Watch Me

I’m stretched out on the sofa in a plain white t-shirt and blue-checked Calvin Klein PJs, one bare foot hanging over the edge as I scroll idly. There’s maybe a two-inch gap between the t-shirt’s hem, which has ridden up, and the waistband of my bottoms, which I’m pushing down far enough with my other hand that I can jam my thumb into the base of my cock. Tufts of pubic hair curl out from the faded CK logo towards my navel, eventually giving way at either side to soft, pale skin.

You can picture that, right? Like something from the Loungewear section of a department store catalogue, minus the male model abs and designer stubble.

The sofa is solidly beige, if you need a bit more context (I could go with light brown or mid-grey, and get away with it, but really it’s beige). Generous two-person, with a fairly low back. There are cushions – little oases of colour – most of which are arranged behind my head and shoulders, so I can recline more comfortably.

On the small wooden coffee table I’ve dragged across to within arm’s length, there’s a half-finished mug of tea and the TV remote. If you were to kneel down next to it, your eyeline would be directly level with my crotch.

That’s important, because for now all I really want is to feel like you’re watching me – even though I’m not really doing anything. Sure, the firmness of the flesh under my thumb-tip has moved from rare to medium-well in the time I’ve been thinking about your eyes flicking back and forth across the cotton expanse covering my thighs, and there’s a tell-tale ripple just under the button-fly as my cock head starts to stir, but all the movement – the nascent activity – is subterranean for now.

Whenever I picture you like this, I go back and forth on whether you’d be clothed. The idea of you kneeling naked is delightful, of course, especially when I think about how aware you’d be of that fact; how much harder you’d find it to mask any change in breathing, or to hide the tell-tale flush of arousal creeping across your chest. At the same time, a vest top and shorts, or maybe a low-cut dress with no bra – too slutty for the outside world, just right for perching pliantly in front of me – would somehow only reinforce how little agency you have in this situation. Does that make sense?

Either way, the details that stick in my mind – and that I’m contemplating right now, as I let the PJ waistband snap down over my hand, drawing it inside where I can wrap fingers round the base of my cock till they meet my thumb – are always the same. The whites of your knuckles as you press balled fists into your thighs. Your stillness, deliberate and determined, betrayed only by a tremble that runs down your arms – subtle enough that it barely counts as an oscillation. And your eyes: big, almost round, and unblinking.

Plus your silence, which would be unnerving if it wasn’t maintained explicitly at my command. You are here to watch, not to speak, and if I do need your mouth for something…well, I’ll be sure to let you know.

The skin beneath my fingers is warm and dry. My cock lies almost exactly perpendicular to the line between its base and my belly button, semi-hard but with enough give that I can squeeze my hand around it and feel the skin bulge out between my fingers. I know exactly how my palm would smell if I brought it to my nose right now. Or if I could wave it under yours.

Yes. That would be better. Mainly because I’d get to watch you rise from your haunches, nose following my hand as I bring it back toward my body, seeking out the scent of cock.

“Uh huh. Uh huh? Yeah, I don’t think so. Sit back down. Now.”

And I know you would.

Instead I’m going to keep flexing my fingers, the heartbeat rhythm steadily increasing, despite the adhesive drag of skin no longer pulling away quite so smoothly from skin; I never know at times like these whether it’s my hand or my cock that’s generating those little pin-pricks of sweat, but the effect is the same regardless.

In this silent living room, my breathing sounds unnaturally loud – to me, at least. Not exaggerated nor performative, but certainly something I’m conscious of. I’m tempted to give my balls a quick squeeze, then push a finger down along my perineum and into my ass, in part because I know it would draw an involuntary moan from my lips, and I find the idea of forcing myself to vocalise arousal in that way extremely hot.

It’s also something else that I know would have you leaning forward, your face practically hovering above the tented cotton around my cock. When you can’t see exactly what someone’s doing, you’re forced to rely on whichever physical indicators are available to you. The noises I’m making. The sweat on my forehead, and maybe now along my collarbone or clinging to the hairs scattered across my chest. The scent-memory telling your brain that you really can smell my cock and, by extension, taste the hot salt-sour skin pulled tight around its length.

