And I’ve accepted my fate.
I’m now well practiced at keeping a poker face whenever I open my messages around anyone else.
I’ve learned the hard way to keep my volume on mute.
More than once, I’ve had to slip out the back of the studio to hand-fuck my feral mind into submission.
Marco, naked on the bed.
Marco topless, licking chocolate from a whisk.
Bare ass on the balcony.
Swollen cock in the shower.
And now without warning, he sends a video.
Full body shot on the couch.
Heavy breathing, back arching.
A slippery hand rouses him into delirium, stroke after stroke.
That deep guttural moan.
An orgasm that I will never ever erase from my mind as long as I live.
One that I plan to replicate as soon as we’re behind closed doors.
Thankfully Vonnie’s on her lunch break.
For a little while, I’ll have the studio all to myself.
Stomping to the kitchen I hit speed dial, gripping the phone intently.
“Quit. Torturing. Me. You know I can't take it.”
“Where's the fun in that?” he purrs.
“I've spent the whole morning with concrete in my pants,” I scold.
“Want me to come take care of that? Just say the word.”
So tempting. I almost cave.
Marco is beside himself.
“I’m so bored of my own hand. Give me yours.”
“Donotshow up here. Not like last time. I mean it, I’ll lose customers. Do you have any idea how much I want to bend you over this chair right now?”
“I might.”
He knows exactly how to play.
But I only have a few minutes before my next arrival.
I unzip my pants.
