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My brain tells me this is an easy decision. Tell him I’m not interested, even in watching, and he needs to leave. My suppressed libido tells me there’s nothing wrong with watching. It would be more than I’ve experienced in a long time. Maybe enough to keep me going even longer. I’m not having sex. I’m not masturbating. I’m simply a viewer.
It’s a slippery slope. A gateway drug, so to speak. If I see him, in the flesh. If I hear the noises he’ll make and see the aftermath of his pleasure, would I want more? Would I want to touch, to feel, to taste?
“Please leave,” I say, putting my wine on the table between us. “Because I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to say that.”
Javier doesn’t move right away, but eventually, he stands, peering down at me with a grin tugging at his lips. I anticipate him making a move, even if that move is on himself, and I resign myself to let it happen. Instead, he walks to the front door and leaves.
I sink into the couch, the tension leaving my body now that he’s gone. I take a few deep breaths before I go to my room and remove my shirt, reaching under my mattress.
I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to restrain myself.
Sure, in the privacy of my own home, I could touch myself and nobody would know. I’ve done it before, but I try to be good, and I’ve been on a six-month streak.
But the truth is, I like the sting of the leather on my back. It gives me another kind of pleasure. I swing the scourge and let the strips smack against my shoulder blade. I repeat the action, dropping my head with a moan, and then I hear the floor creak behind me.
“Well, well, well,” Javier says.
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