Chapter 30 Kai #3
Him taking what he wants, viciously stroking my cock.
As I’m on the edge of coming, my phone rings again, knocking me all the way down.
I answer with a frustrated growl. “Lose my fucking number, you psycho!”
Rooke chuckles in my ear. “You sound out of breath, boy. Am I interrupting?”
I go to end the call, but a rush of blood has my dick hardening in my hand. I fight back a groan, my back arching as I fumble with my phone using my non-dominant hand.
Thank fuck Rooke ends the call.
I give my cock a few slow strokes, but I’m so fucking close I can’t bear to—
My phone rings.
I fumble to silence it, but instead of declining, my stupid dumb hand slides over the screen and accepts.
The screen goes dark as I enter a video chat with Rooke.
With my phone lying on the bed, all it’s showing on my side of the video feed is a pixelated shot of my ceiling. I quickly switch to the rear facing camera. Pitch black replaces noisy gray, and I can safely peer into the screen without Rooke seeing my face.
His feed is just as dark, but there’s the hint of a silhouette before I guess he changes his video to the rear-facing camera.
A smear of orange enters then leaves the shot.
Briefly, I think I make out Rooke’s sliding door, but the image glitches or something because it almost looks like it’s webbed with cracks.
Wasn’t like that when me and Haven left yesterday morning.
His fireplace comes into view again, and the camera pauses.
Rooke doesn’t speak, but I hear fabric rustle.
My paranoid mind comes up with the worst thing first.
Haven is with him, isn’t she?
That’s why he wanted me to come over.
He’s turning the phone to her, so I can see her naked on his couch in his fucking living room. Maybe he’s even going to force me to watch him fuck her again, recording the exact moment his cock pushes inside her wet cunt, just how I want to—
The phone lowers. A coffee table comes into view, then Rooke’s bare feet and the bottom of his gray sweatpants.
The same ones from the photo he sent.
Still not a sound. Just a faint crackle from the fire. Clothing rustling. And—
Skin on skin.
It’s unmistakable, because that’s what I’m hearing from my own crotch right now as I work my cock. It almost makes me stop, because…
That means we’re both jerking off. Right now.
But I keep thinking about that photo of Haven, legs spread and my fingers deep inside her cunt, and I can’t make my hand stop.
Can’t turn off my phone.
Can’t.
Stop.
Watching.
The camera pans up, revealing Rooke’s knees, then his thighs.
When I see the bunched up fabric of his sweatpants, my throat tightens and my chest closes up.
But I can’t look away.
My entire body starts buzzing as his cock comes into view and he gives himself a long, slow stroke.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him wear a watch, and even though I can only see the strap, I know it’s the same one as his profile photo. His top is a thick, dark fabric that looks identical to the black hoodie.
Did he set up a fake account just to fuck with me? Who does that?
He still says nothing. The only sound is that faint, slick rhythm. My own matching it. His cock glistens like he used lube…or spat on it.
I don’t have lube handy.
Spit I’ve got a lot of…and unless I stop jerking off, I’m going to need something wet on my dick.
I try not to make a sound as I spit onto my hand, but I nearly groan out loud as I wrap my wet fingers around my shaft, the difference immediate and fucking insane.
“There’s my boy,” Rooke rumbles in a low voice.
I freeze.
“What would be the point of stopping now? You’ve already crossed the line.”
My jaw clenches so hard, I hear my enamel squeak. Rooke strokes his cock with the same slow, steady rhythm as before, each vulgar pull up his shaft dragging over rock hard flesh.
“Be a good boy, and see if you can keep up.”
I want to let go.
I want to end the video call.
But I also need to come more than I’ve ever wanted to in my entire fucking life. No stimdick from the molly this time. Not enough booze to affect the blood supply. More than enough weed to amplify the forbidden craving flooding me to new, stratospheric heights.
Biting down on my lower lip, I tighten the grip on my cock and try to match Rooke’s strokes.
“That’s it. Nice and slow. I want you to feel every inch, boy.”
I hate that my eyes are locked on his hand like it owns the fucking world.
I hate that I’m following his instruction like we’re back in class.
I hate that it feels so fucking good.
It’s taking everything in me not to nut straight away.
“Good boy.” He drawls out the praise like he’s tasting it. Tasting me.
For a second, I think about shoving my dick into his mouth. Forcing him to suck me.
He’d be good at it, I know he would.
My face goes hot, my body cold, and I shove out the thought as quickly as it arrived.
“She looked good in those ropes, but I think you’ll look better.”
Like he has direct access to my mind, I get an image of him lashing my wrists to his bed. It’s gone as quickly as the previous thought, but my cock caught every second.
I desperately fight back my orgasm, but I’m seconds away. And as if he knows it, as if he’s testing my restraint, he brings the camera closer to his crotch.
His fist slides slow, deliberate, skin catching under his white-knuckled grip in a filthy, obscene drag. The veins on the back of his hand are dark against his pale skin, his arm trembling ever so slightly, as if he’s holding himself back too.
