Penny #2
And I suspect that when he does, he’ll reward himself for the effort in the exact way I’m trying to avoid.
What do I do?
Should I throw the basket at him and run anyway?
And go where?
“Please, Jacob. Don’t… don’t make me have sex with you.”
He takes another step, the basket a barrier between us. He would’ve stepped closer if I didn’t have it in my hands.
“I’m not going to fuck you.”
His voice is lower and too smooth. Like a shady salesman trying to sell a product that’s too good to be true.
I glare at him. “But you want to.”
“Yes, I want to.”
The sordid truth, loud and clear. It’s scary I don’t detect even an ounce of shame in his voice or on his face.
“You resent me but want to fuck me?”
“It’s an interesting conundrum.”
“At least the solution is obvious—you can’t!”
Another dark smile graces his lips, a determined glint in his eyes.
“You can fuck yourself while I watch.”
“What?”
“Put down the basket and lie on the bed.”
“Jacob—”
“Is that a protest about to leave those lovely lips, sweetheart? I hope not.”
My grip on the basket is tight enough to bend the hard plastic.
I’m a step away from the point of no return. What Jacob wants is even more inappropriate than everything he’s made me do so far.
If I give in to this, I’m opening the door to more. To worse.
What’s his limit?
What’s mine?
How deep into depravity will I let Jacob take me for his money?
Resignation slows my movements as I put down the basket.
You’re no better than your mother after all.
I approach the bed, staring at it like it’s covered in nettles and broken glass before I climb onto the mattress. I lie on my back and the comfortable firmness beneath me makes me bitter.
It is better than the couch.
Jacob picks up the lone burgundy armchair by the window and sets it down beside the bed. He takes a seat, bending one leg over his knee and lays his hands on the chair arms.
He looks relaxed and somehow distinguished despite his simple grey T-shirt and black-and-grey flannel pajama pants. Meanwhile, dread fills every space in my body and seeps out of my pores beneath his expectant gaze.
He’s waiting for me to start.
This can’t be real. I’m not seriously about to masturbate in front of Jacob. I’ve never done it in front of anyone.
Just like the shower a few hours ago, this is another intimate solo activity he demands to witness when he’s the one person who shouldn’t. I close my eyes and lay my hand on my stomach, psyching myself up for the next step.
My self-consciousness is potent under Jacob’s palpable stare as I ease my hand into my leggings and underwear. When my fingers skim my mound, I’m more aware of my touch than usual with someone watching me do it.
Gentle caresses on my soft lips make my face warm. I’m sure Jacob can see my hand movements. I part myself, sliding my fingers back and forth over my clit.
Without porn, or an erotic story, or even one of those naughty audio clips online as my usual aids, I’m too present in the moment. My body refuses to warm up.
Oh god. What if I’m stuck doing this for too long because I’m too nervous to come?
“This isn’t working for me,” Jacob says.
He changed his mind!
Sweet relief courses through me. I yank my hand out of my underwear and jerk upright, unable to meet his gaze.
“Yeah, because it’s weird.”
And wrong. Wrong as hell.
“No, because you’re dressed. Stand up and take off your clothes. Leave on the collar.”
I gape at him. Jacob is leading me by the hand, step by step, lower and lower into the depths.
Turn back. You still can.
I can’t. Everything so far would’ve all been for nothing.
Sunk cost fallacy claims another victim.
Slowly, I scoot off the bed onto unsteady feet. Jacob’s stare scalds me as I remove my clothes for him again.
I’m standing right in front of him and he’s only a couple of feet away. It’s like I’m giving him a strip tease. He definitely looks like he’s enjoying the show.
He hasn’t moved but he doesn’t seem as relaxed anymore. His grip tightens on the chair arms when I’m naked. He drags his heated gaze over my body as though he’s trying to commit it to memory.
“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he murmurs. “I would’ve done a better job than the towel. Licked every drop of water from your body.”
A thrill zips through me and I want to slap myself. His words might be flattering. It doesn’t change the fact that they’re messed up, this entire situation included.
“Why don’t you care who I am to you?”
“I wouldn’t still be in this chair if I didn’t.”
His implication sharpens my tone.
“Are you going to stay there?”
“Sit on the edge of the bed and lie back.”
I’m unnerved that he ignored my question. Even while seated, Jacob has an authoritative air that compels obedience. My legs dangle over the side when I’m on my back.
“Perfect.” I can’t see his face but I hear the satisfied smile in his voice. “Let the show continue.”
I scowl up at the white ceiling.
“The only thing I want to show you are the third fingers on my hands.”
He chuckles. I hate that some pathetic part of me likes it because his laugh says a lot. He finds my weak attempt at agency amusing when he has all the power.
Humiliation courses through me as I widen my thighs and slip my hand between them. Now I understand why he said “perfect.” In this position, I’m giving him a clear view of my pussy while I rub it.
For him.
I squeeze my eyes shut, forced to use my imagination to get things going. I stroke my uncooperative clit harder as I try to recall a fantasy I’ve had for years.
Back in college, I had a hot art professor from Québec. Just about everyone wanted Professor Lemire. He treated us with utter disdain because his true loves were trains and Victorian art.
In my mind, I’m straddling Professor Lemire. We’re making out while others are walking around just outside. When my sexy professor hoists me onto his desk, I start warming up under my fingers in reality.
However, the fantasy gradually changes. The sandy-haired guy with the man bun becomes someone else. I fight to correct the details. The movie in my head refuses to be edited and the man ripping my panties down my legs is too familiar—
“What are you thinking about as you touch yourself?” Jacob asks.
“My... my art professor.”
“What does he look like?”
“He’s… blond...” No, his hair is dark like yours. “Green eyes...” Ocean blue like yours. “…nice lips.” They’re your lips.
Try as I might to change the fantasy back to my professor, it’s Jacob’s lips against my ear, his hard cock rubbing against my naked pussy. I’m steeped in shame while my fingers circle my swollen clit faster and between my legs grow wetter.
“What’s he doing to you, sweetheart?” His voice is silken.