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“Don’t,” he snaps when I reach for the shower knobs.
I turn to face him, ready to argue.
“Play with yourself,” he commands.
I can’t help the way my jaw drops open.
“You can’t be serious,” I say, keeping my voice as calm as I can manage, but I know he can hear the tremble in my words.
He doesn’t speak. He just watches me. Silence is the repeat of his command.
The tears burning in my eyes don’t take long to flow down my cheeks.
I swallow, my throat dry despite standing under the showerhead as my hand opens and closes, clenching into a fist repeatedly.
“I can’t,” I tell him, dropping my eyes to my feet.
Silence fills the room, forcing me to look back up at him.
He’s unwavering in the doorway.
My hand moves to my stomach when he takes a half step forward. The threat is there. The words he’s said more than once to me,do it or I’ll do it myself.
The thought of him touching me makes bile rise in the back of my throat. I don’t want that. I’ll never want that from him.
Faking an orgasm for a man is something I’ve never done. Not because my life has been filled with great sex, meaning there was no need for it.
My college professor never took the time, care, or concern to even make sure I experienced pleasure at his touch. What I do know how to do is reach that peak on my own. It’s the only satisfaction I’ve had in the last handful of years.
It won’t happen today. Faking it is my only option, and the quicker I do that, the quicker I can put clothes back on.
I angle my head back, locking my eyes on the ceiling as my fingers slip over my delicate flesh, my chest heaving up and down, my raw emotions on full display as I touch myself the way he commanded me to.
I try for a fake moan, but it feels awkward on my tongue.
When I’ve touched myself in the privacy of my own bedroom, I’ve always felt ashamed. I’ve always imagined that someone could hear me and that wouldn’t be unheard of in a house full of staff.
Never having a conversation about sex with my parents, I have no idea how they’d react, how they’d respond, if they were to catch me doing this, or even worse, if someone mentioned what I was doing behind closed doors to them.
I wouldn’t put it past my father to put me into a chastity belt like it were the 1800s, had he been told that someone heard me pleasuring myself.
I jerk in disgust, my body trembling from head to toe.
As I pull my hand away and meet his eyes, I say “I’m done.”
He scoffs, his head shaking a little. “The fuck you are.”
“I-I can’t do it twice,” I stammer, my throat working on yet another swallow.
“You didn’t do it the first time.”
“I did,” I lie. “I swear I did.”
“If that’s what you look like when you come, it only means that it’s something we’re going to have to work on.” There’s a threat in his words and it terrifies me.
“Does this make it easier?” he asks, pulling down the front of the sweats.
I may have faked it and that may have displeased him, but it didn’t stop his body from reacting to me touching myself. The long, thickly veined erection pointing directly at me is a threat on its own, and I have no doubt that he will use it as a weapon if I don’t obey his every command.
