ANA
Ihang back, knowing I should take advantage of the fact that he’s—occupied—and slip away, back down the stairs and to my room before he catches me. But I can’t move. I’m frozen to the spot, my pulse caught in my throat, my own breathing coming quick and short as arousal washes over me, prickling my skin and making me feel hot and flushed as I watch him.
I don’t think I’ve ever actually watched a man jerk off before. It could have been hot, probably, with some of the guys I’ve dated or slept with in the past, but it just never came up, so to speak. Guys my age were always eager to fuck, in a hurry to get past the part where they had to arouse me and on with the main event. I had asked a boyfriend once if I could watch him, even just as foreplay, and he’d looked at me like I was crazy.
If I wanted to jerk off, I’d just stay home. Then I wouldn’t have to pay for dinner.He’d laughed then, like he’d said something really funny, and picked me up, tossing me back on the bed.What’s the point of jerking off if you’ve got a hot girl in your bed?
I’d definitely had some good sex, too, back when I was going through men in New York City like the world might end at any second. But by and large, the men I’d met had been more concerned with their pleasure than taking the time to explore what I might like. Hell,Ihadn’t even gotten to fully figure it out. There are probably plenty of kinks that turn me on that I haven’t even come across.
You found one of them today, didn’t you? Maybe a couple.
I shiver at that thought, feeling my thighs squeeze together at the memory of Alexandre demanding I raise my skirt up and expose myself to him, the way he’d spoken to me.
I’ve slept with some very attractive men, encountered a decent number of excellent dicks, and had my share of interesting sex. But nothing,nothinghad ever made me as wet as I’d been today, kneeling in the dark of the study and then being forced to repeat the experience for Alexandre’s disdainful eyes.
And now, watching him stroke his cock, naked and out in the open like this, his feet spread and hand bracing against the bed as he starts to speed up, I can feel it all over again. It doesn’t feel like any arousal I’ve experienced before. It feels like a bone-deep need, a longing that I can’t satisfy no matter how many times I get myself off. I wonder if he’s feeling the same thing as he fists his cock, gripping it as his hips thrust upwards into his hand.
Is he thinking about me? Is he picturing me on the rug of the study, my skirt pulled up around my hips, touching myself for him? Is he remembering the sounds I made? The way I smelled?
I’d been so embarrassed earlier, but here in this thickly charged environment, the air nearly crackling with desire as I crouch behind the door and watch him with a rapidly quickening heartbeat, I don’t feel that hot rush of humiliation when I remember it. The only heat I feel is licking across my skin, beneath it, in my veins, making me feel as if I’m burning up as I watch Alexandre push himself closer and closer to the release that he must desperately need.
His hand falters for a second, slowing, and I see him let go of the bedpost, reaching over with his other hand to move something around atop the bed. It piques my curiosity again, and I raise up a little, daring to peer around the door a little further so that I can see what he’s doing.
I can’t see very much, but I manage to get a good enough view that I can tell there are pictures scattered across the bedspread. Not drawn pictures—photos. They look like Polaroids, though I can’t entirely be sure, and I can’t really see details of who’s in the pictures, though from the glimpses I get, it looks like photos of women.
My stomach flips, jealousy that I know I have no right to feel rising up with a hot, burning sensation that makes me want to cry.Who are they?I have an inkling, but I push it aside because I can’t stand to think about that. Not right now. I’d rather think that he’s looking at porn while he jerks off—an odd collection of porn, but that would fit with Alexandre’s proclivities.
All men do that. I’ve never known a man who didn’t watch porn or look at porn sometimes. But what Alexandre does, collecting broken things, possibly even other girls like me that are mysteriously gone now except for maybe, just maybe those Polaroids on the bed, isn’t something all men do. It isn’t something thatanyonedoes, except for Alexandre.
I just wish I knewwhy.
His hand lingers on himself as he rearranges the photos, his fingers lingering on one as he starts to stroke again. The small voice in my head whispers that I shouldn’t get distracted, that I should try to slip away, that all of this is a terrible, dangerous idea. But I can’t stop looking at him. My mouth feels dry, desire pounding in my veins like a second heartbeat, and I want so badly to slip around the door, walk into the bedroom and across the hardwood floor to join him, to sink to my knees, and taste him. I can imagine how he would feel in my mouth, thick and hot, hard as iron sheathed in velvet skin, pressing against my tongue as I’d lick away the slick arousal from the head, moaning as I discover what Alexandre tastes like.Salty,I think, my hand straying to the front of my silk pajama bottoms without my meaning for it to.Tangy. Hot on my tongue.I can imagine him pushing himself into my mouth, his hand curling around the back of my head, his cock sliding into my throat as I look up at him from my knees, wanting to please him. Wanting him to be pleasedwith me.
Alexandre is stroking faster now, his shoulders tense, his hand gripping his cock in a vise as he stares down at the photos on the bed, his face unreadable as he clutches the bedpost. I know he’s close, and I’ve barely even started to touch myself, my fingers sliding inside of my pajamas and over the already slick folds of my pussy, soaked just from watching Alexandre pleasure himself.
