Her Watching Me Stroke and Cum

The late light in Emmett's apartment had gone the color of weak tea, sliding through the blinds in long pale bars that striped the bed and the bare floor. He lay on his back in the middle of the mattress, twenty-two years old and naked from throat to toes, the sheet bunched uselessly at the footboard where he had kicked it. One arm was crooked behind his head. The other hand moved in a slow, loose stroke along his cock, which was only half hard and still thickening, warm and heavy against his palm. He could hear his own breathing and the faint tick of the radiator. He could also hear the small shift of weight in the chair pulled up tight beside the bed.

Greta sat there fully dressed, twenty-four, a gray sweater soft at the cuffs and dark pants creased from the way she had been leaning. They were friends who had stopped pretending, two nights ago on his couch, that the thing they both wanted was anything other than this: him on display, her watching. She had said it plainly. He had said it back. No one else in the apartment. Just the chair dragged close enough that her knees nearly touched the edge of the mattress, and her eyes, bright and intent, fixed on the motion of his hand.

"Don't speed up yet," she said. Her voice was quiet and eager, not shy. "I want to see it get hard for me."

Emmett swallowed. Heat moved under his skin. He tightened his fingers a fraction and drew them up from the base, slow enough that she could follow every inch, then loosened again on the way down. His cock answered, filling, lifting off his lower belly, the head flushing darker as blood surged into it. The stripes of light crossed his stomach and his spread thighs. He felt exposed in a way that made his pulse knock hard in his throat, and he did not cover himself. That was the point. She had asked to see him, and he had wanted to be seen.

Greta leaned forward, elbows settling on her knees, the wooden chair giving one soft creak. Her face was close now. He could see the part in her hair and the way her lower lip caught between her teeth for a second before she let it go. Her gaze traveled the length of him without flinching: chest, stomach, the dark line of hair, the fist working his shaft, the heavy hang of his balls against the sheet.

"That's it," she murmured. "Keep going. Just like that. Let me watch."

The air between them felt thick, almost humid, though the room was only warm from the heater. Emmett's next stroke dragged a little firmer over the ridge beneath the head, and a clear bead welled at the slit. He watched her watch it. Her eyes flicked up to his face, then back down, hungry and steady, and the corner of her mouth curved as if the sight pleased her exactly as much as she had promised it would.

"You look good like this," she said. "Naked. Open. Stroking yourself while I sit here and take all of it in. Don't stop, Emmett. I want every second."

He nodded, breath uneven already, and kept his hand moving in that unhurried rhythm while she leaned closer, encouraging him with her eyes and her low voice, the mutual want they had confessed sitting between them like heat he could almost taste.

Greta's attention did something to the stroke that his own imagination never had. Alone, he rushed. With her eyes on him he felt every inch of the pull, the drag of his palm, the way the skin moved over the rigid core underneath. Her gaze was hungry and unashamed. She shifted in the chair, thighs pressing together, one hand resting on her knee with the fingers curled tight as if she were holding herself still by force.

"Longer," she said softly. "All the way down to the base, then all the way up. I want to see your hand cover the head and come back off it. Slow. Let me see it throb."

Emmett obeyed. He lengthened the stroke until his fingers met the root, squeezed gently, and drew upward in one firm glide that made his cock jump in his grip. The head emerged slick and swollen, glistening where that first bead had smeared. He did it again. Again. Each pass grew firmer, his fist closing more surely around the shaft, the wet sound of it small and obscene in the quiet room. His balls drew up a little. His stomach tightened.

Greta bit her lip. The sight of it, her teeth in that soft curve, sent a fresh pulse of heat through him. She shifted again, the chair legs scraping an inch closer on the floor, and leaned until he could have reached her shoulder if he had lifted his free hand. He didn't. They had agreed: she watched, he stroked, and the wanting stayed in the air where both of them could feel it.

"God, look at you," she said, and her voice had gone lower, rougher at the edges. "Your cock is so hard. I can see it throb every time you squeeze near the tip. Do that again. Right under the head. Yes. Like that. I love watching it jump. I love how red it's getting. I love that you're doing this with your legs open so I don't miss anything."

He made a sound he hadn't meant to make, halfway between a breath and a groan, and his hips lifted off the mattress on the next upstroke, chasing his own fist. The sheets whispered under him. Sweat had started at his hairline and along his ribs. His breathing turned ragged, uneven pulls of air that filled the space between her words.

"Keep your hips like that," Greta said, eyes locked on the glistening head as it pushed through his fingers. "Let me see you fuck your hand. Not fast yet. Firm. Show me how much you need it. Tell me if it feels good."

