Girl on the Net

He wears a watch, and it’s beautiful.

It frames his big hands so neatly, drawing attention to the curve of his wrists and the tension in his fingers as he grips his cock.

I don’t see it at first. It’s early, and grey, and Thursday. My brain’s only just kicking itself awake when I hear the telltale shuffle of him rubbing his cock in bed beside me.

The rustle of the covers. The tight breaths that go with a swift, functional morning wank.

And I don’t want to miss it, so I open my eyes. Just a crack. Watch the rhythm of his arm just a few inches from my face. Phone held close to his eyes in one hand, and in the other…

He wears a watch, and it’s beautiful.

His grip somehow manages to be tight and casual at the same time. The practised ease with which he squeezes the head of his dick, stroking quickly from tip to base to tip to base, in time to the video on the screen.

Watching feels voyeuristic, and I try to forget that he doesn’t mind, because I like that feeling. That he doesn’t quite know I’m awake yet. He’s not performing just yet – speeding up or slowing down or gripping slightly tighter so I can watch the end throb dark with blood.

He wears a watch.

He doesn’t understand why the watch is beautiful, but it is. It’s a marker – like a metronome – ticking off each shuffle. Each stroke. The watch is like the ink of a tattoo on someone’s skin, or a line drawn with yellow highlighter: this bit is important. Pay attention.

I open my eyes fully and shuffle a bit closer – wanting to drink in the morning-after-the-night-before scent of sweat in his armpit. Hoping I’ll get close enough that when he comes he’ll splash it onto me. Letting me join in without joining.

He notices I’m awake, and flips the bedclothes down further so I can see. The creamy white of the thick duvet sitting just under his left hand. Cupping his balls. Framing his forearm that leads to his hand that squeezes his dick as he rubs it.

He wears a watch, and it’s so beautiful that I’m torn between where to look. I could stare up at his face, as I usually would, to catch the moment when he knows he’s close – that subtle tensing of his jaw, perhaps biting his lip as he strains to get to the climax. Or keep my eyes trained on the metronome-rhythm up-and-down tick of his hand. See the watch framing his wrist and the way the duvet shuffles when he taps it with the side of his fist.

It’s beautiful.

But it’s too late for beauty. I could watch this forever but he knows that I’m horny and wet now. This is why morning sex is so rare – he’ll be late for work if this goes on longer.

“Show me your cunt.”

So I do. I roll over, pull down my knickers and present to him.

He spits on his dick. Pushes it in.

His hands splayed either side of my head for balance.

A few quick strokes, then a shudder. He’s close.

I turn my head to face the wrist which wears the watch. Squeeze my cunt tight around him as his spunk gushes deep inside me.

One, two, three… I can count each and every twitch while I’ve got him gripped so tightly.

And I sigh with satisfaction.

Then he takes his left hand, ruffles my hair, mutters ‘thanks’ because he knows I’ll like that. Then he runs to the shower because it’s 8:15, and he doesn’t want to be late for work.

He wears a watch, and it’s beautiful.

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