But I didn’t.
I could be honest about it if I was gonna fuckin’ do it.
I was watchin’ Lila ’cause I wanted to.
No, more than that.
I wanted her.
And seein’ her like that, movin’ sensuously like a ribbon twistin’ in the breeze, curlin’ and undulatin’ so all us motherfuckers could watch as she rubbed between her legs over the lace, cupped her breasts and thumbed her nipples that were taffy brown through the sheer material, I groaned again.
This time a sound of defeat.
My hand moved without my conscious promptin’ it to the thick swell of my hard cock through the cotton, squeezin’ hard.
Lila moved so that her ripe, peachy ass was in the air, wavin’ at the camera like red before a bull. Hot hair puffed through my nose as I went animal, turned on so much I could only think of chasin’ her down, pinnin’ that sweet body to the matteress, buryin’ my face in that thick ass, then in what I was sure would be the sweetest pussy known to man.
My hand actually fuckin’ shook as I pulled down my boxer briefs enough to tug out my cock, so hard it throbbed an angry, purplish red, the plum head the same ripe colour as the fruit and just as full. I drew my thumb over the precum poolin’ in the slit and used it to lube my palm so I could stroke off.
Stroke off as I watched my Flower Child pet her pussy through lace that was turnin’ dark with her wetness then finally pull the fabric aside to dive beneath.
There was music playin’ in the background, and I recognized it as, fuckin’ appropriately, ‘Watch Me’ by The Phantoms.
And fuck me, but I was watchin’ her, eyes glued to every single line of her long, curved, muscular form. It was clear she worked out from the tight bunch of abs barely showin’ through the soft skin of her golden stomach and the way she gracefully raised and lowered herself over her fingers, hips rollin’ like waves.
She had thick, caramel thighs I wanted to wrap around my head so that all I could taste, all I could breathe and eat to sustain me, was her.
That quick, I was ready to blow.
I gritted my teeth and stroked harder, needin’ the almost painful friction as penance for my lust.
When I came, I did it strong, spillin’ high onto my stomach, cum runnin’ into the gutters cut into my abs. I grunted and milked my dick for more, wringin’ out every last second of pleasure I could before slammin’ the laptop shut and tippin’ my head back to close my eyes.
“Fuck,” I breathed. “Me.”
Years of restraint, of tryin’ not to see the woman Lila was bloomin’ into, of knowin’ I’d never be good enough for her even if I was allowed to look, and I’d finally broke like cheap plastic.
Broke in a way I knew there was no goin’ back.
Before I shut off the lamp, I opened the computer and bookmarked the tab, cum coolin’ on my stomach, shame curlin’ in my gut.
I knew in a way I couldn’t shake, I’d watch that goddamn clip again.
If only to stave off the need to watch her do that again, next time in person, my hands the ones in all of that hair, on that lace covered cunt.
I turned off the light, cleaned off my cum, and rolled over in the dark.
But I didn’t sleep.
And when mornin’ came, sleep deprivation had hatched a plan in my mind I was too tired, too wrung out to question.
So I didn’t.
LILA
Working for the wife of a cartel boss was not what I expected.
It was, in innumerable ways, worse.
Irina called me at all hours. She wanted what she wanted when she wanted it without question or remorse. I learned that the hard way one night gone midnight when she’d asked me to pick up a man or woman from a local bar and deliver them to her office.
I’d balked.
She wanted me to pick someone up for her to fuck because she was too busy to go find a plaything herself.
It was a bold and awkward request. Made me feel like a fluffer on set getting the men hard and revved to fuck for hours.
But I’d done it.
Driven in the dark, driving rain falling like sheets of hammered metal to the asphalt all the way down to Vancouver, an hour there and back, to snag Irina a beautiful man.
Later, after I’d dropped the poor, unassuming college student named Trent off at Wet Works, she’d informed me she preferred women.
Just so I knew for next time.
I was already hyperaware of Irina’s bisexuality, not only because she made it obvious in the way she leered at some of the girls on set, but because she often hit on me. A fluttering touch at my bare shoulder like a landing butterfly, a kiss in greeting pressed to the corner of my mouth instead of the safety of my cheek. She wanted me, but not enough to take me.