Chapter 7 Luke
Luke
Oh God!
I freeze, hoping against hope I didn’t hear what I heard. I don’t move. I try not to breathe. There’s another knock. As hard as the first one. It shakes the wall between us and kills my fading hope that I was imagining things.
“I can hear you.” His voice sounds different to the way it usually sounds. It’s raspy and strained. “I know what you’re doing.”
Shame washes over me. It feels intravenous, I can feel it flowing down my legs and up my neck, settling hotly across my cheeks. I try to apologize. No sound comes out. I can’t find my voice, so I’m left pathetically mouthing, “Sorry.”
I quickly reach for the covers and try to pull them up, reluctantly letting go of my dick at the same time.
“Did I tell you to move?”
I’m breathless with fright, blinking frantically into the dark. I shake my head like an idiot even though I know damned well he can’t see me.
“Sorry,” I say again. This time it comes out high pitched and squawky.
“You’re sorry, huh? You fucking should be. You’ve been keeping me up night after night. The wall is paper thin. I can hear everything you do. Everything. Might even be able to hear what you think.”
The thought of that makes me cringe. The heat in my veins starts to curdle.
Jesus, imagine if he knew how I’ve been thinking of him.
“I won’t do it again,” I whisper.
“You won’t do it again?” He chuckles cruelly. “Now that I don’t believe. From what I can tell, you struggle to go for more than a few hours without a hand in your pants.”
I don’t answer. I don’t know what to say, least of all because what he’s saying is true. “I-I’ll go to sleep now.”
“You’re not doing a damn thing unless I tell you to do it.”
I was already starting to roll over onto my side. I stop moving when he talks, stuck awkwardly mid-movement. I don’t understand what he means, but I feel like I’ve been hit with a stun gun. I can’t move.
“Did I tell you to move your hand?”
I assume the question is rhetorical, so I don’t answer.
“I didn’t, did I?” His voice is changing again. It’s lower and even more raspy than it was before. It sounds thick as it reverberates through his larynx. It reverberates through me too, it feels like a soft touch, a ghost of a hand traveling slowly down my belly. “You have your cock in your hand?”
I don’t answer, but I glance down to find my hand has indeed found its way back to my dick.
“Wrap your fist around it. Nice and tight. Right near the base.”
I do as he says. I follow his instructions to the letter. Blood rushes south. I was already hard. Fear made me harder. Hearing him telling me to touch myself has me so hard, there’s a real possibility of steel breaking through skin.
“Stroke,” he barks. I react immediately, breathlessly doing as he says. “Slowly!”
A soft, sad whimper leaves me.
“Slow strokes only. Squeeze that pole at the root and drag your hand up to the tip. Do it now…Do it again…” I do as he says. I do exactly what he tells me to do. “Again. Slowly. Don’t back up when you get to the head. Make a hard fist. Squeeze the tip as hard as you squeezed the root.”
I do it. I do it hard, like he said. I bite down hard on my bottom lip, trying desperately to stop the sound that’s threatening to escape as I grind my palm over my sensitive tip. I fail. The whimper that leaves me isn’t sad. It isn’t soft either.
It might be my imagination, but I swear to God I can feel him smiling on the other side of the wall that separates us. I can feel his eyes darken and his lips draw back in that sexy half-smile he does when he thinks no-one’s looking.
I keep stroking slowly until he tells me to speed up.
My brain goes blank. I lose all ability to think for myself.
I do as he says, nothing more, nothing less.
My thighs are clenched and my forearm is feeling the strain.
I don’t stop. I don’t speed up. I do it until I’m close. So close, I can taste it.
It’s right there.
Just a few more strokes.
Three more…
Two…
“Stop!”
“What?”
“You heard me. I said stop. Hands off your prick.” I let out a long, mournful whine, clamping my lips together to drown it out. “Reach down and run your fingertips along the underside of your balls. Run them up and down your seam.”
“Wha…?” I try again.
“Do it.”
I do. The sensation is so intense, my eyes roll back in my head. My neck arches and my mouth falls open.
“Bet they’re full, huh? Bet they’re pulled up tight against you. Bet they’re swollen and aching.”
“Mm.” I writhe into my own touch, trembling from the shock of stopping so close.
“Cup them.” I do. “Nice and firm. Hold both of them in one hand. Are you doing it?”
“Yeah,” I sound like someone I don’t know.
“Tug them.”
“Huh?”
“Now! Do it now.”
I do as he says, making a very, very undignified sound as I do it. I hear him laughing through the wall. He sounds happy. Even though I’ve never been more confused in my life, and the whole situation is next level bizarre, hearing him happy makes me happy, too.
“Start stroking your dick again.” My hand moves of its own volition. Up and down. Frenzied. My mind is empty. Nothing exists except my dick. My hand. His voice.
My orgasm digs its claws into my flesh, sinking sharp talons into my bones.
“D’you want it?” he croons.
“Yes!” It’s a desperate, anguished cry.
If my brain was working, I think I might feel panicked. True, deep panic that he’s going to tell me to stop again. Panic because no matter how much I want or need it, I know deep in my soul that if he tells me to, I’ll stop. Even if it kills me.
Guess it’s a blessing I’m brainless.
“Take it,” he hisses.
Everything clenches. My abs, my jaw, my spine.
My orgasm jets out of me like a pressure washer turned on at full blast. Hot semen splashes my neck and chest. Pleasure hits again and again.
I feel it under my skin. Under muscle and bone.
It reaches inside me and shakes my core.
My heart clatters loudly in my chest as I come shakily back down to reality.
“Jessie,” I say when I can. He doesn’t answer. I turn on my side, facing the wall between us. I place one hand on the smooth, cool plaster. “Jessie.”
No answer.
If I wasn’t exhausted and drenched in my own come, I might be inclined to think I hallucinated the whole thing.