“Green light, start stroking.”
The game was familiar; the formula repeated ad nauseam. Trent had already lost count of the number of JOI videos online that used it as a premise. Then again, it’s very hard to keep track of things like that when you’re all fired up and eager to cum. It’s not like he enjoyed Math, anyway.
His latest discovery wasn’t tagged as a JOI video, and yet there it was, in gorgeous full screen, dictating the rules of engagement. Nadine was a perfect tease in a petite body, one hazelnut eye visible on camera and the other one obscured by platinum blonde locks. Despite her frail complexion, she had the cutest pair of perked-up tits he had seen in a while, highlighted by the Lolita-like strapless mini corset dress in red and black PVC she was wearing. Her smile also hit all the right notes of enticement and allure, extending mellifluously to the corners of her glossy lips with every dirty syllable.
“Red light, stop,” she commanded, and he did so, right away. His expertise at going along with the flow in these pre-ejaculatory porn sequences had achieved legendary status a long time ago. There was no rhythm he couldn’t follow, no self-gratification he wasn’t aware of, to speed up or delay the pleasurable outcome. Most of the videos he had jerked to over the years allowed a sweet release at the end but, for the occasions where that didn’t happen, he had learned to ride it off, savoring the edge like a blissful delicacy. Having a master’s degree in Wanking 101 was, perhaps, a pathetic achievement, but he was prouder of it than of his current employment status.
Call centers are weird. Call centers are exhausting. Call centers exist, not to promote legitimate thinking, but to fry as many brain cells as possible in sixty seconds. They test one’s patience, the limits of frustration, and sheer stupidity all at the same time. Smart people become dumb hearing the dumb complaints on the other side of the line. Dumb people become even dumber, parroting factoids and canned propositions to deaf ears, incapable of even acknowledging what’s being said. He hated the amorphous boundaries of his workplace, the raspy microphone next to his mouth, and the gopher-faced yuppie that had parachuted his way to a leadership position without a clear understanding of what that word entailed. A lot of things to hate, and just one way to shake them off.
“Green light, slow strokes with your dominant hand, cup your balls with the other one. If you get too hard, squeeze them a little for me,” Nadine continued, resuming their imaginary D/s relationship. Her name was most likely an alias and he was nothing more than yet another anonymous pervert, number 24085 if the video’s hit counter was correct but, somehow, things worked. Following clear instructions helped him brush aside the incoherencies of his twelve-hour shifts, and the orgasmic promises brought comfort to otherwise restless nights. He adjusted himself on the chair and continued to submit to her sexy voice.
“White light,” he heard her say, echoing with an extra layer of depth through the speakers.
“Huh, what?” His head tilted to the side, an involuntary spasm caused by genuine surprise. She was leaning closer to the camera now, corset pressed against her deliciously looking boobs. It was the best angle so far, enough of a temptation to make him question if he had heard what he thought he did. Perhaps not, for that went against the game. Changing the rules in the middle of it all was a sure reason for disqualification, even in pornographic circles. “Do I need to complain to the official, sweetheart?” he muttered, with a half-baked grin.
“Red light, stop and take a breather. Put your hands to the side and stretch your fingers if you feel a slight numbness on the tips,” the video continued, shattering any illusion of interactivity he could conceive in his mind’s eye. Trent cleared his throat and allowed the air to pass through at steady intervals. Only four minutes had elapsed and there were still sixteen more in the queue, making hers one of the longest videos in the last eight months. Bushy Carmen’s – or was it Camille? – still clocked the longest, but more than half of the fifty-minute romp comprising shots of crossing and uncrossing her legs while droning the “horny slut” moniker non-stop. He had never returned to her website to that date and had no intention to.
Nadine was now having fun of her own, rolling on the bed, and making it squeak. Judging by the characteristic sound, a water mattress hid underneath the white frillies quilt and a funny thought crossed his mind. Would he and it squirt out at the same time? He laughed at his own idiocy, almost choked himself, and swore: “Never again!”. He was still recovering from the shock when she resumed the game, adding a simple element to it. Pink smartphone in hand, her right index swiped the screen.
“Green light and listen to the beat. I want you to keep up with it, alternating between hands. This will get rough, so you better be prepared to get a hold of yourself. If even a drop of pre-cum comes to the surface, you will lick it and, if you dare to cum without permission, chances are you are never getting off again!” she giggled.
Well, that was an interesting angle, hints of witchcraft, a covenant of forced chastity. Interesting, but also somewhat scary as being forced to stop altogether wasn’t his thing. Few things repulsed him as much as the sight of a shriveled cock locked in a metal cage. An ex-girlfriend had once whispered the thought in his ear, hoping to spice up their sex life, only succeeding in losing both sex and relationship in less than ten minutes. Limiting the play is no fun, regardless of possible future benefits, he believed with all his heart, and all the elongated inches sticking out like a flagpole between his fingers.
Nadine’s rhythm was strong, a heavy bass line interspersed with the sound of a mechanical beating heart. His hands moved fast to stay in perfect synch, never going for a full stroke but rather snappy rubs. It was a lot like rope climbing in high school. He missed P.E. Classes, the nubile shapes of the wannabe cheerleaders, Mrs. Jenkins’ ass protruding from the neon spandex leggings… his thoughts derailed into those long-gone years of basketball finals and making out under the bleachers… the heart beating faster, the pacing getting louder…
“White light means nothingness,” Nadine interrupted his flight of fantasy, adding an extra layer of confusion to the initial revelation, three minutes earlier.
Okay, now he was absolutely, 100% sure to have heard that. It wasn’t just an aural trick, a rapid dissociation between body and mind. The words lingered on with a slight vibrato, two converted to four, none of which made sense. Adding to the unequivocal echo still ringing in his ears, there was a visual confirmation, too. A filter of diaphanous blankness now enveloped her face, dominating the whole screen and rendering most of her features blurry, save for the visible eye and lips. The details he couldn’t see gave way to an intriguing display of void, negative space consuming the positive one. The rhythm intensified as he tried to come to terms with the present absence before him.
“Red light, stop again.”
He blinked in response, and the glow vanished. The bass echoed one last time before fading away. She sat in bed, legs stretched, naked toes beckoning. It was the first time he was seeing them. They were pretty, though not as pretty as her porcelain face.
“Just relax for a moment,” Nadine said. “Too much excitement and you’ll lose control. You don’t want that, do you?” she concluded with a wink.
No, absolutely not. He had to make it to the end at least, before deciding if it was worth it to look more stuff of her online. Strange interruptions notwithstanding, the scales were tipping in her favor. He had a feeling she would look fantastic in leather, hmm… leather had such a wonderful smell…
“Green light, use only one finger now,” she instructed once more. “Take your time pressing the tip, making it tingle with each touch. This will feel better if you are kneeling, but it’s not mandatory. Whatever works best for you.”
“I can kneel, no problem,” he nodded forward, left hand already working to build himself up again. The floor was cold, perhaps a bit too cold. The central heating was broken again, no doubt about it. That was what? The fourth malfunction in two months? It was time to have a conversation with the landlord to negotiate a better rent.
Trent circled the reddish skin with care, feeling it light up, a spark in the making. His balls were swollen, icy blue veins pulsating. He looked at Nadine, just in time to see her lips whisper: