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Timothee sits back. For a second he looks older than the party boy I met three years ago.
“Be careful,” Timothee says, wagging his finger slowly. Then he laughs. I laugh too…
Because Timothee is right and because it is funny. Neither of us has ever been careful with men. Or money. Or the kind of night that can turn into a warrant.
“Yeah,” I say. “Careful. That’s us.”
“You know it,” Timothee smirks.
We talk about smaller things after that. A DJ he used to sleep with. A roommate who steals oat milk. A plan to leave the city that neither of us will follow.
It helps having someone who does not flinch when the story gets ugly. When we stand to leave he squeezes my wrist.
“Text me if he turns into a horror movie,” Timothee says.
“I will.”
But I know I won’t.
We hug on the sidewalk and Timothee heads one way and I turn back into the café like I forgot something.
The bathroom is empty.
One stall. Mellow light. The kind of ornate mirror that seduces you from first sight.
I lock the door. Set the backpack on the closed lid. I then take out the paddle. It looks smaller in here. Meaner, too. I turn it over in my hands…
Stitching. Handle. The weight of it.
My mouth goes dry. I should put it away. I should go to work and be the good boy Steven thinks he hired.
Instead, I pop the button on my jeans and shove them down with my cock-hugging briefs.
“Shit,” I whisper.
Cold air. The memory of Dmitri’s hand.
“Just do it,” I say, my breath hitching.
I brace one palm on the tiled wall, twist, and bring the paddle down on my own ass.
The sound is sharp in the small room.
The sting is worse than I expected.
I gasp and do it again. Harder.
The heat blooms fast. I bite my lip and slip my other hand between my legs and grab my dick. I am already hard.
Of course I am.
I spank myself in short, quick beats and pump my cock in time with it, thinking of Dmitri.
I think of Dmitri taking this thing out of my bag in front of people. I think of him telling me to bend over his kitchen counter and count.
I cum fast.
Too fast.
