He made me kneel on the rug in front of the chair. Then he undressed — still not letting me touch, and this was worse, because now it was his hands on his own buttons, his own belt, and I had to sit there with my hands in my lap and watch him do it.
He did it slowly. Deliberately. Undershirt over his head, and he was a lean man, all tendon and forearm, gray hair on his chest and down his stomach, a scar under his ribs from something he'd never explained.
He got his trousers open and pushed them down and sat back down in the chair with his c**k out, thick and heavy and already dark at the head, and looked at me.
"Now you watch," he said. "And you don't touch yourself either."
"Not even my t**s?"
"Neither. Hands flat on your thighs."
I put them flat on my thighs and he took himself in
