White Noise - C/Z (NC-17)
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White Noise
by Serai
The steam makes tiny, shining droplets on Zeke's wrist as his hand slides down his waist, along the treasure trail to slip under the brass button of his 501's. The water is a pounding roar canceling out everything beyond the bright sizzling of the bathroom tiles. He barely notices the rough scratch of denim along his shins, then he dives into the hot waterfall.
Skin. The steam opens him up, opens his pores, his sinuses, he can feel himself hungry again by leaps and bounds. The tips of his fingers salivate; even his hair is ravenous. Wrists in his hand, arms bucking. He wonders if he could let his mind go, if the hunger could stand in for thought. Sweat in his mouth from the nape of a pale neck. Usually a fast, efficient scrubber, now Zeke absently slows his movements, distracted. Sounds.
With a gasp, he shakes himself out of the moment, out of the bright stream of images glittering behind his closed eyes. His dick strains, hard under the spray. He takes it in hand and leaning against the tile wall, jerks off quickly, with as little pleasure as he can manage, not wanting to waste any of the heat. Wanting to make it last.
His hair is still damp as he leans against the window of his second-floor bedroom, looking up the block. He watches as Casey crosses the intersection and starts towards the house. He thinks about pale skin, and how deceptive Casey's body is, how much strength waits coiled under all that shrinking passivity. He feels himself hot, poised in his tight skin, in his studied relaxation, happy. Yes, happy.
As Casey walks up the driveway towards the front door, Zeke twirls the handcuffs on one finger, and starts to grin.
Chapter 4 of High Contrast
Chapter 5
White Noise
by Serai
The steam makes tiny, shining droplets on Zeke's wrist as his hand slides down his waist, along the treasure trail to slip under the brass button of his 501's. The water is a pounding roar canceling out everything beyond the bright sizzling of the bathroom tiles. He barely notices the rough scratch of denim along his shins, then he dives into the hot waterfall.
Skin. The steam opens him up, opens his pores, his sinuses, he can feel himself hungry again by leaps and bounds. The tips of his fingers salivate; even his hair is ravenous. Wrists in his hand, arms bucking. He wonders if he could let his mind go, if the hunger could stand in for thought. Sweat in his mouth from the nape of a pale neck. Usually a fast, efficient scrubber, now Zeke absently slows his movements, distracted. Sounds.
With a gasp, he shakes himself out of the moment, out of the bright stream of images glittering behind his closed eyes. His dick strains, hard under the spray. He takes it in hand and leaning against the tile wall, jerks off quickly, with as little pleasure as he can manage, not wanting to waste any of the heat. Wanting to make it last.
His hair is still damp as he leans against the window of his second-floor bedroom, looking up the block. He watches as Casey crosses the intersection and starts towards the house. He thinks about pale skin, and how deceptive Casey's body is, how much strength waits coiled under all that shrinking passivity. He feels himself hot, poised in his tight skin, in his studied relaxation, happy. Yes, happy.
As Casey walks up the driveway towards the front door, Zeke twirls the handcuffs on one finger, and starts to grin.
Chapter 4 of High Contrast
Chapter 5