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“Your instructions. Give me your commands, my queen, and they’ll be fulfilled.”
For a moment, I’m silent. He wants me to talk him through this, but I’m embarrassingly clueless.
As if he can read my mind, Kai assures, “Nothing you say will be wrong. Trust yourself. Trustme—I won’t hide how much I like it.”
His encouragement fuels my confidence.
He knows I need this—to be in control for once.
“Face me,” I order, and he turns my way. “Now stroke it.”
Kai doesn’t hesitate to do so, moving slowly as he rubs himself with both hands, sticking to the middle of his shaft. “Like this?”
“Is that how you’d do it if you were alone?”
“No. I’d cover more area.”
“Do that, then. I want to see the way you like to touch yourself when no one is watching.”
His motions become bigger. At the tip, he swirls his hand around the head, and I note the way his thumb swipes the slit.
One of his hands leaves his cock while the other continues pumping it.
He rubs his stomach before zigzagging to his chest. Tweaking his right nipple, he circles it before sliding to the other side to dole out the same treatment.
Continuing the path upward, he grazes his neck and gets to his pointy ear. He massages the tip, and then he does something that breaks my heart.
He nuzzles his own hand, rubbing his cheek on his palm.
I’d assumed he’d be keeping all the action below the belt, but after a lifetime of imposing a no-physical-contact rule on himself, I’m sure he yearns for touch in other places.
He’s had to provide his own affection for so long, and I wish I could be the one stimulating his sensitive areas.
Suddenly, he shudders and hunches over. “When can I come?”
My eyebrows raise. “Are you going to already?”
“I very well could if you let me.”
If you let me.
IfIlethim.
I think that’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.
“I don’t want it to be over yet,” I admit.
“Then it won’t be.”
“You can keep going?”
“I won’t come until you tell me to,” Kai vows, jerking his cock with one hand while cupping his balls.
To be honest, I’d like to see how far I can push him.
“Faster,” I demand.
He complies. Letting out a soft grunt, he wobbles as his fist speeds up. He’s weak in the knees, and he stops touching his sac to brace his hand on the glass. With his fingers splayed out against the transparent barrier, his digits curl, making his fingertips white from the pressure.
