My feet are restless as I stare at the screen. For a minute. Two minutes. Three.
Did he just get bored of the conversation?
I scoff. Of course he did. He probably just—
A new message pops up, and I nearly drop my phone.
It's a picture.
A torso. A man's torso. Lean. Defined, but not bulky. Hairless.
The photo cuts off at the chin and ends an inch or two below the navel, just where a dick would be, right outside the frame.
No face. No dick. Just…body.
OnlyNewRadicals_69:to help you decide??
This is… weird. Is it weird?
I should probably close the app now. Delete the message. Delete the app from my phone.
But I just keep staring. And the more I stare, the more I panic.
Because yeah, technically it's just a picture of some random guy's torso. Nothing outrageous, nothing new.
What's new is, how my brain immediately, without my permission, superimposes Devon's face onto it. His messy hair. Piercing eyes. Those lips that rarely stop moving.
I let my gaze trail down, taking in the body again, now with a different kind of interest.
My dick twitches against the towel wrapped around my waist. Fuck.
I take in the subtle outline of muscle, the narrow waist, the vertical valley along his stomach. The defined obliques disappearing somewhere outside the frame.
The towel's getting uncomfortable. I shift one leg, adjusting, but it only makes it worse, the plush fabric brushing against the head of my cock that's now filling with blood. Fuck.
I put down my phone, close my eyes, and suddenly, it's not an anonymous torso anymore. It's Devon, standing right before me in my mind's eye, shirtless, pants hanging low. So fucking low.
Yeah, Devon's hot. How was that even ever a question?
I suck in my lips, bite down, roll my palms into fists, and last like that for maybe three seconds before my hand moves to my lap, palm pressing against the towel where my dick is now fully hard and making itself known.
This is probably not smart. It'll only make things more complicated. More confusing. But then, there's Devon's face again, in the forefront of my mind, and it's too late. I'm too fucking horny to care.
I get rid of the towel and, without preamble, wrap my palm around my cock.
Damn. I'm aching already.
I stroke myself once, slow, my hips bucking up involuntarily.
Why is this so fucking confusing?
Why is my mind refusing to come up with any image other than Devon's face and his imaginary body?
Why am I so fucking hard?
I stifle a moan even though I'm alone in my own apartment, my hand moving on its own accord, up and down my dick. For a second, I consider getting some lube. But then I imagine what Devon’s face looks like when he comes, and it's no longer necessary, pre-cum spilling from my tip, dripping down my length abundantly, easing the movements.
My hand speeds up, and I imagine kissing him, properly this time, without an audience. Taking my time. Feeling his body pressed against mine.
