Completion

Natasha’s soft hand keeps its steady rhythm, slow at first, then a little firmer as she feels the way your cock throbs in her grip. The phone screen stays tilted toward you, another video already playing. Ruby’s tongue working between her thighs on the living-room sofa, Natasha’s recorded moans soft and unguarded while the real Natasha stands in front of you stroking the thick length she has refused for months.

She does not rush. She works the full 8.5 inches with deliberate attention, twisting slightly on every upward stroke, thumb spreading the precome that keeps beading at the head. The videos continue. Kitchen counter. Ruby’s fingers curling inside her. A short clip of Natasha on her back in the bedroom, knees high, Ruby’s athletic body settled between them, the wet sounds clear through the speaker. Each new image feeds the pressure building at the base of your spine.

Months of cold rejections, of careful excuses, of mornings spent hard and ignored, all of it gathers under her hand. Natasha watches your face while she strokes, the earlier pity still present but now mixed with a quiet fascination at how completely you are giving in. She tightens her grip just enough to make your hips twitch, then eases off, drawing the pleasure out, forcing you to feel every second of it.

“You have been carrying this for a long time,” she says softly, almost to herself, while another video plays of Ruby making her cum on the same counter she is leaning against now. Her hand never stops. Long strokes. Steady pressure. The wet sound of her palm on your cock mixes with the recorded moans from the phone.

The climax builds without mercy. Your breathing turns rough. Natasha feels the first warning pulse and keeps the same pace, not speeding up, not slowing down, simply working you through the final stretch with the same controlled attention. When the orgasm finally hits it is heavy and prolonged, months of frustration emptying in thick, hard spurts across her moving fist and onto the kitchen floor. She strokes you through every pulse, milking the last drops until you are spent and oversensitive, the phone still showing one more quiet clip of Ruby’s mouth between her legs.

Only then does Natasha release you. She wipes her hand on a tea towel, locks the phone, and steps back.

“We will talk later,” she says, and walks out of the kitchen without another glance, leaving you alone with the cooling mess on the floor and the thick, softening weight of your cock still exposed.