I'm holding my phone like it's a live grenade, which it basically is, staring at this tiny preview image that's already seared itself into my brain permanently.
The cock is hard. Obviously. Flushed dark at the tip. There's a vein running along the underside that I can see even in this shitty resolution, and I'm memorizing these details like I'm going to be tested on them later.
Which I won't be. Because I'm not going to watch this video.
I'm absolutely not going to watch this video.
My thumb hovers over the play button.
Don't do it. Don't fucking do it.
I press play.
The video starts and Devon's hand moves, slow, deliberate, a long stroke from base to tip, and I hear him. This soft exhale, barely audible, that hits me like a gut punch.
I pause immediately, heart slamming against my ribs so hard I'm worried I'm having a cardiac event.
The frozen image on my screen shows Devon's cock, mid-stroke, a bead of precum visible at the tip, his thumb swiping through it on the way up.
I'm hard. Instantly, painfully hard. My dick went from zero to aching in approximately half a second, and now I'm sitting in my car in the arena parking lot, in broad daylight, with a boner and a video of my coworker jerking off paused on my phone.
This is still fine. Everything is still fine.
I should delete this. Right now. Delete it and pretend I never saw it and go home and take a cold shower and never think about this again.
But I'm still staring at the screen. At the way his grip looks firm but not too tight, confident, like he's done this a million times—
Stop. Stop thinking about how many times Devon has jerked off. That's not helpful.
Except now I'm thinking about it. About Devon in his dorm room, maybe lying on his bed, maybe sitting in a chair, hand wrapped around himself, making those sounds—
I press play again.
Just for a second. Just to—
Devon's hand speeds up, and there's another sound, this quiet hitch of breath that might be the beginning of a moan, andI watch his hips shift slightly, thrusting up into his own fist, and the angle changes just enough that I can see—
I pause it again.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
My hand has somehow migrated to my lap without my permission, pressing against my cock through my jeans, and I'm two seconds away from jerking off in a parking lot like some kind of deviant.
I can't do this.
Devon doesn't know it's me. He thinks he's sending this to some random stranger on the internet. Some faceless guy who's "figuring things out." He doesn't know he's sending it to Ace. To the guy he works with. To the guy who kissed him in front of fifty people and got hard from it.
If he knew, he wouldn't have sent it.
Or... would he?
No. Stop. That's not the point.
The point is consent. The point is that Devon consented to sending this toNeed_Tailor_Chicago, not to Ace, and those are two different people even though they're technically the same person, and this is making my head hurt.
I look at the paused video one more time.
Then I delete it.
