Voyeur - A Short Adjunct Story Featuring Jake and Ethan

This is a tandem / contra point of view story to Kevgenesys’ “Hunk ‘Privately’ Gets Off In A Hot Tub” posted on 17 February, 2018. I have Kev’s blessing to have concocted this continuation of a fiction storyline of my own “Breaking Up Is Hard To Do” featuring a troubled Los Angeles power couple named Jake and Ethan posted on 23 March, 2015, nearly 3 years ago now. 

When Kev and I emailed about his desire to see another piece from the point of view of a voyeur, whom his “hunk” had not known was spectating, for some reason the long-suffering Ethan came to mind. Maybe it was to give him some joy to supplement the challenges he has with his husband Jake, I don’t know – what I do know is that I enjoyed writing this vignette, my first fiction in some time.

And my sincere thanks go to Kev for the idea, for the subject matter license. As always my thanks to Bjorn, who makes GayDemon such a great place for us to indulge either exhibitionist (my many autobiographical postings have been well-served) or creative tendencies – please support GayDemon and Bjorn in appreciation of his hard labor of love. As always, I hope you enjoy this offering. I love hearing from readers, whether other writers or casual readers – feel free to email me.

Voyeur - A Short Adjunct Story Featuring Jake and Ethan

by BillyC, [email protected]

I finally got to my hotel room in the very late evening after a too-long flight, too-late-arriving driver, too-long dinner meeting, too long a day in general. To say I was beat and cranky was an understatement. Adding insult to injury I’d had a regular day before the flight from the east coast, the time difference protracting the day for me by 3 hours already. The final blow of not-unforeseen reality was that I was a few hours from home by car – less by plane – but was committed for at least two days of negotiations before I could go home and take out my frustrations on my very hunky, very over-sexed and always willing professional athlete husband. UGH!

The suite was . . . adequate. Okay, for any normal standard it would have been called luxurious, maybe opulent – my client was paying, and it crossed my mind that paying through the nose for my inconvenience would give only me satisfaction, because the company that was my client wouldn’t blink an eye at the no-doubt exorbitant expense. To say I’m a spoiled attorney might be a bit unfair to me, but I’m at least a bit jaded by the trappings of success that are afforded people in my profession and position. I’ll concede that I’d also flown in my client’s private jet, and the late driver was a chauffeur in the client’s employ who’d gotten bogged-down by a freeway accident in commuter traffic. In retrospect it’s easy to minimize my bitches; but at the time I was just in a FML mood!

The bellman was nattering on about the amenities, and I tuned back in when he at last handed me the key and was nearing his departure. I was not surprised when he made very intense eye contact. “Is there anything I can help you with, sir? ANYTHING at all?” He added the last with a smirk and a flick of his eyes up and down, and I was sure of the meaning, but he did it with sufficient plausible deniability to barely maintain decorum.

As I got some bills out of my pocket and decided to make it a memorable tip, I assessed the bellman – Henry – for the first time. Too young – maybe 24. Exceptionally well-built – all the better to tote luggage . . . and for other things.

STOP IT! I warned myself sharply in my inner voice.

Bleached blondish hair, probably surf-bleached from the looks of his broad shoulders, which threatened to knock against the door frame if he didn’t turn sideways. The smirk highlighted a very cute face, and his blue eyes bored into mine as they returned from the obvious tour of my own body from head to foot and back. A flick of the end of his tongue between his lips. No look toward the big bill in my hand – either it was always his objective by working it or not his primary objective.

I made a point to extend the bill to him overhand, my wedding ring in prominent view. “I think I’m good, thanks,” I told him, holding his gaze.

With a grin, he deliberately grasped my own big hand with his of equal size in lieu of only the bill and took longer than necessary to exchange the key into my hand and finally pull the bill back. His hand was strong, warm . . . and electrified, or so the frisson that went through my sex-starved body suggested. “My pleasure, sir” he drew out lasciviously and held a beat there facing me. Then he turned and walked to the door with a swing of his hips that prominently offered an ass to die for. One last look back as he opened the door.  “Henry, extension 4004, if you think of anything you . . . WANT.”

I startled and sucked in a breath when the door shut, unaware that I’d been caught up in his spell for those moments following his bubble butt out the door. JESUS, GET A FUCKING GRIP! I admonished myself.

He’d hung my garment bag in the closet and had put out my duffel on the built-in luggage stand, so I didn’t have anything imminently to do. A shower was in my offing, followed by collapsing into the bed, but first a call to my husband.

“Ethan!” came breathlessly from my earpiece when he answered after enough rings that I’d thought he might have taken an Ambien and be sleeping through the phone’s blare of “Take Me Out To The Ball Game”. Yet still he sounded startled, out of breath. Probably the hour, I thought, though another, darker, thought was lurking in the background of my mind. “I didn’t expect you to call until the morning,” he huffed, and I took note of the incongruity – not surprise or startled, as I’d thought; exertion.  “It’s very late. Anything wrong, Eth?” he panted.

