He pushed my hand aside and fumbled with his belt and fly. My breath caught as he wrapped my fingers around his bare c**k. Hard. Big. So hot it might blister the skin off my good hand. I began to stroke him, a slow drag of my palm up and down the underside of his shaft.
“Tight.”
I clasped him, making the pulls as mean as I dared.
“Rough,” he whispered. “Real rough, like you f*****g hate it.”
I did my best, and when my strokes weren’t harsh enough, he clamped his duct-tapey hand over mine and showed me how tight he wanted it. Scary-tight. Tighter than I’d have dared, worried about doing permanent damage. His eyes were squeezed shut, head pushed deep into the pillow and teeth bared, pink from his own blood. What was he imagining? Maybe nothing. Maybe he was just feeling. I was afraid of
