I wait where he placed me. Naked, kneeling on the carpet, head bowed in prayer or in punishment.
Hands behind my back, loose, but still held. He paces in and out of the room.
In the background, the television murmurs and giggles, like it knows something I don’t. I hear him moving, shifting around, stopping.
Sometimes I think I feel his gaze, like a hand touching my neck. But I can’t see.
My cock swells and softens, rising with its own momentum, trying to catch a whiff of the air that passes through the room.
I hate that he can see it. I love that he can see it.
Time loses its shape. I count my breaths until I forget how to count. I list the pain in my thighs, Until the ache merges with me.
He stops in front of me and waits. Long enough for my heart to rise into my throat.
Long enough for my cock to betray me again.
And then, his foot. A gentle tapping. Not even a kick.
Just enough. A little jolt under my balls, like punctuation, like a wry smile in motion.
I gasp. I don’t move. He walks away. And me. Now hard. Because his contact created it. Because his denial, left room for my longing.
If you’ve enjoyed Dougie D’s writing for a while, take a moment to fill out a fun list of questions so I can learn more about what you enjoy and what keeps you here. Your answers help shape the stories and content coming up.
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.