Ted’s nude body is glazed with sweat, sweltering inside and out. Sweat runs down his forehead, drips from his nose. Sweat pours down his hairless chest and back, trickling into his crotch, sliding down the crack of his ass, adding its moisture to the lube that crackles in the quiet stillness as he slowly pumps his cock, rotates his hips around the dildo up his ass—and watches.
The room is dark. Dark so that Larry won’t see him, if Larry happens to look his way. Larry lives in one of the condos next door. On the top floor. Just across from Ted’s attic room in the old student boarding house. Only fifteen feet of empty air separate their bedrooms.
From his window, Ted can see into every room of Larry’s place. Directly into the bedroom; at an angle into the alcove that branches toward the bathroom, where Larry keeps his weights and rowing machine; and if he opens the screen and sticks his head a few inches beyond the sill, he can even see into Larry’s living room and kitchen.
Larry’s condo is air-conditioned, the windows always shut; but Larry likes to leave the blinds open, even at night. Ted has been watching him in secret every day since Larry moved in at the start of spring term. As spring turned to summer and the weather turned hot, and Larry started wearing fewer and fewer clothes around the condo, the watching has become an obsession.
Larry is a god. No other word will do. Perfect face. Perfect body. Perfect cock. In the last few months, Ted has had the opportunity to study every part of Larry’s body in minute detail. Dressing, undressing, watching television. Stepping naked from the shower. Working out with his weights, wearing only a sweatband and a jockstrap. Screwing his girlfriend on his king-size waterbed. And sometimes, like tonight, lying alone and naked in the big waterbed, stroking his big cock while Ted watches him in secret and does the same.
Except that Ted does it with a dildo up his ass, the biggest dildo he could find, imagining that it’s Larry’s cock stuffed inside him.
Larry is perfect. In his mid-twenties, a few years older than Ted. His hair is jet black, slightly curly, cut short; bunched into tight rings when he steps from the shower, losing its kink when he blow-dries it. His face is athletic and handsome, every feature strong and smooth. His eyes are dark and remote, his mouth broad and sensual with a slight twist at the corner of his lips, a hint of cruelty. The kind of face that seems made for a photographer’s lens; there isn’t an angle that doesn’t flatter him.
His body takes Ted’s breath away. Broad shoulders, chiseled torso, thickly muscled arms and legs. Skin like polished marble, tanned to a deep, golden luster. Too sleek and graceful to be a weightlifter’s body, too massively developed to be a swimmer’s, too large to be a gymnast’s. Packed with muscle, but all in perfect balance. Sleek and powerful, perfectly styled, like a body made by design. Like the Mercedes-Benz convertible that Larry drives.
If his cock were somehow flawed, then Larry might seem human.
But Ted has seen it. Over and over. The kind of cock he could never grow tired of looking at. Soft, it hangs heavy and thick from Larry’s crotch, almost too big, bigger than Ted’s cock when it’s fully erect. Hard, it curves up from his washboard belly like a club, obscenely thick, bigger than life. Bigger than the dildo lodged up Ted’s ass. Smooth as satin, perfectly shaped. Like his body. Like the Mercedes. Ted has never seen a cock as beautiful.
And Larry knows how to use it. On his girlfriend. On the platinum blonde who comes over every Saturday night, with her Bo Derek body and her fashion model face. Whose perfect hair and makeup are always such a mess when Larry is finished with her. Whose painted red lips open in a little girl’s moan when Larry pulls her legs apart and slips his big cock inside. Who squeals and pants, loud enough for Ted to hear through the thick plate-glass windows, when Larry turns her over and fucks her from behind, screwing in and out of both holes, yanking on her platinum hair and spanking her ass with the back of his hand. Who crouches between his legs and takes it in her mouth afterward, getting it big and stiff for the next go-round, while Larry leans against the headboard, smirking down at her and twirling his fingertips through her frazzled blond hair.
Ted imagines himself in the girlfriend’s place. Crouching on his hands and knees, holding the big slick cock in his mouth. Looking up at Larry with his broad shoulders propped against the headboard, his handsome face twisted in a smirk. Ted imagines and watches, day by day, crouching naked beside the window of his hot, stuffy room, riding the dildo stuffed up his ass and beating his meat.
Ted seldom goes to bars, never makes pick-ups at the bookstores. Most of the men he sleeps with come from the political groups on campus and the other English majors he meets in classes. Mousy, intellectual types like himself, up-front gay, aspiring to a certain dignity and self-respect that carries over into their sex. Some of them are attractive enough. A few are handsome, athletic, well built. But none of them is even remotely like Larry. Larry is a god. Larry comes from another world. Sometimes Ted thinks that men like Larry were put on this earth just to torment cocksuckers like himself.
Living next door to him for three months, able to see so clearly into his rooms, Ted knows a few things about Larry. That he comes from money—the condo and the expensive clothes he wears and the dark blue Mercedes with leather upholstery testify to that. That he’s a graduate student, studying architecture or engineering to judge from the books that line his shelves and the drafting table in his living room, cluttered with big sheets of translucent paper. That he gets up early and runs every day—it’s the thing that gets Ted out of bed, reaching over to shut off his alarm clock and seeing Larry getting in from his run, his curly black hair frazzled and damp, pushed back from his face by a sweatband, his tanktop and running shorts soaked with sweat and clinging to every muscle, clinging especially to the bulge at his crotch. That he works out with the weights after his run, every morning from eight until ten, pumping himself up till his big muscles glisten with a fresh sheen of sweat, stripped down to nothing more than a jockstrap that barely contains his big soft cock.
Larry was on the wrestling team as an undergraduate—a dozen trophies and medals are mounted atop the bookshelves. The plaques on the wall tell more: Phi Beta Kappa, a diploma with the words summa cum laude, Chapter President of the Young Republicans three years in a row. But the trophy that intrigues Ted most is the wooden paddle hung on the living room wall. A fraternity paddle, long and intricately carved, with a leather loop through the borehole in the handle. Mounted on the back is a bronze seal with raised Greek letters. Ted can make out only the first: Omega.
Maybe the paddle is only symbolic. Or maybe not. Hazing is banned, but still goes on. Some of the fraternities on campus are notoriously brutal. Some of the stories Ted has heard are hair-raising—pledges humiliated, degraded, stripped naked and sexually abused. Maybe the stories exaggerate. Or maybe not. Larry would know.
At that moment, watching Larry masturbate on his bed across the way, thinking of the paddle, imagining Larry standing above him with the paddle in his hand, Ted loses control. His cock expands in his fist and starts to shoot. His asshole convulses around the dildo. The sensation and the fantasy overwhelm him and his vision goes black.
And when it clears, when Ted opens his eyes again, his face pressed hard against the rusty screen, the first thing he sees is Larry.
Larry, lounging in naked perfection on his big waterbed, his upright cock clutched in his fist like a club—staring back at him. Staring him straight in the eye across the fifteen feet that separate their bedrooms.