Page 21 of Wild Obsession

“Touch yourself,” I say.

Confusion tightens his expression. “I am touching myself.”

“You’ve got more than a cock, Timothy. Don’t tell me you’ve never touched any other part of yourself.”

“I…”

Christ, maybe he hasn’t. How has this man survived this way for twenty-five years? A dark suspicion pings in the back of my mind, a suspicion that a lot more happened eight years ago than I ever knew about. What other explanation exists for how he’s gone all this time doing nothing, apparently, but jerking himself off alone?

“Touch yourself,” I say, harder, louder, throwing command behind my voice.

Tim responds so quickly it’s like I slapped him through the glass. His free hand comes off the shower pane, and he reaches uncertainly for his balls. When I don’t snap at him again, he tugs at them, groaning as he does.

“Lower,” I say. “Reach behind yourself. Touch that pretty little virgin hole of yours.”

“I don’t know how…”

“Are you fucking stupid?” I say with more force than necessary. Tim is clearly responding to commands, so I lay it on thick. “It’s ahole. Touch it.”

Tim reaches behind himself, his cock grasped in his other hand. He rises up on his knees, arm moving as he presumably rubs a finger over his hole.

“Oh,” he says.

I can’t help smirking. “There you go, straight boy. Rub that finger around your rim. Feel all those tight muscles. Push at it. You like that, don’t you? The pressure gets you hot. It makes your dick throb when you feel something pressing into you.”

“Yeah,” he pants, all the confusion gone. “Yes, oh shit. Yeah.”

I stroke myself harder while Tim plays with himself. He leans his forehead against the glass, his whole body wilting forward. The hand behind him works harder. Shit. Is he actually getting a finger inside himself that easily? This guy went from nothing to penetrating himself simply because I lowered my voice and asked. The knowledge has me throbbing, ready to explode over my hand, but first I’m going to ensure Tim ruins himself in that shower.

“Look up at me,” I command.

His head snaps up immediately. His eyes shine with a fucked out glaze. His hand keeps working behind him while his other hand fists his cock. Tim’s mouth hangs open, those freckles splotched across his cheeks.

I can’t take it. He’s so pathetic, so eager. I get closer to the glass, stroking myself harder and faster. Without a word, Tim sits up on his knees a little, tilting his head back andopening his mouth like I’m about to come all over his pretty face.

The image slams into me. Suddenly, the glass might as well be air. My eyes snap shut. My balls draw up tight and tense. I bite out a curse between gritted teeth, but it’s too late. I’m bursting over my hand and spraying onto the glass, thick ropes of cum that streak the pane.

Even as the release hits, I mentally curse myself for going first. I’m supposed to be the one in control, the one calling the shots. He’s supposed to be the needy one. But Tim doesn’t seem to notice. Even with my eyes closed, I know he’s coming because of the long, pathetic moan that echoes through the bathroom and the sad whimpers that follow it.

I lean my forehead against the cool glass and open my eyes. Tim sits splayed out in the shower, the water pounding into his face as he rests back on his hands and pants. Our cum soils the glass, the evidence of this bizarre night dripping toward the floor.

“Fuck,” I grumble at myself.

Is that for the glass? Is it because I need to go get a towel and wipe my spunk off the shower? Or is it because I allowed this to happen at all?

I try not to think about it, try to seem cool and detached as I clean the glass, dump the towel on the floor, and saunter out of the bathroom without waiting for Tim. I grab clean boxers to sleep in, leaving the soiled stuff on the floor. Then I get into bed without a word, lying on my side with myback to the other bed, as well as the rest of the room.

However Tim feels about what just happened, he apparently finishes his shower and even brushes his teeth before worrying about it. I listen to him padding around the now dark room, but he doesn’t try to talk to me, thankfully. He simply gets into his bed, and the whole room goes very still.

I lie there straining my ears, but in minutes soft, deep breaths reach me. He’s sleeping. Just like that, he’s sleeping. Apparently eight years of bitterness really doesn’t matter to this earnest idiot. Apparently he really is prepared to let it go, like he said. He just let me put him on his knees and order him to touch himself, and now he’s sleeping like a damn baby.

I, however, am not.

The encounter replays through my head. I wouldn’t call myself a dom, but ordering Tim around certainly came with its own peculiar thrill. Is this the revenge I had in mind when I knew we’d be stuck together on this tour? It doesn’t feel like it, but it also doesn’t feel like redemption. Tim can’t earn forgiveness entirely on his knees … though I may be willing to let him try.

No. Whatever this is, it’s a whole fucked up new dimension added onto an already fucked up relationship. It’s the exact sort of thing wedon’tneed if we’re going to function during this tour.

But damn, does it sound like fun.

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