[Hurricane works himself hard, hand moving over his cock like he needs the touch desperately. The sound it makes as he tugs, increasingly urgent, is wet and fleshy, the motion slicked by the precome that trickles down from the head in lazy trails]

A-ahh, god. It feels - feels so good. I need - just a little more. I'm - I'm right there -

[On every upstroke, he catches at that spot beneath the tip with his thumb; he shudders up into it, biting hard at his bottom lip, quite unable to muffle the soft whine. It isn't long before he's drawn up tight and shaking, again - whimpers, and gasps, the motion of his hips stuttering to a stop]

Please - Please please please -

[Just like before, nothing happens]

[The whine he makes then is almost plaintive; his hand redoubles its efforts, working him harder still]

[And that's about when Rye mentions that the audience is getting off on this]

[His cheeks flush dark, and his hand stutters and slows. He can't quite bear to pull it away, despite the sharp thrill of humiliation - can't quite manage to stop himself from touching]

[The dilemma doesn't last for long, though, because Rye's flipping him over on the bed, so that he's even more on display. The covers hide his blush, but they do nothing to hide the way his cock twitches - the way he struggles against Rye's hold to try and resume jerking off. The words, when they come, are muffled by the mattress:]

Oh, jesus, that - yes, god, put it in already, I need - need you in me. Touch me, fill me up, let me - let me jerk off, god, I need it so bad -