Voyeur - Lacey Alexander [25]
“I’m imagining this is you,” she said on a hot, high whimper of pleasure. “I’m imagining that you’re fucking me, fucking me.” The sex toy went in all the way now, right up to the fake balls, and he knew the little rise built in on the front—the one unrealistic part of the vibrator, added for her pleasure—was meeting her clit with every stroke.
She fucked herself harder now, and he worked his dick harder, too, matching the rhythm of her thrusts. “You’re fucking me,” she told him again, eyes still shut, face wrenched in passion. “You’re fucking me, Braden.”
“That’s right, honey, I am. I’m fucking that perfect pink pussy, fucking you so hard.”
He watched her mounting passion, listened to her high-pitched moans, let himself get lost in the sight, the sounds. Yes, baby, don’t stop. Keep going. He kept stroking, and when he felt the blood gathering, felt his balls getting tighter and tighter, he said, “Come for me, honey.”
On the computer screen, she worked the toy faster, and he knew the little nub on the front was pushing her little nub closer to climax with each thrust. Come on, baby, come on. He couldn’t hold back much longer, but he sure as hell wasn’t coming before her.
And then, like an answer to a dirty prayer, she let out a hot, thready breath and began to sob. The near-anguish on her face softened to pure ecstasy as she moaned her orgasm.
“Ah yeah, baby,” he groaned, then let go to the obscenely beautiful sight of her, pumping his white hot semen into the tissues he’d kept ready ever since he’d started playing naughty computer games with Laura. The heat shot through him in hard, jagged pulses, and he wished like hell he was coming in her, in that tight, hot body, and that she could see his pleasure just the same as he saw hers.
He clenched his teeth to ride it out. Then came back to earth in time to watch her let the toy fall to the floor and slowly close her legs.
She peered into the camera, clearly stunned by her own actions.
No, baby, no. He longed, more than anything in that moment, for her to show him how thrilled she remained, for her to tell him how astounding it had been, or even just that she’d had fun. But he saw the regret washing over her, the embarrassment—and he hated it.
She shut her eyes, shook her head, drew her legs up under her on the couch. “This isn’t me,” she whispered, same as she kept telling him. “This isn’t me.”
Then she pushed to her feet and walked to the light switch, and the next thing he knew, the screen went black—first the lights extinguished, then the fireplace went dark. She’d run away from him merely by turning out the lights.
I want to hold you, Laura. I want to make you feel better. I want to make you know this is okay, better than okay.
Only he couldn’t do that. All he could do was turn out his own lights and go to bed—alone. “I’m sorry I’m not there with you, baby,” he said, then lifted one fingertip to the computer screen for just a short second before letting out a sigh and rising to leave the desk, and the girl, for the night.
Despite herself, Laura slept great, but still suffered the same sense of revulsion upon waking the next morning. She still couldn’t believe she’d done it. She’d used the purple penis. In front of him.
Arousal was like drunkenness, she thought. The moment you got sober you couldn’t make sense of what you’d done under the influence. And this, now, was the hangover.
As she lay in his bed staring up at the gently whirring ceiling fan, back in her safe-feeling snowflake pj’s, a truly horrific thought struck her. What if . . . what if he hadn’t been alone? Last night, or the night before, or both. What if he’d watched her with friends? What if he’d somehow made tapes of her? What if he was showing them all over the Internet this very moment, even as she lay here