Watching (Him)
He pulls on the cord by the wooden doorframe, and light floods the bathroom.
Dressed in a plain white tee-shirt and old faded jeans, he pauses for a moment in front of the splash-speckled oval mirror.
His eyes are a deep, piercing blue, and his thin pale lips are pursed closed, hiding that beautiful smile from my wandering eyes. His bare feet make no sound on the neat, patterned mosaic floor tiles and a mop of unruly curly blond hair sits atop his head, spiralling to a small, gold, hoop earring in the soft lobe of his left ear.
I watch him closely.
My hungry gaze, fixed on him.
Moving slowly, he opens the doors to the shower and turns on the hot tap. The shower head bursts into life; steam starts to fill the room.
As he waits for the water temperature to rise just enough to mix a drop of pain in the ocean of pleasure, he reaches with both hands to the back of his neck and pulls the white tee over his head, baring his torso.
The fading tattoo on his left shoulder reminds me of our past, and the scar on his right forearm is several shades of skin tone lighter than the rest of his weathered, powerful frame.
He stretches his arms up towards the ceiling, locking his fingers and cracking his knuckles.
A single curl falls across his face as the light catches the early evening stubble on his jawline, and already my mind is racing.
How would it feel, to stare into those blue eyes again? To caress that face, to run my hands through his hair whilst he rests his weary head on my legs? How would that freshly-grown, ever-so-slightly greying facial hair feel between my thighs?
How would those lips feel on my skin?
The water is almost hot enough, so he unbuckles his belt, unzips his fly, and allows his jeans to drop to the floor, the metal buckle making a hearty clunk on the tiled floor. He kicks his feet clear of the discarded jeans, and another quick one handed test tells him the water is now hot enough, so he slides his fingers inside the waistband of his fitted black boxer shorts, and eases them to the ground.
I struggle to contain a gasp as I catch a glimpse of him.
It’s as magnificent as ever.
I start to salivate a little, an uncontrollable reaction.
He steps through the glass door and into the shower cubicle. The steaming jets bounce off his skin, leaving drops of water to slalom down his back, some casually, some with a greater sense of urgency.
Taking a step forward, he stands directly under the shower head, allowing the water to wash the day from his face. His eyes are closed and he is holding his breath, lost in the moment.
Exhaling, he tilts his head slightly forward allowing the water to soak his hair; the tiny droplets hang momentarily from the ends of his curls, each drop twinkling in the light and framing a thousand reflections.
A small moan of pleasure escapes from his lips as the jets find a way through his mass of hair, and penetrate to his scalp.
Raising his arms, he rests his hands against the tiles, allowing his head to drop further. He moans again as the water bounces off the back of his neck, and I can almost see the tension cascading from the base of his neck and between his shoulder blades, falling like a waterfall at his feet.
Washing away his sadness.
His pain.
He stands in the water. Dead still.
Enjoying the warmth. Pushing out the cold.
He stays like this. In a trance, almost, as the hot water beats a regular pattern on his reddening skin.
I could watch him like this forever.
Perhaps I will.
He lifts his head as though it is made of concrete, shaking the shower haze from his mind, and the drops from his hair.
Blinking the water from his face, he extends his left arm, and reaches for the shampoo.
The bottle looks so small in his bear hands, and I remember what it feels like to have those hands pawing at my clothes, desperate to free my flesh.
He squeezes the bottle, collects the creamy white liquid in the palm of his bare hand then carefully puts the bottle back in the shower rack, before rubbing the shampoo into his hair, his fingertips spiralling a way through to his scalp.
His fingers move in small circles, his touch both at once gentle, yet laced with a forcefulness that meets no resistance. He teases the shampoo into a white bubbly lather that slides gently down his shiny torso.
Each fledgling stream finds its own path; some drifting, some racing.
One, directed by his collar bone, trickles down his chest and across his abs, before snaking down to his hip and inching along his powerful thigh.
Another flows the other way, his raised arms allowing the lather to creep across his shoulder and down his back, hugging the shape of his muscles either side of his spine as it plots a course over the terrain of his body, before tumbling over the curve of his ass.
Flowing, naturally.
Easily.
The foamy currents are soon disrupted by a steaming tsunami as he steps under the water and carelessly washes the shampoo from his hair, closing his eyes as the lather floods over his face.
Eyes shut tight.
Baby you can’t see me with your eyes closed.
I want to touch his face, to open his eyes.
Baby I’m right here.
He blindly gropes for the bottle of conditioner, and I want to touch his outstretched fingertips.
