Page 43

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Ben Stirling

Jeremiah’s house is a discordance of color. Dark shadows, moody hues. I keep meaning to ask him about the light settings, but I get so goddamn distracted when I’m around him that I keep forgetting to mention it. Tonight, the kitchen glows green, the living room blue, and his bedroom purple-pink. It looks pretty and alluring, like an invitation. A summons. A request for my presence.

Jeremiah is out of sight, his bathroom door shut. He’s doing what he does to get ready for me, and tonight, the waiting isn’t easy. It was trickier to leave the barbeque undetected than I thought it would be, and as a result, I’ve been wanting Jeremiah so hard and for so long that I can’t remember a time I didn’t.

I check my screen again, willing a message to pop up with such intensity that when it actually happens, I almost drop my phone in shock.

Just jumping in the shower. Be there in five.

Can I watch?

He replies with a laughing emoji.

I’m serious.

I want to watch you

I want to see you play with your toy.

Oh

Okay

He punctuates the message with the saluting emoji, and let me tell you, that little thing is starting to affect me the same way it does when he calls me by my full name.

I leave my post at the window and move full speed down the stairs and out the front door.

The path to Jeremiah’s house is dark, but the moon lights my way. It’s eerily quiet, with no hint of movement or life, as I slide open the glass door that leads to his living room. The TV is off, and there’s no music playing. There’s no street noise to be heard, no hum of electricity, only the faint sound of water running.

My pulse spikes as I pad through a forest of books and weave past a coffee table and sofa. I feel like an intruder, trespassing in a space that feels very different at ground level to the one I’ve spent hours and hours viewing from my bedroom window.

His room is dark, still quiet, though the sound of the water is notably louder. His bathroom door is still closed. A smooth expanse of American oak separates me from what I want. I test the handle, pressing it down in gradual increments so it doesn’t make a sound.

It gives without so much as a creak.

There’s a vanity to my right and a frameless glass shower cubicle directly in front of me. An expanse of white tile is softened by a thick cloud of steam. Jeremiah stands naked before me, a vision of muscle and skin. His head is tilted back slightly to stop water from running into his face. His hair is swept back, glossy and dark. Eyelashes dripping wet. His shoulders raise slightly when he sees me and a smile I can’t quite place quickly works magic all over his face.

Sheepish or nervous?

Maybe both.

“Show me,” I say.

He moves to the side, curving his torso so I get a clear view of the toy mounted behind him. A purple phallus that juts out from the wall. A shiny appendage I’ve seen in my mind more times than I can count. It’s right where it was the last time I saw it. In the center of the cubicle, same height as last time, maybe even the same tile.

The arousal it fuels is leaden. Forceful and heavy. A deep, hard tug that’s impossible to ignore.

“Show me,” I say again. The first time, it was a command. This time, it’s a plea. “Show me everything, baby. I want to see. Show me exactly what you do with that dick.”

The sinews in his neck tighten and his cheeks color deeply. The corners of his mouth turn up.

It’s not sheepish.

Not nervous.

It’s excited.

And horny.

He reaches for a bottle of lube tucked behind shampoo and body wash and holds it out to me, blinking as though he’s asking for permission. I give it.

He flicks the cap and pours a dollop of clear liquid into his hand. He coats the toy first, carefully and thoroughly, sliding his hand up and down it and twisting his palm over the end. When he’s done, his hand disappears behind his back.

“Uh-uh,” I say. “I want to see, remember? I want to see everything.”

He knows what I’m asking for and his dick likes it. He was swollen when I got here, thicker than usual but only semi-erect. He’s fully erect now. His balls are hanging low, but his cock is straining between his legs.

God, I like how he looks.

It’s no surprise anymore that his musculature is what it is. I expect to see lines and dents when he takes off his clothes. I expect every gram of his bulk. I know every inch of his body because I’ve spent so much time worshipping it. I know what he feels like. What he tastes like. What he sounds like. What it feels like inside his body.

He turns so he’s looking back at me over his shoulder. His upper body is twisting, tiny lines pleating on his lower back. Two subtle dimples showing. His cheeks are pink from the hot water. Blushing, like the cheeks on his face.

It turns me on so hard I don’t know if I have what it takes to stand here and watch passively as he fucks himself. I want to. God knows I want to. I want this memory for posterity. For the future. Forever. I want to watch him ride that silicone dick and jack off as he does it. I want to see him shatter and splash all over himself. I want to focus on him completely. For once, I want to keep my hands and mouth to myself and my clothes on. All I want to do is watch and learn.

His hand dips down. Water pelts his shoulders and splashes off them. Two fingers slide between pert, round cheeks as he coats his hole. He strokes his opening once, twice, three times more than he needs to.

Heat rises from my groin and spreads up my chest, up my neck, up my face.

His fingers look pretty where they are. Slightly out of place but perfect. I love how he touches himself. Skittish but sure. Hesitant because I’m watching, but intimately familiar with every curve and dip of this part of his body.

“More.” It’s my voice, but it’s low. Broken in pieces and roughly stitched back together.

He understands what I want, and his shoulder blades work as his hands disappear from view. When they return, three fingers are curled toward his palm, and two are dripping with lube. I press my hands against the glass, cold and unyielding, as I try in vain to get closer to him.

My lips part as the tip of his pointer nudges into his body. I watch, breath bated, as the first knuckle is swallowed. The second one too.

There’s a hiss in the room. It sounds almost like water running, but it’s lower. Deeper.

It’s coming from me.

Jeremiah’s back arches, hole winking at me, before two fingers sink in.

My hands slide up the glass, not stopping until my arms are raised, fingers hooked over the blunt edge of the pane, holding on like a man clinging to a ledge. It’s thick, the glass. Reinforced. Maybe half an inch of sand, soda ash, and limestone melted together and slowly cooled. A solid transparent sheet that teases and torments me.

Jeremiah straightens and turns so he has his back to the toy again. His eyes are on me like always, and that fills me with warmth. Not the kind that spreads to my face. The kind that expands in my chest until I can’t breathe.

He raises himself onto his toes, one hand on the wall as his weight shifts to the balls of his feet. His eyes go still and unfocused. His pupils dilate impossibly wide.

Then he eases himself down.