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When his hand resumes another slow stroke of my cock, the world shifts. My semblance of relaxation turns to desire, sedating each of my limbs until I feel so malleable that he could mold me into a pot to put on his desk. He retreats an inch and then returns, making my prostate sing so loud I moan.
“Better?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Take it then, Cam. When you’re ready, take what you wanted.”
Fuck. This man. Always nudging me to be brave and bold like him.
With my face warming at the risqué prospect of fucking myself with his cock, I let desire override my inexperience and push back against him. My reward is a sweet brush of his tip over my G. He’s so hot and slick, the traction is easy now. I rock my hips forward and then back again.
With. Without.
With. Without.
The fluctuation of losing him and then regaining him is a roller-coaster of heartbreaking agony and indescribable joy. I think he might be right. I won’t ever want to do this with anyone else but him.
“That’s it, Snuggle. Show me what you wanted to do to that plug when you thought of it being me.”
It’s the filthiest image I’ve ever conjured, and I want to live in it, but I must be hearing things. “‘Snuggle?’”
Nipping my shoulder and then dragging his tongue over the spot, he buries his nose behind my ear and inhales. “You smell like Snuggle. It fucking drives me crazy.” Rocking his hips forward into my thrust, our skin slaps together. “Almost as crazy as watching you fuck yourself with my cock, like you want to steal it.”
He is one hundred percent potent sexuality, and I’m a damn beginner who always comes first. I want it to last longer. I need it to last longer so I can collect more Pete-isms to tack to an invisible memory board in my mind like prize ribbons.
Reaching down, I give myself a tight squeeze to dull the euphoria. I won’t survive more of his bedroom honesty if I don’t.
A hand clamps down on my wrist, tugging mine away from where I need it. I know I’m doomed when his takes my place. He grips my shaft and strokes until his palm slips over my glans, and then he smears my precum down my length.
“Pete,” I warn, but he doesn’t seem to be concerned about my lack of endurance because he does it again. Only this time, he adds a thrust of his hips.
“Pete, I’m going to come.”
My urgent decree earns me two more strokes quicker than the last. One more nudge of his hips, pinging my G, and I cry out. Heat blooms up my legs and detonates deep inside of me, releasing all the pressure. I paint the mirror, blinking through spots in my vision. My channel hugs him over and over with no effort from me.
Pulsing in his grip, it’s still surreal to feel a hand other than my own on my cock. Panting, I’m mesmerized that someone else brought me this pleasure rather than myself. The emptiness I usually feel inside after masturbating is nowhere to be found.
The mirror is splotched with my release. Maybe I missed it because I don’t know what it feels like, but I don’t think Pete came yet. I’ll never forgive myself if he got nothing out of this.
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t hold back any longer.”
“You never should.” Pressing a kiss to my shoulder, his hand makes a languid pass up and down my waning shaft. “Now, do it again, sweetheart.”
Again? Is he serious? I still haven’t even caught my breath.
“What? I…I can’t.”
Ignoring my breathless laugh, his words are an encouraging purr. “Yes, you can.”
“Did you come?”
“That’s not the point. I haven’t been standing here thinking of every disgusting thing I can think of just for you to only come once. Let go, Cam. I told you; this is your night.”
He held back for me? No one in my life denies themselves anything for me.
While this mirror has added a sensuality to the experience that I’ve enjoyed, I suddenly want everything that comes with the connection of not relying on it for our pleasure. Turning my head, I’m not disappointed. The need I see in his eyes, and maybe even adoration, is so much more vivid than through a reflection.
“You’re my night,” is all I manage, leaning in for a kiss.
