Cabin Fever - Roe Horvat Page 0,6
saw me come.
The knowledge gave me a thrill. I lifted my eyebrow at him, and he looked away, pretending to dry his legs.
Maybe I can find a way to handle the anxiety and boredom.
I went to shower.
“Are you sure this is the best place to do it?” Vincent asked coldly from his armchair in the living room.
I exhaled and inhaled once more before answering. “My bedroom is too small. I have no floor space there.”
“The pier is flat and wide.”
“It’s dark, cold, and windy. I’m not doing yoga outdoors in that weather. And I am not allowed outside by myself.”
He grunted in response.
“You don’t have to look.” I bent at the waist, presenting Vincent with a perfect view of my ass.
“I’m going out. Stay here.” In twenty seconds, the door banged shut.
I smirked. I was less and less bored by the minute.
That evening, I fell asleep easily, imagining Vincent jerking off in the room next to mine. When I woke up in the middle of the night, instead of freaking out like I often did, I pulled out my sketchbook and drew him from memory until I got sleepy again.
On the fifth day, I went running with him again. I tried taunting Vincent by jogging in front of him in my tightest shorts, looking back to see if he was checking my ass, but he was like a fucking ice queen today. Not even yoga in the afternoon and my regular nightly promenade only with a towel around my waist had him lifting his eyes from his iPad.
I only got more frustrated by thinking about him obsessively, watching his every move. Fun as it was to rile him up, the shaky energy in me simmered, in my fingertips, my stomach. The subtle headache was a big clue too. If I didn’t break the spiral, I’d have another anxiety attack—maybe not today, but soon. Those spells were ugly in their predictability—like a storm I knew was coming.
The only thing that helped was something drastic—a system reboot. After a particularly wrong high, I gave up on pot to soothe my anxiety. And I didn’t think Vincent would beat me up and fuck me, even if I asked nicely. Yep, a thorough pounding would snap me out of it, but since I was stuck with the iceman in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, I had to be creative.
I went to my room early and took out the holdall with goodies from my bag. I laid them on the bed and stroked myself to hardness. It didn’t even take ten seconds to get my fantasies flowing.
My nipples were tingling, and I plucked on the barbells. Eyes closed, I did it again. Tendrils of sweet pleasure shot down my chest to my balls. I sighed. It was going to be an intense orgasm. I could feel it in my body already, and I needed it—long and thorough. Vincent had me on edge for days, and the quick jerk-offs only ramped me up further. Combined with the constant fear, I felt brittle. I hated that.
I pulled on the barbells once more, and knelt by the bed, my hard cock bouncing. With my middle finger, I scooped a drop of precum and licked it, the taste exploding in my mouth. I used all the small tricks to get me in the right mood—I tugged on my sack painfully hard, pushed a dry fingertip into my hole and pulled it out again, hissing at the sting, and then I rolled the barbells between my fingers, making it hurt. Slapping my ass, hard, I waited for the burn to spread over my skin, warming me up. The mix of pain and pleasure always got me going like a mindless beast. After a few minutes, I was rocking my hips, fucking empty air, my hole clenching in anticipation. I grabbed the dildo from the bed. With my eyes closed, I fisted it, lifted the fat toy to my lips, and sucked the tip into my mouth. I teased my pucker with my other hand, tickling and massaging, and pushed the dildo deeper into my mouth.
Vincent. Wet from his swim in the lake. Droplets running down his chest, his hard shaft forcing into my throat. His hand fisting my hair.
Please, Daddy. Fuck my face.
I hummed around Vincent’s dick, taking it deep. I licked the underside and then relaxed my throat for more. And Vincent groaned in pleasure.
“That’s it, my little whore. Take my cock. Fucking take it, boy.”
I choked