Teasing her

The thing I adore about Dan is that he knows that he's sexy, and why, and he's never been afraid of showing it off. That's not true of many men. It's not their fault—they live in a society that tells them 'sexy' equals 'tits'. A society that rarely allows space and time for women like me to wax lyrical about the beauty of men's bodies. I don't think I've ever met a man as confident in his attributes as Dan—cock and thighs and hands and forearms and oh, everything that makes me squirmy. He knows. He knows partly because I've told him, but partly because he's blessed with the kind of confidence that means he doesn't hide himself behind a bath towel or avoid his own reflection in a mirror. It's not a cockiness born of macho one-upmanship in the gym, but a measured faith in his ability to use what he has for consensual gratification. Dan is hot, and he knows it, and what's more, he understands how to work it.

When I asked him if he'd video a show for me, even my own overactive lustful imagination could never have come up with something so stunning in its simplicity yet so pulsing with hotness. It sounds straightforward enough—a wank in the shower. But those five words cannot hope to do justice to this, the most perfect solo masturbation show I have ever seen in my life.

He begins by standing topless in front of the mirror in the bathroom—a lovely big mirror to show off his taut body to perfection. No need to crane your neck to get a glimpse of those beautiful dips just above the muscles on his hips, or appreciate the view of his strong neck and shoulders or the way he gently smiles at himself while he flexes his pecs. It's all there on display—a smorgasbord of power and beauty and bare skin. He's wearing jeans and a belt. A big, thick belt that somehow enhances the whole effect, hinting at the fatness of the cock that is already beginning to swell beneath the denim.

He moves his hands to the buckle of the belt, opening it and his fly at the same time, in a practiced gesture that echoes the way he strips when I'm spread open and naked in front of him. Those fingers that have given me so much pleasure, employed to do something as humdrum and every day as undoing his fly, turn even that tiny task into something that's shot through with sexual promise. When he reveals his underwear—the band thick and fat too, like his belt, like his dick—I don't need to consciously search for the thick outline of it against the fabric, it's already so there. So in my face. For a fleeting, brief moment I wish this wasn't on screen. Wish I was in the room with him to take that gorgeous dick into my mouth.

But no. That would be a waste of the whole performance. And it is a performance, at this stage at least. As he preens in front of the mirror, twitching his pecs and rubbing moisturiser into the soft skin of his chest, it's clear to me that he's delighted by the idea of an audience. Perhaps he's grinning to himself because he already knows with certainty just how grateful this audience will be. And I am. As I said at the start, Dan knows how sexy he is, and he's milking every drop of the view so I can really luxuriate in it: what a good boy. What a treat.

Dan tugs his underwear down next, to reveal those strong thighs, tense and rock-solid like he's either been for a workout or recently delivered a powerful fucking. Deliciously well-placed tattoos—one at his hip to emphasise the flat rigidity of his stomach, and one on his pec that somehow draws biteable attention to his small, dark nipples. I'm undone already, and when I catch a glimpse of the meat of his cock before he wraps himself in a towel, I find myself crossing my legs involuntarily. Jiggling my right thigh so the seam of my own jeans sends zinging thrills through my clit.

I have to tell myself to calm down because I know what's coming next, and I don't want to be distracted too soon: it's time for the shower. He takes the towel off, and he's already pretty hard by now which is a gift in and of itself. I adore getting to see him at every single stage of tumescence, and this one's particularly satisfying: that semi-solid state when the blood starts pulsing into him but isn't yet filling his dick to the point of full erection. As he turns the water on he grips himself so casually it reminds me that for him this is such an everyday thing. I'm getting a privileged glimpse into what he does when he's alone so when I remember that he gets to see and touch himself like this any time he likes, the pleasurable ache in my cunt has top notes of full-blown envy.

He pumps the soap a few times, and frankly just the flex in his arms as he crushes the top of the dispenser is almost a sex act in itself—like a little preview of the way his biceps will tense when he beats at his dick for me. Taking occasional glances in those beautiful big bathroom mirrors to admire himself and twitch his pecs, allowing the water to run in rivulets over his smooth, shining body, his expression is calm but with occasional flashes of playfulness. There's still something of the performance about this, like a slight break in the fourth wall as he acknowledges that the cameras are there. A nod to the fact that soon I'll be watching this, breathless and eager on the edge of my seat, and he understands that each and every detail will tattoo itself onto my brain.

Next, he soaps his dick. And once again I find that five words are simply not enough to really zoom in on the detail that has me wriggling in my chair. When we're together, pre-fuck, and I grip him in my own palm for a warm-up, I do it very differently to how he does when he's alone. I'll hold it with reverence sometimes, or perhaps with enthusiasm or even hurried desperation, because to me grabbing a cock is a precious, treasured privilege. But when he does it? He handles his dick with the practiced, casual competence of someone who fully owns it. It's something he touches every day, and something he's been used to using—for practical reasons as well as just pleasure—for his entire adult life. He is not embarrassed or ashamed of his dick, but nor is he even really boastful about it. To him, it's just a dick, and that makes every touch of it all the more precious to me.

As he begins to stroke himself, he lets out a couple of moans that send shudders of delight all the way from my clit up my spine. Adds in some panting sounds which tell me he's enjoying himself. I know he's been showing off to me this whole time, but it's only at this point I start to really feel like a voyeur. As if I'm peeking in through the bathroom window without him knowing. It's the abandon, I guess. When he starts to rub at his now-fully-solid prick, there's a moment of letting go which I don't think is feigned for the camera. He closes his eyes, grips himself harder, and allows the world to melt away. It's as if the idea of performance has dropped right down his to-do list, meaning from now on he can focus almost entirely on what feels good in his hands.

