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 cock 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...