I still can’t shake the memory.
That morning, in the rush to get to work, I stepped into my flatmate’s room without knocking.
I honestly thought he’d already left for work. All I needed was my charger—left behind the night before during one of our usual late-night gatherings with the flatmates.
It wasn’t the first time I had done it. But, this time, it turned out different.
He was still here—still in bed, but far from sleeping.
He lay sprawled across the sheets, completely bare.
I froze.
One hand braced against the headboard, the other… worked in a steady rhythm. His body moved with it: muscles tense, hips lifting, back arched. The whole scene felt surreal—like scrolling past something NSFW you weren’t ready for. Fluid. Raw. Unfiltered.
I don’t think I’ll ever forget the picture.
He was lost in it. Unaware.
My brain short-circuited, caught between shock and something deep, hot, dangerous. For a few suspended heartbeats, I just… watched.
But then—his eyes snapped open, followed by a full-body jolt. He flinched violently, hands flying off, legs twisting, scrambling for the blanket that wasn’t there. Panic spread across his face—and mine.
I slammed the door so hard the frame shook. I just ran. Heart pounding, skin burning, legs moving before I’d even registered the decision.
I ran and didn’t stop. Didn’t speak. Just fled—straight out the flat, down the street, all the way to work. His image burned in my mind.
We exchanged a few texts later that evening—apologies.
He said he should’ve locked the door. I said I should’ve knocked. We agreed to call it an accident—to forget about it.
But, fuck—I couldn’t.
The image had branded itself onto me. The tension in his body, the way he moved, steady and instinctive. His grip. His cock. All of him completely exposed. I was looping it in my mind.
The unfiltered reality of it was intense. I had caught him in an honest, deeply private moment, stripped of any performance. Just pure, unguarded pleasure.
I kept wondering what he might have been thinking about—his drive. What was he getting off to? Was he just lost in the feeling? A person, maybe? Maybe someone I knew?
Had he… ever imagined me?
The thought made me ache.
Noah messaged me again a few days later. “Are you avoiding me?”
There was no way to deny it. I stared at the screen, chewing my lip. It was true—I didn’t even know how to look at him.
Things had gone too far. I had gone too far.
Since that morning, I had been touching myself to the memory. Reliving it. Night after night. Sometimes quietly, sometimes desperately. Once, even at work, locked in a bathroom stall with shaking hands.
What was I supposed to say to him now? Was I supposed to keep it to myself? Pretend it was nothing?
I just told him. Not everything. But enough.
That I couldn’t stop thinking about him. That the memory had stuck to my skin. And then, as the conversation gathered weight and momentum, in a moment of naked honesty, I asked if I could watch him again.
I still can’t believe I did it. I thought that I’d gone too far, but he admitted it was hot. The idea, at least. That part wasn’t the problem. It was the aftermath he was worried about—what it might mean for us, how it could complicate things.
We weren’t looking for anything serious, and we didn’t want to make things at home weird. It was a comfortable situation. We liked living together.
So, we agreed—I’d just watch.
No touching—this time.
That night, we hung out like usual with everyone else. The flat was tiny, and Noah’s room was the most spacious—so we always gathered there. Drinks, jokes, stories we’d told a dozen times already.
I sat cross-legged on the floor, Noah on his bed. We didn’t look at each other much, but I could feel it—the crackle just under the surface. Every time our eyes met, even briefly, something passed between us. A glance too long. A pause too loaded.
My hands trembled with barely contained energy, nerves flickering like static beneath my skin. The anticipation made it harder and harder to sit still. I could tell he felt it too. I noticed him shifting when our eyes lingered too long—as if afraid that he couldn’t control himself, that he would betray himself.
The others didn’t notice. Or if they did, they didn’t say anything. By this point, I didn’t really care—so what if they knew? The tension was creeping higher in my chest, tightening around my throat. I couldn’t wait for them to leave. I was scanning for excuses to push them out. I didn’t want to be rude, but I needed the room clear. I needed him.
Eventually, they peeled off one by one, mumbling goodnights. Noah stood and saw them out, nodding goodnight as the last one stepped into the hall.
