1EPISODE 1
My name is Luca, and I work at the Forty-Second Street Bathhouse.
Nights here hum with heat and the echo of voices.The smell of sweat and cedar, chlorine and cologne.It's a place built for men who don’t always speak their needs out loud.I mop floors, fold towels, and keep the steam rooms running, but mostly I watch.
Tonight, the crowd’s thick.Steam clings to the tile like breath on glass.I’m passing through the hallway between the locker room and the wet lounge when I catch a sound, low and urgent.A soft thud against tile.A sigh that curls into a groan.
I pause just inside the shadow of the doorway.It’s Room 6.The door’s ajar, and I don’t hear anyone complaining, so I step back, unseen.
Two men.One sits on the bench, legs spread wide, back arched.His hands grip the edge of the wood like it’s the only thing keeping him from unravelling.The other, tall with broad shoulders, kneels between his thighs, dark head bobbing in a slow, deliberate rhythm.Each movement is precise, almost reverent, like a form of worship.
I’ve seen the guy on the bench before.He comes in on Thursdays, always alone, and never stays long.But tonight, he’s losing himself.Giving in to his baser needs.And the way he grips the bench… I wonder what he’s gripping for in his life outside this place.
The light from the red bulb above casts them in sin, their silhouettes gleaming with sweat.I can hear the wet sounds, the broken breaths, the way the man on the bench whispers, “Don’t stop.”His voice is a rasp, gutted with need.
The taller one doesn’t.He speeds up, rougher now, fingers digging into hips, pulling him in deeper.The man on the bench jerks, hips lifting off the wooden slats as he gasps something I can’t quite hear, but I know what it means.I’ve heard it before.
I fidget, aware of the tightness in my pants.This isn’t the first time I’ve watched.It won’t be the last.It’s part of the job, in a way.Keeping an eye out.Making sure things don’t get out of hand.
Or maybe I just like what I see.
The taller one lifts his head, and our eyes meet.It’s just a flash, but it’s enough.He doesn’t break rhythm, but there’s a curve to his lips now.An invitation.I swallow hard, feeling my fingers twitch, but I stay still.For now.
I shift my weight against the wall, still half-shadowed, barely breathing.My hand brushes the waistband of my pants, a reflex more than a decision.I don’t touch.I can’t.It goes against our rules… technically.But I feel the ache.The kind that settles low, deep, and dangerously.
I don’t move.Not because I’m frozen, but because if I take a step, I might go in.
And I never go in.
That’s the rule.Myrule.I clean up the mess.I refill the lube bottles.I keep the front desk stocked with towels and condoms and pretend that the moans echoing down the hall don’t affect me.
But they do.God, they do.
I shift again, pressing the edge of my thigh against the wall, just enough discomfort to snap me back.But it doesn’t help.I’m hard.Full.My mouth’s gone dry.
The man whose cock is being swallowed turns his head and regards me with a raised brow.An invitation to join them.I give a curt shake of my head, disappointment heavy in the air I breathe out.
Glancing around the dark hallway, I see I’m alone.Who would know if I participated?There are no cameras here.The hallway is a blind spot.Slowly, I reach inside my pants and wrap my fingers around my hard length.A stroke or two to settle into the moment before giving in fully.
My fist follows the rhythm of the man on his knees, moving in sync with his head.I can almost feel the wet slurp of his mouth, or I imagine I can.Hot, moist, incredible suction, and a teasing scrape of teeth.His saliva dripping down my balls.
I squeeze tighter, making the sensitive head of my cock engorged with blood, and when I release my grip, my release follows, coating my hand in warm sticky seed.I wish I were the one seated inside with a willing mouth between my legs, licking up my release like an offering.
When the man on the bench cries out, the sound is raw and final.He slumps back, chest heaving, legs twitching.The taller one rises slowly, licking his lips like he’s tasting the moment, not just the man.When their eyes meet, no words pass between them.
Inside Room 6, the taller man leans in and presses a kiss just below the other’s belly button, slow and possessive.His fingers skim up trembling thighs, firm but careful, like he knows exactly what this man needs and exactly how to give it.It’s not just hunger; it’s expertise.
The man on the bench moans again, softer now.Spent, but not done.His hand reaches down to tangle in the other’s short, dark hair.Not to guide, just to feel him.To hold him there.To say…Don’t go.
They stay like that for a moment, flesh against flesh, breathing synced, chests rising and falling like waves.I watch the sweat bead down the back of the kneeling man’s neck.It glints red under the light.Sacred, almost.
I know I should walk away.I tell myself that every time.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
Not until they both look up and acknowledge me with a satisfied smile.
