Felt writes (slight editing from me):

"'Why don’t you take a picture of this?'

Later I’d ask myself a thousand times over: why’d you keep looking? Hadn’t you seen enough? Why did you obey?

I looked.

He got his [manhood] out. He was rubbing it furiously, and I could see the slit stretching open wide when his thumb slid over the head. And I don’t know if I looked at his face again, but I could feel how it had changed—the leer had left and he was pure concentration, pure sick lust, his eyes boring into me but not seeing me at all. Seeing whatever it was he wanted to see.

I had seen and done some things myself, with Josh. And I had tried to do them right. I hadn’t been a pro, even though what we both wanted to happen eventually did happen. My hand had felt too big, small, rough, soft, clumsy.

This hand looked like it had never done anything else. Like muscle-memory was in full effect.

'You sick [deleted],' I whispered."

I think I'll pass on reading the rest of that. There is something to be said for leaving something to the imagination, perhaps.