Loop
an autoerotic ritual and study in self-inflicted want.
He doesn’t turn on the lights.
Not out of shame—he just doesn’t want to see the room. The piles of laundry. The fucked towel he never moved. There’s a draft coming in from the window he cracked open earlier, and the air smells like rust and old rain.
The phone screen lights his face for a second as he checks the angle. Camera flipped. Recording. Not for anyone else. Not even to watch later. Just to feel like it matters.
He sits on the edge of the bed and breathes through his nose. Long. Slow. Not calming. Just… preparing.
His pants are already off. He’d pulled them down half an hour ago before thinking better of it. Now he strips the rest, kicks them across the room. The restraints are under the mattress—cheap cuffs, velcro, one side already fraying. He hooks them to the legs of the bed and stares at them for a long time.
There’s no one coming.
There’s no one on the other end.
Just him. Just the ache. Just the part of him that wants to be hurt by someone who knows him. The part that wants to disappear under a hand he trusts. Or maybe doesn’t.
He straps in anyway.
Wrists first. Then ankles. Spread just enough to feel stupid. Helpless. Like a slut. Like a punishment.
He imagines someone watching. Not a partner. Not a stranger. Not even a fantasy lover. Just… himself. Watching from across the room. Or behind the lens. Or inside the walls of his own skull.
Look at you.
The voice in his head is low. Flat. Not kind. But not cruel either. Just honest.
You can’t stop thinking about it, can you? Being used like this. Being spread, stretched.
He pulls against the restraints. Just to feel the tension. Just to see what his body does when he can’t get out.
The truth is, he’s not thinking about anyone else.
Not anymore.
The hand that grips his cock doesn’t feel like his. Not at first. Not until it tightens. Not until he hears the breath hitch in his own throat and realizes he’s mouthing something like please.
To himself.
He strokes slow at first. The way someone else might. Not teasing, not tentative—just curious. Measured. Like he’s learning what he likes by watching himself feel it.
He shifts against the restraints, just to test them again. His hips can’t move much. His thighs are shaking already, twitching under the strain of holding position. The bed creaks, and for a second, the sound embarrasses him. As if someone could hear.
Would you stop if they could?
The voice again. Inside him. Or across from him. It doesn’t matter anymore. He hears it the way a body hears music: in the blood, in the bones.
No. You’d do it harder. Slower. Dirtier. You’d show them everything.
His grip tightens. He spits into his palm and slides it down, over the head, watching the way his stomach jumps. His chest is rising now, flushed, covered in a sheen of sweat. The mirror across the room doesn’t show his face, just the pale skin of his torso and the curve of his thighs—spread and strapped and glistening.
He wonders what he looks like from the outside. What the camera sees.
He thinks about her—not a real her. Just the outline of one. The way she might tilt her head watching him. Or maybe it’s a he. Or maybe it’s him again. Towering. Silent. Crouching between his own legs and murmuring look at you.
He closes his eyes and suddenly it’s not a hand, it’s a mouth.
He can feel it: soft, wet, slow. The kind of rhythm no one keeps up forever. Tongue heavy. Jaw tight. Sucking the head just enough to make his spine lift off the mattress.
He hears himself whimper.
The sound turns him on more than anything.
He strokes faster. Not rough, just hungry. Like a scene playing out that he can’t pause. His muscles burn from the tension. Ankles pulled wide, arms locked in place, no way to arch or thrust—he’s stuck in the fantasy.
Stuck in the loop.
Caught in his own mouth. Fucking into his own hand.
And when he comes, it’s not clean.
It’s not graceful or silent or cinematic. It’s sudden. Harsh. A sound ripped from somewhere low in his throat, half sob, half curse. His whole body goes tight, trembling, then loose. His hand stutters, milking himself through it.
Breath ragged. Eyes still closed.
In the dark, in the mirror, in the lens, there’s no applause. No one else whispering good boy. Just the soft collapse of his limbs and the slick warmth cooling on his stomach.
He opens his eyes.
Looks down at the mess. At the cuffs. At the still-blinking red light.
For a second, he wants to hit stop. Wipe it away. Get out of the restraints and pretend he didn’t just come thinking about himself sucking his own cock.
But then—
Good boy.
The voice again. Not cruel. Proud.
But still hungry.
So he lies there, waiting for the ache to start again.
And if that scratched an itch, try one of these next:
→ Alone With Her
→ Inventory
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interresting ritual nt friend tony z