It was ten to nine when Tom turned onto Rue du Maréchal-Joffre. He recognized the neighborhood now—the well-kept houses, the straight hedges, the square shutters. He slowed down when he saw the gray Golf already parked in front of number seventeen, the small trailer hitched to the back. Just like the first time. Luca was punctual.
He parked behind the car and turned off the engine. A month. They'd exchanged a few messages—work stuff, short jokes, a construction site photo sent on a Sunday with a laconic comment, a silly meme about annoying clients. Nothing formal. But Tom had thought about that day. Several times. Not with discomfort—more with that quiet curiosity that returns when you've done something for the first time and you know it will happen again.
He got out of the station wagon.
Luca was leaning against the wing of the Golf, arms crossed, a carton of coffee in his right hand. Dark work jeans, not new, a beige work belt, a navy blue crew-neck t-shirt. Three weeks of black beard, maybe a little longer than before. He looked up when he heard the car door, and something opened up on his face—not a big smile, but something real, immediate.
"Eh."
"Hey," replied Tom.
They shook hands—and then Luca released his hand and placed the other on Tom's shoulder, for a second, firm. A gesture of reunion. Tom did the same, his broad shoulder under his palm.
"You've gained weight," said Luca, taking a step back to look at him.
"I've gained weight."
"No. You haven't gained weight. I don't know why I said that."
Tom laughed. "You look fit."
"I'm sleeping well." Luca took a sip of coffee, his eyes squinting in the morning sun. "Any news about the Levallois construction site?"
"Completed last week. The client paid in two installments, but he did pay."
"Good." Luca looked at the facade of number seventeen. "Did she call you back directly?"
"She called the agency, the agency put me through. What about you?"
"Straight to my cell phone. She'd kept my number." A smile. "We worked well the first time."
" Yeah. "
They looked at each other for a second too long. Two guys thinking the same thing without saying it.
"And what about the rest?" asked Luca.
"Or what?"
"Have you had sex since?"
Tom burst out laughing — a short, genuine surprise. "Hello to you too."
"That's a real question."
"No. You?"
Luca looked up at the sky. "Once. That was okay."
" Correct. "
"Right. We saw each other twice after that and then nothing."
"You didn't insist?"
"No. Neither did she. We were on the same wavelength." He finished his coffee and crushed the cup in his hand. "Come on, we have to go."
" Yeah. "
They didn't say what awaited them. But it was there, in the background, like a low frequency that you can't hear but feel in your bones.
*
Ms. Berthier had greeted them with the same economy of words—a flowered apron, coffee ready, a list placed on the table in laminated form. She seemed genuinely pleased. She looked at each of them in turn with the expression of someone who trusts her own judgment and is satisfied with it.
"The veranda overlooks the garden—you know that. And I have a room to paint, the guest room at the end of the hall. Ivory paint, two coats, the can is on the plastic sheet. Outside, the grass is overflowing onto the patio, the lawnmower is in the shed. A few weeds in the flowerbeds too."
She casually slipped the envelope onto the table. "I'll be back around six o'clock. You have access to everything."
At 9:20, his burgundy Clio had disappeared at the end of the street. They were alone.
*
Luca placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the terrace with a professional eye. The house was beautiful—well-preserved 1980s architecture, the glass-enclosed veranda running the length of the back facade, the June light streaming through the large windows onto ochre tiles and succulents in terracotta pots. A comfortable retiree, the kind who maintains things because she likes them to last.
"Lawn first," said Tom. "Painting in the afternoon when it gets too hot outside."
" Logic. "
They got the equipment out. Mrs. Berthier's lawnmower was a Honda electric one, properly maintained—clean blade, empty grass catcher. Luca had taken the brush cutter from his trailer for the edges. Tom took charge of the lawnmower.
The back garden was larger than it appeared from the veranda—about forty meters deep, with a central strip of lawn and two L-shaped flowerbeds running along the stone walls. The grass had grown quickly with the May rains, tall, slightly flattened in places.
