Keep going

You keep the rhythm steady under her gaze, fist sliding the full thick length in long, wet strokes. Natasha’s eyes stay locked on the motion. The flush in her cheeks has spread down her throat. One hand rests on the open edge of her robe, fingers curling against the soft skin of her stomach, but she still doesn’t touch herself. She simply watches, breathing slower now, completely focused on the cock she has spent months turning away from.

“Harder,” she says quietly. “I want to see how you do it when you’re close. Show me.”

You obey. The strokes shorten and tighten. Precome slicks your knuckles. Your hips lift into each upward pull. The wet sound grows louder in the quiet living room. Natasha shifts on the sofa, thighs pressing together more firmly under the robe. A small, involuntary roll of her hips betrays how affected she is. She notices you noticing and doesn’t try to hide it.

“I’ve been wet since this morning,” she admits, voice low and rough. “Sitting at the kitchen table after you left, still thinking about the way it looked when you finished. I told myself I wouldn’t do this. Then you walked in and I couldn’t stop. Keep going. Don’t you dare stop until I’m ready.”

The power in the words settles over the room. She is still the one who decides. She is still the one who won’t let you touch her. But she is also the one getting visibly turned on by the sight of you stroking the thick cock she has refused. You work yourself harder under that knowledge, the ache building fast, the full 8.5 inches rigid and leaking in your fist while Natasha stays exactly where she is, short curvy body open in the robe, eyes dark, watching every stroke like she has finally given herself permission to look.