"It feels—" His voice cracked. He stroked longer, firmer, hips rising and falling in a shallow rhythm that matched his hand. "It feels so good. Having you watch. I can't— I'm getting close already and I don't want to rush it, but you're looking at me like—"

"Like I want to see you cum," she finished, and she didn't smile this time. She just stared, hungry, biting her lip again as another clear strand welled and slipped down over his knuckles. "Not yet. Keep going. Let me watch you get desperate. I want your breathing like that. I want your hips off the bed. I want to see your cock throb so hard it looks like it hurts. Stroke it for me, Emmett. Just like that. Longer. Firmer. Don't you dare look away from me."

He didn't. His eyes stayed on hers for a shaky second, then dropped, helpless, to his own fist and the flushed, leaking head she was devouring with her gaze. His strokes stayed long and firm, the pace climbing without quite breaking, his hips lifting again and again off the mattress as the heat coiled tighter at the base of his spine. Greta watched every motion, shifting in her seat, soft encouragement spilling out of her in a voice that shook a little now too, and the room seemed to shrink to the chair, the bed, and the slick relentless movement of his hand.

He was still on his back. He spread his legs wider, knees bent, feet planted on the mattress, opening himself completely to the woman less than two feet away. Greta had leaned so far forward that he could see the individual lashes around her eyes and the quick rise of her chest under the gray sweater. She wasn't touching him. She didn't have to. Her attention was a hand of its own, and it made his skin feel too tight.

"Faster now," she said, almost a whisper. "You've been so good. Go faster. Harder. I want to see your hand blur a little. I want to watch that cock shine."

Emmett's grip tightened. The stroke shortened and sped, fist pumping from midshaft to the crown in a rhythm that slapped softly, wetly, against his skin. Precum slicked everything. Each downward drag made a glossy sound he felt in his teeth. The head was deep flushed, swollen, a thread of clear fluid swinging from the slit and catching the late light before it broke and striped his fingers. His abs jumped. His thighs trembled with the effort of holding his legs open while pleasure climbed him in hard, rolling waves.

Greta's eyes locked on his glistening cockhead and did not leave it. She watched the way the ridge flared each time his fist came off it, the way the slit winked and leaked, the frantic flex of the shaft in his grip. Her lips were parted. Her breathing had gone shallow, matching his without her seeming to notice. A strand of hair had fallen forward over her cheek, and she didn't bother to push it back. Nothing in the room mattered to her except the cock in his fist and the way he was working it for her.

"That's it," she breathed. "Right there. Don't cover the head. Let me see it. Stroke hard. I can see how close you are. Your stomach's tight. Your balls are drawn up. You're going to cum so hard for me, aren't you? You're going to let me watch every second of it."

"Yes," he got out, the word broken. "Yes. Fuck. Greta—"

He stroked faster. The muscles in his forearm stood out, corded and shining with a thin film of sweat. His hips jerked up off the mattress and stayed there, fucking into the tight tunnel of his fist while she stared from less than two feet away, transfixed, close enough that he imagined he could feel her breath if she leaned one more inch. Heat gathered low and mean, a pressure that shoved at the base of his cock and climbed the shaft in pulses he could feel under his own fingers. His free hand fisted the sheet until the fabric pulled. A groan tore out of him, louder than he expected, raw in the quiet apartment.

"Louder," she said, hungry and certain. "I want to hear you. I don't care if the neighbor hears. Keep going. Stroke it. Stroke it hard. Show me what you look like when you stop being careful."

The rhythm broke into something desperate. His fist flew, slick and relentless, twisting a little at the top the way he did when he was alone and past the point of patience, only now she was seeing the private habit of it, the exact pressure, the way he squeezed just under the head on every third stroke because that was what undid him. She saw all of it. The head pushed through his fingers again and again, fat and wet and angry red, precum smearing in a shiny ring around his grip. She made a small sound in her throat, almost a moan, and bit down on her lip so hard the flesh went pale, then flushed dark when she released it.

"You're throbbing," she said, voice shaking with delight. "I can see it. Every time your hand comes up, it jumps. It's so wet I can hear it. God, Emmett, you're beautiful like this. Desperate. Open. Legs spread on your own bed, stroking that cock like you can't stand not to cum. About to make a mess of yourself while I sit here and watch. Do it. Don't hold back. I want it hard. I want to see it shoot."

The words hit him like a hand at the back of his neck. His whole body tensed at once—thighs locking, stomach caving, the arch of his spine lifting him higher off the sheets, the grip around his cock gone almost painful. A loud groan ripped out of him, helpless and rough, filling the room, and the first jet erupted before he could even warn her.