They worked in parallel—Tom on the regular paths, Luca on the finishing touches along the edges. The brush cutter made its distinctive noise, that mechanical crackling that drowns out everything. The freshly cut grass smelled strong, an almost sweet, vegetal scent that rises in the morning heat.
Around ten o'clock, Tom stopped the lawnmower. Half the lawn was done.
"Coffee break?"
Luca put down the brush cutter. "Yeah."
*
The veranda had a small round table and two wicker garden chairs. Mrs. Berthier had left coffee in a thermal coffee maker—thoughtful as she was—and two mugs on the counter. They settled in, legs stretched out, the sun now warming the windows and turning the veranda into a soft, bright greenhouse. Through the large windows, they could see the half-mowed lawn, the flowerbeds, the stone walls.
Luca held his mug with both hands and looked at the garden with a quiet smile.
"Not a bad life, eh?"
" What ? "
"That. Working outdoors. Being in gardens. People trust you, they leave and you do the job."
Tom drank. "Didn't you have the same thing at football?"
Luca thought for a moment. "In football, I had a staff, a coach, rules. Here, I'm the one who decides." He glanced sideways at Tom. "What did you do this weekend?"
"I helped my brother move. All day Saturday."
" Nice. "
"It wasn't nice. He has books. Thousands of books. Boxes weighing twenty kilos."
Luca laughed. "I hate people who have books."
"He also has a vinyl record collection."
"I hate people who own vinyl records even more." He took a sip. "And apart from that?"
"Nothing. Friday night with friends. I brought a girl home."
Luca sat up straight. "Wait—you said no earlier."
"I said I haven't had sex since. That's true."
"Ah. Was it you or she who didn't want to?"
Tom smiled into his mug. "I would have liked that. She had work to do early."
"And she left you there."
"With a desire."
Luca shook his head and smiled. There was a silence. The silence of two relaxed guys in the June heat, thinking about their own things.
Then Luca put the mug on the table. He looked at Tom with something that changed slightly in his eyes — that underlying mischief he had, discreet but there.
"What if we did it again?"
Tom raised his eyes slowly.
"The game."
Tom sighed. He looked at his coffee. "We went a bit overboard last time."
" I know. "
"It almost got out of hand."
"Almost," Luca repeated with a smile that wouldn't leave his face. "In the background. All day long. We work and play on the side."
Tom looked at the garden. Then at Luca. He felt something rising in his chest — not really apprehension, more that excitement, the same as the first time, the kind that looks like calm but is something else entirely.
"Fuck."
"I think we can rise to the occasion."
Tom put down his mug. "Okay. But let's finish properly. The garden, the painting, everything returned."
" Obviously. "
Tom looked at Luca for another second. "Truth or dare."
Luca raised his mug. "Truth or dare."
*
"You first. Truth."
Luca rested his elbow on the table, his chin in his palm. He looked like someone who had already prepared his questions a while ago.
"The last time you had sex—where exactly did you ejaculate?"
Tom laughed in surprise. A short jolt through his nose. "Straight through."
"That's the game."
"On the breasts."
Luca nodded. Satisfied. "Did she take some in her mouth before?"
"That's your second question."
Luca raised his hand. "You're right." He smiled. "Your turn."
Tom looked at Luca. He had had his idea ever since he had parked.
"Truth or dare?"
Luca thought for half a second. "Action."
Tom leaned slightly forward, elbows on knees. He lowered his voice, not to be discreet—no one wanted to hear—but because it was part of the game.
"Did you put your parking ticket down this morning?"
Luca frowned. "What?"
"Your plum." Tom waited. Good. "Have you shat your plum since you got up this morning?"
Luca's face went through several states in two seconds — incomprehension, understanding, total disbelief.
"You're asking me if I messed up this morning."
" Exactly. "
"Are you serious?"
