Tmkoc Sex Stories Chapter 274 - Nano’s Decision for Self-Pleasure
Chapter 274 - Nano’s Decision for Self-Pleasure
Her head fell back for a half-second.
’I am not going to.’
She pulled her panties to the side.
The pencil.
The eraser end.
Cool. Smooth. Not his cock — not anything like it — just the rounded, blunt end of a yellow No. 2 pencil pressed against her entrance with the hesitant, unsteady pressure of a woman who has made a decision she is not going to announce.
She pressed it forward.
Her cunt resisted.
Tight in the way that things that have never been asked to accommodate anything are tight — her walls closing around the eraser end with the clinging, reluctant grip of an entrance that didn’t know what to do with the intrusion.
She pushed.
A centimetre.
Her breath came out in a short, broken note.
"Hngh~—"
Another centimetre.
The walls of her cunt pressing inward around the pencil, hot and slick, her entrance gripping the eraser with the full, unyielding tightness of a body that was wet and willing and still impossibly narrow.
"Hngh~— Aahh~—"
Her hand on her breast gripped harder.
Kneading.
Her fingers closing around the stiff peak of her nipple through the hoodie, twisting once, the sharp note of it making her hips roll forward and press more of the pencil inside.
The tip found resistance.
Firm. Present. The unmistakable, delicate wall of something she had never had occasion to verify was still intact in this life.
Her eyes widened.
The pencil stopped.
She pulled it back.
Half a centimetre.
Her entrance clenching around the withdrawal, pulling the pencil with it, the wet grip of her walls audible in the quiet of the laboratory.
She exhaled.
Looked at the screen.
At Sugar’s demolished face through the CCTV.
At him above her.
Her hand pressed the pencil against the outside of her entrance again, not pushing inside this time — just rubbing. The eraser dragging across her outer lips in short, rapid strokes, pressing against the entrance without entering, the friction building in a low, rolling wave that started at the point of contact and spread outward through her inner thighs.
"Nngh~— Aahh~— Hngh~—"
"You betrayed me." She was still talking to Screen Seven.
The tears arrived without announcement.
Not the overwhelming kind — just the thin, continuous wet at the outer corners of her eyes that came when the emotion was old and had been stored under pressure for long enough that the smallest opening let some of it through.
She rubbed faster.
The pencil moving in tight, urgent circles against her entrance, the wet of her spreading across the eraser and her fingers both, her inner lips flushing with the friction.
"I saw what you did." Her voice came out thin. Wavering at the edges. "I was there. I know what happened. And you left—"
She pressed the eraser harder against her clit.
"—you left and I—"
Her hips jolted forward.
"Aahhh~—"
On Screen Seven:
PAH! PAH! PAH!
"AAANGHH~!! HIIEEK~!! ’FILL ME’~!! OUNGH~!!"
The orgasm arrived in a wave.
Not the polite, managed kind — the full-body, unannounced, involuntary kind that came from a cunt that had been wound too tight for too long and had finally found its way to the edge.
She squirted.
Not abundantly.
But present — the hot, sudden rush of her from her entrance, soaking her panties, her hand, the front of the chair seat, a fine spray reaching the console and one edge of the secondary keyboard.
Her head dropped back.
Her whole frame going rigid in the chair.
Thighs locked around her hand.
The hoodie bunching at her hips.
"AAHHH~— Hngh~— Hnn~— AAHHH~—"
Her moan rising.
And on the speakers simultaneously:
"AAAAAHHH~!! HIIEEK~!! ’I HATE YOU’~!! OUNGH~!!"
Sugar.
Both of them.
The laboratory and the back seat of the SUV, separated by miles and a CCTV feed, arriving at the same sound at the same moment.
The audio bouncing off forty-three screens.
Nano came down from it slowly.
Her breath returning in uneven intervals.
Her hand still between her thighs. Still wet. The pencil on the floor somewhere, dropped during the orgasm without her registering it.
She looked at Screen Seven.
At the feed.
At what was happening there — Sugar’s twitching, demolished frame beneath him, her whole body still shaking through the tail of her orgasm, the back seat a record of the last thirty minutes.
He pulled out.
His cock clearing Sugar’s entrance in a long, wet withdrawal, the seed running in a thick thread from the tip as he cleared.
Sugar’s body.
