[Part 1 here](https://www.reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/6yzlmy/30masturbating_to_my_24friend_in_iceland_while/). Read at least the first couple paragraphs for a description of Kari as well as what the hell is going on.
A couple days passed and I was noticing an unsettling phenomenon. Walking behind Kari up the stairs, I would steal glances–okay, more like long, drawn out stares–at her ass, each side tightening by turn, perfectly accentuated by tight pants. But one day, as she took the first step up and I prepared to begin my tortuous enjoyment, I began thinking of how she’d pulled a muscle a little yesterday, and how it must hurt, but of course she was too stubborn to say anything. And instead of holding my hand back from cupping her ass, I found myself holding it back from settling gently around her waist, ready to hold tight if she fell.
This was a problematic development. Kari was just as uninterested as ever, and in my rational moments, so was I. Nothing lay down that path but pain.
The nights stretched out, eternities of conscience-stricken edging. One morning my balls were sore the whole day–worst case of blue balls I’ve ever had.
We checked in at the AirBnB in Dalvik, a charming northern town a short boat ride away from visiting the arctic circle. The restaurant next door looked good enough and we were much too tired to drive somewhere, so we walked over and ordered food, glaring hangrily around us, trading uncharitable comments about the other customers. But the food came, and then the drinks, and then came her smile with the warmth that even the arctic couldn’t cool. We ate, drank, talked, and sometimes I watched her face sparkling with animation, losing track of what we said.
Under the influence of many drinks, our conversation eventually turned to sexual preferences. She loved being choked, hated the way guys never went down on her, and when they did acted like they were doing her some kind of favor. I held my tongue (no pun intended), knowing that I was completely incapable of an appropriate response. She was a bit of an exhibitionist and occasionally masturbated with her Rabbit vibrator in front of her apartment window (which looked out on a lawn that almost nobody visited, a cowardice I delightedly mocked her for). This went on for a while, but eventually the drinks go to us and we wanted to get some sleep. Back to the room. She took a shower but had trouble getting it working, so she poked her head out to complain about it. With the confidence of a horny man intent on showing some kind of value, I charged on in and actually managed to get it working, mostly by luck, and all the while staring anywhere but at the towel that barely covered her breasts.
And then, in no time at all, she was in my bed, wearing her tiny shorts and skimpy t-shirt and smelling of damp hair and soap and feverish daydreams.
She told me she thought it would be warmer the next day, and I told her I wasn’t sure I trusted the opinion of a girl who couldn’t get a shower to work without help, poking her playfully, for a bare moment feeling her taut stomach. She giggled and polked back, and in my head I saw the movie version of this scene unfold, our tickling turning into an embrace, our lips finding each other in the light of the single lamp, our hands langorously exploring bodies in circling patterns. Maybe some music or something.
Instead she turned off the lamp, curled up under the blankets, said “good night,” and went still. Not completely still, of course. I laid down as close as I dared, drinking up the warmth of her breath, minty from recent brushing. The scent tightened my chest and I entered the in-between state that had become my home the last few nights, the strange purgatory of desire in which I could scarcely tell what was real. And, fighting that struggle, to my surprise, I fell asleep.
When I woke, it was several hours later. The room was pitch black and stiflingly hot from the space heater impatiently set to MAX when we’d arrived. Kari was curled away from me, as far away as the small bed would allow. And she was very faintly moving. Her breath was uneven and sharp. I realized she was having a nightmare, and I moved a little closer to her in the sort of automatic gesture I was always starting and never finishing, a sort of affection blue ball. I was closer to her, but my hand did not smooth her hair or hold her to me comfortingly, just sat limply and uselessly by my side, careful not to graze her.
As soon as I moved, the sound stopped. I’d woken her and, for no reason I could explain, I moved closer so we were very nearly spooning. I blearily composed shitty excuses to use if she asked what I was doing. But she said nothing, silent as my heart tried to punch a hole in my chest, and I slowly calmed down enough to be curious. I knew the rhythms of her breathing by heart from hours of sleepless study, and I did not think she was asleep. Her breathing was even, but shallow.
And she started moving again. I was closer to her this time, so I could make out the the angle of her shoulder. Instead of out, raised so her hand would lay in front of her face, it was down, and shaking slightly.
I really listened to the sound, and, because I expected it, finally made out the tell-tale sound of slippery wetness, the faint rustle of fabric as a hand whispered beneath her shorts, the ragged breaths of pleasure. I imagined it all in exquisite detail.
My cock was instantly at attention, aching to be touched. It was trapped in the fabric of my boxers, uncomfortably constrained. I focused on my breath. She would stop if she even suspected I was awake.
I focused on the smell of her and imagined her, eyes closed, face shaped into the soft rictus of pleasure. Desire clouded again the distinction between reality and fantasy, and then I carefully reached over her, placing my hand over hers, at first simply feeling the motion as she circled her clit, then dipping my finger into her. Impatient, I pulled down my boxers and yanked down her shorts, hearing the tear of elastic as they stretched too quickly. And then my cock was between her legs, rubbing back and forth, catching on the friction of her dry thighs. I spit on my own hand, impatient, and rub the head of my cock so it slides easily and finds the sopping hole I was seeking.
Her hips begin a subtle jerking that shatters my reverie and suddenly I am awake and alert, watching as she struggles to contrain her bucking hips, then lays panting. This time it is she that goes to the bathroom, and I frantically masturbate into a used t-shirt, the sort of decision I know I will regret but make without hesitation. I am done before she returns, and when she does, we fall asleep in minutes. As far as I knew, she didn’t even realize I’d been awake.
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/6zs580/watching_30my_24friend_masturbating_in_iceland
Well don’t stop now…
Clever, you are clever. Splitting it in multiple parts. You’ve got me on the hook
You are really good at writing, I wasn’t sure if you were imagining it or it was happening in real time. Really good, I look forward to more.
The tension! It’s killing me
I read it to the end… which says something… but, in doing so, I feel I might be giving you too much credit. I apologize but if she’s sleeping in the same bed with you, wearing short shorts and a thin tank top (not to mention telling you about her sex life)… you have permission to make a move. Why beat around the bush so much?
PLEASE post part 3 soon! I NEED to know what happens!
I think it’s finally time you make a move ;)
…is it appropriate to use RemindMe here?
Holy shit man, you’re a good writer. That was a good read. You remind me of myself, too, shy to a fault, afraid to make the first move but consumed with desire. I’ve been there, man, even sleeping in same bed kind of thing. Now in my older “wiser” years, I regret being such a goddamned “gentleman”, and besides, I was likely not doing the girls any favors, meaning, they were probably like, what the fuck is wrong with this guy, can’t he tell I want him to make a move. And yet, it’s easy to say, but if I were back in the same situation, chances are I would be just as shy and respectful as ever, because there’s regretting not doing it, but then there can be regretting doing it too. It’s complicated, right? But sometimes that torturous swoon is delightful in and of itself, even when it never leads to anything.