"You took action."
Luca let out a short, muffled laugh, the kind that just comes out on its own. "No. I didn't have time this morning. I was in a hurry."
Tom nodded slowly, like a lawyer placing his final piece of evidence. "Perfect."
"Perfect, how?"
Tom took a sip of coffee calmly. "Your task: you take the shovel from the shed. You find a discreet spot at the back of the garden. You dig a hole. And you do it right here, now, during your break."
Luca remained completely silent. He stared at Tom without flinching.
Tom continued, calm and clinical. "But the challenge is that you keep the jeans on. You pull them down to your ankles. Your boxer shorts stay in place—you pull them to the side from your thigh, you free up one buttock, you let them pass, but the fabric stays on you. You're not allowed to take them off."
Luca looked at the garden. Then Tom. Then the garden again.
"You're seriously ill."
"You took the action."
"I should have taken the truth."
"Too late, man."
"That's ridiculous. Shitting outside like an animal—"
"Between us. At the back of the garden. No one can see you."
"And you can see me."
"That's the game."
Luca blew hard through his nose. He looked at Tom with the expression of someone assessing whether the other person was joking. No. Tom wasn't joking. He was waiting calmly, mug in hand.
"Damn..." Luca stood up. He shook his head. "Okay."
Tom said nothing. He just watched Luca take the shovel from the shed.
*
Luca had found a spot in the back corner—behind the old cherry tree whose dense foliage provided good cover, its back to the stone wall. Not visible from the veranda. Not visible from the neighbors' rooftops either. He plunged the shovel into the earth, gave it three firm blows. The soil was rich, cool underneath, and yielded easily. A clean hole, about twenty centimeters deep.
Tom had positioned himself four meters away, standing with his arms crossed. Witness.
Luca looked at him with an expression that clearly said it was all his fault and he wouldn't forget it. Then he undid the buckle of his work belt—the sound of metal against leather—unbuttoned his jeans, and lowered the zipper. The dark denim slid down to his ankles, his work boots below like two pillars.
His boxer shorts were black, Calvin Klein, with a white waistband and the logo repeated all the way down. They fit well on his thighs — thick, dense thighs, the muscle of football and physical work, a black bush that spilled slightly over the elastic.
He squatted over the hole. Back straight, thighs spread, weight on his heels. His physique in this position was comical and imposing at the same time — an 82-kilo guy squatting in a retiree's garden in Calvin Klein boxers and work boots.
He slid his right hand down the thigh, grasped the edge of the boxer shorts from the top—not the elastic, the fabric itself—and pulled sideways to free the right buttock. The boxers resisted, the fabric stretched taut, then gave way to the side. The buttock appeared—round, matte, the skin smooth with a light black fuzz, the cleft, and at the bottom, the tight anus surrounded by a dark felt. Luca held the taut fabric with his right hand, the elastic digging into the thick thigh to prevent it from returning.
He looked completely idiotic. He knew it.
Tom wasn't laughing yet. He was really looking—at the absurd scale of the situation, the boxer shorts held to the side with one hand, the buttock exposed in the morning light. Something raw and funny and strangely honest in this image of a man.
Luca pushed. One attempt. Nothing. He tried again. His jaw tightened, he held his breath. Then a third time, a firm, decisive push—and something compact, well-formed, slid neatly into the hole. Luca breathed—a mechanical, almost involuntary relief, the animal satisfaction of a body freed.
Tom saw her fall. Well-formed, dark brown, unpretentious.
" Fabric. "
Tom had anticipated this. He had taken the roll of paper towels from the veranda before going out, without saying a word. He tore off a few sheets and placed them in Luca's outstretched hand.
Luca wiped it clean—two swipes—and loosened his boxer shorts. The fabric snapped back into place, covering his buttocks. He stood up, his knees a little stiff, buttoned his jeans, and adjusted his waistband. He turned the shovel over and covered the hole with dirt—two strokes, then tamped it down with his heel.
