Page 11 of Sicken of the Calm
I spread my legs. My knees jutsideways, my feet caught by my jeans and underwear. My right thigh pressesagainst Ezra’s socked foot, which is still resting against my chair. There’s abuzzing underneath all these moments of stillness.
Ezra looks, and I let him.
“Jerk yourself off. Slowly.”
My right hand wraps around thethickness of my dick, the broken pieces of a breath falling off my tongue. Imake a tight fist but go slow. Up the shaft, a thumb around the head, trailingthe wetness down. The friction from the lack of moisture is inconsequential atthis pace. Ezra’s eyes flicker between my hand and my face. I let my hand go upand down, up and down, with that same agonising slowness. The relief felt atthe first touch soon turns to frustration. My thick thighs tense and strain, themuscles of my stomach jumping under my shirt.
The moment drags on, and on, andon. For minutes,minutes, he does nothing but look. It should beannoying, boring, too awkward and embarrassing to take, but there’s too muchheat for that. There’s something dark and delicious in Ezra dragging this outlike this, doing nothing more than looking. The head of my cock keeps leakinguntil the shaft is all wet, and it’s almost worse, not to even have thefriction. I spread my legs a little wider as if that would invite relief. Mybody is so tense it hurts, my throat dry with the tempo of my breaths, a rhythmto counteract the slowness of my hand.
The heat builds until I’msweating and shifting on my seat, Ezra’s foot keeping it steady. I don’t knowhow long it’s been. I’ve never jerked off for this long, even when I try todrag it out.
I could keep this pace up foreverand never come, I realize. The thought has my breath splintering in my throat.
“Please,” I say before I can stopit. Ezra’s dark eyes catch on mine. For a few seconds, there is nothing.Mercy,I think,mercy.Ezra seems to read it on my face.
“Fast, now. Tell me when you’reabout to come.”
My hand moves without thought,quick and tight. My chest heaves with relief, with the sudden build-up of heat.I close my eyes and tilt my head back.
“Eyes on me,” Ezra says, and Isit up again, staring at his bottomless eyes. Every inch of me is tense andburning. My leg is shaking, my arm straining, I’m, I’m-
“Ezra,” I say, so close it’sblinding me. "I’m-"
“Stop.”
“What?”
“Stop.”
My hand flinches away. I’mpanting, the sound of it filling the air between us.
“Put your hands on your thighs,”he says, and I almost whine a protest.
“Ezra-”
“Trust me, Joaquin. Put yourhands on your thighs.”
I take a deep breath and do asI’m told. I look at him and am glad that he doesn’t look perfectly composed.
“Count to thirty,” he says. Iblink at him.
“What?”
“Count to thirty. Trust me,Joaquin,” he repeats. The phrase makes my thoughts melt away. I wet my lips andstart, one, two, three. I don’t know what I’m counting toward, but I feel thetension building, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. By the time I’m in the twentiesmy hands are twitching slightly on the hot skin of my bare, hairy thighs.
“Thirty,” I say, panting with it.
“Jerk off, the pace is yours. Youcan come,” he says. Still, I hesitate, caught in his game, but when my handstarts sliding against the shaft of my dick, it can’t stop. Quick, thenquicker, squeezing until I’m undulating my hips to fuck my hand at the sametime as it moves.
“Fuck, fuck,” I say, but thepleasure keeps rising. The tightness and heat in my stomach, in my hips, deeperstill, is intolerably perfect. I try to keep my eyes open and on Ezra, his faceand his eyes, his bitten-red lips, the wet moisture on them.
“Ezra, Ezra,” I moan, havingbarely made a sound all along. He leans forward, eyes intent.
“Come now,” he says, and therelease is a radial force, from the pit of me and outwards in waves. It goes,and goes, and goes, my neck straining, hips pushed up, spilling all over theblack shirt I’m wearing. I open my eyes again and Ezra is still looking at mewith an expression that makes me bite back a moan with a shiver that burns atthe edges.
Finally, I slump down on thechair, the back of my head on the edge of the backrest. I have to close myeyes, trying to control my breathing, but I can hardly think. My body doesn’tfeel mine. It feels better than mine, like it’s the earth and the air around meand I’m just part of it all.
The haze is penetrated by thesound of the rattling of my wardrobe. I blink my eyes open stupidly, sitting upa little. My body is perfectly sore, despite just sitting here for the pastGod-knows-how-many minutes. I loll my head to the side and see Ezra pullingsomething out of one of my drawers.
