Page 2 of Creep
My gaze follows the boy out the door and to his old blue Ford as I try to find the words that will get me out of the conversation the fastest. “Ah… yeah. Give it to me.” Her sister lives at Vulture Hollow, and I can easily leave the parcel on her doorstep with no need to even talk to her.
Ruby pauses as if I’ve said something wrong but then hands me a palm-sized box with a deep sigh. “I didn’t want to send it by post. You know how things can get with that when Vulture Hollow is so remote.”
I stare at her as I tuck the box inside my vest. “Hmm… yeah,” I say, because I don’t know what else she could want. This time, I don’t wait around for an answer, because I need to smell that boy, and the sun is already setting.
I turn around and rush out, heading toward my black Harley. I’m in luck. The boy is taking his time, adjusting his shaggy hair with the help of the rearview mirror. By the time he pulls out of the parking spot, my engine is hot and ready to go.
I’ve had my vehicle adjusted by a mechanic to make less noise, which is the opposite of what most of my biker brothers want, but where they’re peacocks, I’m a raven, closing in on my prey in the dark.
I keep my distance, sometimes allowing other vehicles to come between me and my target. As we leave town, illuminated by the setting sun, the drive among trees is pure pleasure. Nature’s my natural habitat, and if the house the boy’s going to is more secluded, it’ll be easier to enter unseen.
When I see him pull into a driveway, I pass as if I haven’t followed him. There’s no close neighbors, so after a minute or two, I drive onto a narrow forest track to leave my bike there.
My skin is already buzzing with excitement. I wonder if he lives alone, or if he has a boyfriend. A husband? He’s a bit young for that. Early twenties at best. Unreasonable jealousy flares up in me at the idea of someone sharing his bed when I’m supposed to hide under it.
On the other hand… if someone fucked him in it, right above me, and I could hear his moans of pleasure, skin slapping against skin… I could imagine it was me.
My mouth is dry by the time I reach his house under the cover of darkness. The air smells of lavender he must be growing in his garden, and a soft guitar tune echoes from beyond the walls as I approach, peeking through the nearest window.
The first thing I see is the faint light in the hallway, but then my gaze drifts to a large bed with a colorful tapestry hung over it. Sweat beads on my back, because I only have one chance to do this right, but while I can’t know when the pretty cherub’s going to enter, I have to go with my gut.
The window is so loose I suspect it can no longer lock properly, but that plays in my favor, something to know in case I want to visit this bedroom again in the future. The familiar buzz of a working microwave makes my heart skip a beat, because thismeans my sunshine is busy in the kitchen and won’t walk in on me while I climb inside, shut the window, and then crawl under the bed.
My chest tightens with excitement when I realize how low the mattress hangs over my face. It might dip even further once the boy lies on it, pushing on my breastbone, low enough that I might rub my groin against the memory foam while my chosen prey sleeps.
When I’m down here, it feels as if every step is louder, each of his breaths so easy to hear. There’s a clatter of plates, then the sound of videos, so I imagine he’s watching something on his phone with his meal. A podcast on the varieties of rose quartz? I think that’s it. Maybe next time I come here, I could leave him a little gift. Something just small enough to not be suspicious. A crystal on the windowsill, if he likes those. I even know who I could ask about it—
More steps, barefoot. Then the sound of a shower. My breath quickens automatically. I most hate the moment when the water first turns on. It’s so loud when it hits tiles, breaking the silence. The boy’s quiet singing is my lifeline, and I close my eyes, focusing on its soothing timbre.
It takes a while, but when I hear him walk out of the bathroom, there’s a wet slap of bare feet hitting the floor. A soft light comes on, and he jumps onto the bed so abruptly the mattress grazes against the tip of my nose.
My toes curl, and while he’s seated closer to the edge, I kiss the fabric cover of the mattress, imagining I’m almost touching his ass. This barrier between us is how it’s supposed to be, and I accept it. A monster stays under the bed, only dreaming about touching fine, warm skin and tasting fresh sweat.
But soon enough he changes position, lifting his legs off the floor, and I stare at the darkness above me with bated breath. Ishe reading? Listening to music? Surely, he would have turned off the lights if he were going to sleep alread—
A soft moan echoes through the air, like a hot drop of oil drizzling straight into my ear. I stop breathing, and in the few seconds before the boy makes that sweet noise once more, my half-hard cock turns to steel.
He shifts again, and through the thin mattress, I can feel where his knees are digging in. He is above me, kneeling, mouth likely against the mattress, and I raise my hips, pressing them to the surface above.
The fabric muffles his next moan, but I still hear it. Then a louder one, and something else… the squeak of rubber against damp skin? I have to open my mouth to not inhale through my nose too loudly. I’ve got no idea what is going on up there, but a grunt which I can only describe as happy comes next.
He’s jerking off.
It’s happened a few times when I’ve indulged in my invasive hobby, a man masturbating on the bed above me, but I’m electrified by the position he seems to be in. Am I reading this right? Is he kneeling face down with his ass up?
I’m soundless as I pop open two of my fly buttons. I don’t do zippers, as they’re too loud. It eases the pressure on my dick, and I slide my hand inside and around my cock. Over the years, I’ve learned to come almost silently, and I’m about to put that skill to good use, because how can I not? Those little slutty sounds he makes are to die for.
The boy’s voice is muffled, a bit choked, but as I reach into my underwear, squeezing my hot shaft, my ears pick up two rhythms. One is slower, almost languid, the other—fast-paced and rough. Maybe he’s fingering himself while jerking off?
It's a thought that spreads through my mind like red hot fog, and I imagine myself behind him, my knees dipping into the too-soft mattress as I approach, watching his digits push in and out of a snug hole.
In my dreams, his ass is as golden as the tan on his face, and when I finally touch him, he doesn’t look back, almost as if he doesn’t know I’m there, or doesn’t care. Lube’s dripping down his sac as he removes the fingers and pushes his hips back, offering himself to me.
In real life, he would have kicked me off the bed, but in this imaginary version of reality, he wants me inside, and I give him exactly what he craves.
I have to be very quiet, hold my breath steady, but I’m almost there. Almost.
In my mind’s eye, when I hear a loud moan, a whisper I can barely hear, ‘Yes, just like that… inside…’ I imagine it’s for me. That he’s asking me to come inside, fill his sweet pink hole with my dirty spunk.
