"I'm licking my hand." He was sitting on the floor of an elevator that was either going up or down, maybe both or maybe neither.
"That's my hand." Brad stated.
Albert carried on. "I'm licking my hand. I'm rubbing myself through my pants."
"It's beyond our reach, Brad. It has begun, so now we must finish."
Brad's eyes widened at the betrayal of his own body. He was hard from the hands of that foolish, naïve, "I write poetry" Markovski.
"I'm freeing my mind to enjoy the sensation."
The soft, even tone of Albert's voice was lulling to Brad as he spread his legs.
"I enjoy the sensation of my dick rubbing against the expensive fabric of my pants."
Brad groaned, it was terrifying and exhilirating to have this man inside his head.
"I slide and twist, slide-twist until I feel my balls tighten. The universe wonders if I'm close?"
A shift of hips is the answer.
"Yes, I am close. One, two, three strokes and I come over my hand."
On cue Brad spasms in his hand. There's a gasp from the two older women in the car that were part of the moment with them.