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She uncrosses her legs and looks at me like the performance just became an order. “You have my attention. Now keep it.”

I spit in my palm and take my cock in hand like I have done this for an audience before instead of only wanting one.

I stroke myself for her. Long pulls. I make it look good on purpose. I know the angle of my hips. I know how I look with my head tipped back and my throat exposed. I give her that, then I check her face to see if it worked.

It worked.

Heather watches my fist. She watches the wet head push through my fingers. She watches my mouth when I have to breathe through it.

“Look at me,” she says.

My eyes snap to hers. I keep stroking.

“Slower.”

I hate how fast I obey. I hate how much better it feels when I do.

“Don’t close your eyes.”

I keep them open and let her see the ugly part, the part where this becomes me getting off on her stare. I work myself harder than I mean to.

“That’s better,” Heather says.

I fist myself faster. I’m going to come. I can feel it gathering, and the worst part is I want her to watch the exact second I lose the performance.

“Don’t hide your face.”

I had dropped my chin. I lift it.

“Let me see how you like it.”

I change the grip without thinking, tighter under the head, thumb rubbing the spot that makes my hips jerk. I breathe through my teeth. I keep looking at her while I do the thing I usually save for locked bathrooms and spite.

“That’s my good boy.”

I groan. It comes out raw. I stroke faster, then I force it slower because I want to last long enough for her to keep talking.

“Don’t stop.” Heather watches the pretty rhythm disappear from my hand. “Come for me.”

I come in stripes across my own fist and onto the floor between her feet, shaking with the effort of keeping my eyes on her.

When it’s over, I’m standing there dripping, cock still jumping in my grip, face hot, waiting for her to make it small again. I stay standing because I don’t know if I’m allowed to fold.

Heather looks at me, taking inventory of a thing she already owns. “Beautiful,” she says.

I have to lock my knees. Beautiful from her mouth, with my come still on my fingers, is worse. It’s better.

“Sit,” Heather says. “Back to me.”

I look at the come on the floor between her feet.

“Yes. There.”

I go down. My knees hit first. Then I turn and sit in it, ass and calves in the wet, cock still slick against my thigh. The mess is already cooling.

Heather’s knees frame my shoulders. She parts my hair with her fingers first. Tonight her knuckles brush the nape of my neck and I feel it in my balls.

The brush follows. I lean back until my shoulders touch her shins. She lets me. She keeps brushing like nothing changed. Her hand cups the side of my head and tilts it so she can reach the other side.