Chapter 1: The Tape
The door clicked shut behind him, the deadbolt sliding into place with a final click. Fuckin' finally, he thought. Gavin peeled his shirt over his head, the white cotton damp with the day’s sweat and the smell of stale coffee, and let it fall to the linoleum without a second thought. He bypassed the shower, the thought of water on his skin feeling like a demand he couldn’t meet, and went straight to the bedroom, its air thick and still.
He kicked off his shoes, peeled off his socks, unbuckling pants and pulling away underwear in a vocal exhaustion. He felt disgusting, but he was free. Dropping onto the unmade bed, he swiped his phone to life, his thumb moving on autopilot through the familiar glow of Instagram reels and stories until he stopped, his breath catching.
It was that actress, Leigh Hargrove, in a candid shot laughing on a patio, her tired blue eyes crinkling at the corners in a way the video would never show. He scrolled down, his gaze snagging on the caption: Sunshine and good vibes only. He read the words, the corners of his mouth pulling down in a faint, grim twist. He knew it was phony and cliché, a hollow performance to mask for the grid as normal. Nothing like the woman from the video.
His hand moved down his smooth stomach, fingers tracing the line of hair below his navel, circling, then closing around himself with a helpful grip. It was the kind of touch fuelled by necessity than desire, telling himself don't worry mate, I'll help ya out. He winced as he worked himself slowly, his thumb tracing over the head in a dull, familiar rhythm. He suddenly needed to know if she sucked cock. He didn’t think so. Not without necessity. And he certainly needed it.
He tried to imagine her mouth around him, the wet heat of it, the blunt pressure of her teeth lazily present. Fuck me, he thought as the dry friction of his hand played substitute. He remembered one of her closed mouth moans in the video, suddenly picturing it around his manhood. He pictured her looking up with those tired eyes, a slick pop as she pulled away. "Don’t get too excited,” her voice muttered in his head, flat and sardonic.
The fantasy dissolved into a cold, procedural thought: would he even want to taste her? His brow furrowed, hand slowed, questioning the grim mechanics of his own need. Fuck. Maybe? If she asked? But then again, who actually asked? He briefly rolled his eyes to the water-stained ceiling, his core replaced by a hollow chill that had nothing to do with the temperature.
He rationalised it as a matter of efficiency, not desire. No, she wouldn't want it. His tongue would be redundant, a distraction from the core, transactional purpose of their fuck. Then he remembered the video, Leigh’s voice, a flat and frayed exhale: “Just get it over with.” Okay, he thought. I can do that.
Pushing himself up from the sheets, he reached over into bedside table, extracting a black cylinder and its associated pink silicone sleeve. He humoured himself by going over the names he'd given it, each as dumb and private as the last. The roommate. Plan-B. Pringles. Or simply, Jessica—with absolutely no explanation on that one. He unscrepped the cap, bringing the opening to his nose; a faint, chemical scent of antibacterial soap and tap water. He angled it toward the sickly peach light, squinting at the interior pink folds for any lingering residue. Good enough.
He fitted the sleeve onto the warming rod with a soft, sucking click, the material already beginning to lose its tacky chill against his fingertips. A low, mechanical hum filled the silence as the device began its cycle, a sound more clinical than inviting. Gavin watched it, his reflection distorted in the curve of the plastic, waiting for the simulation of warmth.
He pulled the video up on his phone, stroking himself to maintain his well-earned hard-on. The mechanical hum of the device seemed to sync with the hollow thud of his own heart, a perfect, dismal rhythm. The video was in broad daylight, its setting a cozy tropical hotel room probably too rich for his blood. Sunshine and good vibes only, he thought bitterly.
The video started with the guy recording, the camera placed discreetly on a dress, the intimate frame overlooking the messy hotel bed. She was in the bathroom, water running, unaware of the lens pointed at them. When Leigh returned, wiping her hands, he pulled her down and kissed her, a slow, possessive move that made Gavin's stomach twist.
The guy was significantly younger, he noticed. The kind of handsome, tousled-hair singer type Gavin recognized from some indie band, definitely not her longtime boyfriend. Leigh seemed conflicted, her responses a half-second behind, like she was trying to keep up with a script she hadn't read.
The guy nuzzled into her hair, his voice a drowsy murmur. “Missed you,” he mumbled, the lie smooth and effortless.
She softened then, a familiar performance, tilting her head to grant him access. “I missed you, too,” she whispered back, the words hollow but technically correct.
Gavin winced as he stroked. He’d have probably said the same. Something easy, claiming a feeling he didn’t have to manufacture the need. Maybe there was hope for him yet, he scoffed, the sound lost in the mechanical hum.
