Episode 4
A guy walks in just after eleven. Hoodie zipped to the neck, ball cap pulled low. His hands are stuffed in his pockets. He stops just inside the door like he’s not sure if he’s too early or too late.
First-timer. I can always tell.
He’s trying to look casual, but his eyes are scanning everything—posters, lockers, the hallway behind me—like he’s trying to memorize the place before someone catches him looking lost.
“Hey,” I say gently. “First time?”
He hesitates. Then nods once.
I keep my voice calm. Friendly. “No pressure. You can just look around if you want. Nothing has to happen.”
That earns a small smile. “So… it’s normal to feel nervous?”
“You kidding? Half the guys who come in here feel nervous. The other half just fake it better.”
He chuckles. His dark eyes crinkle at the edges, and I can tell he’s cute under the hat. Soft cheeks, long lashes, full mouth. But younger than me. Maybe early twenties. Still figuring himself out.
I slide a towel across the counter. “You can take a locker and have a look around. Stay dressed as long as you want. Or just hang out in the lounge. There’s no right way to do this.”
His fingers brush mine when he takes the towel. Not on purpose, I don’t think. But neither of us pulls back right away.
He glances up. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“You ever come out from behind the desk?”
A beat of silence follows my soft exhale. I let him see my expression soften. Not flirty, but open. “Sometimes,” I say. “When it feels right.”
He nods again, slower this time. Then, he tucks the towel under his arm and disappears down the hallway, shoes whispering across the tile.
And now I’m left watching the quiet place where he just stood, wondering if tonight will be one of those times.
I see him again about an hour later. He’s wrapped in his towel now, barefoot, lingering near the corner of the hallway that leads to the lounge. He leans against the wall like he’s resting, but his eyes keep darting. Watching.
There’s a couple in the private booth across from him. Curtains open just enough to see everything: one guy on his knees, slow and methodical. The other with his head tilted back, fingers tangled in dark hair, hips rocking steadily.
The boy in the hallway can’t look away. And I can’t look away from him.
His arms are crossed, but his towel tents slightly at the front, betraying him. He’s hard, flushed, and fascinated. And he’s learning.
I stay back, half in the shadows near the linen cart, watching him watch them.
His chest rises faster when the kneeling guy swallows the whole length, and the man above him groans.
The boy licks his lips unconsciously. Then he senses me. His eyes catch mine across the space. Stillness. He flushes darker, caught. But he doesn’t run. Doesn’t drop his gaze. Just pushes off the wall and walks toward me.
Not fast. But deliberate. Maybe watching others has given him an ounce of confidence. It looks sexy on him. Knowing what he wants. Coming after it.
When he stops in front of me, his voice is low, breath tight.
“You’ve been watching me.”
“So were you.”
His smile is nervous. “Yeah.”
The silence stretches, not awkwardly, but making the humid air feel thicker with tension. Then he shifts his towel a little, tucking it tighter, almost shyly.
“I was… uh, paying attention. Trying to figure out how they do it like that. Confident. Good.”
“You mean blowjobs?”
His cheeks go pink in the cutest way. “Yeah.”
My brows lift. “You want to learn?”
He nods slowly. “I want to get good. I’ve never… really done it before. Not like that.” A beat passes. His fingers fidget with the edge of his towel. Then, bold but unsure, he asks, “Could I practice on you?”
His voice wavers, just a little. Not performative. Not some cocky setup. He’s asking for help. Like he trusts me to be honest and patient. This isn’t about getting off, it’s about getting it right.
I study him. He’s not trembling. He’s not scared. He’s wanting. Curious.
And I’m already hard. I glance down the hallway. It’s empty. Booth curtains drawn. Lights low. Then, I look back at him.
“If we do this,” I say, voice even, “you listen to everything I say. You go slow. You stop when I tell you to. Deal?”
He exhales as if he’s been holding that breath all night. “Deal.” He nods again, more sure of himself now. Like asking was the hardest part.
I push off the wall. “Come with me.”
He follows, his footsteps quiet behind mine, towel clutched at his hips. The hallway is dim, with lights buzzing overhead, shadows flickering across tile and skin. I hear him swallow, but I don’t turn around.
Room 4 is open.
I step inside first, flip the lock, and let the door close with a soft click. The air changes, warmer, closer, charged with something thick and electric.
He stands just inside the room, watching me. Waiting.
I let my gaze rake over him. Not teasing or gentle. Just seeing. He’s flushed, his chest rising faster now. The towel slips a little as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. It’s clumsy. Honest. And it makes my cock throb behind my zipper.
