Xia - Sunday

He received a single text the next afternoon, simple as could be: "Well? Did you?"

He thought long and pardon the pun hard about his reply. He could feign ignorance, claim he had no idea what she meant. But he knew she knew he knew and he also knew she hated faked ignorance almost as much as real ignorance, yet another thing they had bonded over the night before. He could just never reply, never speak to her again. He did not consider that option for long. Honestly even without his increasingly furious sexual desire for her, the thought he might abandon the clearest intellectual and emotional connection of his adult life was just unacceptable. He could express outrage, draw a line, tell her what she said was not ok, that he valued their friendship but "that" would never be a part of it and what was she thinking, married and all, and that this was a boundary he'd thank her not to cross and that if she has any respect for him at all blah blah blah.

He went with "No, that's not how I see you. Was wonderful to meet you and your wife (sorry I didn't catch her name), I hope we can talk more, perhaps lunch?"

He waited.

It was quite late at night when the reply came. He'd been lying in bed, trying to sleep, the memory of the feel of her body marching relentlessly around his brain, his sheets thrown off so they didn't rub against his cock as he throbbed wondering if a second cold shower would do the trick. The first text said "Wednesday 1pm" and the name of a nice cafe near the bar where they'd met. He held his phone trembling slightly, part of him hoping that was her only reply, knowing it wasn't. Twitch. He tried to imagine his youth pastor but he couldn't really remember what he'd said now. Iniko wasn't sure when he'd stopped believing in God. Wasn't entirely sure he ever had. Jesus had stuck with him a lot longer, it takes a lot to part with a childhood best friend. But as he'd learned more about the world, learned about christian nationalist politics, about suffering, about all the other ethical and sincere followers of radically different religions, had asked Jesus to guide him back and heard nothing but his echo, even Jesus was mostly gone. The values had stayed. He believed in purity, believed in the perfect gift of saving himself until marriage. The guilt and shame still were as loud as the supernatural demands of God and Satan had once been. He told himself those emotions were rational. That while the Christians who had raised him may have been stuck with some archaic ideas about the existence of gods, their ideas about morality were all too relevant, especially when it came to sexual behavior.

Another text. "Ana. She liked you. We've been married four years last month. She's the center of my universe. I tell her everything." He was confused to read she liked him, that hadn't been communicated in her behavior, which was more "she found you to be a mild annoyance, like a bit of plastic briefly stuck to her shoe." But he mostly fixated on that last sentence. From how well he felt he already knew Xinyi, he was confident it wasn't just a throw-away line, a shorthand for how important Ana was to her. No, she was telling him she had told Ana all his secrets, every intimate thing she had coaxed from him. She'd told her wife about those last words which were playing over and over causing his current predicament. To a woman who was, to him, a stranger.

A stranger he had seen almost naked on Xinyi's phone, whose perky golden tits were burned into his retina from those few seconds. His first response was anger. How dare she break his confidence like that, he had trusted her, she definitely knew how sensitive he was about the topic, how personal those things were to him even if she casually talked about her daily orgasms with strangers. It had been over a day since he'd last seen her. Had she masturbated since? More than once? Did Ana watch? Help her? His second response was humiliation. He imagined them together talking about his lifetime's sole orgasm, his shame, how he was terrified to touch his own penis, how he must be right now tormented by Xinyi's instruction to throb, her permission to touch himself, how they must know he couldn't stop thinking of her.

Were they laughing at him? At his naivety, at his what must to them seem pathetic attempts at purity? He throbbed harder, felt his hand moving down his body and realized his third response was more arousal. Why hadn't the horrible idea of his secret being owned by this strange aloof woman doing anything to calm him down? Why was he even more desperate to break his almost decade long abstinence thinking about how Xinyi had exposed him so?

Which left his final response: trust. He didn't understand why Xinyi had told Ana. But he realized, unexpectedly, that it must be for the best. He found he believed she knew what she was doing, knew what would be healthy for him, for their relationship. It was while he was exploring this comforting emotion that her next text arrived.

Sweetheart, know that I will always be open for you, always listen to your truth and be ready to grow and learn together. Know I will always do what is best for you, lead you to the person you are destined to be. Know you are safe in my embrace. Know I will understand you completely, that no part of you will be hidden from me. Know that you will never lie to me again, never want to and never need to.