It felt too intimate. He skipped to when he was about to enter her. Gavin stood up, checked the progress of the sleeve. Good enough, he judged as he shoved it back in the cylinder, lubing it up. He placed it between two pillows, getting into position. The synthetic warmth was a poor counterfeit, but it'd get the job done. He pushed into it, the movement methodical, his eyes fixed on the paused video frame of her expressionless face. He pressed play.
He thrusted inside, focusing on matching the man’s gradual thrusts from the video’s grainy display. He's not bad looking, Gavin realised. He briefly imagined fucking him, the thought a sharp, unwelcome splice in the tape’s narrative, before his own rhythm faltered and stalled. Focus up, he told himself. It's only because he fucked her.
The video’s audio intruded again, the low, guttural male groan. “You always loved my ass, baby.”
Her fingers twisted into the cheek. A pause, then Leigh’s voice, tight and dismissive: “It’s an ass.”
Gavin’s hips stuttered. He had to admit, briefly, clinically, that it was. He stared at the pixelated curve of it on the screen, a perfect, meaningless form. He closed his eyes, suddenly trying to imagine what it’d be like fucking it. The warmth, the groans they'd both make, suddenly feeling vulnerable. It was just a detour, he argued. He was too stressed to deal with a guy.
He focused more on Leigh, the boredom present yet slipping from her face, distracted by the fact she still wore her pink bikini top. He hated that. He knew she had no tits, but he still wanted to see them. The tiny, rumpled triangles of fabric were a maddening barrier to his need, taking it out as his rhythm became harder, more punishing against the silicone. "Fuck," he groaned out loud. "C'mon."
He rejected the video’s clumsy narrative, forcing his own script over it. He would just take her, his hands pinning her wrists as he murmured something appropriately filthy into the shell of her ear. The condom would be non-negotiable, a tangible barrier he’d resent even as he rolled it on with efficient, practiced snaps. She wouldn’t come, of course, but she might make a convincing sound, a tight, bitten-off gasp he could pretend was real as he finished. His hips jerked faster against the synthetic heat, chasing that brittle conclusion.
His mind went over what filthy thing he’d actually say, each option as lazy as the last. “You like that?” was too generic, but would definitely come out. “Take it,” felt try-hard, maybe masked by a quick breathy moan. He settled on a grunt, a wordless sound he could believe. Other tiny details started to emerge from his script: the specific chill of a hotel room AC unit on his bare back, the coarse texture of starched sheets against his knuckles, the precise, chemical smell of the lubricant that had nothing to do with her.
It felt believable. It made him closer. He used the video's audio, the guy’s possessive murmurs, Leigh’s flat, frayed exhales, to inform his fantasy, layering his own grunts over theirs. His mind saw her discard the bikini top by his thigh, the taste of hotel mini-bar vodka on a hypothetical tongue.
He conjured the scent of her—coppertone sunscreen and chlorine, a cheap, nostalgic smell that felt like a secret she’d only share with him. When a faint hitch caught in her throat, a barely-there tremor he decided was real, he took it as proof. “Just like that, Gav,” her voice would slip, a raspy whisper against his neck, using the wrong shortening of a name he hated
His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering against the silicone. He imagined her pulling him closer, gripping his sleeve, locking her ankle behind him. He suddenly felt the heat coiled tight in his gut, and the knowledge he could release into her. “Not yet—almost.”
The strain in his gut pulled taut, a wire about to snap. “Fuck, Leigh—close,” he groaned into the stale air, the plea meant for a ghost. He swore, a ragged “shit” caught between the humid fantasy of hotel sheets and the chill of his own room.
“Seriously? Already?” She asked.
“I know—I know, just…” He winced. “Just give me a second.”
Her mouth tightened. “You said that thirty seconds ago.”
“Then stop counting.”
He imagined her lips parting for a retort, a sharp “I wasn’t—” but it was severed by the sudden, convulsive snap of his orgasm.
“Ugh Fuck! Shit!" he gasped, the words ripped from him in a guttural burst as he shuddered against the synthetic warmth. For three seconds, the sickly peach walls dissolved into pure, blank static. Then the cold rushed back in, a palpable weight settling over his spent body and the humming device.
"Christ," he muttered breathlessly. He laid there in the silicone, spent, listening to the quiet, mechanical whir, the fantasy already receding like water down a drain. “You’re so fucking hot,” Gavin mumbled lazily into the pillow, the words slurred and thick with post-orgasm haze.
“Fucking asshole,” Leigh’s voice replied, cold and flat, as she pushed his hips back and took him out of her. The fantasy severed with a jolt, leaving him alone with the device’s persistent hum and a growing chill. He peeled the warmed silicone away from his skin, a faint, sticky sound in the quiet room.
He peeled the warmed silicone away from his skin, a faint, sticky sound in the quiet room.
Inhale.
She’d smell like bleach from the hotel sheets.
Exhale.
And the coconut oil she used to take off her makeup.
Inhale.
I should have asked her to turn over.
Exhale.
Next time.