Pleasure yourself

You don’t make her wait.

You open your trousers, push the fabric down, and free the thick length of your cock. It springs out already hard, the full 8.5 inches heavy in the low light of the living room. Natasha’s eyes lock onto it at once. A small, almost involuntary sound leaves her throat. She shifts on the sofa, thighs pressing together under the open robe, and settles in to watch.

You wrap your fist around the shaft and start stroking in slow, deliberate pulls, exactly the way she asked. Base to head, thumb spreading the precome that beads at the tip almost immediately. The wet sound of it is quiet but clear in the otherwise silent room. Natasha’s gaze never leaves the motion of your hand. The flush from this morning returns to her cheeks, deeper this time. Her breathing slows and deepens.

“That’s it,” she murmurs, voice low and rough around the edges. “Let me see all of it. The way you handle yourself when you think no one’s looking. I’ve been thinking about it all day. How thick it looked. How you didn’t stop even when I was standing there.”

You keep the pace steady, giving her the full show she asked for. Long strokes. The occasional twist under the head that makes your hips twitch. Natasha’s hand drifts to the open edge of her robe, resting lightly on the soft curve of her stomach, then lower, though she doesn’t yet touch herself. She simply watches, short curvy body framed by the cushions, brunette hair loose, eyes dark with open interest.

The months of cold distance make the moment sharper. She still won’t let you touch her. She still keeps the careful boundary in place. But she is choosing to sit there, choosing to look, choosing to get wet from the sight of the cock she has refused for so long. Every upward stroke feeds on that knowledge. Your cock throbs harder in your fist, the ache building with each pass while Natasha stays exactly where she is, silent now except for the soft sound of her breathing, completely absorbed in watching you work yourself for her.