I know I shouldn’t. If he catches me—but if he catches me here outside his bedroom, spying on him, the punishment will likely be severe anyway. This can’t make it much worse, and I’m aching for it, my body crying out for a release from the tension that’s crackling in the air of the bedroom, like a gathering electrical storm.
Everything I’ve seen Alexandre avoid, everything I realized he was attempting to control so tightly today—anger, fear, lust—I see in his face as he strokes his cock faster, his hips rigid now instead of thrusting. I can see him pick up a rhythm, likely the one that will make him come, and I feel a quiver of frustration because I want to come too. I want to comewithhim, and I’ve only just started to brush my fingers over my clit—
My body spasms as my fingertips find the hard, aching nub, and I have to clap my other hand over my mouth to keep from crying out with the sudden, intense pleasure of the touch. I’m so aroused that my pussy lips are already swollen and puffy, parted slightly so that my fingers can easily slide between them, trailing in the slick arousal until I reach the spot where I need the friction most. As it is, I can’t stop the muffled moan from behind my hand, and my heart almost stops in my chest, certain that Alexandre is going to hear me and I’ll be caught.
But he’s too lost in the moment, beyond hearing or seeing or thinking about anything except the oncoming rush of his impending orgasm. His jaw is clenched, his piercing blue eyes fixated on the mess of photos on the bed, a dozen emotions flickering across his face as his hand twists around the length of his cock, his palm rubbing over the glistening head as I see the muscles of his perfect ass tighten, every inch of his body stiffening as he approaches the edge.
I realize dizzily that I’m almost there already, too, that watching him turned me on so much that I’m already primed, my body eager for a release after just a few seconds of pressure against my clit. I can feel it throbbing under my first two fingers, my body trembling with pleasure as I press the heel of my other hand against my mouth, forcing myself to stay absolutely silent as I race towards my own climax along with him, the immediacy and intimacy of it only intensifying the pleasure.
It’s been so fucking long.Maybe that’s why I crave him, why I want him, not because I’m so broken that I’m lusting after the man who bought me and keeps me captive, but because it’s just beenso long. So fucking long since I was touched with desire, kissed, held. So long since a man tried to get me into bed, flirted with me, asked me back to his place, or agreed all too quickly to come back to mine. It’s been so,solong since I’ve had sex, felt someone inside of me, wrapped myself around someone else as the heat of their skin sank into mine, and it feels like a desperate, hollow craving like I’m starving for all of it. I never thought of myself as a nymphomaniac. I was pretty sure back then that I was having a healthy amount of sex for a pretty girl in her early twenties living in Manhattan. It might have felt a little skewed then, given that my best friend and roommate was a virgin who barely looked at guys, let alone did anything dirty with them, but it wasn’t excessive.
I was just having fun back then. It hadn’t meant anything, except that it felt good. Now I feel like I’m drowning, like my own touch is just enough to hold back the need so that it doesn’t consume me, but a small voice in my head whispers that it can’t last forever. That I can’t spend the rest of my life sneaking around Alexandre’s apartment, spying on him as he jerks off, and I hide and touch myself along with him.
Deep down, I don’t think that it’s just because it’s been so long since I’ve gotten laid. I stare at Alexandre carefully from around the door, my hand still working inside my silk pajama pants, my breath coming in small, quick gasps as I watch him shudder, his cock straining in his fist as he groans aloud, a deep and visceral sound that tells me he’ll come any second now.
Clothed and groomed for the day, Alexandre is eccentrically handsome, but naked and in the throes of pleasure like this, he’s magnificent. I can see every inch of his leanly muscled body. I let myself take in the sight greedily, enjoying the sight of so much attractive male flesh on display—and that’s not even considering the eight or nine inches of hard, throbbing cock between his legs. I force myself to forget who he is, what he’s done, the conflict between us and what I am to him so that I can enjoy it, because it has beenso fucking longsince I’ve just gotten to appreciate a handsome naked man, since I’ve gotten to look and let myself be swept away with desire.
I’m close,I realize in the same second that I see Alexandre’s hips shudder, his entire body going stiff as his head tips back, his hand suddenly a blur on his cock as he jerks it hard and fast, his teeth clenched as he bows forward suddenly, his hand slipping from the bedpost and catching on the edge of the mattress as he looks down at the spread of photos, his expression almost tortured as I peek a little further around the door just in time to see him shove his cockhead hard into his fist, the first spurt of his cum jetting out over his fingers.
He keeps stroking furiously, a sound that’s almost a roar coming from his mouth as his head bows forwards, his spine curling forward as he thrusts into his hand, hot cum coating his hand as his entire body ripples with the fierce pleasure of his orgasm—and before I can catch my breath or do anything other than shove the heel of my hand against my mouth once more in a desperate attempt to keep quiet, I feel my entire body convulse in a sudden spasm of pure, electrifying bliss.
Oh god, oh god, oh god—I bite down on the heel of my hand, sobbing against my palm with the sheer pleasure of it, collapsing against the door as my knees give out. Watching Alexandre orgasm is the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t look away from his quivering body, tall and broad and masculine, his breath coming in hard pants as he groans, squeezing his fist around his cock as his thighs flex. More cum spills out from his cockhead over his hand.