It didn't occur to him to hesitate. The woman who held him safe had told him what to do, and he did it. He cascaded truth, told her everything he had felt, how much his cock and balls ached, how his conviction that masturbation was the unclean choice had held him back, how he wasn't even sure how it worked or how it would feel. How baffled he was by her attitude towards him: wasn't she gay? Wasn't she married? Weren't they friends? That he knew he felt closer to her then anyone, as close as he had imagined he would be with the woman he would marry, that he was overwhelmed by his lust for her body, the memory of her against him. But how despite all that, he didn't feel right about their relationship being sexual, that he didn't think he should be her boyfriend and he definitely wasn't the sort of person who would facilitate an affair.

Oh, my silly boy.

He waited, holding his breath, not even able to process how excited and scared being called "silly boy" made him feel.

I will never fuck you. Your cock will never be inside my perfect pussy. You are no threat to Ana, no boy ever could be.

How did he feel? That's exactly what he'd asked for, right? Why did it feel like such a hard blow to hear her say it? And why did that blow make his cock strain, not even throbbing now, just at the peak of a throb, the fullest it could possibly be.

I am glad you didn't cum, that you controlled yourself for me. What a good boy. Now you will save that load for me. I will be there to watch when you finally let it all go. I respect that you don't feel comfortable with me as your sexual object, that our relationship is far more than that. Instead, you will buy and watch this. Three nights until Wednesday. Goodnight.

She sent a link.

Iniko lay perfectly still, unable to move, his mind reeling with contradictory emotions. He knew not to write back, that she had said all she would say that night. What had she sent him? Was it.... porn? He'd studiously avoided porn until now, an impressive feat given is ubiquity. He was well aware where it led, had been taught it carried the devil's message, which he still believed to be a fact even if the devil was not. Inevitably his blockade hadn't been impenetrable, plenty of his friends were heterosexual young men. Porn was around. But he could honestly say he'd done his best, hadn't even been seriously tempted. So why was he reaching for his laptop and following the link? Before he'd really had time to make a decision, he was checking out, downloading the video he now owned, he hadn't even read the description although he had seen the preview, a gorgeous woman sitting by herself, fully (well, technically fully) clothed.

He didn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't this. He'd assumed all porn was just naked people fucking after a bare minimum of cheesy dialog. This was almost the exact opposite. Although he was confident was no less porn, he wasn't one to hold onto technicalities. The woman never removed a single item of clothing. Although her clothing was revealing, he wouldn't have been shocked to see someone walking around campus dressed that way. She spoke the whole time, looking directly at him, well he guessed at the camera, but it sure felt like him. She gave clear instructions he diligently obeyed, knowing that to do otherwise would be to disobey Xinyi. Her first instruction was for him to put his cock away, to dress fully, which provided some much needed relief from the drive to grab himself.

Occasionally she'd direct his attention to her body, her cleavage, the hint of a hard nipple through her shirt, the peak of belly above her shorts or the miles of thigh below them. Or each of her toes and the arch of her feet, easily visible in her thin-strapped sandals. She called to his lust, constantly building it, constantly bringing to his mind images and ideas that caused his desire to boil, desire he'd never before explored let alone stoked like this. She talked about how incredible it felt to explode in orgasm for her command. How his cock ached for her body that he could see, how it ached even more for what he couldn't see but was keenly aware was just a layer of two of thin fabric away. She described the pleasure his hand could give wrapped around himself, how she'd tell him exactly how to move it to build the pleasure beyond what any cock could stand without release, how every sperm would dance and tickle for her, encouraged him to imagine in detail how his cum would look running down her cleavage, streamed across her face, sitting in her mouth ready to be swallowed. His head swam, and had that been the whole video, he knew his resistance he'd built so hard for so many years would be inadequate and he would have no choice but to stroke furiously and cum.

But that wasn't all she had to say. As she drove his desire, she simultaneously locked him in denial. Told him firmly he was not allowed to touch, that his cock must stay in his pants, that the orgasm he wanted so desperately wasn't his to grant whenever his hormones demanded, but hers to control and deny. How he couldn't be trusted with his own cock, a sentiment he agreed with all too easily, that fit neatly with the sexual oppression he'd been taught. But instead of relying on an absent God to give him permission after the covenant of marriage, he was invited to trust her, the woman on the screen, to inform him of the right time for sexual release, and the right time for delicious frustration. As the video finally ended, she informed him that the time for that frustration was now, until at least tomorrow.

He lay there, feeling the pressure of his cock against his pants. But it felt different now. Before those throbs had been a torment, a roiling churning confusion where the choice to touch or refrain Xinyi had whispered into his ear he was completely unable to resolve. Now as he drifted to sleep the waves of desire crashed against him harder than ever, each time they were met by one simple unbreakable bulwark: Xinyi looking deep into his eyes and mouthing her unambiguous command "you will save that load for me".