“You want to learn?” I ask, voice quiet but clear.
He nods again.
“Then watch me first.”
I sit down on the vinyl bench and spread my knees slightly. My palm glides slowly down the front of my jeans. His eyes track every movement like they’re starving for it. Like this is a language he’s dying to speak fluently.
He licks his lips again, unconscious, automatic. “Come closer.”
The stranger kneels between my legs without hesitation. His fingers tremble just a little as he reaches for my waistband. He waits, eyes flicking to mine, asking without words.
“Yes,” I murmur. “Go ahead.”
He peels down the denim slowly, and when I spring free, his breath catches audibly. He stares, not out of intimidation, but awe. Hunger.
The silence between us crackles. My hand finds his jaw, thumb grazing the corner of his mouth.
“You don’t have to impress me,” I say. “You just have to be present.”
Something about knowing he’ll be bad at it makes it so fucking good. I didn’t realize this would turn me on so much, but here we are.
He nods, lips parting. And then he leans in.
His breath brushes my skin first. Warm, a little uneven. Close enough to make me twitch in his proximity, but not even touching yet.
He studies me as if he’s trying to memorize every detail before he even begins. His eyes flick up, checking for any sign of permission or doubt.
I give neither. Just hold his gaze and nod once.
Then he dips his dark head and lets his lips part around me, tentatively at first. Carefully. He’s not reckless. He’s listening with his mouth, watching my face like every shift in my breath is another instruction.
He starts slow. Gentle pressure, wet heat, the faint drag of his tongue as he adjusts to the angle, the taste, the weight of my cock on his tongue. It’s not about perfection; it’s the focus that undoes me. The way he wants this to matter.
I exhale sharply and tilt my head back, letting my fingers brush the back of his neck. I don’t push him. Just grounding. Offering him something to hold on to.
He moans then, quiet, involuntary, and the vibration nearly pulls a curse out of me.
The humid air makes goosebumps rise over my skin as his tongue learns my taste. I look down, and the sight of him—on his knees, flushed, lips stretched around me, brows slightly furrowed in concentration—is enough to make my grip tighten on the bench beneath me.
He pulls back a little too fast, breath catching. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and laughs, embarrassed. “Sorry. I wasn’t—”
“You’re doing fine,” I cut in, voice thick. “Don’t overthink it. Just breathe. Use your mouth like you mean it.”
He grins, eyes brighter now, and goes back in.
This time, he’s bolder. Deeper. More rhythm than hesitation. My thighs tense as I fight the urge to buck up into him. It’s not about release yet. It’s about letting him learn me. Letting him take his time.
And he does. He learns fast.
When he hollows his cheeks and tongues the underside in just the right way, I groan—quiet, but guttural—and his eyes flutter closed like praise turned into touch.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Just like that.”
He hums again, and I feel it everywhere. He’s enjoying this as much as I am.
My hand cradles the side of his head now, not guiding, just keeping him close. We move together in that rhythm: breath, mouth, pulse, reaction. He’s no longer just practicing. He’s exploring. And I’m burning for every second of it. My heart kicks up, pounding loudly in my ears.
He finds his rhythm. It’s not perfect, but that’s what makes it so good. There’s a hunger in him now, but it’s not greedy. It’s tuned in. Every little movement he makes draws something deeper out of me, like he’s learning me by heart.
I clench the bench under my fingers, holding myself back.
I could let go. I could take control. But I don’t do either. Because there’s something beautiful in watching him build this. In the way he listens with his whole body.
He uses his hand now, stroking where his mouth doesn’t reach. Tongue flicking, lips sealing tight. His saliva dribbles down my balls, tickling my taint. When he looks up at me again, eyes wide, mouth full, I swear, it nearly undoes me.
My anonymous lover looks so eager to please me, and I’m eager to teach him. “That’s it,” I murmur. “You feel that?”
He hums in response, and the sound travels down my spine like lightning. My hips buck despite me, just a little. His fingers dig into my thighs, not to stop me. To brace.
He adjusts. Sinks deeper. I hiss through my teeth. My hand tightens at the nape of his neck. “Careful.”
He pulls back, breathless, lips slick. “Too much?”
“No,” I say, jaw clenched. “Just—good. Too good.”
That makes him smile, a crooked twist of his full lips, and flush with pride. He’s still hard under the towel. He hasn’t even touched himself.
“Keep going,” I say. “If you want.”
He does. Thank God.