Chapter 20: Shower Reckoning
Steam billowed, thick and cloying, swallowing the cramped shower stall whole. Ahmed leaned against the cool tiles, eyes closed, letting the near-scalding water sluice over his head, washing away the gritty film of carpet dust, dried baby oil, and the lingering, primal scent of sex. The heat soaked into his aching muscles, a counterpoint to the memory of the oil's cool slide and Manny’s demanding hands. He heard the shower curtain scrape back, felt the sudden displacement of air, smelled the lingering sweetness of the oil beneath the cheap citrus body wash.
"Room for one more slippery customer?" Manny’s voice was a low rumble beside his ear, barely audible over the drumming water.
Ahmed didn’t open his eyes, just grunted, shifting slightly to make space. Manny crowded in, his bare skin slick with water instantly, pressing Ahmed’s back flush against the tiles. The contact, warm skin on wet tile, was startling after the frictionless oil. Manny’s hands landed on Ahmed’s shoulders, fingers digging in slightly, massaging the knots. It felt good. Solid. Real. Ahmed let his head tip back, water cascading over his face.
"Ruined the suit, man," Manny muttered, his thumbs working down Ahmed’s spine. "Latex and carpet fuzz... tragic." His tone was light, but his touch was possessive, grounding.
Ahmed cracked an eye open. Manny was grinning, water plastering his dark hair to his forehead, rivulets running down his chest. The playful glint was back, mixed with a hunger Ahmed recognized. "Worth it," Ahmed managed, his voice hoarse from earlier cries. He reached out blindly, his hand finding Manny’s slick hip. "You started it, greased weasel."
Manny’s grin widened. "Guilty." His hands slid lower, skimming Ahmed’s soapy sides, thumbs hooking into the waistband of the soaked, ruined latex briefs still clinging to him. Ahmed tensed instinctively. "Shower’s for cleaning up, scout," Manny murmured, his voice dropping, rough-edged again. "Gotta get all this oil off." He tugged.
The briefs peeled away with a reluctant, wet squelch. Ahmed gasped as cooler air, thick with steam, hit his exposed skin. Manny tossed the sodden garment out of the stall. It landed with a wet slap on the bathroom floor. Ahmed stood naked now under the spray, acutely aware of Manny’s intense gaze roaming his body. Manny reached for the Axe body wash, squirting a generous dollop into his palm. The sharp, artificial scent of 'Phoenix' cut through the steam.
"Turn around," Manny ordered, his tone brooking no argument, yet underneath it, Ahmed sensed a familiar uncertainty, a hesitation Manny covered with bravado.
Ahmed obeyed silently, turning to face the tiled wall. The water pounded on his back. He braced his hands against the cool surface, bracing for more than just soap. Manny’s slick, soapy hands landed on his shoulders again, kneading firmly, washing away the last traces of grime and oil. They slid down his back, strong and purposeful. Ahmed closed his eyes, relaxing into the surprisingly thorough cleansing. The tension began to ease.
Then Manny’s hands dipped lower. Over the curve of his ass. Spreading soap, fingers sliding deliberately into the cleft. Ahmed sucked in a breath, his knuckles whitening against the tile. Manny worked methodically, washing away every trace, the touch clinical yet intimate, stirring the embers of desire that hadn't fully banked. Manny’s fingers brushed lower, slick with soap and water, tracing the sensitive skin behind his balls. Ahmed jerked, a soft gasp escaping him.
"Easy," Manny murmured, his breath hot on Ahmed’s wet shoulder. He didn’t stop. His soapy hand slid around, gliding effortlessly over Ahmed’s hip, fingers wrapping around his already hardening cock. Ahmed groaned, his forehead pressing against the tile. The water poured over them, Manny’s grip slick and firm, stroking him with slow, deliberate pulls. The steam thickened, the sound of the spray merging with Ahmed’s ragged breathing.
"Still slippery," Manny growled, his voice thick. "Even without the oil. Like you were made for it, habibi." His other hand slid back up Ahmed’s spine, fingers tangling roughly in his wet hair, pulling his head back slightly. "Turn around. Face me."
Ahmed turned, heart hammering against his ribs. Water streamed down his face, obscuring his vision for a second. Manny stood close, water sluicing over his defined chest, his own cock thick and hard between them. That raw hunger was back in his eyes, stripped of the earlier playfulness, pure possession. He pushed Ahmed back against the tiles, the cold shock making Ahmed gasp again. Manny’s grip tightened in his hair, holding his head steady. The relentless spray plastered Ahmed’s hair to his skull, water running into his eyes, his mouth.
