30. Kai #4
“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.