Was… was Marco… gay?
Was my best friend gay, and he’d been hiding it? From everyone? Fromme?
The dildo was still in my hand, warm from where I’d been gripping it. I stared at it, my mind racing.
I was fully hard now. Aching. My breathing had gone shallow.
The image shifted. Not just Marco using it. But me. What would it feel like? That curve, that size, the fullness of it. I’d never thought about that before—never let myself think about it—but now I couldn’t stop wondering.
What would it be like?
What would it be like if it was a man’s cock?
My hands were shaking. I carefully wrapped the dildo back in the towel, placed it exactly where I’d found it, and closed the cabinet with trembling fingers.
No Epsom salts. I’d come in here for Epsom salts and found… that.
I left Marco’s bathroom and returned to my own on autopilot. I just stood there for a moment, trying to get my breathing under control.
It didn’t work.
I was still hard. Still thinking about Marco, about the book, about the dildo hidden in his bathroom. About the way my body had responded to all of it—immediate and undeniable and completely beyond my control.
I stripped, turned the water on hot, and stepped into the shower instead of the bath. I stood under the spray, letting it beat against my sore muscles.
But the heat did nothing to calm the throbbing in my groin.
My hand moved almost without conscious thought. It wrapped around my cock, and I muffled a groan at the contact, trying to be quiet.
I shouldn’t be doing this. Shouldn’t be thinking about Marco while I touched myself. But the image was burned into my brain now—Marco in his shower, head thrown back, using that toy, lost in pleasure.
I stroked myself faster, water cascading over my shoulders, my breathing harsh in the small space.
What would he look like? What sounds would he make? Would he be quiet, controlled, or would he let go completely?
And what would it feel like if I—if we?—
My orgasm hit hard, pleasure slamming through me. I braced my free hand against the tile wall, riding it out, Marco’s name almost escaping my lips before I bit it back.
The aftermath was immediate and brutal.
Guilt crashed over me like cold water. Shame. Horror at what I’d just done.
I’d gotten off thinking about my best friend. My straight best friend, who trusted me, who’d let me live in his house, who had no idea I’d found his most private possessions and used them to fuel my own fantasies.
Except Marco wasn’t straight. The book and the dildo suggested that.
But that didn’t make this okay. Didn’t make it any less of a violation.
I finished washing quickly, turned off the water, and stepped out of the shower. I stood there dripping, trying to make sense of what had just happened.
I’d been attracted to my ex-girlfriend Amelie. That was real. Two years together, and I’d wanted her, been happy with her. That wasn’t fake or confusion or some kind of performance.
But now there was Marco. The book. The dildo. The way it turned me on.
That was real too.
So what did that make me?