Wiping his face enough to clear his eyes, he squeezes the conditioner directly onto his head, and puts the bottle back onto the shelf. He pushes his hands back into his hair, this time pressing with more force, working his fingers more deeply, more aggressively, as if trying to push something from his head, from his mind.
Head back under the water, his body is now covered in a soapy, creamy lather. He rubs his face, before allowing his hands to run over the rest of his body, his conditioner-lubricated fingers gliding without friction across his glistening skin. The hair on his chest grows darker in the wet, as his hands rub bubbles into his armpits; the edge of his thumbs brush across his nipples, before his hands run down his body, and this is what I’m waiting for.
I bite my lip in anticipation.
He squirts a burst of shower gel into his hand, working the gel into a lather.
He rubs across his pubic hair, and down into his groin, before working around to his balls, his rough hands turning gentle.
He slows down, takes his time.
I see him start to grow.
I’m holding my breath.
The bubbled lather starts to run down his semi erect cock.
Slowly at first, he starts to casually massage himself. Using his left hand, he pulls his foreskin back, before using his thumb to roll it back across the tip of his cock. He repeats this motion a few times, and I can see his cock growing hard in his hands.
I know how that feels, in my hands.
It gets hard.
It grows.
It lengthens.
It thickens.
Fuck.
He uses both hands, one hand wrapped tightly around the base, the other working his shaft.
I look at his face and his eyes are still closed.
His head falls back and water splashes into his mouth. He lets some seep in, before spitting it out. It hangs momentarily on his chin, before being washed away. He clasps his hands together around his meaty shaft. His strokes are still long and slow.
His breathing becomes more heavy as his grip tightens. Stroking faster, his movements become less deliberate, less methodical.
More urgent.
His eyes are still closed, and the beads of water hanging from the ends of his curls are now dripping with intent.
He grunts.
A deep, throaty, groan, and I know he’s close.
I always loved that noise.
He pumps his cock faster still, the blood pumping through the veins popping in his forearms.
The steam clings to his biceps.
Beads of sweat start to form on his face.
He’s breathing hard.
So am I.
His arms working like pistons as he pumps his cock.
Harder and faster.
Harder.
Faster.
Gripping tighter.
He groans again.
Lost in the moment.
I lick my lips, wonder if he’s thinking of me. Of the things I did to him. Of the things I let him do to me.
His left hand stays wrapped firmly around his cock. With his right hand, he traces a path across the rivers, his fingertips dancing across his chest. Finding his nipple, he pinches hard, the resulting pain causing him to gasp.
He pinches again, harder, and the growl that escapes his lips melts me.
He rubs his thumb across his red nipple, more tenderly this time.
His left hand is still working hard, his cock now the full focus of his attention.
Of my attention.
Every breath is laced with a grunt, and this much intensity only means one thing.
His feet inch apart, his strong thighs bracing him in position.
He lifts his right arm and leans it against the glass.
He’s ready.
I’m ready too, baby.
He works his cock hard, grits his teeth, and with one final howl of pleasure borne deep in his bones, allows his orgasm to erupt.
A huge load of cum explodes against the shower door, followed by another, then another.
His guttural growls fill the space between us as he keeps stroking, and a fourth rope splatters against the glass.
He’s breathing hard. Vocal breathing. Noisy, satisfied breathing.
He gradually slows, still stroking firmly, milking every last drop from his beautiful cock.
Enjoying every second.
The veins in his hands bulging from the exertion, blood still coursing through his entire body.
His cock in his hand.
His beautiful hands.
Fully drained, he finally relaxes his grip. His shoulders drop, as if all the tension in his muscles has just been released. His cum slides down the glass door. The water continues to cascade at his feet.
He controls his breathing. Slows his heartbeat. Opens his eyes.
Do you see me?
He pulls the shower head from the bracket, and rinses the cum from the glass. His fingers help the jets of water, and within moments, all evidence of his love is washed down the plughole. He gives his face one final splash under the shower head, before rinsing the remainder of the lather from his body.
Cleansed and sated, he turns off the water, and opens the door. He steps out and pauses momentarily, standing naked on the cold tiles, in the stark fluorescent light.
Inadvertently, like a statue.
I wish I could freeze this moment. To run my fingers over every inch of him. To spend my eternity wrapped in his warmth, and his scars.
To make him hear me.
To make him see me.
He pulls his towel from the rail and wraps it around his waist. Pushes his hair from his face, tucks a rogue curl behind his ears. He doesn’t look in the mirror.
Footprints on the floor.
He turns out the light.
And just like that
He’s gone.
If you would like to hear this script in the wonderful tones of Fleur Rathbone 🇬🇧 🎙️, please follow this link:
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