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“Slower now,” Yasha commands.
Tony sobs, gasps, but obeys. He slows his stroke down to what feels like a crawl, reaching the head again and going back down. His fingers are coiled tightly around himself, but not too tightly. That isn’t allowed. Up and down, up and down he strokes until it feels as if he will explode for want.
“Stop,” Yasha says.
Tony has to bite his tongue to keep from protesting. From begging. He knows from experience that it won’t work. Not now. Sometimes Yasha gets into these kinds of moods. Ones where he doesn’t want to be touched, can’t stand it for anything. Times when he needs to be in charge of something, anything, useful. He needs to control something completely.
This is obviously where Tony comes in. Yasha has no problem giving him pleasure as long as he doesn’t have to touch. And Tony is more than happy to obey - in this at least. This isn’t the first time he’s played this role. He has no problems with it, as often as it comes up. If it were all the time it might be different, but now -
“Start again. Play with your head. Run your thumb over the slit. Spread the precome all down your cock. Get it nice and wet.”
Now Tony obeys, glad to be able to touch again. His head is sensitive and red. Touching it, even as lightly as he does, is almost too much. The precome is practically spilling out of it, dripping down his cock without any help. Still he doesn’t hesitate to spread it around. When that is gone he goes up for more.
A sob escapes as he gently thumbs over the slit, caressing it. Even this is enough to overwhelm him. He arches, mouth open and panting, as he continues. More noises escape as he circles his head, letting the precome pool out. It wells up and he gathers it up to spread it back down. He collapses back onto the bed as he does, shaking, overwhelmed and so very turned on.
Yasha is lounging at the foot of the bed, watching. His eyes are heavy and grave as he commands Tony. Still there is an air of satisfaction about him as Tony obeys.
“Faster now. Keep playing with your head as you move.”
“Thankyouthankyou,” he breathes, doing so gratefully. This time is one of the longer times, Yasha drawing it out as well as he can - which is very well - and he’s already been brought to the edge twice now and denied. He’s long since noticed a correlation between Yasha’s moods and these sessions. The darker it is, the more Yasha wants to itch out of his own skin, the more time this drags on. Useful in a way.
His hand shakes slightly as he moves. He has to be careful not to go too fast - he can’t come without permission. It’s not as if Yasha will punish him for it, this isn’t like that, but it leaves both of them in sour moods. They found that out one time by accident. It’s not something he wants to repeat.
“Move down to your balls. Cup them.”
Tony lets them weigh in his hand. They are warm and oh so sensitive. They are as red and swollen as his cock is. They throb insistently in his hand. Still he doesn’t move.
“Stroke them with your thumb. Keep going until you cannot stand it any longer. Be gentle.” His stare is dark and intense.
So Tony strokes them until he is quite literally sobbing with it. His callous catches painlessly on the soft skin. The heat and pleasure from this alone is enough to make him go mad. His cock leaks even more precome as he continues to obey. Slowly the pleasure builds until it is right there. Until all he needs is another stroke. Another touch. He pulls his hand away with a whimper.
Desperately his hips try to chase the friction. They thrust uselessly into the empty air. He can’t come yet. He can’t. But oh how he desperately longs to. He whines, thrusting again before getting himself under control. He shakes with the effort.
“Good. Very good,” Yasha praises, “Start stroking again. Easy.”
Tony gasps something that should be a word, but isn’t. The tremors are getting even worse now. He honestly isn’t sure how much longer he can take this. His cock is red and hard and needy in his hand. His fingers slide along it easily in more of a tease than anything else. It is so wet that there is practically no friction at all to his touch.
“Keep stroking. Play with your balls some more.”
Tony throws his head back as he brings his other hand up to obey. His head hits the backboard and he sinks further into the pillows. It’s too much, too much, too -
“Faster.”
It’s with real gratitude and dread that Tony obeys. His fingers tighten as they stroke. His other hand applies more pressure to his balls. It is all wonderful, too much, not enough, too much - oh. He clenches down on his jaw, trembling. Oh he is getting close. Getting close again. So -
“Move your hand away from your balls. Stroke around the slit before continuing to stroke yourself.”
Tony can feel the coil, the heat growing as the base of his spine. He arches again, back even further, unable to help himself. Unable to take it. Every part of him feels as if it is on fire, not just his cock now. His needy, sensitive cock. The only sounds in the room are his desperate breathing and his hand on himself. It echoes crudely against the walls. Everything else is gone. Nothing else matters. Nothing except -
“Faster.”
And oh this has to be the end now. It has to. Tony might explode if he has to stop again. Become the first case of spontaneous combustion via denial. His breath is coming out as small, desperate sobs now. The fire is consuming him. Papers will be written about him. Scientists will -
“Stroke yourself until you come.”
The thought is lost. Probably for the best. Tony isn’t exactly the most coherent right now. He speeds up more, stroking himself with true desperation. He can’t - he can’t - almost - oh - oh - he comes with a scream.
“Very good,” Yasha praises.