Chapter 1: Ethan licks his cum
The air in Ethan’s room was still and close, carrying the sharp, artificial scent of cheap cologne and the underlying musk of unwashed laundry. The only light came from the laptop screen on his desk, casting a blue-white pallor over the posters of bands he only vaguely liked and the clutter of textbooks and empty cans. The hum of the computer fan was a dull backdrop to the faster, wetter sounds coming from the speakers.
Ethan’s chair was turned away from the door, his body hunched forward. On the screen, a scene played out with practiced, mechanical intensity. He watched, his breath coming in short, shallow pulls, his own hand moving in his boxers with a rhythm that was desperate and familiar. His eyes were glued to the specific, compelling action on the screen, the explicit power dynamic playing out in high definition. It was a focused, consuming kind of arousal, shutting out the rest of the house, the world, his own awkwardness.
His muscles tensed, a coiled spring. A low, choked sound escaped his throat, part gasp, part groan, as the heat gathered and then burst. Pleasure, sharp and singular, racked through him. His hand was now sticky and wet, the evidence of his release pooling in his palm and dripping onto the edge of the wooden desk.
He sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, the digital moans from the laptop suddenly grating and absurd. The afterglow was brief, quickly replaced by a practical, panicky thought. Shit. His boxers were a lost cause, but his desk… and his hand. He looked around. No tissues. The roll had finished two days ago and he’d never replaced it. A crumpled fast-food bag sat too far away. Fuck it.
He brought his hand to his mouth, his tongue darting out to clean the sticky warmth from his fingers. It was salty, slightly bitter. He wiped his mouth with the back of his other wrist, then looked at the small, pearlescent puddle on the dark wood. Without really thinking, driven by a weird mix of post-climax laziness and a morbid curiosity, he leaned down and extended his tongue, licking a slow, deliberate stripe through the mess on the desk. It was a strange, intimate cleanup, a private act of degradation that felt oddly fitting.
“What the actual fuck, Ethan?”
The voice sliced through the room’s silence, cold and clear and horrified.
He froze, his body turning to ice. Slowly, so slowly, he swiveled his chair.
Olivia stood in the doorway, her hockey bag slumped at her feet. She must have just gotten home from practice. Her face was pale beneath her freckles, her blue eyes wide with a revulsion so complete it was like a physical force. Her gaze darted from his face, to the still-glowing laptop screen, to the damp spot on the desk, and finally back to him. The disgust there was absolute.
“I… the door was…” he stammered, his voice a pathetic rasp.
“It was open,” she spat, cutting him off. “I was gonna ask if you wanted a ride to the party at Mike’s. Mom said to include you.” She let out a short, hard laugh that held no humor. “But I guess you’re… busy.”
She didn’t move. She just stared, making him feel smaller and more exposed than he ever had. The images on the screen reflected in her eyes. He lunged for the mouse, fumbling to close the window, his movements clumsy and shameful.
“Olivia, wait—”