sink, his entire body humming with the pleasure that radiates from his crotch. He won't come now, he won't give in, not yet. Not alone. Downstairs then, where he'll try to think of something other than the stretch and pull of latex across his skin. But each footstep is a spark that ignites his blood, each movement cranks his lust up another notch. He barely makes it down the stairs, gasping as he descends, grabbing at the rail to keep from passing out from sheer ecstasy. At the foot of the stairs he has to catch his breath, the suit is so tight, it pinches him in all the right places and his whole body aches with the need for release. Somehow he makes it across the living room to the couch. His hands are drawn to the bulge at the front of his suit as if magnetized -- he can't stop touching himself. Again and again he brings himself to the brink of orgasm, but each time he manages to bite it back, hold it in.

Wait for Master, he tells himself. It takes all the strength he has to keep that thought foremost in his mind. It'll be better together, don't do it alone, he said not to come, he said to wait ... somehow, incredibly, Stefan forces himself to wait.

Minutes pass, each one an eternity. Stefan sits on his hands as Master told him to, palms down to keep from rubbing his fingers along the crack of his ass. He watches the clock on his VCR and the green numbers blink at him like staring cats. Seven o'clock comes and goes, eight running to catch up behind it, nine looming on the horizon like a death sentence. By nine thirty every part of him beats in time with his heart. How much longer? Another moment more and he'll explode.

When the telephone rings in the kitchen, Stefan feels the front of his latex suit dampen with a quick spurt of pre-cum. "Shit!" That was too close. Let it ring, he thinks as one hand absently begins to rub at his crotch, but after several minutes of the insistent noise, a thought occurs to him. Master. Launching himself off the couch, Stefan staggers into the kitchen and answers the phone with a breathless, "Yes?"
In his ear, Master purrs, "Did I set you off?"

"Almost," Stefan admits. He leans back against the wall, sated just hearing his Master's rough voice. "Where are you?"

Master counters the question with one of his own. "What if I said I can't make it tonight?"

Discouragement floods Stefan -- he wants arms around him, kisses across his brow, someone else's fingers in him for once. Is that asking too much? "Why not?" he asks. It sounds like an accusation but he doesn't care. "I'm waiting --"
"Good boy," Master says.

"What?" Stefan asks, confused. Then it hits him and he has to ask, "Is this some sort of game to you?" The thought angers him -- what if this guy is laughing right now because he got Stefan so worked up just waiting for him to show? "Don't fuck with me, Master."

A lengthy silence stretches between them and Stefan fights the urge to apologize. He listens to Master's breath, tries to imagine what might be going on behind those crystal clear eyes. It seems like forever before Master finally speaks. "This is not a game," he says, and Stefan believes him. "It's a test. I've met lots of guys who say whatever