Control. Charlotte Stein
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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.