Is there ever a more depressing feeling than when you have lost your phone charger. I say lost, but I knew exactly where it was, I could picture it, sitting proudly in the wall socket of the table by the big bay window in the Whitehorse pub. It had been a good night, but we’d all left quickly after the news had filtered through on the student group chat that there was a party on Gypsy Lane.
I doubted for one moment that it was still there, my guess was that I’d probably be wasting my time to go back. I imagined that some scumbag opportunist would have had it in their pocket within minutes of me leaving.
But fifteen per cent battery, for God’s sake; how long was that going to last? How long until I disappeared off the radar, forgotten.
I yawned and stretched out in bed while trying to figure out a temporary solution. It wasn’t the end of the world; I could buy a new charger, but it would have been an annoying waste of twenty valuable pounds. I was alone in the house having heard my housemates leave earlier. Surely one of them had a spare charger somewhere.
And so, in my short, off-white Van Halen T-shirt and pink kitty-kat knickers, I began my somewhat desperate search against time, sensing the power drain from my phone with each passing minute. I looked first in the kitchen, opening and slamming shut the chipped, white-painted drawers and cupboards in impatient exasperation.
Moving on to the gloom of the small cluttered living room, I threw back the heavy-lined curtains and let the autumn morning’s dull light in. I checked all the hidden power points and behind the cushions. Throwing seat covers on the floor and probing the nauseating depths of the upholstery, I found nothing but a few pound coins and a handful of sweet wrappers. My search, unfortunately, drew a blank.
I shared this lovely old rickety three-story Victorian building in Oxford with five other students. We were a pretty diverse bunch: boys, girls, black, white, straight, gay, ticking all the boxes. And I loved them all like the brothers and sisters I never had. The house itself was obviously in drastic need of a makeover. Cracks in the plaster snaked their way across the walls of every room of the building, but I adored our temporary home.
My next ports of call were the bedrooms. Even though I was convinced that I was alone in the house, I tapped on each door before entering and quickly checking the power points and dresser drawers, but each time I again left empty-handed.
None of the bedrooms hid any secrets from me because there were no secrets between us. There can’t be, living and sleeping so closely together in the same house. We knew everything about each other. We’ve shared beds and on occasion boy and girlfriends.
To discover my housemate Gemma’s exotic collection of sex toys in her bedside table came as no surprise to me. My room was right next door to hers and I’d lost count of the nights where our vibrators have sung out in harmony as I listened expectedly, waiting to hear Gemma’s moans turn to that beautiful whimper she gave as she came.
I was very close to Gemma; we shared many of the same interests; food, alcohol and sex. I found out early on that she has a bit of a thing for me and I admit I played on it a little. It appeared to be a bit of a mission of hers to convert me into a lesbian, and if the mood took me, I was more than willing to oblige. On more than one occasion, I enjoyed the wonderful pleasure of her experienced tongue and fingers between my legs and even experimented as my virgin tongue reciprocated.
I liked it. The taste, the smell, the way she wrapped my hair in bunches in her hands, gently guiding my mouth to where she wanted me, then holding me in place as I reached her sweet spot, savouring the heavenly moment as her body tensed and her juice ran onto my tongue.
My search was exasperatedly coming to an end, as I went from room to room, only to leave empty-handed yet again. The next, and second from last room was Tom’s. Knocking on the door, I opened it expecting it to be deserted like all the others, but as I took one step inside, I recoiled in shocked embarrassment.
There he was lying on the bed with his back to the door. His bed was confusingly positioned in the middle of the room with his head uncomfortably propped up by two pillows, where traditionally his feet should be, his feet against the wall. And he was stark naked.
I froze in the doorway, expecting him to turn and notice me at any second and for us to share the most mortifyingly awkward moment of our lives. But he didn’t.
The room was silent apart from the dull inaudible hiss from the headphones that he wore. His laptop rested on the bed to his righthand side, while the screen showed two men. A young fair-headed guy, whom I observed very much resembled Tom, both in stature and appearance, was kneeling on the floor with his hands tied behind his back.
An older, muscular man stood before him thrusting his thick cock in and out of his young captive’s mouth, the angry distended veins clearly visible running along its length. The act appeared aggressive, brutal even. The restrained boy helpless to resist as his tormentor forced his full length into the boy’s mouth and ultimately down his throat, visibly making him gag.
Tom lay back masturbating, oblivious to my presence and completely caught up in the scene before him. I should have left; I know I should. This was a private moment and I really shouldn’t be here, I should have left and closed the door behind me, but I couldn’t move, I was rooted in the no man’s land between the landing and Tom’s bedroom.
His hand moved slowly; one moment massaging his surprisingly impressive, shaven ball-sack, before cupping the exposed head and drawing the foreskin over his swollen pink helmet.