He turned back to Tom.
Tom had been trying to stay serious for thirty seconds. He couldn't do it anymore. His shoulders were rising.
"You look like a guy who's been holding back since the beginning."
"That's true," said Tom, and the laughter started—a real, genuine, long laugh. Arms falling to his sides, head thrown back.
Luca pointed a finger in his direction. "You're an asshole."
"You were incredible, man. Seriously."
"Shut up."
"The way you were holding the boxer shorts —"
"Shut up."
Luca put the shovel back in the shed and returned to the veranda. He sat down again and picked up his mug. Tom was still laughing, in fits and starts, his eyes moist.
"It's your fault," Luca said. But he was also smiling now, despite himself, the big smile he couldn't quite suppress. "The next time you do something like that, I'll make you pay."
"I'm really looking forward to it."
*
They went back to mowing the lawn afterward. The sun had moved and was now hitting the patio at a direct angle—it was past ten o'clock, and the heat was starting to become oppressive. At eleven, Tom took off his white t-shirt and stuffed it in his thigh pocket. Luca saw him do this, and two minutes later, he took off the navy blue one, folded it neatly, and placed it on the back of a garden chair.
They were working shirtless. Luca had a broad, flat back, well-defined trapezius muscles, and the even tan of someone who'd been outside since spring. Tom was slimmer, with pointed shoulders and a flat stomach with a slightly defined midline. Sweat was starting to trickle down their necks, between their shoulder blades, and dampen the elastic of their boxer shorts.
The brush cutter hummed. Tom collected the clippings in the bin. Clean, efficient work.
At one point, while Tom was raking a long strip along the wall, Luca said without looking at him, in a normal voice, as if it were the weather:
"Have you ever touched that yourself?"
Tom continued raking. "What?"
"Below. The anus. Have you ever put your finger in there, just to see what it feels like?"
Tom didn't answer right away. Two rows of raking.
" Truth ? "
"Truth. We're playing."
Tom sighed. He looked at the wall. "Yeah. Once."
Luca looked up from his brush cutter. "So what?"
"That's a second question."
"Come on, man."
Tom gave a short laugh. "Did you have shit on your finger afterwards?"
Luca let out a sound—somewhere between laughter and disgust. "Oh shit."
"Well, that's the question, isn't it? You want to know."
"I confess."
Tom continued scraping the grass. "A little. Yeah. Just a little."
"A little is a little too much."
"That's what I thought at the time."
Luca shook his head, half-laughing, half-intrigued. "So you stopped there."
"I cleaned my finger and stopped there." Tom glanced at Luca with a sideways smile. "But I admit I'll try again someday. Differently. Better prepared."
Luca let out a genuine laugh this time. "Better prepared," he said.
"It's a matter of hygiene, man, that's all."
"I never put my finger in there."
" Never ? "
" Never. "
Tom looked at him. "You're wrong."
Luca raised an eyebrow.
"I'm just saying."
Luca shook his head again and got back on his brush cutter. But something in the way he looked at the ground afterwards said he was still thinking about it.
*
They finished mowing the lawn after noon. They put away the lawnmower and the brush cutter, rinsed their hands at the garden tap—cold water on their forearms and necks, Tom splashing water on his face, Luca running both wet hands through his dark hair. The water trickled down their still-warm torsos, flowing along their collarbones.
They put their t-shirts back on—the cotton slightly damp against their skin—and went to get their bags from the car. Sandwiches, a Tupperware container. The same scene as a month before.
"You've been cooking again," said Tom, looking at Luca's box.
"Quinoa with chicken and lime."
Tom looked at his ham and butter sandwich.
"You could have warned me, I would have brought you something."
"I don't plan for others." Luca opened the box. "But I have too much."
He pushed the box into the middle of the table. The two of them ate from it, each with a fork. Two still-cold Peroni beers from Luca's bag. The veranda was bright and warm, the lower windows slightly condensed. Outside, the garden was neat and well-mowed.
