Page 3 of Control Freak

He hesitated. “No.”

I chuckled. “I’d rather see you ride that fat pink dildo you have, anyway.”

He groaned softly.

“Unfasten your belt. Don’t be a tease, or I might have to come and leave you hard and wanting.”

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You’re so mean.”

He was smiling as he whipped off his belt, then reached for the button on his jeans.

“Stop. I didn’t say to open your jeans yet.”

He huffed. “I thought you didn’t want to tease.”

“I didn’t wantyouto tease,” I corrected. “Teasing you is fun.”

“Mean,” he repeated.

I took a minute to unbutton my black dress shirt and open my jeans.

“I can hear that,” Shiloh said. “Tell me what you’re doing?”

“I’m getting a little more comfortable.” I unzipped my fly, the sound audible over the camera. “Gotta touch my dick.”

Shiloh whimpered, still trapped in his jeans. “Want you in my mouth.”

“Suck on that Ring Pop,” I ordered. “Show me how good you’d suck me.”

He raised it to his mouth, sucking enthusiastically with a moan as his eyes fluttered closed. I rubbed my palm over the fabric of my briefs, squeezing my cock before I pulled it out. Thankfully, my body accepted my touch—even if it wouldn’t accept that of others.

I couldn’t bite back the moan that escaped when I stroked my needy cock.

“Please,” Shiloh gasped. “Don’t leave me like this.”

I never would, but it was a game we played that heightened the pleasure. I pretended to think it over, stroking myself and groaning theatrically to make him squirm.

“Fine, get naked.”

Shiloh whipped open his jeans and scrambled to rip them down his legs. His body was slim but nicely toned. He had a runner’s build, while I was a little more bulky.

I cast a glance toward the mirror on my closet door. My shirt was open, revealing my chest and the tattoo that readBelievein a fancy script that I got done during my idealistic phase when I thought I could beat my haphephobia.

The first couple of tattooing sessions had been torturous. My first real exposure therapy, where I endured touch to build my tolerance. I’d taken anti-anxiety meds before I went, and I still cried like a baby when Cyrus laid a hand on me, but he was patient and understanding. It got easier each time I went, and the tattoo gun itself was actually pleasurable in a way. That deep, vibrating touch wasn’t the same as a person’s touch, and I grew to crave it.

It was still difficult enough to sit through a session that I had way fewer tattoos than Axel or Gray. But every tattoo I got was a badge of honor. A victory that I had fought the trauma that made me averse to touch and won. In that instance, anyway. When I’d tried to force a sexual encounter in the same way—back in college—it had been a humiliating disaster.

My dick wouldn’t stay hard, and my lungs had seized up, refusing to allow air in. I’d ended up puking and shaking on the bathroom floor.

I’d realized then that sex wasn’t going to happen for me.

Not without a buffer, anyway.

Shiloh sat in a recliner on-screen, entirely naked, cock hard and leaking. His cock was huge—or at least it looked that way when he was shaved clean and his hips were so slim. It jutted up over his lower abs, ready to put on a show.

I wanted a different kind of show, though.

“Put your legs over each arm of the chair,” I said. “Tilt your hips so I can see everything.”