Chapter 8: Stuck On You
The door to the balcony screeched open, a violent rectangle of white midday heat. Brad’s world tilted, the familiar studio cacophony of thumping bass and grunts replaced by the hollow roar of city traffic far below. Marcus’s grip on the chair’s frame was impersonal, efficient.
“Gonna fry my balls off out here,” Marcus muttered to himself, heaving the chair onto the rough concrete with a scrape that vibrated through Brad’s entire being.
The light was assaultive. It bleached the color from everything, reflecting off the pale concrete and the skeletal iron of the neighboring construction site. Brad felt the sun’s weight immediately, a physical pressure that began to warm his pink vinyl skin. Marcus, already shirtless and in loose gym shorts, kicked them off without ceremony.
Naked, he stood for a moment, hands on hips, surveying his makeshift tanning spot. The strip class from yesterday was a fresh, aching memory in Brad’s consciousness—the pound of feet, the slap of sweaty skin. This was different. This was slow. This was intimate in a way that felt like a violation performed in a confessional.
Marcus uncapped a bottle. The sound of liquid, thick and slow, reached Brad just before the smell did: coconut and something chemical. Marcus poured a generous pool into his palm, rubbing his hands together with a wet, slick sound.
He started with his chest, working the oil in broad, circular strokes that gleamed under the sun. His pectorals, defined and dusted with dark hair, caught the light. Brad had a perfect, horrifying view from below as Marcus leaned over to grab the bottle again, his groin swinging heavily mere inches from the seat’s surface. The scent of coconut and clean sweat filled the air, cloying and warm.
Then Marcus sat.
He didn’t lower himself gently. He dropped. The full, solid weight of him—a fit, dense man—compressed Brad’s world into a singularity of heat and pressure. Marcus splayed his thick, muscular thighs wide, planting his feet flat on the concrete, his bare back against the chair’s slats. He sighed, a contented sound that was a dagger to Brad’s silent scream.
The oil transferred instantly. Brad felt it—a hot, slick seepage that made the vinyl feel even more like a second skin, a membrane between his consciousness and the intimate geography of another man’s body. Marcus adjusted, grinding his bare buttocks down to find a comfortable position. The sensation was not the dynamic impact of a dance move, but a slow, comprehensive claiming. Heat built, trapped between flesh and waterproof material.
“Perfect,” Marcus breathed, tilting his face to the sun, eyes closed.
For Brad, it was an oven. The sun baked the oil into him, cooked the air between them. He was pressed against every detail: the firm, rounded hemispheres, the deep cleft, the surprisingly soft pucker of Marcus’s anus, which rested with a direct, oblivious intimacy directly upon him. Every minute shift was a cataclysm. A subtle flex of a cheek. A sigh that caused a slight lift and subsequent, suctioning re-adherence.
Time stretched, warped by the heat. Sweat began to join the oil. Brad felt the first salty bead trace a path from the small of Marcus’s back, a tickling descent that ended in a hot, damp absorption into his own surface. The smell intensified—human, musky, mingled with coconut.
Marcus dozed.
His body relaxed completely, a state of utter trust in an inanimate object. The weight became heavier, more profound. Brad was not just sat upon; he was inhabited. The rhythm of Marcus’s breathing, the faint pulse he could feel through layers of tissue and vinyl, it was a torturous mockery of connection.
A fly buzzed, landing on Marcus’s knee. He twitched, and in his sleep, he shifted. He turned slightly onto his left buttock, pulling his right knee up.
The sound was obscene in the quiet afternoon.
A wet, peeling schlorp as sweaty, oiled skin released its vacuum seal from the vinyl, followed immediately by the softer, warmer thwap as it resettled. The new position was worse. The cleft was now pressed even more firmly against Brad’s center, the intimate warmth a focused, unbearable brand.
Marcus woke with a small snort. He stretched, arms reaching for the sky, his back arching. The movement lifted him for a glorious, breathless second, allowing a gasp of cooler air to touch Brad’s tortured surface.
Then he settled back. He reached between his own legs, scratching idly at his groin, his fingers passing so close to Brad’s peripheral vision it triggered a primal, formless recoil.
“Gotta get the front,” Marcus said, his voice rough with sleep.
He stood up.
The relief was so immense it felt like a vacuum. The city sounds rushed back in. The air, though hot, was freedom. Brad’s surface felt strangely cool where the evaporating sweat and oil stole the heat.
But it lasted only seconds.
Marcus turned the chair to face the sun. He looked down at the pink seat, now glossy with a distinct, body-shaped imprint of moisture and oil. He shrugged, a simple movement of unselfconscious pragmatism.
He sat again, facing outward, his legs spread wide over the chair’s arms this time. He leaned back, the chair tilting dangerously on its rear legs. The sun now beat directly on his torso, his thighs, his face.
And on Brad, who now had the full, naked frontal presentation pressed against him. The thatch of dark hair, the heavy, resting genitals, the inner thighs—all oiled, all sun-warmed, all pressed with a terrible, casual ownership against the one who had dreamed of soft perfumes and whispering skirts.
Marcus took out his phone, thumb scrolling. He chuckled at something, his abdomen jumping. The movement traveled.
“David’s gonna be jealous of this tan line. Or lack thereof,” he said to no one, his thumb tapping a reply.
He stayed like that for another eternity, a king on a pink, plastic throne. The sun moved. The shadow of the railing crept across the concrete. Brad’s mind, under the relentless, intimate heat, began to fray at the edges, dissolving into a static hum of sensation and despair.
Finally, with a groan, Marcus stood. He stretched, his body a silhouette against the dying orange sun. He looked down at the chair, at the slick, unmistakable evidence of his hours-long occupation.
“Man, you’re a mess,” he said, as if the chair were at fault. He patted the seat, a rough, patronizing slap that stung. “Don’t worry. We’ll clean you up.”
He dragged the chair back inside, the transition from burning light to cool dimness a shock. The door closed, cutting off the sky.
But as Marcus left him in the middle of the now-quiet living room, Brad understood the horror was not over. It had merely changed temperature. The oil and sweat were cooling on him, a sticky, permanent testament. A scent clung to him—not just coconut, but the deeply personal, sun-baked essence of Marcus.
And from the bedroom, he could hear Marcus calling out, his voice bright and full of promise.
“Hey, Dave? You home? Got an idea for tonight. You remember that waterproof stuff we bought for the patio furniture? The sealant? I think we should give our new chair a fresh coat. Make it really, really shiny.”
The words dripped into Brad’s consciousness, cold and final. Not cleaning. Not mercy.
A fresh coat. A glossy, sealing tomb.