Manny leaned in, his free hand gripping his own cock firmly at the base, the head glistening wet, flushed dark. He brought it close to Ahmed’s lips. "Lick it clean, sand boy," he commanded, his voice a low, guttural rasp that cut through the drumming water. The familiar slur, tossed out amidst the steam and need, sent a jolt through Ahmed – a confusing mix of shame, defiance, and intense, undeniable arousal. "Every last drop."
The water ran into Ahmed’s nose. He sputtered, blinking it away, meeting Manny’s intense, demanding gaze. The air crackled. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, the reality of the command, the crude nickname in this intimate, vulnerable space, hitting him. Then, driven by the heat coiling low in his belly and the undeniable pull of submission, he leaned forward. His tongue darted out, tentative at first, licking the salty water and pre-come from the slick head. The taste was musky, primal, mixed with the chemical tang of the body wash.
Manny groaned, a deep, approving sound that vibrated in his chest. "Yeah. Like that." He pushed forward slightly. "Get it all."
Ahmed opened his mouth wider, his tongue swirling, licking down the thick shaft, savoring the taste, the smoothness of the skin under the water’s sheen. He took the head into his mouth, sucking gently, swirling his tongue around the ridge. Water splashed over his face, making it messy, difficult. Manny’s grip in his hair tightened, guiding his head, pushing him down slowly. Ahmed relaxed his jaw, letting Manny control the depth, the pace, the relentless pressure against the back of his throat. He focused on the rhythm, the feel of Manny filling his mouth, the overwhelming sensations of water, steam, and Manny’s low, continuous growls of encouragement mixed with the crude endearments that stoked the fire inside him. His own cock ached, trapped between their wet bodies. He reached down, fumbling, needing friction, but Manny’s hand clamped down on his wrist, pinning it against the tile beside his head.
"Just take it," Manny rasped, thrusting shallowly into his mouth. "Be good. Take your king's cock, scout." The words, possessive and charged, pushed Ahmed deeper into the haze. He surrendered, letting Manny use his mouth, the water cascading over them both, making every gasp, every choked sound amplified in the small, steamy enclosure. Manny’s thrusts grew harder, more urgent, his grip painful in Ahmed’s hair. "Gonna come down that throat," he warned, his voice strained. "Swallow it. Swallow it all, sand boy." The command was absolute, final. Ahmed braced himself against the tiles, the cold against his back, the heat filling his mouth, Manny’s control complete as he drove towards his release, the drumming water the only witness to Ahmed’s total, slick submission.
The water beat down, a relentless drum on Ahmed’s skull, plastering him to the tile wall. Manny’s cock filled his mouth, thick and insistent, each thrust hitting the back of his throat, making him gag. Water splashed in, mixing with saliva, making him cough and sputter around the intrusion. Manny’s grip in his hair was iron, holding him exactly where he wanted him. "Swallow," Manny growled again, the vibration traveling down Ahmed’s spine. "Swallow it all." The command, coupled with the crude nickname and the sheer physical dominance, was a live wire. Ahmed squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to relax his throat, to accept the rhythm. He focused on the slick slide, the salty taste, the heavy weight on his tongue.
Manny’s hips snapped forward, a final, sharp thrust burying himself deep. A raw, guttural groan tore from him. Ahmed felt the pulse, the hot, bitter flood hitting the back of his throat. He choked, instinctively trying to pull back, but Manny held him fast, grinding against his face. "Swallow!" The word was a harsh command. Ahmed fought the reflex, forcing his throat to work, gulping convulsively as Manny emptied himself, the thick liquid mixing with the shower water running down Ahmed’s chin. It was messy, overwhelming, a surrender that left him breathless and trembling against the cold tile.
Manny shuddered, his grip finally loosening. He pulled out slowly, leaving Ahmed gasping for air, water streaming down his face, the taste lingering sharp and intimate. Manny leaned his forehead against Ahmed’s shoulder for a moment, his own breath ragged. The only sounds were the roar of the shower and their harsh panting. Slowly, Manny lifted his head. He looked down at Ahmed’s face – water-blurred eyes, flushed skin, wet lips swollen and parted. Something flickered in Manny’s dark gaze – satisfaction, maybe a hint of that earlier uncertainty quickly masked. He raised a hand, calloused thumb brushing away water and a stray droplet of white from Ahmed’s chin. The touch was unexpectedly gentle.
"Good," Manny murmured, his voice rough but devoid of the earlier growl. Just... good. He reached past Ahmed, turning off the punishing spray. Sudden silence crashed in, heavy with steam and the sound of dripping water. The abrupt quiet was jarring.
Manny pushed the curtain aside, stepping out onto the sodden bathmat. He grabbed two thin, worn towels, tossing one towards Ahmed. "Dry off before you freeze, habibi." He started rubbing himself down briskly, the moment of intensity seemingly shed as easily as the water.
