Another Webcam Night

"So are you going to jerk that off for me?"

I glanced away from the screen and stared at my own body.  Sweat traced the arcs of my chest, sliding down the curves of my slightly defined abs.  Some clung to the tangle of hair of my delicate love line; a black lush from my belly button all the way down to my crotch.  My cock was rock-hard, proudly towering above the trimmed growth of hair.  I didn't like shaving.  I was always happy to have this hirsute body I was given.  I saw no joy in trying to make it look prepubescent.


"Are you going jerk off?" the voice came again and I looked back up towards the screen.  The built-in webcam stared back at me with its red eye.  On the screen, a window showed the stuttering image of... his name was lost somewhere between my brain and my lips.  While this wasn't the first time I allowed him to watch me relieve myself of orgasmic tensions, I always recognized him because of his avatar picture instead of his name.   The website allowed its member to change their names whenever they wanted, you see.   A small privilege which I found strange, if not counter-productive to making friends.  Why all people to change the very thing they use to identify themselves, I will not understand.   Then again, I never liked using handles or aliases.  Even in that social network, I refused to enter something witty or informative like camluvingtop or hairycumgusher.  I used my name.

The other guy, on the other hand, loved changing his name a lot.  When I first met him, he called himself Desert, which I thought was in reference to the image of a Frank Herbert sandworm or Shai-hulud which he had as an avatar image.   A quick chat later revealed it was meant to be a pun; something about wanting to be rained upon by another man soon.  When I bumped into him online again a few weeks later, he was calling himself JacobLovesYou.  I shot him a message in jest, telling him Twilight will forever suck in my book.  He shot back I had my fandoms wrong and that he was referring to a certain island and the Dharma Initiative.  That was his name when we first cammed.  He told me it was a social-experiment, like in the show.  I found it geekily a turn-on and decided to let him watch.   There were many other names after that.  Today, I think he called himself Sixty of Nine, another pun-name inspired by Star Trek:Voyager and what I presume was his favorite sexual position.    But still, as his profile pic, is the hungry open-mawed toothy image of the monstrous sand worms of Arrakis.

He never joined me though.  He would always only watch.

His webcam would be on, mind you.  He would gladly show his face, back lit by the fluorescent bulb on the ceiling and given a bluish tinge by the glow of his laptop screen.  The first time we did this, he was shirtless and having fun getting me more and more aroused by exposing his armpits and licking his lips.  I always had a thing for men's armpits which I never quite understood on a logical level.  Maybe it had to do with seeing someone's hair from a place of the body not normally visible?  The musk and sweat giving the black bush a lively look?  The idea it matched the most-likely maintained bush that surrounded his cock?

I would sit back, shirt pulled over my head but still worn to catch the sweat of my back.  I would have the monitor angled forward, to better catch the area of my crotch, but not so much as to deny me the pleasure of seeing how much he was enjoying the view.  I was used to jerking myself off with either hand, but for camming, the left hand was always what I used.  It allowed my right hand to still quickly type messages if need be, or to use the mouse if I needed to cancel any other messages that might be shot my way, asking for permission to watch as well.  If the net was quiet, however, my right hand would waste no time in helping the left.  There were many other things it could do, after all, to help me reach my peak.  Most had a thing for tweaking their nipples, playing on the swollen points like rubber nibs that were dying to be abused.  At times I would cup my right hand on the upper half of my shaft, teasing the head with rotating twists while my left continued its constant motions.   Or at times, both hands moved in unison, like warm deep fuck that tightened where I wanted it to.   I preferred tugging at my balls, feeling the slack sack  tighten in response.  I would hold the balls from the base, feeling the tension add to the rising tide of pleasure.

I would always be loud.  To the very least, my breathing would be heavy and deep.   My mouth would channel the air in and out, building in speed and frequency as I neared the point of no return.  Other times, I would get verbally expressive, talking to the viewer as if he were in the room.  I'd ask if he was liking the show.  I'd tell him to give me directions.  I'd dare him to do the same on his end.   And when I'd cum, I would moan so loud I was certain that the neighbors could hear and would talk about it for the days to follow.  I would end up cursing how good it felt.  I would call out to God.

And what a majestic mess would I leave in the end.  The spasms would come and with each release, I would arc myself back so much the chair would almost snap.  My legs would straighten beneath the table, at times enough to buckle the laptop backwards.   My hand would be clamped around the engorged shaft, pumping against the purplish head that released each surge of cum.  I would groan in sync with each ejaculation, barely breathing as my mouth gasped for air.     Thick ropes would hang on my skin mingling with the sweat and threatening to drip onto the floor.    I would be spent.  Exhausted.  But so overwhelmed with pleasure I would probably take a minute or two before I could type an "all done."

And yet, he would never join.

Other would have given in, sliding their shorts away and lifting their eager cocks to join my masturbatory show  once I got myself really going at it.  There would be those that would stand by then, wanting to show off their own throbbing dicks and perhaps imagining themselves above me, wishing somehow the monitor was not a screen but a window to where I was.  They would groan and curse and let fly their own explosive releases in time with mine, gasping and laughing and wiping themselves clean amid apologetic "thank yous" and complimentary statements that hide a desire to do it again.

He, however, would simply watch.  He would smile and nod and from where his eyes were focused on the feed, I can see he never allowed himself to be distracted by other things.  He would watch and wet his lips and eventually, silently, without prompting, slide an arm out of his shirt, then slowly lift the shirt over his head, to hang like a deflated backpack around his other arm.  He would then lean slightly closer, perhaps to see the details of my body better, but his hands would never seemingly disappear too long.  He would occasionally scratch his chin, or stretch his arms and expose his armpits to me, then lock his hands together behind his head and hold that position I so love seeing him take while he inhales deeply to a beat matching my own.  Sometimes, he would slide a hand down the valley of his chest, trickling his fingers against the lighter growth of hair that he has there, before dipping it down, past the limits of the camera, perhaps to touch himself.  Perhaps not.  But never long enough to suggest he would be joining me.  Never long enough for his meaty bicep to begin a rhythmic flexing suggested he, too, was jerking off.

I didn't mind though.

Admittedly, there was something titillating about the idea he was watching me.  There was something.. is there a word for the reverse of voyeuristic... that was going on.  His focused dark eyes and gaping mouth would ignite fires within my body, sizzling my nerves to a growing frenzy.  His lush armpits and well-formed chest would edge me further closer to a rising climax, inviting me to bury my face against him as I came.  Perhaps it was the lack of actual activity on his end which enticed me more, allowing me to dream the most perfect sexual trysts that never happened.  Perhaps by simply watching, he became a fantasy.  A perfect virtual fuck.  A personal brand of porn that I alone was ever to own.

"Are you going to jerk off?"

I smiled.  My left hand was already sliding its fingers around the fat base of my cock.  A droplet of precum had already emerged from the hole and threatened to slide down the length of my veiny shaft.  My right hand reached for the keyboard and quickly typed back:

Only if you watch.  And only watch.

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by Tobie Abad