Press

6 May 1964

You'd finally gotten the overworked bastard back to his room. Paul was about ready to jump into it, pretty mouth hot on your neck, large though slender hands grabbing at your waist. His strength was always a surprise. Not quite a delicate flower, him.

Paul moved to tug your dress up, but you stopped him.

"I want to watch you tonight." You said.

"Huh?"

"Go ahead, Paulie, toss yourself off tonight. I want to watch."

He looked a bit surprised, but he backed off.

Paul was already hard from anticipation, straining against his trousers as his legs shifted. He loosened his tie, hands a bit jittery from adrenaline.

Paul backed away, resting on the pillows. He undid his fly, tentatively wrapping his hand around his shaft. He moaned shakily as he squeezed it slowly.

Your eyes were fixed on him. You wanted to see how he did it himself, how he liked it.

Paul was hyper aware of being watched. He knew you'd watched him get off a thousand times, he wasn't exactly shy, but it was different when every move was scrutinized. He felt exposed.

He moved his hand again, giving himself a slow stroke. Pleasure shot through his abdomen. Perhaps the nerves were making it more thrilling. He began to get into a rhythm, the familiar touch of his own hand, but he got tripped up upon meeting your eyes.

You smiled at him. His cheeks were flushed and a bit shaken.

"Go on," You said. "Just pretend I'm not here."

You watched his left arm move, tossing himself off slowly. His legs trembled at every particularly good stroke. You knew that no matter how much you wanted to, you couldn't please him the way his own hand could.

You watched him instinctively give himself the exact pressure, the perfect speed. He slowed down and sped up when he wanted, thumb grazing over his slit. It was all intuitive. He knew exactly what he needed next.

Paul began to use both hands, getting lost in the moment. The right one toyed at his balls, the bolder stronger left one firmly stroking himself off.

You were resting your cheek on your palm, watching his captivating display, smile across your face.

"What're you thinking of?" You murmured under your breath.

Luckily, that didn't take him out of his focus. Without opening his eyes, Paul responded, voice soft and breathy from his lovely parted lips.

"Fuckin' broad from the last concert." He slurred. "She 'had fuckin' excellent knockers that'un. They moved as 'she jump'd an' screamed."

Paul's voice devolved into a whine.

"Christ, her ridin' me. Good God!"

Paul was lost in his fantasies, pressure building in his sweet navel. He cracked open his eyes, looking at yours unfocused through his long eyelashes. His cheeks were a sweet shade of pink, his eyes cloudy with lust. He sped up as you watched his orgasm near. His breaths were getting more shallow. Your smile widened as he got more desperate for it.

"Stop now." You said.

You could see the conflict flash across Paul's face, but he begrudgingly retreated his hands. He looked at you miffed, his dick twitching in irritation at the sudden cease of stimulation. It was so pretty and red, swollen with need.

"I want to see you touch your chest." You said.

He shifted his thighs, but began unbuttoning his top. He took it off, tossing it aside. He brought his hands to his soft chest, pressing down on each of them. Paul hummed at the contact, but hesitated to move.