare to pull me back.

“Please,” he says.

I lick the tip of the vibrator, and he groans. That lust-blank look comes back to his face.

“Please what?”

“Please just…”

He searches the room for inspiration.

“Do you want to come?” I ask, even though it’s blatantly obvious that he’s gagging for it. It’s obvious because I am too, and he’s just me, mirrored.

“Yes, of course—”

“Then show me how you like it.”

His face scrunches up in frustration. His shoulders bunch up.

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not? I bet you get enough practice. How many hours have you spent in here, doing yourself?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“What about if I tell you my business first? Think that’ll make it easier?” I ask. I take a teasing step closer to him. “I masturbated yesterday, thinking about you. I fucked myself with something thick and fat, while rubbing my clit. I imagined it was your hands, and your cock. I came twice, thinking about how I’d probably have to instruct you. Boss you around. Then torment you until you gave it up to me, like you’re going to give it up now.”

He’s breathing hard by the time I’m done. His hand is at his zipper, just hovering there.

“I do it…I sometimes do it three or four times a day.

“I’ve done it in the shop, too. I did it while you were on the phone with Barrett and Bates. I came so hard that my knees buckled when I thought about you telling them that they simply weren’t satisfactory.”

His words come out in a breathless rush, as though it’s not really him talking at all. At the end, he swallows thickly—like everything just vomited out.

Me, on the other hand—I’m holding my breath. I’ve been electrocuted by his words about coming and masturbating and three or four times a day, and it seems incredible that I even manage to talk again at all. Never mind actually getting the following words to burst out of me:

“Now get on the bed, and show me how you do it.”

He does so immediately. No protestations, no hesitation. He’s even unzipping and shoving his trousers down his thighs as he goes, hands jerky and fumbling, legs tangling together. When he sprawls back on that pristine bed, it takes everything in me not to simply fall on him.

My entire body feels possessed by my cunt, and there’s no longer just a trickle between the cheeks of my arse—there’s a waterfall. My thighs are wet. My clit seems immense and it aches, solidly, relentlessly. But I stay standing, and I watch, I watch. I watch him stop watching me so that he can stare at the ceiling and maybe pretend I’m not here. I watch him shove his neat gray jockeys down and take his eager cock in his frantic hand.

His thighs stay caged by his trousers and underwear, but somehow that just adds to the overall effect: the one that fills me with bursting, slippery desire. It gets worse when in between rough tugs at his cock, he brings his hand up to his mouth, to lick a wet stripe over the palm.

Before returning to stroke, all over and around his thick shaft. He arches almost clean off the bed to feel it, body twisting and awkward but never losing that tight jerking grip on his thick shaft. The less he seems aware of me, the quicker and meaner he goes at it, rutting up into his hand like a filthy animal, stifling his groans against the press of his lips.

However, he has to look at me when I hand him the vibrator. His expression makes me want to take off all my clothes and spread my legs—you know, for the view. But it seems I’m just fine fully clothed, because he bucks harder into his fist as his eyes travel down my body, and he presses that sweet buzz between his legs, no problem at all.

I watch him rub it over his perineum, his tight sac, the slick tip of his cock, all the time squirming and eventually moaning with abandon. And then finally—and strangely, most arousing of all—he discards his little toy and ruffles his shirt and tank top up, so that he can come all over his own belly.

He grunts once, gutturally, his eyes now on his own surging prick, and then thick ribbons of come spatter over the surprisingly hairy and pretty taut expanse of his stomach.

Though describing it so doesn’t really cover how long it goes on for—long enough for his grunt to dissolve into whimpered moans. He makes a mess of his tank top despite his best efforts, too—he comes with such a force.

And then he’s just quiet, and still, and probably very embarrassed.