u/HotRukku

The Fantasy

I have her picture saved in my gallery. Tonight, I open it.

I lock my door. Dim the lights. Sit at my desk with my phone propped up.

No videos. No sound. Just her face.

I don't touch myself immediately. That's the difference tonight. I just look at her. Long enough to feel my heartbeat shift. Long enough to feel my cock twitch inside my boxers without permission.

Good. She already has control and hasn't done a thing.

I pull my shirt off. Slowly. Let her watch — even though she can't. In my head, she's watching from the corner of the room. Legs crossed. Smiling.

I unbutton my jeans. Slide the zipper down. I don't take them off — just pull them down enough. My boxers next. My cock springs up. Already hard. Already leaking a little at the tip.

I don't touch it yet.

Instead, I zoom in on her photo. Her lips. Those eyes. I trace my finger over the screen like I'm touching her face. Pathetic? Maybe. But it makes me harder.

Now I wrap my hand around the base. Slow first stroke. My eyes dart back to hers. I imagine she just whispered, "That's it. Show me."

I spit into my palm. Stroke again. This time my hips roll into it.

I pick up the phone with my free hand. Hold it closer to my face while I jerk off with the other. Her lips are inches from mine. I kiss the screen — just once — then pull back and stroke faster.

I imagine her voice in my ear. Not sweet. Commanding.

"Faster."

I obey.

"Don't look away from my eyes."

I don't.

My breathing turns into grunts. My balls tighten. My thighs shake.

I want to cum on her face — the screen — but I hold it. One second. Two.

Then I let go.

Hot ropes land on my stomach, my hand, the edge of my phone. Some of it drips onto the desk. I don't care.

I zoom out on the photo. Her smile hasn't changed. She watched the whole thing.

I whisper at the screen: "Your turn tomorrow night."

And I know — I'll keep that promise.

She's not here. Just a photo.

But that's enough.

I have her face on my screen — that smile, those eyes looking right through me like she already knows what I'm doing. Like she's watching.

I don't look away. That's the rule.

My belt comes off slow. Jeans undone. I lean back in my chair, phone propped against something, her eyes locked on mine.

I don't rush. I never rush.

I wrap my hand around myself — dry at first. Just the friction. Just the weight. I watch her lips in the photo. Imagine them lower. Imagine them wrapped around me, slow and obedient.

My breathing changes. Deeper. Slower.

I spit into my palm. Now it's wet. Now it's real.

I stroke myself while staring into her eyes. Up. Down. Not fast. Never fast at the start. I want to feel every inch of my own grip and pretend it's hers.

I imagine her watching me in person. On her knees. Hands behind her back. Mouth slightly open. Waiting for permission to touch herself while I touch myself.

But she doesn't get to. Not yet.

I speed up. My thighs tighten. My free hand grips the armrest.

I moan her name — not loud. Just enough to hear it in the empty room.

The photo doesn't blink. Doesn't move. That makes it hotter. She's just there. Taking it. Watching me fall apart for her while she does absolutely nothing.

I'm close now. Really close.

I slow down right at the edge. Stop. Breathe. Start again.

I do this three times. Each time I look at her face and whisper, "You did this to me."

The fourth time, I don't stop.

My head falls back. My hand moves faster. Tighter. My whole body locks up — and then releases. Hot, thick, across my stomach. Some hits my phone screen. Right across her face in the photo.

I don't clean it off right away.

I just sit there. Breathing hard. Looking at her through the mess I made.

"Your turn next time," I whisper.

And I mean it.

I want her on her knees. Not because I asked — because she wants to be there.

She looks up at me. Eyes wide. Lip slightly bitten. Waiting.

I'm sitting on the edge of the bed. Jeans on, but undone. She knows what to do. But I don't let her start. Not yet.

I make her wait.

I run my thumb across her lower lip. Pull it down slow. She doesn't move. Good.

Then I unzip myself. I don't rush. I let her watch. Let her throat tighten.

When I'm free, I don't guide her hand to me. I make her reach on her own. Her fingers are cold at first. Then warm. Then wet.

I lean back. One hand behind my head. The other? Resting on top of hers — not moving it, just feeling her move.

She starts slow. Too slow. Deliberate.

I let her.

But the moment I feel her try to speed up — I stop her. My hand closes over hers. Squeezes gently. "No," I say. "My pace."

And I mean it.

I move her hand for her. Up. Down. Just the way I like it. She's just the tool now. I'm the one in control.

Her breathing changes. Faster. She wants to please. Wants to earn it.

I let go of her hand. She keeps the rhythm. Perfect. She learned fast.

I tilt her chin up with two fingers. "Look at me," I say. "Don't look away."

She doesn't.

I feel myself building. My jaw clenches. My thighs tighten.

But I won't give it to her yet.

I pull her hand away — right at the edge. She whimpers. Actually whimpers.

I smile. "Not yet. You haven't earned it."

I make her start again. From zero. This time slower. This time with her tongue first.

And when I finally let her finish me — in her hand, on her chest, across her lips — I don't say thank you.

I just wipe a thumb across her cheek and whisper:

"Good girl. Now clean me up. With your mouth."

And she does.