Gay (Voyeur)
I swear I didn’t mean to see it.
But I didn’t click out either.
It started out innocent—just a late-night study session. Cameras on, mics muted, everyone pretending to care. Five of us were there at first, scattered across dorm rooms and bedrooms, barely paying attention. But I was watching him.
I always watched him.
He was the kind of guy you notice before you even realize it—strong jaw, smug grin, tank top clinging to his chest. He knew how to sit like it was an art form. Sprawled out, arms flexed, legs wide. Casual in a way that was too perfect to be accidental.
One by one, people started logging off. A wave here. A head nod there. Until it was just two of us left.
Him.
And me.
Then—he got up and walked off-screen. No goodbye. No wave. Just… gone. I figured he forgot to leave the call.
But his camera stayed on.
A couple minutes passed. And then he came back.
Dripping wet.
Hair damp.
A white towel slung low on his hips.
Water slid down his chest, tracked his abs, disappeared under the towel. My breath caught. My mouse hovered over “Leave Meeting,” but I didn’t click.
He didn’t say a word. Just tossed his phone on the bed, turned away, and dropped the towel.
I froze.
His whole body—bare. Confident. Unbothered. He climbed into bed like no one was watching, one knee bent, cock resting heavy against his thigh.
But then he picked up his phone. Scrolled. Smirked.
And his hand drifted down.
He started stroking himself—slow, steady. Like he did this every night. Like he wanted to be seen. Every movement was purposeful. Every flex, every shift, framed perfectly.
I knew then—he knew I was still there. He was putting on a show for me.
He didn’t look at the screen directly, but he didn’t have to. His body said everything. His strokes sped up. His breathing turned into soft, broken moans. His abs tensed, hips lifted, and he let out the deepest, filthiest sigh—
And came. Hard.
His cum splattered across his stomach, thick and hot, dripping down his skin.
And then—
He stood up. Still hard. Still wet.
He walked toward the laptop. Leaned in, breathless. His face filled the screen.
And he winked.
Winked at the screen.
I absolutely loved it, I giggled,
I expected the screen to go black. I thought that was it. The end of the show.
But it wasn’t.
Because he didn’t leave.
Didn’t log out.
Didn’t even flinch.
Instead, still staring at the camera, he reached forward and tilted the screen down.
Now the frame was all torso. His abs. The dripping mess across his skin. The steady rise and fall of his chest. And his cock— hard again, twitching.
Then, without a word, he sat back down on the bed again. Legs wide. Thighs spread. Dick glistening in the low light. He grabbed lube from behind him.
I sucked in a breath.
Was he going for Round 2?
He didn’t rush. He popped the lube, poured it on, used two fingers to spread it around his cock. He took his time. Watched himself do it. Let me watch, too.
The sound of his strokes were obscene—wet and slow and deep.
He groaned.
Threw his head back.
Started thrusting with slow, rhythmic movements, hips rolling off the bed just enough to chase the tight squeeze.
I couldn’t look away. He wanted me to watch.
Occasionally, he adjusted the angle—lining himself up with the camera, making sure I saw everything. Hoping I was getting a good view.
His muscles flexed. His abs tightened. His breathing turned ragged.
And then—his moan cut through the silence.
He came.
Again.
Deep.
He held still, cock pulsing. His shaft was slick, covered in lube and cum. A single string of it dripped from the head and slid down his thigh.
Looked straight into the camera again, this time without a smile.
Just heat.
He stood up and walked right past the camera.
And then my phone buzzed.
“You wish that was your mouth, don’t you?”
My heart pounded.
Another message came in before I could even respond.
“Maybe next time!.”
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