They ate in silence, relaxed, their feet stretched out under the table. The gentle weariness of a morning's work. It was pleasant.
Luca took a sip of Peroni. He looked at the garden. And then he said, without turning back to Tom:
"Your turn. Truth or dare."
Tom swallowed a bite. "Action."
Luca turned around. He had that smile — calm, prepared, the smile of someone who was expecting exactly this.
"I'll be back."
He got up and disappeared down the corridor. Tom heard him—footsteps, a door, the rustle of fabric. Silence. Another rustle.
Luca returned to the veranda. He was holding something with his fingertips, at face level, by a corner of fabric — like an insect's grip, with the delicacy of someone touching something precious and slightly incongruous.
A thong. Tiny. Off-white, almost translucent lace with a minuscule floral pattern at the hips. The string as thin as a shoelace. The front panel no bigger than a child's palm. Clearly feminine, clearly expensive, clearly straight out of Mrs. Berthier's closet.
Tom stopped chewing. He looked at the thong. He looked at Luca.
" No. "
"You took action."
" No. "
"You put it on completely. And once it's in place—" Luca was still holding the thong at fingertips, swinging it very slightly—"you have to manage to make a hole in the lace at the front. With your dick."
Tom put his fork in the box. He was looking at the thong, the tiny piece of fabric, the off-white beige lace.
"That's hers."
"We'll put it back later."
"I'm not getting involved in that."
"You put in what you can. That's the principle."
"That's ridiculous."
"It's humiliating too." Luca smiled. "That's why it's good."
Tom looked at the thong again. He'd never worn one in his life. The idea was absurd—no, the idea was impossible. The kind of thing you don't do, that you have no reason to do, that you couldn't have imagined doing this morning when you got up. And yet.
"If I do it, you do it too."
Luca hesitated. "I didn't buy the stock."
"I'll make you a deal. You find something for yourself in this closet. A pair of panties. And we'll do it together."
Luca looked in the direction of the corridor. A long pause.
"Just a pair of panties."
"Just a pair of panties."
He went back into the dressing room. He came back with a pair of briefs — white cotton, slim waist, a lace trim at the top, certainly intended for a figure twenty kilos lighter than Luca's.
They looked at each other, each with their piece of fabric in hand.
"Are we doing this here?" said Tom.
"In the conservatory. No one can see us."
Tom looked at the windows — opaque on the street side, the garden behind empty.
"Okay."
*
Tom put down the beer. He undid the belt of his cargo pants, the button, the zipper. The khaki cargo pants fell over his boots. He took off one foot, slipped his leg through, and pulled it completely out. Then his thumbs went through the elastic of his white Calvin Klein boxer shorts and he pulled them down in one swift motion.
He was naked from the waist down in Mrs. Berthier's veranda. His penis hung freely—thick, long, the foreskin resting over the glans, heavy and imposing between his thighs. His skin was still warm from the morning sun, a light sheen of sweat on his lower abdomen. He made no attempt to cover himself. Luca was watching, and Tom knew it, and neither of them said a word about it.
Tom took the thong. He held it between his index finger and thumb — it seemed even smaller now, up close. The off-white lace, almost transparent, a fabric meant for a body of a completely different nature.
"Okay. Fuck."
He put one foot into the thong, then the other. And he started to move upwards.
It was an immediate problem. The fabric rode up his calves without difficulty—but at the knees, things got complicated. Tom's thighs were too wide, the fabric too thin, and he had to pull on each side to advance centimeter by centimeter. The thong protested—silently, just by stretching to its limit, becoming translucent where it was under the most strain.
"Damn, it cuts out."
Luca watched without saying anything, his lips pressed tightly together to keep from laughing.