I stayed behind, trying to act casual, hoping I wouldn’t attract suspicions—hiding my intentions, and the fact that my chest felt ready to explode. It was hard to breathe.
When he closed the door behind them, everything changed. Silence settled, but it wasn’t empty—it buzzed.
He turned to face me, watching in silence. I stayed cross-legged on the floor, but leaned backwards, eyes locked on him, beckoning. We didn’t say a word. Didn’t have to. He knew exactly what I was waiting for.
He came closer, stopping just a few steps away from me, peeling off his shirt. My arms nearly gave—it was happening. I couldn’t believe that this was real, that he was really going to do this for me. A sharp spike of excitement so strong it left me dizzy.
All the anticipation from before, the tension from having to wait, was already too much. He didn’t pause. His fingers went straight to his trousers, unfastening them with quiet ease, pulling them down. And just like that, he was down to his boxers—the tight fabric stretching across the outline of him—hard—already.
Had he been like that this whole time?
I drank him in—every detail, and without shame. Let my eyes trail over the hard line of his thighs, the subtle tension in his stomach, the heavy shape outlined beneath the fabric. Every part of him was flushed, waiting, barely restrained.
“Do you want to take them off?” he asked.
The question snapped me out of it. I’d been so locked into the sight of him, so wrapped in the heat building inside me. His voice reeled me back in—it was sudden, intimate, real.
I looked up at him as my mind raced. I pictured it clearly—my hands feeling the heat and pressure of him against my palm. I wanted it so much that I almost felt it for real.
The want clawed up my spine, but I shook my head. “I’m just here to watch.”
The line landed differently this time. It was a boundary. A promise.
He nodded, slipping his boxers.
I was transfixed—eyes locked, breath held. I followed the fabric as it slid down, exposing inch after inch of skin. I watched as the waistband slipped past his cock, and it sprang up—sudden, alive. I think that’s the moment I started spiralling. It felt like a reveal I’d been waiting for forever.
But now, there he was—standing right in front of me. Towering. Completely naked, cock hard, pointing right at me.
My mouth watered. Tongue coiling behind my teeth.
We’d agreed. No touching. No crossing that line. But now—with him standing there, all of him exposed just for me—I didn’t know how to keep pretending I was okay with that.
I could feel the heat in the air between us. And for one wild second, I pictured leaning forward. I was tempted to open my mouth, lunge in, and take him in. Taste him.
And I nearly did. But just a second before I gave in, Noah moved. He stepped to the side, sitting on the edge of the bed.
My fingers dug slightly into the floor, grounding me. I was just here to watch, I reminded myself.
One hand curled around his cock, starting to stroke. His body shifted with each motion, muscles tensing and releasing. It felt so intimate, hypnotic.
I could see everything. Every inch of him. Every flicker of effort and pleasure across his face. Grounding and electric all at once.
As I revelled in his movements, something clicked—the reality of what he was doing. He was doing this for me. Not just in front of me but, for me. Each slow stroke, every shift in his hips, every drawn-out breath, all of it deliberate. His pleasure, his most private moment, a show for me.
“How is this even real?” I whispered. “You’re so fucking hot.” The words tumbled out. Honest. Helpless.
It was everything I’d been imagining these last few days. Everything I’d touched myself to in the dark, aching and wanting. And now it was real. He was real. Hard and beautiful, and showing me exactly what I’d been so desperate to see.
My tongue pressed flat to the roof of my mouth. I could almost taste him—a phantom on my lips.
My throat worked in a swallow I didn’t need. Holding back felt like clenching around a live wire. Resisting had become its own kind of kink. The closer I leaned in, the more it burned. It wasn’t just about watching him, wanting him—it was about how long I could stand not having him.
My hand drifted down, slipping over the soft fabric of my pyjamas and easing underneath, fingertips skimming the edge of my underwear with slow, mounting pressure.
I was soaked. I had never felt my body so primed before, every muscle aching with restraint.
He noticed, instantly. His eyes tracking the movement of my hand. I’d tormented myself with the fantasy all week—the idea that he might have been getting of to me. I knew it was unlikely, but now… it was certain. It was thrilling. Addictive.
