you. I mean how would Logan know?”
“He might ask for a photo, dumb ass.”
“Oh shit.”
“Yeah, oh shit. Now get back in there and get busy. Or I could come over with my razor.”
“No! Jesus, I'll do it.”
“It wouldn't be any trouble.”
“I said no! Damn!”
“Okay, don't get your panties in a twist. Send me a picture when you're done.”
“I will not.”
“Then I'm coming over.”
“Okay! Dammit! Are you in some kind of Dom league with Logan or something? Whose friend are you anyway?”
“Yours, and I don't want you to screw this up. So, I'm hanging up now, and I expect a picture soon.”
“I hate you.”
“I know. But do it anyway.”
I sighed and went back to the shower. Thirty minutes later, I emerged, feeling like a plucked chicken, but I was smooth all over. If you didn't count all the nicks and cuts, that is. I took a picture of my underarm and sent that to Tori with a text. This is all you're getting, weirdo. But the deed is done. Now leave me alone.
I got a return text with just a picture of a straight razor and the words, Send me the rest of the photos. Sighing, I put my hand over my bits and sent her the picture.
Looking good. Now be a good pet and send these pics to him.
Blushing so hard it felt like I was about to spontaneously combust, I pulled up Logan's number and sent the photos to him. Five minutes later, the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Very nice. Though I'd like that last shot to show me everything and not your hand covering yourself.”
“Yes, Sir. I'll send you another one.”
“Good. Better yet, lie down on the bed and call me back. Facetime me. I'm bored.”
I thought, oh, God! But I said, “Yes, Sir.”
He hung up and I spread myself out on my back on the bed. I pulled up the sheet and sent him a request, using Facetime. It was about eight o'clock, and it looked like he was at home when the call connected. He was sitting on a sofa, with his feet up, wearing only pajama pants. He looked tired and had a little five o’clock shadow going on, and he was fucking gorgeous. He leaned back in his chair.
“Show me,” he said, without preamble and I moved the phone under the sheet and down between my legs.
“Who’s there with you?”
“No one, Sir.”
“Then lose the sheet and take your hand away.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Nice. Now stroke yourself for me.”
“What? No!”
“Boy. What did I say about backtalk? That's one.”
“One what, Sir?”
“One stroke of the flogger or my hand.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“We'll go to a count of ten, like I told you, before I cash in. Now open those thighs a little wider and do as I say.”
“I-I thought you said I couldn't come, Sir.”
“You can't, and you're not going to now. I just like the idea of you being all hot and bothered and still not able to come until I see you again.”
“But that’s mean, Sir.”
“Stop stalling. By the way, that's two. Or maybe three.”
“I was asking you questions!”
“And that's four. No backtalk of any kind, remember?”
“Yes, Sir,” I replied sullenly, so wishing I hadn't called him in the first place. My heart was racing a little, and I was caught off guard. He always had made me feel that way—off guard, off kilter—off my fucking game. And seriously off my head for agreeing to do this. And yet, I yearned for his approval. For him to watch me and tell me I was doing a good job in that sexy, growly voice I loved so much.
I stroked slowly up and down, my cock punching through my fist as he watched me. My fingers curled around the base, and I moved it slowly up and pulled on the head a little as a soft, guttural sound came from my throat. If I slicked my finger with a bit of precum and slid it under my scrotum, like that…
“Talk.”
“Oh. Okay, mmm, feels good,” I murmured, unable to not obey him. It really was hot to think of him watching me do this. I teased around the head of my cock with the finger this time, an ache starting up in my belly, making me feel needy. I wanted…something. I’d never been held down before, but suddenly that’s what I wanted. To be held down with a hand on my neck, forced to submit, at least in a role play situation. To be manhandled. To be owned. I moaned again.
“That sounded good,” he said,