My head said there were things very wrong, but I was too exhausted to give those thoughts too much license. “I got to the coast –“

“YOU’RE ON YOUR WAY HOME?” he shouted, interrupting my attempt to tell him how much I wished I was about to collapse into our bed . . . with him. And just then, there, in the background, I heard what my head had tried to tell me – an unfamiliar, deep voice saying, “Oh fuck you have a boyfriend who’s coming home?”

I took a deep breath and let the knowledge fill me, flood my mind with rage, jealousy and anger. We’d been down this path before, and maybe it was all too cliché for two gay men professing monogamy, but it was our lives, and it was real. The silence was deafening; even Jake, master of the tall tale, as I’d learned before, knew he needed to wait to see which way I was going before trying to lie his way out of it.

When I spoke, it was quietly, despite all the screams and shouts blaring in my head, all of which would have been appropriate for the lying bitch. “Sorry for the interruption. By all means don’t stop what you’re doing. I’ll be in San Diego and won’t be home for two days, as you seem to have forgotten. Be out by then, Jake.” And then, amid the beginning of a long whine I knew well – my name, drawn to the dramatic and pleading – “EEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeth!” I thumbed the button to end the call.

I’d said it all calmly. Some part of me had known it would happen after the . . . well, other time as I think of it, as I have no idea if it was the first, tenth or what. I also swiped down and put my phone into airplane mode – there was no way I was taking any of the flood of plaintiff calls I knew would come, nor did I want him to Find My iPhone and find out where I was, given how easy it would be for him to get there and to use his lying words and lying body to lure me back into my state of denial.  

My heart was breaking . . . again . . . and I didn’t want to deal with all that, so I replaced it with fury. I forced my mind full of images of a younger, hotter bull slam-fucking my husband the way he so loved me to fuck him . . . or so he said . . . so he told me every time and by his begging for it all the time. I knew his every moan and twitch and spasm and buck, and I saw all of them in my mind, more intense, his pleasure more obviously genuine.

I realized I was clutching my iPhone so hard I momentarily wondered if the claims about an earlier model’s flimsy construction and ease of bending might happen in my grip. I really didn’t give a fuck, and I suddenly pitched my phone as hard as I could at the suite door across the room. Apparently not hard enough, as it peeled the familiar “Take Me Out To The Ball Game” ringtone that is my husband’s as the phone sat on the ground afterward – I guess it went off airplane mode with the impact . . . or my state of mind was worse than I thought, and I hadn’t really gotten it offline in the first place.

My watch rang, too, moments after the phone sounded. I was a victim of modern technology, and I forgot that my latest iWatch operated independently, including Find My iPhone capability, and it alone could have betrayed my location. I was tempted to rip it the fuck off my arm and fling it, too. Instead, realizing the futility of both, I simply thumbed the ignore button on my watch as I walked to where my phone lay, put them both on airplane mode and made sure of it, then dropped them both to the tiled entry floor and began to walk away without purpose.

Now what? Certainly nothing I wanted to dwell on in the night, yet what for distraction. I paced about a few times in the vast living room and finally decided to get some air and headed to the balcony doors. There was a light switch for the balcony, but I ignored it and opened the door, stepping out into the combination of Pacific Ocean breeze and smog from opposing directions, which seemed to be passing through my space and colliding in a confusing aroma that for some reason made me think of a locker room.

I went out with that thought in my mind – and in my groin, which was responding to my lack of sexual release of any kind for over a week – and just got angrier. While I needed the rage to stave off the hurt and regret, I also am of an age when stress makes type-A men like me become statistics, so I closed my eyes, took in a long, deep breath of the fresh/not-fresh air and brought myself down and back into a calmer place.

The suite’s doors were still open, and I was standing just outside when I finally felt myself clamed, my thoughts rid of the stress of the moment and ready to face the next few minutes. I looked out and saw the skyline in one direction and darkness that was the ocean in another, then did a scan of the hotel’s building as it extended from my corner suite. When I looked down to the pool a few floors below, I first saw him.

No, it wasn’t the bellman, as I’d first thought. The pool area was minimally-lit, but even in the low light and even at this distance I could see that the stud emerging from the building and heading toward the pool was glistening, apparently with sweat. The bellman couldn’t have worked up that sweat that fast I knew. And the stud had a towel wrapped around his waist and what looked like a wad of clothes in his hand – maybe a shower, not a sweat? But in sneakers . . . maybe he didn’t want clean feet to be barefoot after a workout, and the sweaty sneaks were the lesser of two evils?

