Page 33 of Your Only Fan
It doesn’t matter. It’s not like I can resist the order. I grab my dick, and he points the camera at me and my hand.
With every pull of my hand, my hole clenches, tightening the hold I have on him, which sends him into a frenzy of curses and groans. They, in turn, make my body all the more alive and my hand all the more eager to please, my hole all the hungrier for his nut, that I end up getting so tight it feels like I’m a virgin again. But only for a few moments.
My orgasm rises to the surface and painfully erupts out of me. It sprinkles us both, and Ezra’s smile widens. He laughs. He actually laughs full of joy at the sight of me coming undone, enjoying the view and effect he has on me.
Yet he doesn’t stop fucking me. He doesn’t stop pounding on me until his jaw clenches and his smile turns to anguish.
His cum warms my insides and spills out of me when he pulls away.
He puts his camera down and turns his attention back to my head.
“Do you have a towel I can use to clean you up?” he asks.
I nod and point him to the cabinet that’s next to the door.
He winks and walks over to open the top drawer.
The moment he does, he freezes and then…
“Wow. That’s a lot of my underwear,” he says, lifting one of them in his hand.
I shrug.
“I have bought a lot of them over the years,” I say.
He nods.
“I just didn’t realize how many,” he replies. “Is that a kink you have?”
It should feel embarrassing talking about it, but then again, why would it? He’s the one selling his cum-stained underwear, and I, among others, buy them. It’s not like he didn’t know I’m the one who’s been paying an arm and a leg for them. It’s other stuff he doesn’t know about me. Like the fact that I’m his teacher and we shouldn’t be doing this.
“No. Not really. I… I just love your smell. I can’t get enough of it.” I’m surprised with how honest I am.
I mean, I didn’t have to tell him that I can’t get enough of it. But I did. Is that going to freak him out?
He looks at me and smiles. It’s a genuine smile, as well. Not one of those fake ones that says “Aw, look at you. How pathetic.”
He puts his old underwear back in the drawer and takes a towel out from the second drawer and cleans me up with an almost ritualistic attention, like he doesn’t want to hurt me.
To make up for how well he looks after me, I offer to cook for him again, and he follows me into the kitchen.
“I can go and wait in the bedroom if you want to take that off,” he says pointing at my hood.
Well, isn’t that sweet of him to offer. But it’s not his fault. It’s my own stupidity. So even if it’s not the most comfortable, cooking with the hood, I’m not going to lock him in another room for it.
I measure some rice and measure twice as much water with the same cup.
“Do you eat ham?” I ask him.
He nods and climbs on the counter, watching me. “What are you making?” he asks.
“Arroz con habichuelas,” I answer.
He purses his lips and nods in a very dorky, college type of way that tells me he has no idea what it is, but he’s too proud to ask.
“So, what do you do?” he asks.
I pause with the lid in hand and turn to him.