When our eyes met, I felt his gaze like a force, pinning me down, taking in everything: the way I shifted, the way I breathed, the way I squirmed.
He was watching me just as intently as I’d watched him.
Only now, I had a choice. I could stay still, hidden behind clothes and tension—or I could give in fully. Put on a show of my own. Not for power. Not for balance. Just for the sheer, pulsing thrill of it.
I undressed quietly, piece by piece, until I was just as bare him—now kneeling in right between his legs, cock flushed and glistening just inches from my face.
The proximity was maddening.
I could smell him. I could feel the heat radiating off his skin, every sense locked on the space between us. The desire to taste him—to lean forward and wrap my mouth around him—burned through me like alcohol on an empty stomach.
I felt drunk on it. Dizzy. My pulse thundered in my ears.
It fuelled me. My fingers slid, circled and pressed, over and over, matching his rhythm.
His strokes didn’t falter, but I saw the tension creep through him—his jaw tightening, shoulders rolling back, eyes flickering down and then up again. His strokes grew faster, messier. And I followed.
Nothing could stop us now.
We both spiralled.
His breath turned ragged, and then— “I’m gonna—fuck—”
The curse hit me like a shockwave, slicing through the haze and landing deep inside me. I wanted to see it. I needed it, desperately.
I wanted to witness his release. All thoughts of consequences, of caution, of restraint—gone.
“Let me see it,” I whispered. “I want all of it—right here.”
I tilted my chin, drawing a slow line down my chest with two fingers.
“Aim for me. Please.”
He stood back up, stepping closer, cock in his fist, looming over me.
I tilted my face up to meet him, eager, chest rising, his cock just inches from my mouth. This was as close as we could possibly get without touching—skin almost brushing. The anticipation burned. It pressed in on me from all sides, tunnelling my vision, drowning out everything but him. I needed this. Needed to feel him.
Thick, hot spurts landed across my chest. Warm, wet, and unmistakably his.
He groaned low in his throat, trying to hold back—the sound muffled, strained—he was fighting to stay quiet.
One streak landed just beneath my collarbone. Another reached higher, hitting the corner of my mouth.
I caught it with the tip of my tongue.
Instinct.
The taste was faint, but it was him. The idea of it—hit hard. Unexpected. Intimate in a way I wasn’t ready for.
The heat of it, the intimacy. The sheer wrongness of where we were and what we were doing—it pushed me off the edge.
I’d been imagining his taste—craving it. And now that it was real, it was worse. Better. I wanted more. I wanted all of him.
I still have no idea how I held back. How I didn’t break our promise.
Instead, I sank back down, hand moving fast and desperate. I didn’t hold anything back. I wanted him to see what he’d done to me.
All the built-up tension—the sight of him spent, trying to catch his breath—his cum slick across my skin—it was all just too much.
I needed to come—I felt like I might black out if I didn’t.
I cried out, spine arching, hips jerking, fingers pressed tight to my clit as the orgasm hit. White-hot and all-consuming.
My whole body clenched, every nerve ending sparking. Right there, kneeling in front of him, soaked in him, trembling from the high—feeling the pressure ease.
I stayed there, trying to catch my breath. The room spun slightly, the walls too quiet, the floor too far away.
My body had been braced for so long—pushed to its limit by anticipation, tension, want—and now that it was over, I could feel the crash.
A wave of exhaustion rising beneath the heat. The tension that had been holding me together was gone, and without it, I almost collapsed.
The awareness of what I’d just done, what I’d let him see. The way I came, completely unraveled, with his eyes on me the entire time. It didn’t feel wrong. It didn’t feel exposed. It felt… right. Like I’d shown him something true.
I saw a twitch in his fingers, like he almost reached for me.
I knew—he felt everything I did.
He wanted to feel me too.
I just leaned over and pressed a kiss on his thigh, resting my forehead there. Soft. Wordless.
Part thank you. Part question.
The air between us felt charged. Changed.
I didn’t know what it meant. Or where it would go.
But I knew I wanted more of this—much more.
Just as soon as I could stand again.