The only sound is that slick friction and my own breathing, because I can’t hold back the panting anymore.
“You thinking about her? Wet, tied up, begging? Bleeding?” His breath shudders out. “Or is it me?”
I don’t answer. Can’t.
I grit my teeth, my hand shaking as I struggle for control. His hand just keeps stroking—slow on the down, twisting on the up. Showing off.
A long pause, but his hand never stops.
Mine does.
It’s that or come.
“Don’t stop, boy. I want you to fuck your fist like it’s my mouth,” he says, voice as steady as the grip he has on his cock. “No one else. Just me…taking you all the way down ’til you see stars.”
But I can’t make myself move, I’m too close.
“Show me,” he whispers, his hand stopping. “I want to see how good you’re being for me, boy.”
He’s got me under some kind of spell, I swear, because there’s no fucking logic to why I pick up the phone.
Why I point it at my dick.
Why I nearly come when Rooke exhales a slow, shivery breath that I swear I feel against my face.
“You’ve got such a beautiful cock,” he murmurs. “Show me how you work it when you’re thinking of me.”
My back arches, my grip slick with spit and precum. I tug at my cock, but my movements are sporadic compared to his precise, measured strokes.
“Fuck,” I mutter through clenched teeth. “I’m gonna come.”
“Not yet. Not…yet.” Low, sharp.
The camera wobbles, catching the flex of his abs under that hoodie as hissed breaths slip out of him. He pauses to spit on his cock, and I mirror him.
“That’s it…a little faster now. Faster.” He’s stroking his cock again, speeding up. “Keep up, boy.”
There’s the wet sound again, echoed by my own.
“Next time you swallow me down, I’ll hold you there,” Rooke croons. “Feel your throat fight me. I’ll fill you so deep, you’ll be tasting me for days.”
A groan rips out before I can swallow it.
“There’s my good boy,” he says, almost laughing at my slip. “Nearly there, aren’t you?”
I try to will myself back from the edge, but his words keep shoving me closer. It feels like I’m in a Mission Impossible movie, trying to point the phone at my cock and keep up a steady pace with the other hand.
“When you come, it’ll be with my name on your lips. Not hers. Mine. And you’ll mean it.”
The slick tempo on his end climbs—matched to my thundering pulse, my bucking hips, that perfect unbearable friction.
Rooke’s voice becomes darker, even filthier.
“Gonna fuck you—” his voice tightens “—the way you fucked her that night. Tie you to the bed, spread you.” He groans again, sucking a breath through his teeth. “Fuck you ’til you’re weeping.”
My thighs tremble, my balls drawn up tight.
“Come for me, Kai…now.”
My name, Rooke’s entire humiliating command, hits like a hand on my throat.
His hand.
And Christ, I want it. I need it.
“Come now, or the first person I send that picture to is her.”
Shame and fury and pure crackling heat crash through me. My orgasm rips through me in silent convulsions—my back bowed, cock throbbing in my clenched fist.
Rooke laughs as cum flows over my fingers, and the sound makes my eyes flutter open just in time to hear him groan as he breaks.
I watch him come as the last few spurts of my seed ooze out of my dick. The sound of depraved pleasure he makes is so raw, it feels like nails down my back.
I’ve seen guys come in porn videos. Always fast-forwarded. My eyes were for tits, pussy, the arch of the girl’s back. Even with two men and a girl, they blurred into background noise. Just hands, just props.
But now?
I can’t tear my gaze off him.
Rooke’s jaw goes tight, tendons cording as his orgasm rips through him. His abs seize like his body’s trying to break free of him.
I watch how his cock jerks in his fist, fat spurts of cum striping his stomach while his fingers squeeze merciless.
And then he does this thing—grinding his thumb hard over his cock’s swollen head like he’s pinning the aftershocks in place. His whole body shudders, teeth bared, as if the touch is almost too much and not enough at the same time.
My cock twitches at the sight. At the sound of his shattered groan.
Jesus.
What the fuck does that feel like?
Watching him lose his breath under his own hand, I want to know. God help me, I want to know.
I want his hand on me like that—brutal, merciless.
His voice rips me from whatever fucked up place I went to, drags me straight back to reality.
“Fuck yes,” he exhales in a rough voice as he gives his cock another few languid strokes. “You’ve been such a good boy for me, Kai. Now, clean yourself up, and get over to my house so we can—”
I hang up.
My hand’s sticky. My throat’s tight.
I want a shower. I want bleach. I want to fucking disappear.
Mouth open, I drag in lungfuls of air, trying to get my breath back. But it’s a losing battle, because as I’m trying to find something to wipe myself off with, tightness grips my head, my throat, my chest.
I curl into a ball, nails digging into my scalp. Trying to keep it together.
But failing.
Always fucking failing.
I sob like the weak, needy little pussy he called his boy, hating him for it. Hating myself.
But, most of all, hating her.
Because none of this would have happened if Haven fucking Lee had stayed gone.