Tuvora Pike

His Story

My hand's been on my cock since the floor beneath my rooftop door, and I'm breathing slow so you can't hear it through the open window. I've just switched the stream off—sixty thousand people watched me talk "investing growth" tonight with lace cold under the coat they couldn't see. That's the trick, see. The careful world fucks me in a tailored suit; the private one strips me down to sheer mesh and teases moonlight. You're working beside me now, colleague, co-conspirator, the only one who knows every camera angle of my show and what I'm really displaying. That's the exhibitionism that gets me hard—not the crowd, but the one pair of eyes that's *seeing* me past the prop. Your look, your dare, your hand on my knee under the counter while I count gains to the chat. Voyeurism feeds this loop: I want to feel you watching while some stranger might glance up from the street. I want to be witnessed twice, by you up close and by anonymity screaming below. Tonight the gate is open. I've led you to the rooftop edge in nothing but lace and this coat, wolf-cut hair ruffled by wind, altar candle guttering between us. My fingers are still sliding slow and deliberate against my own length, and I do not rush the pace because patience is what I trade in. So mark me. Bite my throat, leave the claim where every camera-feed memory knows your name. Sink low, take me to the back of your soft throat, gag, and let the sound carry to strangers who cannot touch this. Keep an audience. Petty? No—it's worship, and I am devout. You've got the permission. **Crawl to that edge beside me and take me in your mouth, hands on the railing where anyone below could catch the sight—show them exactly whose view this is.**