Glancing down, I can see damp patches starting to form a patchwork V on my t-shirt. The heating came on a few minutes ago, but that’s not why my internal thermostat suddenly feels like it’s been calibrated a couple of degrees higher than normal. I’m equally aware that pushing my PJ bottoms halfway down my thighs will do very little to resolve matters, though the mere act of hooking thumbs under the waistband is enough to make me realise that my gut-punch desire to see my cock – straining and angry with contoured veins – is only marginally greater than the anticipation of cool air on the head.

Of all the discrete moments in a tease like this, perhaps the one I most wish you were here to see is the reveal. Not so much for the outcome, satisfying and unbearable as I hope it would be to have my cock fully erect and ready, that close to your firmly (and obediently) closed mouth; no, in this case it’s all about the boing! You know what I’m talking about, right? The spring; the bounce, after I peel the soft fabric up the shaft, tugging it back away from my body till it’s almost vertical, ready to recoil the instant I pass over the tip and pull my PJs off with a flourish.

It’s something I like to savour, not least because once it’s over, there’s no going back. Horses have bolted; genies are out of bottles. I’ve popped, and there’s no fucking way I’m going to stop. This afternoon though, I’m going to…pause…for…just…a…few…seconds…longer, yeah, just like that, with the head almost squashed flat under the pressure of an elasticated waistband caught on the crest of a wave, unable to crash down till I give it one last push.

And fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. That feels SO good. From the smack of cock against stomach to the sudden change in sensation; the shock of it really, as the snug, soft embrace of PJ cotton gives way to the weird form of suspension that always accompanies the removal of any physical barrier or support around it.

I was right too. My cock looks so good like this. Peering down at it, watching the head twitch, I get a real sense of its width; how it starts off thick and solid at the base, then never really tapers off until after the flared ridge around the head. My view is different to the one you’d have if you were here. You’d be able to see it in profile, left to right, from the fat, tight balls that would give you some clue how long it’s been since I last came, to the slender tip.

I can’t decide whether this is the moment I’d want to pull you up from the floor and tell you to straddle my thighs – to look down at my cock and see just how hard I am for you – or whether the thought of stroking it while you kneel there is too good to resist. Mm OK, yeah, I think that’s still the play here. I’d just use thumb and forefinger at first, gripping the root in the same tight ring I’m forming right now, and slowly – so fucking slowly – squeezing all the way along the shaft. I could use your mouth for lube, of course, but my own spit will do just fine to begin with, and besides, if I lick my fingers and pump them up and down a few times, you’ll get to see every inch of my dick glistening, like morning dew on the grass outside.

There’s one more visual I’d want you to have before we do anything else. I’m not going to come like this – not yet – but I’d take a lot of pleasure from making you think I’m about to do so. I want to see conflict on your face; the mix of horny, voyeuristic anticipation and acute disappointment at not getting to taste and feel it for yourself. I want you to watch my cock swell and darken; to see my rhythm falter, then regain speed, as my stomach sucks in and pushes out involuntarily, trying to fight the wave building beneath it.

I’m not far from that point now, which is as much a product of those specific mental images as it is the practiced skill of my hand around my cock. Trying to work out the exact moment I’d pull back is somehow a massive turn-on, I think because it comes with the certainty that regardless of how impassive you’d managed to remain till then, you wouldn’t be able to hide your feelings at the sight of my cock jerking and pulsing, so fucking close to the edge but still there for you.

It’s there for you now. Or here for you, I guess I should say. Resting on my stomach, ready and waiting for you to get off your knees and grab hold of it. After all the waiting, all that enforced patience, I’m desperate to find out how you’d handle things when finally given free rein to do as you please with me. Or to me. Or on me.

Seriously, I want to know. So why don’t you tell me…