Touché
I have this thing with watching people. Alright, not people. Just him. 'Him' who is so sexy and sophisticated and unbelievably suave and so out of my league, even though I'm pretty darned well off for a mere teenager with no experience in that field. He doesn't know about my little fetish--either he's incredibly naïve or he does know, but never brings it up, for fear of embarrassing me. Sigh. That is so him, you know? Always putting others before himself.
Even a psychotic stalker boy, like myself.
But he doesn't know what he does to me, how the sound of his voice, all hoarse and gravelly like he's been a chain smoker since the age of two, how it sets me off the edge and into pure ecstasy. Maybe it's because of the fact that well, I am a teenager and my hormones are all over the place and whatnot.
Or maybe the fact that he's just a sex god and I want to fuck him.
I don't know anymore.
I memorized all of his routines. I know he wakes up at promptly six thirty five in the morning and that is followed by breakfast at six forty. After that comes a shave and he brushes his teeth, at seven ten. Any time in between seven eleven and twelve fifty is unaccounted for, so I just call it 'leisure time.' He usually reads something select from his study or debates politics with anyone who's willing to listen to his warped ideas and views.
I listen.
Naturally.
I know that at two thirty he likes to relax with a bath. He adds a precise amount of bubble bath powder to the tub. I once asked him why he never magically conjured the bubbles and he said he liked to watch the tub froth up on its own. "A quirk," he told me, with that gregarious, sexy, sly half grin.
Today was the day, I decided. I decided that my feelings were not a passing fancy. I was going to do something about it. I glanced at the clock. Two twenty five. He's situated on a chair, reading the newspaper. I'm in the same room, polishing my wand. I grin at the thought of all the sexual innuendos I could easily come up with.
He gets up. I know where he's going. My eyes follow him out of the room and I can hear his footsteps down the hall. Up the stairs. He's going to collect a cigar and his towel from his room and then go into the bathroom. I have to hurry. Putting my wand down, I reach underneath the couch for my Invisibility cloak. If I hurry, I might be able to catch him on his way to the bathroom.
Throwing the cloak over myself, I quietly make my way up the stairs. His bedroom door is ajar, I know he's still inside. I step inside, not even breathing. He's got his cigar in hand and a towel draped across his forearm. I go to clear my throat, so I can tell him how he drives me crazy, mad, insane--but something stops me. I can't.
Surveying the room for a moment, he gives a satisfactory nod and crosses the threshold. Shit, I think, but I follow him. He steps inside the bathroom and closes the door behind him. I quickly grab it before it shuts on my face and follow him inside. My stomach is in knots. He peels off his shirt and his pants, throwing them into a messy heap on the floor. The cigar is still in his fingers, the towel hanging on the doorknob. I sit on the toilet, cloak still wrapped around my body.
Shedding his boxers, I am faced with the realization that the love of my life is naked in front of me and doesn't even realize it. I want to laugh out loud insanely, but I bite my lip as he bends down and turns on the water. Closing my eyes, I don't even realize that I'm hard, but my hand has slipped inside my own pants and I quietly--oh so quietly--undo my buckle. I grab my erection and squeeze, just for a minute, in an attempt to make it go down.
It doesn't. Hell, I don't even want it to.
I hear the swooshof the water and I know, without even opening my eyes, that he has filled the tub with the bubbles and I can even hear them popping, it's so quiet. I rub myself more vigorously, but I can't get a good grip because my palms are sweating profusely. Shaking, I wipe my sweaty hand on my pants and thrust it back inside my boxers.
Hands tightening around my cock, I can hear him exhale the cigar smoke. I open one eye and see him sprawled out in the middle of the tub, bubbles acting as attire and a cigar in between his lips. I inadvertently let out a slight whimper and bite down on my lip hard. But he didn't hear anything, because he rests his head on the porcelain and closes his eyes, enjoying the warm sensation of the water.
Stroking myself harder, I wonder for a brief second what if would feel like if it was my cock in between lips, instead of that blasted cigar. How good it would feel, to have his wet lips and skilled tongue sliding over my manhood and engulfing me entirely. I quiver and pull on myself harder, knowing that I'm going to come in the period of thirty seconds.
He lets out a slight moan himself, and I open my eyes suddenly, to see that he, too, is pulling on his cock. A name is forming at his lips, a name that is not my own. I feel a pang of jealously. Who could he be thinking of? My lips start to form a name, too, his name. I find it quite odd and definitely ironic, that we're both sitting in the bathroom, masturbating, murmuring someone's name, someone who is a victim of our tainted fantasies.
Shutting my eyes even more tightly, I try to imagine him muttering my name over and over, him turning me over in his mind, touching me, raping me…flesh on flesh, skin on skin. He's thinking of me now, wondering how soft I feel or how rough I can be, how good I can make him feel. He's stroking his cock, thinking of me.
And that's it. I lose it. I start to convulse as quietly as I can, as a load of sticky come envelopes my hand and I pray to God that the Invisibility cloak can cover it up, because he can't see it. He can't see me. As I slowly and gradually reside back to my normal state, he's already slipped out of the bath and wrapped the towel around his middle.
Beads of water are still residing on his shoulders and arms, his hair is slicked back and his wet feet make a silly noise on the hard tiles. And suddenly, it falls on me like a pile of bricks: He wasn't saying my name, no matter how hard I try to convince myself, he doesn't know that I lust after him obsessively and he doesn't know that I was watching him bathe and pleasing myself all at the same time.
And that's that: I'm left there, sitting on the toilet as Remus Lupin leaves the bathroom, my hand still immersed in my hot seed.