I need some guidance, pastor. See, I’ve been struggling with lust.
My head feels buzzy as I watch videos again, decide I like them, and—quickly, so I can’t back out—send them to him as private Instagram stories.
He watches immediately.
I’m so amped, I lie in bed and pull my boxer-briefs off. I get out my toy and lube it up and set the camera up on my desk. As I press it into myself, as I take it all the way…the camera’s rolling. Pretty soon, my knees fall open. I can’t help but grunt and thrust my hard cock at the air. I can’t help moving my hips…clenching and thrusting. Pretty soon, I’m dripping. Leaking. Pleasure spins through me like magic.
“Gonna come,” I rasp. My dick shines as more precum drips out. I squeeze myself and come with a ragged groan, imagining it’s his thick cockhead pushing on that sweet spot deep inside me.
Then I send that, too.
“Stupid fuck,” I rasp to myself, but I’m laughing because I don’t really give a shit. I’ll be stupid for him.
He’s been stalking me for three weeks. Did he really think I was just going to let him?ThreeLuke
I stare at my phone’s screen and suck air in through my nose, pressing my back against the elevator wall. My hand goes to my chest. I exhale slowly…inhale. The doors swish open, and I’m blinking at the hotel hallway.
Get out.
With the phone’s screen tipped toward my chest, so that the cameras all along the ceiling can’t pick up the screen, I walk past the spa and gym, down to my suite’s sleek, steel door.
I punch the code in with damp fingertips and head for the kitchen, where I gulp water from the faucet, still clutching the phone to my chest. I make sure the door is locked. Then I look again at what he sent me.
This is what you wanted. You broke down and decided to look him up, then started watching his Instagram stories—from your certified account. You knew he’d see you watching.
I shut my eyes, and when I open them, I play his story again. And again in the kitchen, where I rest my phone-holding arm on the counter while I work my swollen dick until cum jets between my fingers, dripping on the amaranth granite floor.
Afterward, I lumber to the shower, where I beat it again. I feel nauseated as I step out, swathed in steam. He can see that I’ve watched what he sent me. If he wanted, he could screenshot the read receipt. He could sell the thing to TMZ or tack it up on 4chan.
If I reply with anything but, “Who is this? Don’t send me something like that again,” it’s a huge risk.
If I don’t reply…
My head feels dazed and heavy as I pull a robe on and step onto the balcony. It’s like an atrium, with glass walls that can slide into the floor with the press of a button, plus a giant, oval hot tub and a blue infinity pool.
I let the longest glass wall down and step over to the iron railing. I’ve got a White House view. It looks kind of smeared because my eyes are dry.
I shut them and think impassively of throwing one leg over this rail. Hanging off it. How long could my arms hold me before they gave out?
Such a shock. Horror.
I would be the last one anyone suspected.
Crushing. That’s what it would be. It would be devastation. Disbelief. It would be abdication.
I open my eyes again and run my fingertips over the cool rail.
“The prudent see danger and take refuge, but the simple keep going and pay the penalty.”
I walk back across the deck, sink into the hot tub, and turn on my phone’s camera.* * *Vance
I get his story just after I pull the duvet up to my chest. My bedroom lights are out. Light from the street slants in through the curtains, laying a block of light across my bedspread—except for when cars pass by. Then the light moves, gliding across my wall and ceiling before jumping back to place on my bed.
When the notification lights up my phone screen, I look that way—to the window—before casting my gaze to the bright phone.
Pastor Luke official …sent a message.
Plants. It’s steam, overlaying plants and…lounge chairs. I use my thumb to pause the vid and notice water shimmering in the bottom right corner of the screen, and smeary lights winking through the rails beyond the lounge chairs.
So he’s on a balcony. Maybe in a hot tub.
I click again, and the vertical frame is filled with— I think that’s the White House at night. In the upper left corner, he’s geo-tagged it WASHINGTON D.C.
My head roars as my whole body flushes.
D.C.
What is that…four hours away?
I tap the screen again, and there’s a view like he’s lying on his back on a bed. I see a vaulted ceiling punched with gleaming skylights and an ornate, dark wood footboard. I tap again, and his bare legs are stretched over the mattress toward that footboard.