As I watch you masturbate,
I'd hide in the shadows, out of sight,
And watch as your head presses back into the pillow.
Your back arches, as your hand slowly descends.
My eyes take in every detail,
The hair-path that leads downwards,
Your fingers, tracing small circles in those curls.
The orange light from outside, hinting at your shape.
Your beautiful, turgid stamen, jerkedly throbbing.
You milk a dewdrop out and taste it.
I feel a collision in my stomach.
If you could feel me, I would paint your tongue with mine,
But I just watch you touch yourself.
One hand in ictic movement,
The other brushing gently-gently over the goose-bumped,
coarse hair of your testicles.
There's nothing rushed, or impatient, about this scene,
Just you enjoying the perfect tuning, of you with your body.
No pretence or dramatisation, a simple honest whimper,
And delicate throaty moans. Unshrouded and unperformed.
Your head twists to the side and your half-buried face,
Offers muffled howls of your pleasure into the pillow.
I wonder if you're close.
Delaying your orgasm?
A beautifully stretched out note in falsetto,
You utter a single syllabic prayer through clenched teeth,
You raise your hand to your nose and inhale,
Then cover your palm in the banked saliva
Smearing your shaft and head,
Going back for another mouthful of lubricant.
Daubing globs of spit until there's almost no friction,
Just a gliding at the delicate grip, along the full length.
As your fisted hand reaches the glans, you swiftly rotate over the tip,
And gracefully glide your hands back down,
Pushing against the base with a heavy pressure.
Giving a single swift pump and then back up.
Then, with your left hand, again washed in saliva,
You alternate strokes with one, then the other.
There's a beautiful rhythm going... but it's too arousing,
I'm guessing, because you pull your hands away,
And outstretch them in crucified posture,
And gyrate your hips in the air for a few thrusts,
With deeper, more laboured moans.
Then, after a few paused moments -
Your wet fingers form an upturned crown on the head,
And you pull the foreskin back taught with the other hand.
You trace the fingers down over the glans, dancing with attendance.
Your cock is weeping now,
You play in the globs of silken wetness, toying with it,
Circling and smoothing it, alternating the pressure and tempo.
And then, as if I willed it myself, you decide to take yourself over the edge.
In less than half a minute of thundered, determined blows
Your body raises itself off the bed, like you're being exorcised,
Finally, I have my chance to possess you.
But I cannot take it.
Your orgasm calls out in a surprising roar.
I cover my mouth so my own sharp intake of breath doesn't betray me.
A single tear rolls down my cheek.
Stars being born aren't this beautiful.
It's not the first time I watch you,
It won't be the last.
Every time you bring yourself to blissful oblivion, I'm with you.
You just don't know it.
Or maybe you do?