I continued observing him, but I moved carefully back as far as I could on the balcony and settled into a chair. I still had a full view of the pool area below from a slight side-angle. With luck, my presence would not be obvious if this hunk looked upward, sensing himself being watched.

He was indeed a beautiful specimen. My years as the boyfriend then husband of a younger professional athlete had honed my recognition for types of bodies, and I could tell this hunk was not an athlete, but rather a man who cultivated and honed his physique for its aesthetic. The difference was more a matter of classification than of caring, and in fact my head threw me the thought that it was better for me to ogle a man who worked for his body than a man whose body worked for him. The latter hadn’t worked so well for me, other than the pleasures of his flesh which I had reaped all these years.

Gym shoes came off, then socks, after he got to the edge of the pool. Definitely not the bellman and his black, upscale-looking sneakers, as I saw more flashy, color-coordinated shoes catch a small spotlight by the pool and reveal a familiar swoosh.

The water must have been pleasing because as he dipped his foot in he didn’t flinch or pull out right away. But he did take a broad look around . . . and up . . . and I froze.

His gaze didn’t seem to stop on me or take any notice, and I slowly and silently – ridiculous, given the distance – let out a breath I’d sucked in. When he’d moved so he could dip his foot he was under that one of the sparse spotlights. I could see his body better – and what a body it was, there glistening in the light. I also reasoned that his vision into the darkness was likely far more impaired than mine as a result of the shining spot and distance. The thought crossed my mind that in that spotlight, he was there for my visual enjoyment.

His chiseled physique was indeed enjoyable. His torso and well-muscled arms rippled and roiled as he moved, and he showed enough bulge under the towel wrapped around his waist to know he had both a nice package and a HOT ass.

I was aware of my cock having stirred and grown in my boxer briefs and suit slacks to a point where I was painfully bound up down there. The thought of this stud in the spotlight giving me an unintended show was only exacerbating the problem. As I watched him complete another sweep with his eyes, I carefully and slowly moved only my left forearm to my slacks, unbuckling my belt, opening my pants button and slowly, with great care to be silent, lowering my zipper.

My breath caught again as the pool stud dropped the clothes he’d clutched in his hand, and I felt my cock throb against the heel of my hand which was opening my pants. When he suddenly dropped his towel, I nearly gasped . . . and my cock throbbed with such intensity I momentarily thought I was about to cum then and there.

I could tell from the distance that a naughty grin played on his too-handsome face. Too handsome like Medusa – too gorgeous to look away from and turning me to stone, or at least part of me! When he put his arms behind his head and stretched his body, exposing every cut and cord and ripple, I had the same violent throb in my cock and nuts, and again I wondered at the speed of my arousal by him.

When the pool stud suddenly dove in, it served as a cold splash over my arousal, startling me out of my reverie . . . at least slightly. My hard, fat, long cock, which by then I had in my hand, pulsed as if it was false-shooting. I felt a coolness at my tip, and I realized I was drooling pre . . . already.

I thought about going inside – arguably, where I belonged! – but I was transfixed by the sight of his under-lit body churning through the water, first underwater for the length of the pool, then emerging with a burst above the surface and a head shake that tested my control as the water sprayed and I imagined something else spraying. He wasted no time, however, and he started doing laps.

I watched his body, its rips and ridges and planes, as the water and the pool light accentuated them all as he worked those well-honed muscles and propelled himself back and forth. I absently stroked my aching hardon, feeling more precum in the warm breeze, enjoying the feel of it as I smeared it over my head, rolling my foreskin back and forth in the goo. I absently imagined that the cool effect of the warm breeze which I felt on my cockhead where I’d smeared my pre was the same the hunk felt on the parts of him which emerged from the water.

When the hunk got out, exposing his fully-wet body, my cock again lurched in my hand, and I felt a larger glob of precum at my tip. I’m talking enough that my mind realized my suit slacks would be a mess from it!

GOD! I mentally slapped myself. What am I, a teenager? My throbbing dick reminded me exactly what I was. A very oversexed late-30’s man who hadn’t had sex for over a week owing to my travel. UNLIKE my husband, apparently, my head hastened to add to the discussion. And I was now effectively a free agent, horny, worked up all the more by this hottie, and with a very willing young bellman downstairs at my disposal!

STOP! STOP! STOP! I tried to force myself out of thoughts like that.

The last time I’d caught Jake cheating, I’d gone out and fucked a stranger, ending with guilt and lack of satisfaction for me, complicating and probably leading to Jake’s and my reconciliation . . . because it turned him on that I’d gone and taken out my upset that way. I should have known from that – and from the immediate remove of any focus on his cheating! I didn’t want to slip into this as a way of life. It wasn’t OUR way of life at all, and I didn’t want it to become that – it wasn’t the type of relationship I wanted, though I know it works for many.

