He masturbated while I watched.

This is what you get the morning after you jizz on your own chest in front of me.

I was open with him.  “I don’t mean to make you feel badly or self-conscious, but I would very much like it if I knew you were getting as much pleasure as me, if you had the occasional orgasm in my presence — I feel guilty, greedy.  It’s always about me and my pleasure, never yours.”  I paused, thinking about what to say next as he looked at me softly with his icy blue eyes.

“And you’re not getting the pleasure of giving,” he finished for me.

“Yes,” I breathed with relief.  He got it.

His “apathy,” as he calls it, is what he struggles with the most.  He appears to be completely unflappable when it comes to social intricacies, connecting, receiving, and giving.  He has built himself an iron island and no one may ever let him down.  It’s emotionally impossible after 29 years of fortitude.

He doesn’t care about things.   What those things are, I couldn’t say, I haven’t poked around too much for fear of hearing I am one of them, but he is working on cracking open enough to the vulnerability that is inherent in caring about something, maybe someone.

Almost as if on cue, I began to feel unwell the days following that conversation.  Sex was off the table.  So we cuddled and talked and let our words probe each other rather than our body parts, but aching/hungry/ass belly aside, I was still set to drooling last night when my absentminded cock-stroking awoke the beast.

We giggled as it rose stiffly against the elastic of his shorts and I gripped it happily and squeezed.

“I’ve thought about what you said the other day,” he said huskily, close to my ear, “And I’m not going to jerk off until Saturday night.”

“Really??” I asked incredulously.

“Yes, really.  When you come to La Maison du Voisin, then I’ll cum all over your face, in your mouth, and maybe in your pussy.”

“That’s a lot of cumming!” I said impressed.

I was touched by this grand gesture.  La Maison du Voisin night marks the very first time he’s offered to cook for me, hang with me, and tuck me in next door.

It’s not as romantic as you think, however.  It was originally a gesture of contrition and remorse.  Saturday he let a drunk girl pass out face down in his lap and, panicked and drunk, he stroked her arm and shoulder in a creepy, intimate way while our knees bounced against each other in the back of a bouncing pick up truck.  My warning looks served only to heighten his discomfort and feelings of helplessness and rendered me anxiety-ridden and miserable.

That night, he offered me La Maison du Voisin.

The next day he woke me up to say he feels bad that he continues to cross boundaries with other women he considers in distress.  It was at that moment I realized he’d tossed me bones: Wanna come over to my house Saturday??  Would you like for me to make you dinner?  You can stay the night, too.

“Did you offer all that La Maison du Vosin stuff because you felt bad about the drunk girl?”

He admitted it was true, but that he still really wanted me to come over and do those things for me.  So, ok.  I’m gonna take it however it may come.

I squeezed the cock hot and thick in my hand and it pulsed a little.  I told him I wished I was up for fucking.  He hugged me and said it was ok.  I wasn’t sure if I should try, but I decided to grab my Hitachi.  His eyes lit up.

I put the buzzing head on top of my plaid, pink pj shorts and rode the vibrations to a quick and powerful crescendo.  I panted, whimpered, and arched my back, and through fluttering lashes I watched his hand move to his cock and begin to blur.

His hand was fast and fapping and I watched his massive thighs flex and relax again and again.

“Do it again,” he said.

My stomach felt ok, so I decided to oblige him.

Again I flipped the switch and rose swift and high, like a rocket, and his hand continued to be a blur as I watched entranced, his muscles flexing and releasing like a wild animal on the run.

I came hard for a second time and lay limply beside him, his hand idling on his stiff cock.  “Could you have cum?” I asked, assuming we were done.

“I’m trying to cum!” he said with a smile.

“But I thought you weren’t cumming till Saturday…” I said confused.

“Yes, but I figured jerking off next to you was totally allowed.”  He smiled broadly at me.  I agreed it was absolutely allowed.  “Cum a third time,” he whispered.  I knew he was telling me he needed to watch me for a little longer, that he was close.

I flicked the switch back on and gasped the second it hit my clit.  The rise was fast, but I was spent.  I knew this was for him.  I turned my head to the side, let the little row-boat of my orgasm bump against the dock, and watched his hand become an arc of Caucasian skin.

His eyes were tightly closed, his chest knots of muscles.  He grunted and gasped and began to buck into his hand even as it slammed down into his lap.  His stomach clenched and he crunched up a little, his hand slowed and spurts of milky white choked out of the abused head.  A little glob landed on the silky nest of his chest hair.

He laid back down with a sigh and squeezed out more semen, slowly milking himself.

“Fuck, that was hot,” I said, the vibrator forgotten and turned off.

He leaned over and kissed me and I kept my eyes on the glistening tip of his cock.

He rose then and walked around to the other side of the bed, my side, and his still rock hard cock bobbed by my face.  He leaned towards my face and I opened my mouth and gently drew him in.  He tasted salty and clean.

Then he pulled away and smiled.  “I just wanted you to taste it.”

“Thanks,” I said.  “It tastes delicious.”

He came back around and we cuddled some more until my lids were heavy and my smile left an imprint in his chest hair.  He rolled out from under me and pulled up my covers, leaned over and kissed me goodnight with soft, long strokes.

I’m looking forward to Saturday and lots more of this cum-flavored contrition.