Pumping Out Addiction

My shiny PVC worm lies there, wrists lashed tight. He flinches from my hand, but his cock doesn’t. Hard, vein-pulsing, the circumcision scar pulled tight as skin stretches. I work him slow, slick, teasing every ridge and flare. Each stroke stops short—hand gone, breath held—until his hips chase air. I pin them down again. Leather creaks. His gasp tells me he hates this, wants this, needs this. My thumb circles the flushed head, slick with each drop he leaks, and I deny him again. He swears, begs, curses the feeling that coils tighter every time I stop. I speed up. I hold him right at the edge—two, three, four strokes away—then squeeze the base until the throb fades. My palm returns, slick, relentless, until the next climb builds. When he finally breaks, cum spills in heavy ropes across my fingers and his stomach, but I don’t stop. I keep stroking through the spasm, through the sting, through the cry that turns into a whimper. His body shudders. His mind races. Regret floods in, thick as the mess drying on his skin, followed by the craving for more. I wipe my hand on his chest, watch his breath hitch, and smile. Therapy’s done—for tonight.