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This proves more difficult than my staunch ego would like.
I’m still scowling as I stay where I am and watch Lyra ready herself for bed. She disappears to the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth and then emerges with her hair wrapped up in a scarf to pull back the covers on her bed. She drops onto her many pillows and wraps an arm around a ratty teddy bear she seems to keep on her bed as some homage to her childhood.
Minutes pass with her laying still, her gaze up on the ceiling.
What’s on your mind, little lamb? Tell me.
I begin wondering if she’ll get high. A habit of hers when she’s in contemplative moments like this. She surprises me with a turn of events that evokes the same tight, constrained feeling in my pants as earlier.
She slides a hand down the front of her panties and starts playing with herself. I groan even though I can’t see the explicit details of what she’s doing to her pussy. Seeing the outline of her hand in her panties is enough.
I do the same. I reach into my pants and pull my dick out again. As Lyra tilts her head back and moans, I grip my cock and grunt my approval. My hand jerks up and down my length while her fingers rub her clit.
“Yes,” I breathe, my motions fast and aggressive. “Yes, little lamb. Rub yourself. Play with your pussy. It deserves better than to be fucked by that loser ex of yours. It deserves to be fucked by my thick cock. You have no idea how I’d fuck you ’til you’re crying tears from all the pleasure I’ve given you. I’ll fuck you so good, you’ll be sore for days.”
The moment becomes a union between us. Some sort of mirrored team effort. Lyra getting herself off and me getting myself off to the sight of her doing so.
Just as the moment builds, a crescendo rising to its peak, it’s gone.
Again.
For the second time in the same night, I lose it.
Lyramakes me lose it.
Because she loses hers.
As her fingers seem to move faster within her panties and she writhes in bed, suddenly her orgasm seems to elude her. Her eyes pop open and she falls still. The hot, flushed look about her fades away as she sits up and releases a low sigh.
What the hell happened!?
It occurs to me, as I hold my softening dick, I can’t come ’til she does. I’ve built up this moment as a joint effort between the two of us so much that when she calls it quits, I’m going flaccid in my grasp.
Lyra rolls onto her side and switches off the lamp on her nightstand. Darkness engulfs her cramped bedroom and for the seventeen minutes it takes her to fall asleep, she lays still, seeming in deep thought.
Something’s bothering her. Something’s on her mind.
To such an extent she was unable to finish her session.
“What is it, little lamb?” I whisper, regretfully tucking myself back into my pants. “What is it that’s bothering you? How can I help?”
* * *
A stillness falls over the street of Lyra’s apartment building. The night reaches such a late hour that even those who routinely stay up begin turning in. Almost every light in every window on the block goes dark. No cars pass through. No pedestrians.
Loud silence except for the distant and occasional sounds from other parts of the city.
Lyra long ago fell asleep.
I did too. After our anticlimactic masturbatory session, I watched her drift off, and then did so myself. I wake in the sunken leather office chair I’ve taken up camp in, with a crick in my neck and flakes of dust tickling my nose.
It would make sense to go home. End my obsessive surveillance of Lyra and pick up where I’ve left off another time.
My compulsions run too deep. Both the violent urges which are a daily struggle to hide, and the intensifying urges I have for Lyra.
An idea floats to mind staring at her dark window from across the street. If surveilling her via the hidden camera was a violation of trust, this would be a demolition of it.
Assuming Lyra trusts me in the first place. I still sense a wariness on her part.
