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Leaning down, I brush his curls back and kiss his forehead. Then I take his hand in mine as we continue our walk.
Deep down, I hope Clay shows up tonight, for Jack’s sake.
Deep down, I hope he doesn’t, for mine.
Rule #13: Don’t waste a second chance.
Clay
“Show me how you touch yourself.”
My skin buzzes with excitement and anticipation. Standing in front of her, naked and hard, my fingers ache for her skin, but she’s telling me to touch myself.
“Yes, Madame,” I reply, although what I want to say is, “Please let me touch you.”
Her pleasure is all I care about anymore. Pleasing her. Making her proud. Hearing her praise. For weeks now, it’s been all I want. It’s like she’s rewired my brain.
Morning, noon, and night, Eden is on my mind.
And not once in the three weeks that I’ve been seeing her have we had sex. I haven’t even had the privilege of coming—not since that first time. Not at the club. And not at home. She gave me strict instructions to keep my hands off my own dick, and I obeyed.
I’m not sure why. It’s not like she’d know. Maybe it’s because I love a challenge. Or because whatever this is, it is starting to mean something to me. I don’t want to break the rules because the rules are important.
I get the feeling she’s training me. She’s dangling my own orgasm in front of me like a carrot on a string. Every time I come into the room, my own satisfaction belongs to her. I show her all the obedience she wants. And now I’ll gladly devote my life to making her come on the hour every hour if that’s what she wants.
So her telling me to touch myself is monumental.
My breath is held in my chest as I wrap my hand around my hard length. On the upstroke, I squeeze the head of my cock, and my eyes start to roll into the back of my head. But I keep them open and watch her as she stares at my hand, moving up and down my shaft. It’s like she’s studying me, memorizing the way I move and what makes me shudder.
Then she says the words that make my knees weak. “Make yourself come.”
The three-word command freezes my movement. When she notices my hesitation, her gaze flicks up to my face. She furrows her brow as she waits for me to obey.
“Yes, Madame,” I say as my hand starts moving again.
My mind is a mess of questions and thoughts as I stroke. What is the point of this? Am I being rewarded? For what? Should I put her pleasure first? But no, I’m supposed to submit and obey without question every time—unless I need to say yellow or red.
With a wince, I try to focus on my dick and work to make myself come. She’s right here. I don’t have to imagine her. So what is my problem?
After a few minutes of quickly stroking my cock, I start to panic. What if I can’t do it? What if I let her down?
“Pet, look at me.”
I slow my stroking and lift my gaze to her face. Her expression isn’t hard or disappointed, but with her lips parted and her eyes dilated, she looks almost…aroused. Does getting myself off…turn her on?
“Keep going,” she says, a little softer.
Then, as I start moving my fist, I watch as she glides her own hand down the front of her body, over her breasts, and down to her thin black panties.
Sitting in the velvet red chair only a few feet away from me, she slips the fabric aside and plunges her middle finger deep inside her wet pussy.
A sound escapes my lips at the sight—something like a grunt and a whimper. I pick up speed, and my cock grows even harder as I watch her. She pulls her finger out and uses the moisture to stroke her clit. Arching her back, she pleases herself right along with me.
Our eyes meet again, and I nearly come.
Suddenly, it’s like we are connected. I am hers, wholly and unconditionally. The look on her face tells me so.
And when I come, it’s not from watching her fuck herself or play with her clit. It’s from the look on her face that says she’s proud of me. That I’m doing good. That I deserve this.
