You and John Price had been playing a dangerous game of cat and mouse, but when you hide a pair of panties under his pillow one night, the hunter becomes the hunted.
... you left one lace thong under his pillow. It was white with a pink bow. The strings on the side were satin. Laying crumpled there, between the sham and the sheet, you looked forward to whatever happened. Good or bad. Any reaction from this man would be enough to satisfy your craving to see him undone. How far could a patient man be pushed?
The captain was downstairs, sitting at your table, talking over a tablet with Ghost. As you made your way through the small den, you eyed him shamelessly, daring him, and he saw you, a suspicious look on his face, though not obvious enough for anyone else to notice.
But you were both existing on the same plane, living your lives so closely to one another, vibrating at the same frequency, your atoms dancing at the same intensity, that even if he only imagined a word that he wanted to say to you, you’d know what it was. You’d hear it in the quiet parts of your mind. If he breathed too deeply or stared too long at this or that, you’d notice. Hyper aware of each and every movement that the other was making, stalking each other like wolves, hidden in the trees.
You headed upstairs and lay awake as long as you could, trying to stay up to witness his reaction. Maybe he’d be disappointed. Maybe he’d chastise you like you were a child who didn’t know better. Maybe he’d take your teasing too far. Maybe, and this was the worst one, he might just ignore you.
It wasn’t until you heard him crawl his way up the stairs that you heard his answer.
No one knew the sounds of this house better than you. You’d hid hundreds of people in its very walls. You knew every floorboard and furnishing by heart.
You heard him in the hallway outside your room, walking carefully to his door, and listened to him click open the handle. He was inside. You knew the moment he sat on the edge of the bed with the sound that the mattress made, sighing under his heavy weight.
You could hear his rustling, pushing the quilt back, and you heard him sinking down fully into the covers. Then, silence, but not the relaxed sort.
A sigh, ragged and long.
Another. Full of turmoil.
His feet swung around and touched the floor again, the wooden planks there betraying his movement. You thought he might burst into your room to politely deliver them back to you in that restrained, gentleman’s manner he had. But, he didn’t. He was just sitting there.
It felt like hours had passed before your ears, straining, caught his next sound.
It was another sigh, and then... a groan.
The sticky popping of skin touching slick skin. Repeated. Iterative. Rhythmic.
The bed moved, barely an inch, rocking in place.
Wet little whispers revealed that his hot palm was pumping, steadily, down his shaft, using the source of fluid from its drooling head to ease the path. He rubbed it along his length. The wet noises became frantic.
More rustling of sheets.
He moaned louder this time. You felt the hair on your arms and neck stand up, shocked, awestruck. You were barely able to breathe.
His movements became desperate, the noises of a body that was working itself to a fever, growing more and more obvious as his reservations surrendered to pleasure.
The bed jostled. His feet pressed against the floor.
The grunting you heard was that of an enraged grizzly, panting roughly, blowing scalding air through his nostrils. You imagined his bearded cheeks hollowed from sucking in a breath, braying in a short, shouted cry. Face contorted with hot agony, his sticky release spilled from his rigid font.
Then, satisfied sighing.
Out of breath.
Spent.
Your blood was pounding in your ears, and your head swam with a loud rushing noise as your heart banged against your chest. It was too much to bear. Your dreams had become too real.
The bed creaked again. You held your breath.
Price was in the bathroom then, mere feet from you, moving around, running the water.
As you watched his feet cast shadows below the door frame, you saw him step toward you, hesitating. But, he didn’t touch the handle. He simply backed away and cut the light, keeping himself from you.
I Was Making A Joke About The Elon Musk Nazi Hand Thing To My Friends And My Professor Comes Over After The Lecture And Shows Me A Pic Of 4 Other Politicians Doing The Same Hand Thing And Said "Like Them?"
PSA: Our solution to school shootings should never be to teach children how to flee. Not only is that FUCKING STUPID but, that puts the blame on the victim. Start putting the blame where it belongs! On the adults and lawmakers who refuse to see why it is so important to limit gun access and protect children. Our solution ought to be to put responsibility on adults to do their part to fucking prevent this in the first place!