It was powerful. Thick white cum shot from the swollen head in a hard arc that splashed high on his chest, hot against his skin, a heavy stripe landing just below his collarbone and clinging there. Greta gasped, eyes enormous, locked on the cockhead as the second spurt followed, just as strong, painting a bright line down his sternum that broke and spattered toward his nipple. He kept stroking through it, fist milking the shaft in rough, frantic pulls, squeezing from the base up the way his body demanded, and the third jet burst out with a wet slap across his stomach, pooling in the shallow groove beside his navel. His hips jerked hard. Another spurt, shorter and thicker, landed on his lower belly and smeared instantly under his moving hand. Then another, and another, pulse after pulse, each one ripping a broken sound from his throat.

Greta stared transfixed. She didn't blink. She watched every spurt leave him, watched the way his cock flexed and jumped in his fist, watched the cum rope across his chest and stomach in glossy, obscene streaks. Some of it reached as high as the hollow of his throat, a warm drop sliding toward the notch between his collarbones. Some of it ran, slow and heavy, down the ridges of his abs toward the dark hair at his groin. His hand was coated, shining, knuckles striped white, still working him as the jets weakened into thick dribbles that welled over the head and ran down his fingers onto his stomach.

"Oh my God," she whispered, not looking away for a second. Her voice had gone thin with awe. "Look at that. Look at how much. Keep going. Don't stop stroking until it's all out. I want to see every drop. I want to see your cock keep twitching. Don't you cover it. Don't you turn away."

He groaned again, loud and wrecked, body locked tight, legs spread wide and shaking so hard the mattress creaked under his heels. Another pulse pushed a last heavy spurt onto his belly, mixing with what was already there, a fat ribbon that draped over his navel and began to slide. Then the orgasm rolled through him in aftershocks that made his cock twitch hard in his slippery grip, each clench visible, each one forcing a little more out of him for her eyes. Cum clung to the head in a fat pearl, trembling, then spilled in a slow drip onto the mess below. His chest heaved. Stripes of it gleamed on his skin in the low light, crossing the pale bars of sun, hot and unmistakable, some of it already cooling at the edges while fresh heat still pulsed from the slit.

He stroked slower now but didn't let go. He milked the final weak spurts out for her the way she had asked, showing her the way his slit kept fluttering, the way his stomach jumped with every last clench, the way his balls had drawn up tight and were only just beginning to ease. A thin string stretched from the head to his fist and broke, landing on the hair below his navel. His thighs quivered. His breath came in wrecked, open-mouthed pulls. He was still on his back, still spread, still completely naked and completely hers to look at, cum streaked from his throat to his stomach in a map she seemed unwilling to stop reading.

Greta watched all of it from her chair, less than two feet away, eyes wide and shining, following every motion of his hand and every drop that left him. She looked starved and satisfied at once, drinking in the sight of him undone on his own sheets, cock flushed and dripping, chest and stomach painted, still trembling, still open. When a last lazy bead welled and slid down the underside of the head, her gaze tracked it all the way to where it joined the rest, and her lips parted on a shaky breath she didn't bother to hide.

The last of it ebbed out of him in a slow, shivering wave. Emmett's hand finally loosened and fell to the sheet beside his hip, fingers sticky, shining. He sank back into the mattress, legs still spread, chest rising and falling in heavy pulls of air. Cum cooled in gleaming streaks across his stomach and chest, a few drops sliding toward his ribs with each breath. His cock rested against his lower belly, flushed dark, wet, spent, still giving the occasional weak twitch that made another thin thread slip free.

Greta didn't move from the chair. She smiled, open and satisfied, the kind of smile that reached her eyes and stayed there. Slowly, deliberately, she licked her lips, tasting nothing but the sight of him, and let her gaze travel the whole messy length of his body one more time, from the drop at his throat down over the stripes on his chest to the spent cock lying in the mess he had made.

"That was so hot," she said, voice warm and a little hoarse. "Watching you cum that hard. For me. All of it, right there on your chest and your stomach, and you didn't hide a second of it. I've never seen anything better than you stroking yourself until you broke like that."

Emmett managed a wrecked laugh that turned into another rough breath. His eyes were half closed, his body loose and heavy in the sheets. "I could feel you watching. Every second. It made it— God. It made it so much more."

She stayed seated, elbows on her knees, still close enough to see the cum glisten as it settled into his skin. She looked pleased. Hungry, even now. Her eyes lingered on his spent cock, on the streaks across his stomach, on the way he lay open and boneless in the aftermath, and she didn't seem in any hurry to look away or to let him cover up.

"Good," she murmured. "Because I'm not done looking at you like this."

He turned his head on the pillow, meeting her eyes, breathing hard, waiting, the air between them still thick with what she had just watched him do.

Greta's smile sharpened, soft and wicked at once. She licked her lip again, slow, and held his gaze.

"Next time, will you let me sit even closer and tell you exactly how I want you to stroke it until you cum even harder than that?"