Ahmed stood for a second, water dripping from his nose, chin, lashes. The cold air from the room hit his wet skin, raising goosebumps. He felt raw. Used. Exhilarated. Trembling slightly, he caught the towel and mechanically began drying himself, the rough terry cloth a stark contrast to the slick slide of the oil and the steam. He avoided looking at Manny, his mind replaying the command, the submission, the taste. A confusing cocktail of shame and defiant pride churned inside him.
Back in the dorm room, the chaos remained – the oil-stained sheets, the discarded Panther suit crumpled on the dusty carpet like a shed skin, the controller sticky near the pizza box. The lava lamp cast its slow, hypnotic blobs of color over the mess. Manny rummaged in a drawer, pulling on clean boxers and a faded band t-shirt. He tossed a pair of sweatpants at Ahmed. "Here. Before you drip everywhere."
Ahmed pulled on the sweatpants, the soft cotton a relief. He picked up his discarded Border Tribe tunic from the floor – it was relatively unscathed. He pulled it on over his head, the familiar fabric a small anchor.
Manny grabbed the half-smoked joint resting precariously on the edge of the desk beside Ahmed’s open laptop displaying lines of Python code. He sparked his lighter. "Medicinal," he declared, inhaling deeply before offering it to Ahmed.
Ahmed took it, the familiar ritual a welcome distraction. He sucked in the harsh smoke, holding it, letting the familiar herbal burn calm the ragged edges of his nerves. He passed it back. They smoked in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the bubbling of the lava lamp and the faint hum of the laptops. The steam from the bathroom slowly dissipated, mingling with the sweet, skunky scent of the weed.
Manny stubbed out the roach. He sank onto the edge of the less-oily side of the bed, picking up his own controller. He navigated to a fighting game. The pixelated splash screen lit up his face. "Round?" he asked casually, not looking at Ahmed, his thumb already tapping buttons.
Ahmed stared at the screen, the vibrant colors of the character select screen stark against the dim room. His body still hummed with the aftershocks of the shower, the echo of Manny’s command a phantom whisper in the steam-filled silence of his mind. The taste, the submission, the confusing heat flaring when Manny called him 'sand boy' – it wasn’t gone. It was coiled inside him, simmering just beneath the surface of the mundane act of picking a virtual fighter. He glanced at Manny’s profile, illuminated by the screen, the confident line of his jaw, the casual intensity as he scrolled through characters.
"Yeah," Ahmed said, his voice sounding normal, steady. He grabbed his own controller from the floor, wiping the sticky residue on his sweatpants. "Round." He sat down on the floor, leaning back against the side of the bed near Manny's legs. He selected his character – a swift, agile fighter. The game music blared, a jarring contrast to the heavy intimacy of moments before. Manny’s character launched into an immediate, aggressive combo. Ahmed blocked instinctively, his fingers moving on autopilot. His mind, however, wasn’t on the screen. It was back in the steam, against the cold tile, the water drumming, the command echoing. The game was moving, the colors flashing, but Ahmed was only half-seeing. The other half was still tasting salt and submission, waiting for the next unspoken round to begin. He parried Manny’s attack, countering with a swift kick. On screen, the characters clashed. Inside, the tension crackled, silent and electric, a challenge hanging in the weed-scented air between them, far more potent than any game.
The controller grew slick in Ahmed’s palms, sweat mingling with the residue from earlier. Manny’s pixelated brawler landed a brutal uppercut, the crunching sound effect jarringly loud in the tense silence. Ahmed’s character crumpled, defeated. "Fuck, Manny," he muttered, tossing the controller onto the dusty carpet beside the discarded Panther suit. "Cheap shot."
"Skill, habibi," Manny retorted, a smirk playing on his lips as he leaned back against the headboard, stretching. He sniffed the air, thick with weed and the faint, lingering musk of sex and baby oil. "Peace offering?" He nudged Ahmed’s thigh with his bare foot. "Put on Phantom Menace? The pod race scene always gets me."
Ahmed snorted, wiping his palms on his sweatpants. "Seriously? After… all that? Now you wanna watch Jar Jar?" He gestured vaguely towards the bathroom door, the memory of the shower’s steam and pressure still a raw echo in his throat.
"Hey," Manny said, shifting down the bed. He patted the space beside him on the relatively clean patch of sheet. "C'mere. Pod racing is pure spectacle. Brain candy after... other kinds of exertion." His tone was light, but his eyes held an unspoken pull, the same magnetic force that had drawn Ahmed against the tiles. "Chill out. My arm’s going numb reaching for you."
Ahmed hesitated, the ghost of Manny’s grip in his hair tightening. The game screen’s glow reflected in Manny’s dark eyes, expectant. With a sigh that was part exhaustion, part surrender to the inevitable pull, Ahmed pushed himself up from the floor. He avoided the oil stain, settling gingerly onto the mattress beside Manny. The cheap springs groaned, the scent of detergent and Manny’s skin close now. Manny’s arm came down heavy and warm around Ahmed’s shoulders, pulling him sideways until Ahmed’s head rested against his chest. The faded band logo on Manny’s t-shirt scratched Ahmed’s cheek.