The thong slipped over his thighs with real effort. And then—the ecru-beige lace cup was positioned in front of his genitals, and the problem was immediate and complete: his penis wouldn't fit. The fabric was designed for a flat anatomy. Not for ten centimeters of a limp, heavy penis with a pair of balls behind it. Tom tried to force it all in—front-first, directly—and it wouldn't stay. It slipped to one side, his balls protruding from the bottom, pinched against the string, which was cutting into him.
"Ouch."
"Put it diagonally," said Luca. His voice was trembling.
Tom grabbed his penis and placed it at an angle in the shell. The glans protruded from the top, the foreskin caught on the edge of the lace. The testicles were half exposed, compressed by the string which literally cut them in two.
"They don't pull their balls in."
" I see. "
"That's painful."
Luca cracked. The laughter erupted suddenly—a real, unadulterated laugh—he doubled forward in his chair, hands on his thighs, shoulders heaving up and down. Tom stood in the veranda with his penis wedged diagonally in an off-white lace thong, his balls dangling from either side of the string like two apricots too big for their net.
"You're an idiot."
"You look like a giant shrimp in a gift box."
"You're the one who put me in this situation."
"The shell is too small."
"SHE'S TOO SMALL, YES."
Luca bursts into laughter again.
Tom looked at his situation with the impossible detachment of reality. The string of his thong was digging into his crack, his balls compressed below, his penis at an angle with the glans exposed. He looked utterly ridiculous. Never—never in his life—had he worn anything like that. And here he was, standing on the porch of a retired woman's house, doing exactly that in front of a guy he'd known for a month.
"Your turn," he said.
Luca became a little more serious. He pulled down his jeans—the dark denim sagging over his boots—then his black boxer shorts in one swift motion. His penis appeared—substantial, dangling, surrounded by a thick tuft of black hair. He took hold of the white briefs. Looked at them for a second.
"Okay."
He put it on with the methodical application of a man tackling a technical problem. The cotton rode up his calves, his knees—and there, too, Luca's thighs were even thicker than Tom's. He pulled on each side. It resisted. He pulled harder. The fabric threatened to tear.
"Come on," said Tom.
Luca yanked it out sharply. The panties flew up his thighs and into place—or what passed for place. His cock and balls were crammed into a space designed for nothing of the sort, black pubic hair spilling out everywhere, his balls compressed, the panties stretched at an impossible angle over his wide hips.
Tom was looking at him. "You look like a German Shepherd in a gift bag."
Luca looked at his own situation, then at Tom, and then they both let out a laugh—a total, physical laugh, the kind that makes your knees buckle. Tom had to put a hand on the back of a chair to keep from falling. Luca was doubled over.
"We're two lunatics," said Luca between takes.
"You're the one who brought out the thong."
"I'm the one who took off the thong."
They laughed for another good minute, in waves. And when it had calmed down, Luca resumed his facade of seriousness.
"Challenge not over."
Tom sat up. He had forgotten. Or pretended to.
"The lace. Your tail goes right through it."
" How ? "
"You get an erection and you push."
Tom looked at the lace shell stretched out before him. "I need to get a hard-on, man. It doesn't just happen like that."
"Touch yourself."
Tom looked at him. Luca looked back at him, perfectly calm.
They sat down on their garden chairs, facing each other. The veranda was bathed in June light, the windows reflecting the brightness. Tom slipped his hand under the fabric of her thong—the lace that scratched slightly—and began to touch herself slowly.
Luca already had his hand on himself, over his white panties, rubbing himself through the stretched cotton. His breathing changed slightly.
It was too absurd not to be exciting. The warmth of the veranda, the light, their bodies still a little dirty and sweaty from the morning, the two ridiculous pieces of fabric. Tom was hardening under her hand. He could feel the lace tightening further, the shell resisting.
"Go ahead," said Luca. His voice was deeper.
Tom repositioned his tail — in line with the shell, pointing forward. He pushed.
