The alarm clock’s cracked plastic face read 3:17 AM. My neighbor’s terrier was yapping again—that shrill, relentless bark that drilled through thin apartment walls like a dental drill. Mrs. Gableman’s new toy poodle must’ve escaped into the hallway. Again. I pressed a pillow over my face, inhaling stale cotton and my own exhaustion. Downstairs, a bottle shattered against pavement. Friday nights in the city smelled like desperation and spilled beer.
My fingers slid beneath the waistband of my boxers almost unconsciously. Cool air hit damp skin as I remembered last night: Vera pinned against her own bookshelf, law textbooks raining down around us. The sharp gasp when I dropped to my knees, the bitten-off curse as my tongue found her clit. How she’d tangled her hands in my hair like anchors, fucking my face with ragged, urgent thrusts until her thighs trembled against my ears. The taste of her—musky and metallic, like licking a copper wire charged with lightning.
Downstairs, another bottle smashed. Mrs. Gableman's shrill voice chased her poodle down the hallway. None of it mattered. Vera’s moans echoed louder—not just memory, but phantom sensation vibrating in my jaw. My thumb circled my own cockhead now, slick with pre-come mimicking the wetness I’d coaxed from her. Pace quickening. Teeth gritting. The pillow muffled my groan as I imagined her palm smacking my cheek when I’d hesitated, the sting blooming into heat that pooled in my groin. "Look at me," she'd snarled, forcing eye contact while grinding against my mouth. Obedience had been its own drug.
The phone’s sudden bleat sliced through the haze. Screen glaring—Vera. Damn psychic timing. I thumbed answer, breath suspended. Static hissed, then her voice slid into my ear like velvet rope: "Every time my thighs rub together today... I ache." My fist tightened around my cock. "Tell me you feel it too." A soft exhale—almost a whimper—escaped me. "Yes." Her chuckle was low, dangerous. "You’re touching yourself right now. Aren’t you?" My hips arched involuntarily. Sheets scraped my balls. "Yes." Pressure coiled impossibly tighter. She knew. She always knew.
"Show me," she demanded. Raw command. No screen, no video—just darkness and her breath as I obeyed. Palm slicking up my shaft. Precise, punishing strokes under her phantom guidance. "Faster." Air burned in my lungs. "Close?" Barely a whisper. I choked out affirmation. Her sigh vibrated against my eardrum. "Stop." Muscles locked. Agony. Bliss-edged agony. Tremors raked my thighs. "Don’t you dare come." Teeth sank into my lower lip so deep I tasted copper. Sweat stung my eyes. Every nerve screamed surrender—but hers. Only hers.
Static crackled. Silence stretched. The flatline hum of the phone against my ear. Then: "Bedroom window. Now." Click. Dial tone. Dead air. Cold dread washed over the heat, but my legs moved—sheets whipped aside. Bare feet slapped freezing linoleum. Across two steps. Fingers fumbling the latch. Rust screeched. A blast of sulfur-laced city wind slapped my face.
And there she was. Across the grimy canyon of asphalt and fire escapes—Vera. Third floor, lit window. A silhouette sharpened against the cheap yellow lamplight: shoulders bare, head tilted, phone a dark rectangle pressed to her ear. Miles away, yet her gaze felt like fingers tightening on my throat. She didn’t wave. Didn’t move. Just observed. Command radiated across the distance. My cock, impossibly hard, throbbed against the night air. Below, Mrs. Gableman’s frantic squeals chased phantom poodle paws. One stray glance upward. That’s all it would take. Humiliation coiled beneath the arousal.
Cold November wind slapped my exposed skin. My hips pushed forward anyway, offering myself to the window frame like a sacrifice. The city’s filth clung to the sill beneath my white-knuckled grip. Fuck dignity. Fuck neighbors. Vera remained motionless. Watching. Waiting. My fist wrapped around my shaft, slick with both need and shame. Every stroke was an act of supplication. Teeth chattered. Not from cold. From the raw agony of holding back while her phantom scent flooded my nostrils: musk, control.
Down below. Mrs. Gableman’s frantic torch beam sliced through oily puddles near overflowing trash bins. "Pippins! Where’s Mommy’s precious?" Her voice climbed hysterical octaves. Five stories beneath my dripping cock. Bent beneath the weight of Vera’s command, I arched harder into the open air. My balls tightened, a familiar pressure blooming torturously low. "Look." Vera’s order was a phantom whisper against my consciousness. Obediently, I glanced down. Gableman shuffled closer. So close. One glance upward… that’s all it would take. Humiliation coiled serpent-like beneath the pulsing heat in my groin.
My fist moved furiously. The rough drag of my palm felt inseparable from Vera’s imagined grip. The city’s grime crystallized on my knuckles—cold, sharp counterpoint to the furnace building inside me. Below, Gableman paused, torch beam halting near my crumbling building’s foundation. Release surged inevitable as a landslide. Eyes locked on Vera’s distant silhouette, I came with a choked gasp. Jets of viscous white erupted violently from my cockhead, catching the sodium glare before plummeting. Drops. Heavy pearls of spent desire falling… falling… splattering unseen onto rain-slicked asphalt five stories down—mere inches from Mrs. Gableman’s worn orthopedic shoe.
Across the chasm, Vera moved. A single deliberate gesture—her arm lifted, finger extended—not toward her own phone, but into empty air beside her curtain. Simultaneously, the phone lying discarded by my feet emitted a sharp digital brrrrt. Then—light. Brutal, blinding light erupted from every fixture in my shabby apartment. Ceiling bulb, kitchenette strip, even the pathetic bulb in my tiny bathroom. All blazing instantaneously, flooding my nakedness onto the fire escape like a spotlight. Window blinds lay uselessly furled beside me. Trapped. Exposed.