Jerk Off Encouragement While Smoking

I still think about that afternoon whenever I see someone light up, because the jerk off encouragement she gave me was unlike anything I’d ever experienced—she was perched on the arm of the couch, all pale skin and dark ink, casually tapping ash into a tray while she watched me with this half-lidded, knowing stare. Her voice was this low, steady rasp, not rushed or performative, just telling me exactly how to touch myself, when to slow down, when to hold right there, and that cigarette dangling from her fingers made every exhale feel like a command. The smoke curled between us, and I remember thinking how intimate it was, how the whole room smelled like tobacco and anticipation, and she never broke eye contact, just kept whispering that I was doing so good, that she wanted to see me fall apart for her, and honestly, the pacing was everything—slow, deliberate, with her smirk growing wider as I got closer, and when I finally let go, she took one last long drag and smiled like she’d won something.