The lace held for a second—the tiny threads intertwined, the fabric tight. He pushed again, harder, his loins thrusting forward slightly. One thread gave way, then another, and suddenly—his tail ripped through. Whole, erect, emerging from the torn lace. A clean hole in the shell, the ecru-beige lace edges encircling the base of his tail like a ring too small.
Tom looked at her. Proud in a slightly absurd way.
" So. "
Luca had his penis sticking out of the top of his white panties — the elastic stretched, unable to contain it all — and he was openly rubbing himself now.
Tom took off the thong, placed it on the table next to the box of quinoa. He took his penis in his hand. They looked at each other.
"We're not going to stop here," said Luca.
" No. "
Luca stood up. He took off the white panties. "The bedroom."
Tom also got up, naked from the waist down, his penis erect. "Mrs. Berthier's bed."
"Mrs. Berthier's bed."
*
The guest room was at the end of the hall—a small, bright room with a light wood bed and framed watercolors on the ivory walls. The parquet floor creaked slightly under their feet. The afternoon light filtered through the sheer curtains of the window, creating a soft, diffused glow.
Luca pulled off the duvet in one swift motion—folded on the chair—and found the sheets underneath. A light, creamy satin that slid smoothly under his fingers.
They looked at each other. Two muscular guys standing in a retirement home's room, shirtless, sweaty, a little dirty from the morning. Dirt still under their fingernails, belt marks in their skin. Warm bodies, hard cocks.
Tom sat on the edge of the bed. The satin slid beneath him—cool, smooth, an immediate sensation against his skin. He lay down. Luca did the same on the other side, and the bed creaked softly.
They were under the sheets. Side by side. The coolness of the satin against their warm skin, the temperature quickly equalizing. Their legs touched—two pairs of long, heavy legs beneath the fabric—and neither of them moved.
"Damn the sheets," said Tom.
" I know. "
The satin slid over them. Luca rolled slightly and the sheets followed, smooth, molding to their bodies. Tom felt the fabric against his erect penis—a light friction, almost nothing, but in this state it was enough. He began to touch himself, his hand working beneath the sheet.
Luca was doing the same thing on his side — the sheets moving rhythmically, his arm going back and forth, his breath changing texture. He had half rolled over, his pelvis slightly raised.
The bed had its own sounds now. The spring compressing slightly. The satin rubbing. Their breathing.
Tom opened his eyes and looked at Luca—abs taut in the dim light, torso broad and smooth, a vein bulging slightly in his working arm. A handsome guy. Truly. A body like Apollo's, dense and muscular, the pure beauty of physical labor.
He sat up halfway—propped up on one elbow—and pushed the sheet aside. His cock was in his hand, fully erect. Luca did the same on the other side, pushing the sheets aside. They were there, kneeling on the bed now, facing each other, openly masturbating. Two beasts. Two men's bodies in the June light, sweating, muscles tense, skin glistening.
Tom felt the rush — first in his kidneys, then in his lower abdomen, the kind of long, dense rush that you recognize.
"Luca."
" Yeah. "
Tom sighed. "Truth or dare. Quick."
Luca looked up — his eyes were shining. "Action. Common. Go."
Tom had two seconds. Barely. He said, "When you come, you take your juice on your fingers. I do the same. We hold out our fingers. We lick each other's."
Half a second of silence.
Luca didn't stop. "Okay."
They stopped speaking to each other.
*
Luca was the first to arrive. A low grunt between his teeth, his abs contracting in waves, his pecs stiffening. His hand squeezing, the jets shooting out — thick, white, hot — and he opened his palm, let his juice flow onto it, his fingers closing slightly against the heat.
Tom watched him come, and it swept over him thirty seconds later—a surge that filled everything, rising almost up his throat, a long, dense orgasm. He came in his open palm. Hot, thick, several waves.
They remained there, kneeling on the unmade bed, their bodies still trembling from the last contractions. The satin sheets were crumpled and stained. Their hands were full.
