Page 27 of Beau Pair
I open the door of the utility room and look at the laundry basket. When did it get so full?
I take a step closer to it and jump when I realize Beau is behind the door, sitting on the washing machine. His ripped jeans are down to his thighs, his cock, long and thick and bright pink in his hand. His other hand is holding a piece of cloth to his face.
Wait a minute. That’s not a cloth. That’s my red Nick Grant underwear. Has he been…
“Oh, my God!” he screams when his eyes open and sees me looking at him.
Which also brings me to my senses. Whatever the hell he’s doing, he’s still naked, and I’m staring.
I take a step back. And another. And another, until I’m out of the utility room and then I put as much distance from the room and its occupant as possible.
Was he sniffing my underwear? Why would he do such a thing? Does he have a kink… or does he… does he like me?
Nah. Why would he like me? I’m his boss, his teacher, his senior. Men like him don’t like men like me.
Every time I blink, the image of him with his dick in one hand and my underwear in the other haunts me.
Great. Just what I need. More crap imprinted in my head to make my obsession with him even stronger.
My cock shifts in my pants, going rock hard as he keeps flashing before my eyes, and I bite down on my lip. Hard. But my dick is not deterred.
Fucking asshole.
Stay down!
I think and close my eyes trying to will my body part into submission.
But I make the mistake of closing my eyes again and that only rejuvenates it. Why wouldn’t it? When Beau is there, burned to the back of my eyelids.
“Agh!” I groan and try to run up the stairs and to my room, but Beau comes running out of the utility room.
He’s dressed now, of course, but that doesn’t mean I don’t see him naked, jerking off on my washing machine.
I should have stayed on campus. My office is perfectly functional and peaceful and temptation-free. What the hell did I come home for?
“Gordon. I’m so sorry. I-I-I don’t know what to say. I’m not a creep. I swear. It-it-it won’t happen again,” he says. Jesus, he’s almost in tears. “Fucking idiot,” he mumbles to himself and slaps the heel of his palm to his forehead.
“It’s… fine. It’s fine. I…”
I can’t help but want you to sniff me? To lick me? To suck me? To fuck me? To make me cum?
That’s definitely not what I should say. That’s not what grown-ass men say in these situations.
“Let’s not talk about this. Pretend it didn’t happen,” I say, and I have to look at his beautiful chocolate eyes that keep jerking left to right in their sockets, worry written all over them.
“This is so humiliating. I’m so, so,sosorry. I swear I’m not a perv. Oh God,” he says, and the tears build up on his face.
I can’t help what I do next.
I step down from the staircase, take his chin in my hand, and lift his face so he looks at me.
Then I kiss the tears away, their taste salting my lips.
“It never happened,” I reassure him again, and as if whatever hypnotic spell I am under is broken, I manage to pull away and climb the stairs to my room.
What the hell did I do that for? That’s even weirder than what I caught him doing.
