30. Kai #3
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 Haven and I 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.