His cock was lovely, beautiful even. Not too big, but nice, perfect. A cock that I imagined you could actually enjoy having in your mouth. A tear of pre-cum appeared from the eye, and I watched, totally captivated as he gathered the fluid on his middle finger and smeared it around the shiny pink head, gently tracing a line around the swollen ridged glans at the edge.
My eyes nervously danced between the back of his head, the screen of his laptop, and his cock. Time was frozen at that the moment as I stood there, the unwelcome guest.
On the screen, the young fair-haired boy was now lying back on a bed, his legs spread wide by his partner’s strong hands with his head buried between. The intricate tattoo of a devil with angels’ wings covered his muscular back from his waist to his shaven head.
His tongue invaded the boy’s anus, darting in and out like a rod as he prepared the boy for his fate. I could almost feel that initial, uncomfortable sting, as first one, then two of his thick fingers were inserted, slowly pressing into the boy’s tight saliva-lubricated hole.
It was no secret that Tom was gay; he didn’t advertise it like some, but we knew. He wasn’t a pride-marching, LGBT flag-waver like Gemma, always advocating for gay rights. He lived his life his own way, and we accepted that without question.
I compared him with the young man in the film and couldn’t help but wonder if that was his role in his relationships, the subservient to the stronger man. He had had boyfriends over, but hardly ever the same one twice, and as I thought about it these men mirrored the other man on the screen almost exactly.
They were mostly older, gym types with broad shoulders and bulging biceps. Was this his thing, I wondered? His kink? Being dominated? He was great fun to be around, especially after a few Mojitos, but he chose to keep his private life exactly that. I could only imagine his reaction if he knew that at this moment, I was standing in the doorway to his bedroom watching him masturbate.
I had never witnessed a man, or woman for that matter, masturbate alone, and it was curious to study his actions. How he alternated between gently brushing his fingers across the soft skin of his shaven scrotum, callously teasing his already erect and straining penis, prolonging the final moment mercilessly. And then vigorously rubbing his cock, seemingly to the point of no return, then stopping just in time, denying himself release.
The scene before him now showed the shaven-headed man holding his young lover down, his hand around his throat, as he slowly and deliberately fed his huge cock into him, inch by excruciating inch. Tom’s reaction was immediate and intense as he increased the pace, his hand abandoning the tease and urgently wanking his cock, mimicking the rhythm and aggression of the men in the film.
The natural impulse inside me, and one that I struggled to contain, was to fully enter the room and assist. The desire to take my friend’s cock either with my hand or into my mouth until he climaxed was incredibly strong, as was the overpowering urge to touch myself. I instinctively knew that he was close, his breathing had become short and soft barely audible moans imitated from the back of his throat.
On the small screen, the young fair-haired boy’s large erect cock tapped his taut stomach like a drummer beating time to the brutish thrusts of the stronger man who loomed above him, fluid leaked and spraying onto his tanned six-pack.
I was completely engrossed and must admit that I found the whole scenario erotic in the extreme. I could feel my hard nipples pressing against the soft material of my T-shirt. The ache between my legs also begged for attention.
A muffled cry bled from inside Tom’s headphones as on the small laptop screen the younger man came and ejaculated his seed over his stomach, causing the older man to also release himself, spraying the boy’s torso and face with his cum.
I was then left to focus my attention solely on Tom, determined not to miss a thing. I held my breath and watched in anticipation; my eyes riveted to the prospect before me.
A bullet of bodily fluid shot from deep inside him, landing high on his hairless chest, and then a tense pause as I waited, holding my breath. The urgency with which he continued to pump his cock was exhausting, his hand a blur as I waited for what seemed an age before the final, all-encompassing climax finally arrived.
Stream after stream of his delicious creamy spunk surged from his engorged cock, coating his stomach and running into the well of his belly button. Holding my hand over my mouth, I watched my friend enjoy the overwhelming rapture of his orgasm, totally lost in the moment.
His right hand continued apace, reminding me of an old boyfriend who became increasingly annoyed at my habit of letting go of his cock as soon as the first signs of orgasm left it, not realising at the time that I was ruining his pleasure.
Gradually he slowed and began to come down from his beautiful orgasmic high, his cock twitching in his hand as the last of his sperm oozed from inside of him and drizzled down over his hand, matting in his thin wispy blond pubic hair.
Suddenly, I became acutely aware of my precarious position and made my exit as quickly as I had arrived, softly closing the bedroom door behind me and making my way along the dull hallway to my bedroom.
My timing was perfect, as I immediately heard Tom’s bedroom door open and the bathroom door opposite open and shut. The shower was turned on and I imagined him cleaning the cum from his body, massaging the silky shower gel into the trimmed pubic hair and along the length of his now deflated willy, washing the evidence of our secret shared moment down the drain.
Tom never found out that I had watched him that morning, and even though I came close on a couple of drunken occasions, I never told a soul.
Until now.
P.S: My phone charger was still in the wall socket of the table, by the big bay window in the Whitehorse pub when I returned later that afternoon.