The twitching, involuntary aftershocks moving through her limbs, her cunt clenching visibly on empty air, her whole frame shaking with the continuous, helpless pulse of a body still processing what it had been through.
She was moaning.
Low. Continuous. Her hand finding his cock and wrapping around it — the reflex motion of a woman who hasn’t stopped yet, who isn’t finished, whose hand is moving because her body hasn’t received the signal to stop.
Her hand stroked.
Slow.
Then faster.
His cock against her inner thigh, the final pulses of his release coming out across her — the thick, white ropes landing across her stomach, her hip, one reaching the underside of her breast and sitting there in the specific, filthy testimony of a man who had come inside her and then come on her and was not done making his presence known.
He turned.
Nano saw it happen in real time.
His head rotating toward the partition.
Toward the camera.
The flat, unhurried gaze of a man who has been aware of the camera for an indeterminate length of time and has chosen this moment to acknowledge it.
His eyes finding the lens.
Finding, through the lens, the feed, the signal, the decryption, the forty-three screens, the laboratory three floors underground and several miles away —
Finding her.
She straightened in the chair.
Her hand came out from under the hoodie.
She pressed her knees together.
As if any of those things changed anything about what he had already seen, or inferred, or known.
His hand wrapped around his cock.
Three strokes.
Slow. Deliberate. His eyes on the lens the entire time.
The cum that came out on those strokes landing on Sugar’s thigh.
He kept looking at the camera.
His mouth opened.
"I will not return."
The audio came through all forty-three speakers.
His voice.
Filling the laboratory.
"Anytime soon, Nano."
He stroked once more.
His eyes not moving from the lens.
"Come now, let me stretch that little pussy of yours, Nano, again like I used to fuck you every morning."
The laboratory went silent.
Forty-three screens.
All of them carrying his face in the CCTV feed.
His face. His eyes on the lens. The flat, unhurried certainty of a man making a promise he has already done the arithmetic on.
Nano sat in the chair.
Her hoodie rumpled at her hips.
Her panties soaked.
Her hands in her lap.
Her own squirt still on the corner of the secondary keyboard.
She looked at Screen Seven.
At his face on Screen Seven.
Her jaw tightened.
Her cheeks went red.
Not from shame.
From the specific, involuntary flush of a woman whose body has just been addressed by name through a security camera by a man who somehow knew she was watching and chose to speak directly to her through forty-three screens in an empty laboratory at four in the morning.
She looked at his face.
Her hand moved.
Back toward her thigh.
Stopped.
She looked at her hand.
At the screen.
At his face.
Laboratory — 5:02 AM
Nano sat in the chair.
Her hoodie rumpled at her hips.
Her panties soaked.
Her hands in her lap.
The squirt still drying on the corner of the secondary keyboard.
She looked at Screen Seven.
At his face on Screen Seven.
Her cheeks were red.
Her mouth was open.
Her hand had started moving back toward her thigh and had stopped mid-transit, caught between the instruction her body was still issuing and the instruction her brain was attempting to override it with.
She looked at her hand.
At the screen.
At his face.
"I’ll—"
She stopped.
Started again.
"I..."
The sentence didn’t come.
She looked away from the screen.
Down.
At her own lap.
At her thighs, pressed together, her soaked panties visible where the hoodie had rucked up. At the evidence of what she had spent the last thirty minutes doing while watching a CCTV feed she had hacked from a SUV she was not supposed to have access to.
Then at the other screen.
The suppressor collar monitoring feed.
Forty-six hours, fifty-three minutes remaining.
Green. Steady. The patient blink of a system reporting that everything was functioning as designed.
She stared at that number.
’He is still in the collar.’ ’He is still in the SUV.’ ’He cannot use his powers.’ ’He cannot reach me.’ ’He is contained.’
She breathed.
Her thighs pressed tighter.
On Screen Seven, his face was still looking at the lens.
Still.
The flat, unhurried eyes of a man who has said what he meant and is waiting for the sentence to land at its destination.
She shook her head.
Pulled the hoodie down over her thighs.
She turned to the primary keyboard.
Both hands coming up. The professional posture. The posture of a woman who is returning to her work and her work is what she is going to think about.
She pulled up the collar feed.
Then the SUV’s GPS tracker.
Then the Tartarus intake processing log — the file she had been maintaining for six months, the arrival procedure, the security stages, the intake timeline that would begin the moment the SUV reached the facility gates.
She typed.