Randy takes stock of his house and his life.
All the characters are over 18.
I hope you enjoy.
Thanks, yet again, to LarryInSeattle.
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Bill didn't take it well when I called him Monday morning and told him I wouldn't be in for the next two weeks. I had fourteen weeks of vacation built up. The car factories might be gone but I worked under a union contract. There was, theoretically, no limit to the vacation time I could accrue. They couldn't take it back and when I quit or retired, they'd have to pay it out. In fact, I was doing them a favor. Bill was still pissed but that's because he's a miserable fuck stick. He's as high up in management as he'll ever go and he knows it. We had a couple of months before the holiday business would start up and even longer before it would explode. For perhaps the first time in my life I don't feel guilty about taking advantage of someone.
It takes me forever to get to sleep. The realization that my old, until now, reliable stand-by technique isn't working made it even harder to get to sleep. I can't get images of Matt out of my head. Thank God it was only Matt. I don't picture, nor do I wish to, Matt and my son having sex.
I decided to try my pre-self-hypnosis sleep remedy - jerking off. I find I can't focus on Matt. When I do, I remember he is off with another man, a man who happens to be my son, and that it was my idea. My mind keeps wandering back to the video, the one with Leon. It was easy enough to edit out Mary Beth, because in my vision there was no Mary Beth. In my vision, my life is free to take a totally different course:
We were roommates. Me - city, show off, had to be the center of attention. Leon - farm, shy, earnest, not frightened but with no idea what to do with his feelings or how to proceed. We were thrown together at the whim of the housing department's room assignment algorithm. We circled each other cautiously at first. I was going to say like two boxers but there was no antagonism, just caution and for my part, a strong sense of attraction that made me even more nervous. It was Leon, the shy one, who, in the end, was the one brave enough to stop circling.
Lying in the dark, in my quiet house, alone my vision is as clear as memory:
It had been almost casual, casual enough to write off as happenstance if challenged. Our dorm room was part of a two room, four-man suite with a shared bathroom between the two rooms. Leon came out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist. There was nothing unusual about that. He always crossed to his small dresser, rubbed deodorant under his arms, combed his hair, then he would pull his underwear on, underneath the towel, before removing it and hanging it up. I'd watched, unobserved so I believed, this ritual every morning of the ten days we'd been roommates.
Not that morning. He walked straight to his closet and pulled the towel off. He folded it, unhurriedly, and draped it over the towel bar on the front of the closet door. My eyes hadn't known where to focus, on his smooth back, his butt, or his legs. A quarter turn to his left would have taken him to his dresser, his toiletries, his mirror. He turned to his right, toward our beds. He didn't pause but I imagined that his eyes had darted toward my bed.
His dick hung limply between his legs, dangling from a nest of thick dark curls. There was hardly any hair on his belly, just a tiny upside-down V that pointed toward his belly button. I watched him in the mirror, nothing more, that morning. I could see his eyes, glancing in the mirror, not at his reflection but at the reflection of my bed. I did my best to give no indication I was watching. I was lying on my side so he couldn't see my erection under the sheet. When he turned back he was hard. He didn't look up. He simply pulled open a drawer, grab a pair of boxers and pulled them on. Other than the tented boxers, the rest of his morning ritual was unchanged.
I told myself not to read too much into what had just happened. He was in a hurry. He had a dream about his high school girlfriend, except we'd talked enough for me to know he hadn't left a girlfriend behind. The next morning it was the same, only after hanging up his towel he crossed to the window, at the foot of my bed. I was on my side again; it was hard to see him and I didn't want to risk turning. Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement that might have been that of an arm moving in such a way as to suggest the arm's hand was pulling at a dick but I couldn't be certain. What was certain was that his dick was hard when he crossed to the mirror. After he combed his hair, he turned slightly, examining one side of his face and then the other in the mirror, as if checking out his profile or the adequacy of his shave. As he twisted, looking at his face, his dick swayed. My eyes followed.
When he came out of the bathroom the following morning. I was on my back. I had my hand over my cock, holding down my hardon. I kept my eyes closed but not as tightly as in the past. My eyes followed him, from underneath my half closed lids, they tracked him as he folded and hung his towel and walked to the window. His dick was already hard. There was little risk of him being spotted from the window. Our room was on the back side of the building. Our view was of a deeply pot-holed alley that led to the dumpsters. Beyond the alley, a fence and trees separated us from a run-down apartment building filled with students who had fled the dorms. It was a more desolate view than the backyard that lay in my future.