Gripping harder, he strokes the foreskin back and forth across the glans, palm cupped tight around the shaft creating a tight ring that—thanks to the soap—slips so easily back and forth across the ridge of the head. I study this in detail, making mental notes for later, hoping that soon I'll get the chance to try it out myself: copying the same angle, the same grip, the same exact length of quick, pleasurable strokes. I can tell they're pleasurable because he's doing this beautiful thing now where he purses his lips in concentration. I take note of the strength in his forearms, tense with the effort, and how that is so perfectly complemented by the relaxed muscles at his shoulders and chest, which jiggle slightly from the movement as he rubs.

Turning to grip the showerhead, he directs the water right down the front of his body, letting me revel in the sight of the torrent pouring down over his chest and abs to warm his cock. If anything, it seems even harder now—the head so tight I can almost sense how much it aches as he pushes it against the cool marble of the bathroom wall. The granite emphasising that while his dick may be hard, it is still flesh, still tuned in purely to what feels good. Seeing his erection trapped against the tiles is almost enough to make me pause the video, breathless and keen to release, dipping my fingers into my own wetness for a moment of appreciation for this slippery, soaped-up, stunningly sexual man.

But I'm distracted once again by detail: the way he grips the shower rail. One hand firmly clamping onto it, as if to give himself purchase so he can stroke his dick even harder. With each second that goes by, another layer of performance melts away and he relaxes into the immediate physical sensations and the joy of accomplished solo masturbation. When he closes his eyes and focuses only on his own movements, it's like there is nothing and no one else in the world: just him, his dick, and the surging race to climax that grows more urgent with each sharp stroke.

The strokes themselves are only highlighted by the wedding ring he wears on his left hand. It's partly about ownership, of course: there's a thrill in seeing something so aggressively sexual and being able to hug to yourself the knowledge that it's being done solely for your own enjoyment—this hot man is mine! He's doing this for me!

There are other reasons too, though: I'm not the only person who understands the value of adornment. Rings, watches, bracelets… any embellishment to someone's hands elevates the visual beauty of watching them masturbate, and so is even more likely to have me panting with need. The ring emphasises the exact position of his fingers as they hold the shaft, as well as each vigorous upstroke—tugging with greater force now that he's closer to coming. Mashing the shower gel dispenser once again, Dan treats himself to another glance in the mirror, then a fabulously luxuriant lather smeared liberally all over his throbbing dick and taut, tight balls. The white foam is like a trailer for the main event, which I'm sensing now is close. There's an urgency in the way he touches himself that wasn't there before. Like his post-workout thighs, now all of his muscles are straining as if to draw attention to the effort he's expending on pleasuring himself. Lots of long, smooth strokes all over everything—soapy foam generously applied for maximum slickness. I'm slick too, just watching. I realise that by now I'm doing so with my mouth slightly agape, awestruck by the singular privilege of watching my husband do for me on camera what he usually only ever does in private.

Dan knows he's sexy, that's one of the things I love about him. But even with him knowing how cunt-twitchingly hot he is, I had wondered if he'd be nervous about showing me the final part. The happy ending. The dick squirt. The utmost desire of my throbbing, hungry cunt: the cum shot.

He grabs the shower head and rinses all the bubbles from his body, flashing me a glimpse of his rounded arse as he turns. It's swift and decisive as if he's done with the foreplay now, and it's time to fully fuck himself. More dick-stroking: faster now. More determined. Lots of short, powerful strokes around the head with that tight-tight grip. His forehead is creased in concentration and his mouth is open, just like mine as I observe. Eagle-eyed to every detail, like the way he's jerking so fast now his hand is almost a blur, with flashes of the fat, dark, shining head of his cock poking out from the ring made between his thumb and forefinger. Straining full with blood and pulsing with that urgent need to come. He starts to make more noises, that's how I know he's about to shoot spunk: those unnghs and aaaahs and mmmms and the heavy-lunged panting that tells me he's not just pleasing himself now, he's doing his best to drain himself. Grabbing the shower rail again, for balance, so he can fully exert all his energy onto the task in hand. Getting close, then closer, all the while building those grunts to a crescendo that is music to my outrageously perverted ears.

Then a second—just a split second—of pure calm. Just as there's a moment of stillness from his balls, taut and full of cum and desperate to be emptied, so there's also a second of silence before he lets rip. It's like he is so focused on coming that he's forgotten how to speak at all. Then—ah! Thick white cum, in fat, satisfying ropes, twitches from the end of his cock. Moans too, as his throat opens and pours forth sound to go with the substance. Rich, hot globs of spunk get caught in his still-beating hand as he lets out deep grunts of release. One spurt, then another, and another, the sounds echoing off the granite bathroom walls, accompanied by the spunk pumping wetly from his cock, dribbling down his body and into the torrent of water that rinses them away.

It took less than twenty minutes, but the vision that is this man abandoning himself to the simple, casual joy of wanking himself off until he comes will be permanently etched onto my mind. The privilege of getting to glimpse him in a moment that is simultaneously powerful and vulnerable—the force with which he came juxtaposed with the tremble in his thighs as he did so—is something for which I will always be grateful.

When he steps out of the shower to towel himself dry, his dick is post-fuck hard: softening slightly but I can still see the veins thudding with blood as it thumps back down the shaft. He glances at himself in the mirror the way I imagine he does when he leaves the gym. And this is truly a workout to be proud of.

Ends