The spray hums, pitter-pattering against the glass wall, steam distorting the top of the glass, but not hiding his form from me. I see him fully beneath the spray.
His stance emphasizes the lean muscle of his thighs and ass, tapering off to a slim waist and structured back. His head is bowed as if in worship.
Worship me, boy.
Creamy, flawless skin beckons me to blemish it.
Soon.
His physique is athletic and undeniably fucking delicious. I want to devour every inch of him until he’s a quaking mess of sweat and cum.
Swiping the water from his face, he turns toward the glass, our gaze’s clashing. He freezes, fists tightening beside him, jaw ticking, dick stiffening to a salute. I stride over to the divide between us and rest my palms on the see-through barrier. Licking my lips, I groan, my mouth filling with saliva. “Touch your cock for me, boy. Show me how you punish yourself for feeling shit you think you shouldn’t,” I tell him.
He falters, his shoulders collapsing and eyes closing, but the steady rise and fall of his chest betrays him. He’s so fucking turned on, his dick looks harder than granite.
The veiny, thick length must be a good eight inches and pulsing with an ache I know too well. The tip is glistening like a juicy fucking treat begging to be engulfed by my throat.
The prolonged anticipation nearly has me smashing the glass and taking his ass roughly against the outer wall. But then his eyes open, flaring with a newfound light. Confidence and sureness he hasn’t displayed up until this point.
He grasps his cock firmly in his palm and strokes, slow and tortuous. “Are you just going to watch?” he asks, muffled by the sound of pouring water behind him.
“It’s only fair,” I say with a smirk. “You’ve seen me. Now, it’s my turn.”
Reaching out, he pins his hand where mine lay on the other side of the divider. Our eyes meet, and we stare at each other as he tugs and pulls on his dick, his thumb caressing the tip, rubbing in the juices leaking there. My cock strains against the zipper of my jeans, screaming at me to take it out and mimic the boy’s movements.
His fingers stroke and dance over his cock, working himself like he’s making a dark, edgy, euphoric riff.
His lips part as he pants and moans. Quickening his pace, he cocoons the girth in his fist, jerking with ferocity, up and down, squeezing, rubbing, embracing. His face contorts almost in agony. His moans bounce around the shower as white ribbons of cum spurt against the window, his bulging mushroom head pulsating his release all for me.
I want to lick the salty seed and fuck his face with his load all over my tongue.
He sucks at the air to fill his spent lungs, his dick softening but not going completely flaccid, then releases his dick like it’s on fire. Stepping into the spray, he turns his back to me, shame coating him more than the water.
I’m going fucking burst a vein if I don’t take care of my own raging hard cock, but he needs to know what he just did is okay.
He’s fucking safe with me.
I strip out of my clothes and slide open the door, stepping inside. The water dampens my skin in its warmth, doing nothing to cool my heated flesh.
“What are you doing?” he balks, fear glimmering in his eyes.
“Taking a shower,” I reply, ignoring him and going about washing myself, trying not to relieve the ache down below.
“Do people know about you?” he asks after a moment of nothing but the splashing of water.
“Know what?” I turn to face him.
His eyes dance over my body, lowering to my cock and back up to my eyes. “That you’re into guys?”
“If you’re asking if I hide who I am, the answer is no. I am who I am. I’m not ashamed of my sexual preference. It doesn’t define me in any other aspect of my life. It’s not a choice I made. It’s not something we can control. It’s a part of who we are, not all we are.”
“So, who are you?” he asks with a sense of urgency.
I ponder his question for a moment. “I’m a detective, a good friend, loving son. A compassionate, loyal, happy, and slightly depraved, gay man.” I take a step closer. “Who are you?”
“I don’t know,” he chokes, his eyes holding mine, sending my heart pounding. “What’s it like?”
“What’s what like?” I ask, gruffness making my voice sound like a growl.
He swallows, and I watch the movement of his throat. “Being with a man?”
The water showers down around him, providing him a sense of shelter, obscurity.
“It’s freeing.” My attention darts to his full, pink lips. “When it’s something you want, crave—when it’s a strong desire gnawing away at you, begging for release, relief, permission, it can be everything.”