"See?" Manny rumbled, the vibration humming through Ahmed’s skull. He grabbed the remote, navigating to the streaming service. The opening crawl for The Phantom Menace began its slow ascent. "Comfortable?"
Ahmed shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t make his neck ache or press his own stirring arousal too obviously against Manny’s hip. He felt ridiculous, vulnerable. The sheer domesticity of it – cuddling while watching a prequel – clashed violently with the visceral memories: the oil, the command, the taste. A nervous laugh bubbled out of him, sharp and sudden in the quiet room. "Dude," he mumbled into Manny’s shirt, his voice muffled. "This? This is so fucking gay."
Manny didn’t move his arm. He just laughed, a low, rich sound that shook his chest beneath Ahmed’s ear. He tilted his head slightly, looking down at Ahmed’s profile with amusement dancing in his eyes. "Yeah?" He squeezed Ahmed’s shoulder, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin near his neck. "And what we just did in the shower?" His voice dropped lower, the amusement laced with a familiar, dangerous edge, a callback to the heat and the steam. "That wasn’t?"
Manny’s question hung thick in the air, heavier than the weed smoke clinging to the dim room. Ahmed felt the warmth of Manny’s arm, the steady thump of his heartbeat under the thin cotton t-shirt. That wasn't? The implication vibrated through him, landing right on the raw nerve exposed by his own stupid joke. He tensed against Manny’s side, the scratchy band logo suddenly irritating.
He let out a short, sharp burst of laughter, more reflex than amusement. It sounded brittle, even to his own ears. "Okay, fine," he conceded, pulling back slightly to look up at Manny’s face, illuminated by the flickering blue light of Qui-Gon Jinn explaining trade negotiations. "But there's a difference, right?" Ahmed gestured vaguely, encompassing the messy room, the discarded Panther suit, the feel of Manny still tingling on his skin. "Between... fun. Experimenting. Y'know. And being gay." He forced another laugh, aiming for casual, landing somewhere near defensive. "Big difference."
Manny didn’t laugh. He just looked down at him, his expression unreadable in the shifting light. His thumb, resting near Ahmed’s collarbone, stopped its absent circling. The silence stretched, filled only by the droning Naboo politics on screen. Ahmed’s forced smile faltered. He could practically feel Manny dissecting his words, picking apart the flimsy justification.
"Yeah?" Manny finally murmured, his voice low and dangerously calm. He shifted, turning his body slightly towards Ahmed, his gaze intense, locking onto Ahmed’s. "Big difference." He let the words sink in. "So when you were choking on my cock back there," he continued, his tone flat, matter-of-fact, stripping away any lingering haze, "calling you 'sand boy', making you swallow... that was just fun?" He leaned in a fraction, his breath warm against Ahmed’s temple. "Just experimenting? Not gay at all?"
Ahmed flinched. The crude recap, the raw language, laid everything bare. The heat flooded his face, warring with the icy prickle of shame crawling up his spine. "Manny—" he started, but his throat closed. He glanced away, towards the glowing lava lamp, its slow blobs suddenly hypnotic. Defiance warred with the undeniable truth buzzing under his skin. The memory of submission, the dark thrill of the slur, the messy, undeniable intimacy of it – it wasn't just 'fun'. It was something else. Something terrifyingly specific.
He felt Manny watching him, waiting. The air crackled. Ahmed’s gaze snapped back to Manny’s, drawn like a magnet. He saw the challenge there, the flicker of the same hunger that had pinned him against the shower tile. The denial died on his lips. Instead of words, a reckless impulse took over. He pushed forward, closing the small distance, and kissed Manny hard. It wasn't gentle. It was messy, urgent, fueled by confusion and defiance and the embers Manny had just stoked.
His lips pressed against Manny’s, tasting faintly of weed and salt. Manny froze for a split second, surprised. Then his arm tightened around Ahmed’s shoulders, pulling him closer. He kissed back, just as fiercely, his other hand coming up to cradle the back of Ahmed’s head, fingers tangling in damp hair. The controller clattered to the floor, forgotten. On screen, the pod racers screamed, but the sound was distant, irrelevant white noise against the sudden, consuming silence of their kiss.
Manny broke it first, pulling back just enough to look Ahmed in the eyes again. A slow, knowing smirk spread across his face, wiping away the earlier intensity, replacing it with pure, satisfied arrogance. He didn't say a word. He didn't need to. His thumb brushed Ahmed’s swollen lower lip, a feather-light touch that echoed with possession. The challenge hung in the air, answered without a single syllable.