“There’s a certain decadence,” he opined. “In reading something and listening to your woman pleasure herself, just… enjoying the noises she makes.”
I suppose this is especially true when you’re doing it for the sake of his pleasure, and he knows it. You could be doing it anywhere else: in the shower, in the next room, not in ear shot, not right beside him, not so close he could smell your pussy. But you chose for him to hear you, to listen to you come while you touch yourself.
Then you come.
“Did that feel good, baby?”
“Yesss… yes,” you pant.
“But I think you need another, because you got my dick hard,” he murmurs.
And because it is almost your favorite thing, and because you love his perfect cock, and the perfect way he strokes it, and the delicious way it throbs in his hand, and the very sight of it makes you wetter, and because you love to watch his face and the way it contorts in pleasure, his hand moves on his dick, while you start to rub and rut against your fingers.
And your back is against the wall and your feet are spread wide, and you’re working yourself just right, because he’s watching and he loves to watch. And the sound of his groans while he’s listening to you, while he’s watching you, undoes something inside of you. Knowing that he wants you like this, desperately, hungrily, it gives you a power high, it makes your eyes roll back in your skull, and your mouth stays open for the moaning, and if you could give a fuck, you’d wonder if you look ridiculous, but you don’t, give a fuck that is, because he’s watching you and listening to you, with his hand on his cock, looking, feeling, sounding, just as desperate.
And wouldn’t it be more grown up, wouldn’t it be easier, wouldn’t it be better just to cross the room and fuck each other senseless? But it’s a little thrilling, maybe, to eye fuck each other from a distance, while you’re both getting off for one another. It’s a little hungrier, a little more desperate, and at this moment, a little more satisfying. But just at this moment, just… right… now.