Page 13 of A Man To Remember
Click.
"Lower your chin."
Click.
"Let the tie fall to the side."
Click.
The instructions feel more like commands, and for a brief moment I wonder if maybe he's enjoying this. Enjoyingmakingme do things,makingme march to whatever drumbeat he sets.
But I don't have time to ponder it now.
Because a decision has been made.
And although I know it's probably the worst idea in the history of bad ideas, I'm somehow powerless to change my own mind.
All I can do is execute.
I meet the camera lens dead-on, unprompted. And before Austin can point out that's not what he asked for, I slide my hand down my chest, fingers trailing over my abs, feeling them twitch, before reaching the waistband. Then, I palm myself through the barely-there fabric, working my cock to full hardness with deliberate, measured strokes.
Austin's sharp inhale could probably be heard from space.
"What are you doing?" He sounds like he's being strangled with a wire.
I keep stroking, watching his knuckles go white where he grips the camera. "Same thing he did." My voice comes out husky. "That's what you want, right? Authenticity?"
The camera lowers. His face is fully visible now, pupils blown, cheeks half a shade darker than they were just seconds ago.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
Do I?
Maybe…maybe notthispart. Maybe stroking my cock in front of another man—or anyone, really—isn't the most comfortable thing in the world.
But I do want him to capture it. To make it art somehow, just like he did for that other guy. And if that makes me soundlike Rose from Titanic, so be it, because that's easier to tolerate than theotherpossibility. That there is this strange, unexplored part of me that wantshimtosee melike this. Because that's scary.
My cock is fully hard now, tenting the boxer briefs obscenely. A wet spot blooms where the head presses against fabric, and I'm waiting for the embarrassment to kick in.
It doesn't. Instead, I feel powerful.
Austin raises his camera again, but his breathing fills the quiet room like he's right next to me instead of across it.
The camera clicks in rapid succession.
"Turn your hips toward the light."
I shift the wrong direction. "Like this?"
Austin's mask cracks like ice under pressure before he schools his features. "No, here—"
He sets down the camera and crosses to me in three long strides.
Then, I have him where I want him. The thought is uncomfortable. Heavy. But it's there nonetheless.
His hands land on my hips, fingers burning through the thin fabric, digging in just enough to make me move and ache for more, before he steps back, way too fast.