As he stood, looking out the window and looking at me out of the corner of his eye, I moved my hand from atop my hardon. The next time he glanced, my sheet sported a tent of its own. He made a quarter turn and stopped pretending not to look at me. His thumb and finger player with his boner. I did nothing more than let him see my tented sheet.
Thursday morning, the fourth day, when he came out of the bathroom, my sheet was barely up to my waist. It was already tented. Leon crossed to the window but didn't look out. He stood at the foot of my bed. My eyes were half closed. He had to know I was watching. His cock bobbed like a metronome that set the tempo of my own heartbeat. It was hypnotic. He pulled at his dick a few times and then let it go. He stretched forth his hand, and taking a hold of the sheet, very slowly pulled it back, as if he imagined I were still sleeping. I felt it slip past the head of my cock, then the shaft and balls. I was totally exposed. I laid there, not moving, not opening my eyes. After a moment, he crossed to his dresser and got dressed.
On the morning of the fifth day, my eyes were half closed but I'd kicked the sheet off. My cock was standing, rigid, above my belly. He tossed his towel onto the foot of his bed and crossed to the foot of my bed and stood there, staring. He didn't touch himself. In my head, and in the quiet, dark room of my middle-aged reality, I reached/reach for my cock. I was/am excited enough I could/can lube my hand with my precum. Leon stood/stands silently and watched/watches me jerk off, as I had done every morning after he left. The only movement in the room was/is the soft rise and fall of our breathing and the motion of my arm and hand. I came/cum mutely, even my hips were/are quiet. I couldn't/can't help flinching when the first spurt hits my cheek. When I was/am spent, my hand fell/falls to my side. Leon got dressed and leaves.
Normally, I would wipe the cum off my chest, or if I was too tired, simply roll over and go to sleep. But not this night. My mind continued to unspool a memory that never was.
On the sixth day he got up and went into the suite's bathroom as usual, though neither of us had a Saturday class. When he crossed to the foot of my bed, I scooted up and leaned against the wall at the head of the bed. My eyes were open and glued to his. I didn't speak. But I was more intense than the day before. I didn't stroke my cock. I pounded it. When I came, my hips lifted off the bed. Before he could turn to dress, I brought my hand to my mouth and licked the cum off. I scooped the cum off my chest and belly and shoved my fingers in my mouth like a starving man. My eyes never left his face. I realized we've traded roles. He'd reached his plateau. I held out my left hand, palm up, fingers open, welcoming. He moved to the side of the bed. I didn't grab at his dick. I rubbed the side of his leg, barely reaching far enough around to touch the side of his ass. He shivered. I moved my hand higher, skipping his ass, and rubbed his back. I rubbed lower and lower until my fingers brushed over his ass cheek. He didn't pull away from my touch. I stroked the front of his thigh, letting the back of my hand and fingers brush against his balls. I rubbed his belly; my forearm brushed his erection. When my fingers closed around his shaft, he shivered again but didn't pull away. I slid my hand over his shaft and as I slid it forward again, he came. He'd not been jerking off while alone in the room, not based on the output of his heavy balls. Streamer after streamer of hot, watery thin, jizz covered my belly and bed. Jizz hit the wall beyond the bed and began to run down the industrial, off-white cement block wall. I resisted the crazy urge to roll over and lick the wall. I was about to pull him towards me when his eyes sprang open, startled, as if waking to a fearful racket. He stepped away, opened his mouth but closed it without speaking and hurried toward the dresser. He was dressed and out the door before I could think of what to say. His cum, in my imagination, tasted as sweet as honey.
I couldn't study, couldn't concentrate. There are over ten-thousand students on campus, most of them commuters but it's too large a place to wander at random looking for him. I took my own shower, loving how the water re-awakens the slickness on my belly. I smelled my fingers and hand before washing, burning the memory of his cock scent into my brain. He's not back when I came out of the bathroom. I pulled on some old sweats and a tee shirt. I tried to read. I couldn't.