Tom stretched out his arm.
Luca held out his.
Luca's fingers stopped in front of Tom's mouth. Tom opened his mouth and put his fingers inside—all four of them warm and covered—and his tongue began to slide between them. Luca's juice, thick, salty, and warm, slid over his tongue. He closed his lips and sucked. Luca watched him.
On the other side, Tom's fingers were in Luca's mouth. Luca had closed his eyes for a second. His tongue worked methodically between his fingers, and he swallowed—the thick juice that went down his throat like something satisfying, primal. The warmth that remained inside.
It lasted maybe ten seconds. They removed their hands.
Silence.
Luca was looking at the ceiling. Tom was looking at his own fingers.
And then something cracked — a tired, happy laugh that came from deep within. First Luca, then Tom. They collapsed onto their backs side by side in the rumpled sheets, their bodies relaxed, their shoulders touching.
"I'd never done that before."
" Me neither. "
"What kind of idea was that?"
"Yours too. You said okay."
"I hadn't thought about it."
" Me neither. "
Luca sighed slowly. "It was still good."
Tom didn't say anything. But it was true.
They stared at the ceiling of Mrs. Berthier's guest room for a long time. Their bodies still warm, satiated, with that peculiar lightness that follows.
*
They got up without rushing. The bathroom first—one after the other, cold water on their hands, on their faces. Tom looked at himself in the mirror for a second. He looked normal. It was surprising.
They put their boxers, trousers, and t-shirts back on. Normality gradually reasserting itself.
Luca retrieved the thong and panties. He rinsed them quickly under cold water, pressed them in a towel. He put them back in the dressing room — folded neatly, in the order he had found them.
"She won't see anything."
Tom hesitated. "The hole in the lace."
Luca thought for a second. "We'll put it at the bottom of the drawer."
Tom looked at him. "You're meticulous in your crimes."
"I am a professional."
They remade the bed—the sheets removed and folded into a laundry bag they found in the washroom. Luca had found clean sheets in the hallway closet. They carefully put them back on, tucking in the corners and replacing the pillowcases. The room was exactly as they had been when they arrived.
*
The painting began at two o'clock. Luca worked on the corners with a brush, Tom with a roller. They worked in silence—a profound silence, the kind shared by two guys who didn't need to talk about it. The smell of ivory paint filled the room, and the light dimmed slightly on the garden side.
A word now and then.
"Did you enjoy being watched?" Tom asked from his roller.
Luca was painting the edge of the window. "Yeah."
Tom rolled a regular joint. "Me too."
That was all. The paint was drying well.
At six o'clock, they put down their tools. The room was redone—the ivory clean and even on all four walls, the corners sharp. They folded the plastic sheet, washed the rollers, and put the lid back on the pot.
In the garden, Tom gave the patio a final sweep. Luca checked the flowerbeds, picking up one last clump of grass by hand. The garden was tidy, the lawn even.
They loaded the tools in the golden silence of the late afternoon. The sun was low, the shadows long.
*
Mrs. Berthier's burgundy Clio arrived home at 5:50 PM. She walked around — the garden, the terrace, the guest room. She ran her hand along a painted corner.
"It's very well done. Very consistent."
She seemed genuinely pleased. She handed them the envelope in the entryway and said she would be sure to call them back.
*
In the street, in front of their cars, the light was beautiful — long, golden, the kind of June light that makes things look good.
Luca secured his tools. Tom closed the tailgate.
"Next time," said Luca.
Tom looked up.
Luca had his smile to the side — calm, without emphasis.
"We see what's happening."
Tom nodded. "We see what's coming."
A handshake. Firm. The same as in the morning, and as a month before. But with more in it each time.
The Golf started up and disappeared into the evening light.
Tom looked one last time at the facade of number seventeen. The white shutters, the neat garden, the window of the guest room from which nothing could be seen from the outside.
He smiled. He turned on the ignition.
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