Forcing myself to abandon thoughts of my soon-to-be ex, still my cock throbbed in my hand, my big blue balls were full to overflowing . . . and the stud downstairs was stretching again, enjoying the feel of his hands on his own body, illuminated again, this time by a motion-activated light which he’d triggered when he exited the closer end of the pool to me. The show was CUMpelling . . . and my cock was demanding release. When he was lowering himself into a now-roiling Jacuzzi, his cock shown clearly, hardened or hardening as it descended under the frothy surface.

I saw him move himself, positioning himself carefully, and wondered what he was planning. When he’d got on his knees facing one of the sides, his face shown with the enjoyment I recognize as that a man recognizes in another man – he’d got a jet to work his hardon and nuts! I don’t know much about straight sex, but I know men know how to treat men’s nuts, and women simply don’t!

I was stroking in earnest by that point, though slowly, savoring the view, and savoring my own buildup. When I saw him start to thrust in the water, I made the conscious decision to slow myself way down, to edge myself with the sight of him fucking the water and to give him my attention fully.

It wasn’t long, and very suddenly, mid-thrust, he arched his back and put his hands behind his head as if in a long stretch, his crotch continuing its manic thrusting in the water. His ripped torso was flexed and on full, glorious display. At the moment his body tensed to its max and I knew he was about to blow, he leaned back, his cock out of the water now, and he was shooting great arcs of cum from underwater and then above, out over the edge of the Jacuzzi and into the water on the deck.

For some reason I involuntarily stopped my movement on my own cock. I wanted even more than my full attention on this hot hunk in the Jacuzzi, unaware that he was being watched. Or aware and performing, which was even hotter, as I rekindled the thought that this was all for my viewing enjoyment. As if he was fucking the unknown voyeur – me – through a camera, the voyeur seeing every muscle of his tense, even seeing his balls pulled way up and his cock throbbing as it shot his wad, and he’d never know me. And if there were others watching, none of us would know about each other, and he wouldn’t know any of them.

His hand slowed, and he lowered himself again, his head lolling a bit as he enjoyed the aftercum sensation. I saw him wipe something from the edge of the Jacuzzi – and whether it was his cum or not, it was in my mind. Then, when I very gently eased my fingers to my engorged, throbbing cockhead, I found my own precum running down and over my ‘skin and down my shaft. I absently brought my fingers to my lips and savored the taste of my desire.

In that moment my eye caught more movement than that of the young hunk below, this in my peripheral vision. Another balcony, a floor down from mine, probably near the other end of the hall from the corner my suite occupied, had a man on it, his cock out, his arm wildly jerking. I watched the hunk get out of the Jacuzzi below and watched the older man on the balcony across the hotel. The hunk dried himself languidly and then wrapped his towel around himself at the exact moment I saw the older man convulse and saw some drops spray from his hand and cock in the moonlight.

The hunk was inside, and I saw he’d left his shorts and maybe some of his other clothes by the pool. My cock was DEMANDING release. I also wanted the souvenir the hunk had inadvertently left, and I wrestled my big cock back into my slacks and got them zipped, not caring about the discomfort or wetness in my boxer briefs.

I gave the other voyeur a last look and then quickly got up and went back into my room and strode through. I swiped up the room key from a table by the door and headed out without concern for the obvious tenting in my foreground.

I got to the pool area without having seen a soul, and I walked out like I belonged there at that hour of the night. I made a beeline for the forgotten gym clothes. I quickly swiped up and took the sweat-soaked tshirt and shorts only, leaving the shoes and socks there, and headed back inside. When I was in the deserted hallway I brought the sweaty workout clothes to my nose and inhaled deeply, another frisson running through me as I savored the clean, manly sweat of a good workout . . . from a hunk I’d enjoyed the sight of.

My nuts ached for release and screamed in my brain. My cock was just as rigid as it had been when I could have cum up on the balcony. Thinking of a different plan, I walked away from the deserted hallway I’d taken from the elevator to the pool area.

When I hit the lobby I balled up the workout clothes in my hand to be as inconspicuous as possible. Henry saw me from his desk, having looked up from his phone, which had apparently been occupying his attention. His smirk was immediate and seemed knowing, but how could he know? By that point I didn’t give a shit either way.

“You have some time to help me with something upstairs?” I asked, having stalked up to him, boldly adjusting my hardon in my slacks, my eyes boring into his. I saw his smirk go to a wide grin, then he gulped after he’d looked down to see my obvious arousal. “Let’s go,” I ordered, not having bothered to wait for his answer. I turned and strode toward the elevators, and from behind me I heard hurried steps following and catching up with me.

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Any of you who read the first story 3 years ago featuring Jake and Ethan may be vested in a continuation to see where this goes. If so, let me know, and give me any expectations you have. Or not . . . and left to my own devices it may be another 3 years – or longer, or never – before I revisit them. LOL

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