We can only imagine

Though I'd physically gone upstairs to brush my teeth and get ready for bed, my mind remained focused on what might be going on in my basement. I recalled with delight hearing Charissa fuck herself through the closed bedroom door after we watched Game of Thrones together, and I was wondering if she'd be riled up enough tonight for a repeat performance.

I racked my brain for ways to try to "check on" her without seeming like too much of a creep. Could I justify doing laundry again? Pretend I lost my phone? Bring her a bowl of ice cream? I couldn't think of anything.

I listened, blood pounding my ears, from the stairwell leading onto the main floor. I heard Charissa come up from the basement, brush her teeth, and then head back down. I crept down to the main floor myself and stationed myself at the top of the basement stairs. It seemed pretty dark and quiet down there, but I knew I couldn't get to sleep.

Setting my laptop on the dining room table, I idled on my computer with my ears straining for sounds from the basement. Ten minutes, twenty minutes, an hour passed. I was berating myself for losing sleep over this when a quick jack-off would send me right to dreamland. But my patience paid off as I did hear a sound quietly emerging from the basement.

I moved over the top of the stairs and listened. It took me a while to figure out what it was, but then it hit me. Charissa was watching TV. Not The Great British Bakeoff or even Game of Thrones. She was viewing my Showtime watchlist! It was quiet but unmistakable. The lights were off, and I knew there was no way I could creep down for a look. But my imagination was running wild as I pictured her legs spread on my basement couch, juices running down her thighs.

Sadly, I couldn't hear the delicious thwap thwapping from the other night. And when the TV eventually turned off, I crept up to my bed to pleasure myself with my overactive imagination.