Even though he’s speaking to Donovan.
He’s quiet, moving silently and gracefully as a cat in the glow of the TV, but Donovan fusses when he’s picked up. I know why, too; I can smell smoke, stale sweat, and a medley of clashing perfumes on him.
So this is what a sex club smells like.
There’s a bottle, a burp, a diaper change, and another burp before Donovan’s back in the crib and Blaise heads to the shower. I tell myself it’s a good thing, that I don’t want that stench to be in our bed, but that comes with a bright, blood-slashed pang of undeserved anger.
He really did go to that place.
The door to the bathroom is open a crack. Blaise messed with it, loosened and shifted some things to make it latch. We realized quickly, however, that this studio is so poorly constructed that there’s no proper ventilation in the bathroom. The fan just makes a loud sound, nothing more. Sowe both leave the door open when we shower if we want any hope of getting dressed in there afterward.
It usually works fine, but now, in the quietude of the night, with only the hushed Japanese voices and the rush of water muffling any other sounds, I hear Blaise in the shower. And yes, he is noisy in the shower. If nothing else, the poor quality of the shower head means we’re absolutely battered with the water pressure. It feels good, and with the abuse his body has been taken since he started training again, it makes sense that he would display his relief audibly.
But this is a different sound.
I think . . .
I tell myself to bury my head in the pillows to drown out all the sounds. For everything else and all the ways he’s seen me and helped me in the most intimate, humbling ways, he’s been respectful of my privacy whenever possible. So, too, he has the right to his privacy, and it’s hard to come by in this tiny studio.
I tell myself not to listen, not to pick apart not just his sounds but the splashing, not to listen for a tell-tale rhythm hidden within. The shower’s loud enough, though, that it would be imposs—
Oh, no.
I hear it, the rapid cadence of a man taking care of himself, at first just a pulse, a beat, but then it blooms. Perhaps I imagine it, but I swear I can actually hear the sound of slick flesh stroking over slick flesh, an entity entirely separate from the shower raining down on him. His vocalizations become more distinct, too, like it was crazy for me to have a second’s doubt that this was the sound of him working his cock and not simply appreciation for the shower.
Dammit.
Dammit, dammit, dammit.
I turn away from the bathroom door, telling myself that if I’m not facing him, I can’t peek, but that only invites my imagination to take over. Living in tight quarters means I’ve seen nearly every inch of him. Not quite full frontal, but I’ve seen all the puzzle pieces. And there was an incredibly unfortunate time when he was naked and bending over, and I accidentally walked in on him. I’ve literally seen his ball sackandhis butthole.
It should have been gross. Blaise isn’t John. He’s not perfect. He has smooth flesh rounded over his abs, dulling the lines, and a pinch of fat at his waist. He has sparse, uneven chest hair and some hairs he’d be better off without. There are splotches of pale flesh on his right thigh and his left shoulder, birthmarks or vitiligo.
But when I got the full backside Monty from him, I thought some things. I remembered all the crazy shit John talked me into doing that I would never admit to anyone else, and yeah, I thought that there could be an alternate reality where Blaise was here for me, and if he wanted me to, I’d lick his butthole.
I’m not proud of that, but there it is.
And now, listening to him jerk himself off in the shower, I’m picturing those firm ass cheeks of his clenched tightly. I’m picturing his biceps bulging. I’m wondering if he uses his right hand, which he seems to favor in a lot of activities, or if he’s using his $10,000,000 left hand that he throws the game-winning footballs with. I can hear exactly how fast his hand slides along his cock, but I’m wondering if they’re short, tight strokes or if he’s covering his entire length.
I’m wondering about that length. I know the color of the tip, a deep, rich plum, and have a good idea of how long it isflaccid, but now I have to wonder how long it is when it’s erect. His hands are giant, so do they dwarf his cock? Or are they perfectly scaled, his cock thick and meaty and heavily veined on the palm of his hand?
I gasp in shock as I suddenly clench up. My body’s been so wrecked from . . . everything, honestly . . . that when Dr. Saad gave me the green light for sex last week, I laughed out loud. She asked me about post-partum depression and directed me to websites where women talk about how different intimacy can look after pregnancy and give advice on talking to partners about it. It was so off the rails in the moment, but, of course, everyone assumes that Blaise and I are just hiding our relationship in the most ineffective way imaginable.
And if Blaise wants sex with me, they’re going to do everything they can to make sure it happens. What Blaise wants, Blaise gets.
Well, Blaise went to a sex club and then came home and jerked off in the shower, so he’s obviously doing what he wants. And I’m imagining him with one hand on the wall, looking down at himself as he handles his cock. Is he facing away from the water, his back taking the brunt of it, or is he turned into the stream?
That’s what my brain goes for, illustrating the scene with softer lighting than the blinding vanity bulbs and detailing his skin with rivulets of water snaking down his arm, his chest, his back. Real Blaise probably has a shower cap on, but in the fantasy, it’s saturating the twists he’s maintained since going back to training. I’ve nearly asked him a dozen times if I can help — the idea takes me back to high school days, when even then, my sister and I bickered constantly, but we buried our feuds every Sunday night to braid each other’s hair — but I’m worried he’ll snap at me, so I fantasize of him ruining them now.
I imagine the water running down his face. He’s slack-jawed with the focus he has on finding his orgasm, all his attention and staying on his feet while controlling his cock, no doubt kicking in his hand.
I wince as my own toes curl. I hate how powerful an effect this stupid, inappropriate fantasy has on my own body, and I don’t know if it’s better to attempt to find my own orgasm or just accept this feeling as hope I’ll have a normal sex life one day in the far-off future.
Blaise’s soft moans grow strained, the sound unmistakable, and then he grunts. I can tell he’s stifling himself, doing what he can to rob me of knowing what it sounds like when he comes. Of course, he could be the sort that just grunts, but I don’t think he is. I think he wants the world to know when he’s satisfied.
And I’m too scared to touch myself, not when it was so recent that everything from the waist down felt like a medical disaster. So I curl up in a smaller ball than usual and will myself to fall asleep.
I fail at that, but at least I’m able to will myself not to cry when Blaise finally gets into bed and immediately curls up behind me with an arm around my waist.
