Chapter 130: Fuck-or-cry pt 2 r18

I shifted my hips, trying to adjust myself without touching. That only made it worse. The head brushed against the inside of my briefs and I sucked in a sharp breath. Pre-cum had already soaked through the fabric; I could feel the wet spot spreading.

Okay. Okay. Just… unzip. Relieve the pressure. Quick. Surgical. In and out. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.

I fumbled with my belt. The buckle clinked too loudly in the tiled silence. I froze, listening. Nothing. Just the distant hum of the string quartet and the muffled roar of conversation beyond the door.

I popped the button. Lowered the zipper. The relief of space was immediate, and immediately not enough.

My cock sprang free, flushed dark, the head shiny with pre-cum. I stared down at it like it had personally betrayed me.

You absolute slut, I hissed internally. We are literally at a work event. You cannot be doing this.

But my hand was already moving.

The first stroke was tentative, just enough to take the edge off.

It didn’t.

It lit me up.

My knees almost buckled.

I braced one hand on the stall wall and wrapped the other around myself, biting my lip so hard I tasted copper.

Just get it over with.

I started slow. Long, loose pulls from base to tip. My thumb swiped over the slit on every upstroke, spreading the slickness down the shaft. My breath hitched.

And then the memories crashed in.

Cassian on that podium. Black suit hugging every line of his body. The way the spotlight carved shadows under his jaw, across his throat.

The faint bruise still visible near his temple, like a badge of violence he wore without shame. The way his voice had dropped when he said “sacrifice.” Low. Deliberate. Like he was speaking directly into my bloodstream.

I sped up without meaning to.

My other hand slid up under my shirt, found one nipple, pinched.

A broken sound escaped me, half whimper, half moan.

I pictured him here.

In the stall with me.

Behind me.

One big hand wrapped around my throat, not choking, just holding. The other replacing mine on my cock. Stroking. Teasing. That low, rough voice in my ear: “Look at you. So desperate you couldn’t even wait.”

I squeezed harder. Twisted my nipple until it stung.

My hips jerked forward into my fist.

Fuck.

I imagined him pushing me against the stall wall. Belt undone. Pants shoved down just enough. His thick cock sliding between my cheeks, not inside, just teasing. Hot. Heavy. The head catching on my rim every time he thrust.

I whined.

Louder than I meant to.

I froze again, listening.

Silence.

Then, very faintly, the sound of the outer bathroom door opening.

My heart stopped.

Footsteps. Slow. Measured.

Someone was in here.

I clamped my free hand over my mouth.

The footsteps paused at the sinks. Water ran. A low cough. Then the hand dryer roared to life.

I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. My cock was still in my fist, throbbing angrily, pre-cum dripping over my knuckles.

The dryer shut off.

Footsteps retreated.

The outer door opened and closed.

Gone.

I exhaled through my nose, shaky.

And then, because I am apparently a walking disaster, I kept going.

Faster now.

Sloppier.

The risk had only made it worse. The fear of being caught was gasoline on the fire already burning through me.

I pictured Cassian turning me around. Forcing my thighs apart. Spitting into his palm. Slicking himself. Pushing in slow, inch by agonizing inch, until I was stuffed full, stretched wide, whimpering against his shoulder.

My hand flew over my cock.

I pinched my other nipple hard.

My balls drew up tight.

I was close, so fucking close,

But I wanted more.

I wanted what I’d never let myself have.

I sat on the closed toilet lid and slid my hand lower, past my sack, back between my cheeks. My middle finger brushed my hole.

I hesitated.

Then pressed.

The tip slipped inside.

I gasped.

It felt strange, tight, foreign, but good. Really good.

I pushed deeper.

One finger. Then two.

The stretch burned, then bloomed into heat.

I crooked them, searching,

And found it.

The spot.

Electric.

White-hot.

My vision whited out for a second.

I fucked myself on my fingers, shallow, frantic, while my other hand stroked my cock in brutal pulls.

Cassian’s voice echoed in my skull: “You haven’t earned me inside you yet.”

But in my fantasy he was already there.

Deep.

Ruthless.

Fucking me open while he growled in my ear: “This is what you get for running your mouth. For thinking you could leave me.”

I was shaking.

Legs trembling.

Fingers crooked hard against my prostate.

Hand flying over my cock.

The pressure built, fast, unstoppable.

I bit my fist to muffle the cry as I came.

It hit like a freight train.

Thick ropes shot across my stomach, my shirt, the stall wall, messy, violent, endless.

My ass clenched around my fingers, milking them, drawing the orgasm out until I was whimpering, oversensitive, hips jerking uncontrollably.

When it finally ended, my limbs felt like jelly against the the seat, panting, fingers still buried inside me, cock twitching in my hand.

Post-nut clarity arrived like a brick to the face.

I stared at the cum dripping down to the floor.

At my trembling hand.

At my ruined shirt.

At the locked stall door that had just barely kept me from being caught jerking off and fingering myself in a public bathroom during a billionaire gala.

I wanted to die.

I wanted to disappear.

I wanted a lobotomy.

I carefully pulled my fingers out, wincing at the emptiness, and wiped them on my already destroyed shirt.

Then I tried to clean up.

Tried.

There was no cleaning this up.

I looked like I’d been fucked in a gas station bathroom by a trucker with bad aim.

I tucked myself away, cock still sensitive, still half-hard despite everything, and zipped up.

I unlocked the stall.

Stepped out.

Looked in the mirror.

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