Forty-Five Minutes
I count every second.
The clock on my phone crawls. Thirty-eight minutes left. Then thirty-one. My thighs start to tremble from holding the position—knees bent, feet flat, legs open the way he ordered. My c**k lies heavy against my stomach, still hard, still leaking, the wet spot growing slowly beneath it. I don’t dare touch. The threat of him walking away is worse than the ache.
Twenty-two minutes.
I keep my left hand on my chest the way he told me. The other stays pressed to the sheet. Every time I shift even a fraction, I force myself still again. The apartment is silent except for the soft tick of the ceiling fan and the distant sound of traffic. I imagine him driving. Silver hair. Broad hands on the wheel. That calm, unreadable face looking at my photos while th
