5. Camille #2
It encourages proximity, loosens caution, and creates opportunities that friendship alone may not. Ryan might decline a ride into the village because he fears obligation, but he may accept an invitation offered for reasons he understands to be personal.
Provided he is interested in men.
I have little evidence beyond the brief descent of his eyes and the flush that followed. Both could be misread. He may simply have noticed that my shirt was open farther than convention recommends.
I decide further observation is required, so over the next two days, I conduct several small experiments.
When I see Ryan working near the boundary wall, I remove my jacket before crossing the western lawn, though the temperature does not require it. His gaze follows the movement.
Later, while carrying a case of new sample vials from the auxiliary building, I roll my sleeves above my elbows.
Ryan, kneeling in his garden with both hands buried in the roots of an invasive shrub, watches me for nearly ten seconds before realizing I have noticed, then looks down quickly, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.
The following evening, I stand on the terrace speaking with a colleague by telephone. Ryan appears at his upstairs window while I am there. He remains behind the curtain, visible only because the light inside the cottage outlines him through the fabric.
When I begin to slowly yet casually unbutton my shirt, revealing my bare chest and abdomen beneath, the curtain shifts, and his shadow disappears.
The results are promising, though inconclusive. A man might glance at another man’s body without desire—without any feeling at all, in fact. The world is full of people who look at one another without meaning anything by it.
But the pattern matters. The duration of each glance. The effort Ryan makes to stop himself, as though he has caught his hand in something he should not have touched.
Thus, I decide to escalate.
The natural pool behind my property has been there for centuries—a spring-fed basin set into the limestone, roughly three metres across and deep enough to stand in comfortably.
From the upstairs windows of the cottage, particularly the one in what I believe is Ryan’s bedroom, the pool is partially visible through the foliage.
The angle is imperfect, which is precisely why it serves.
A man who wishes to be seen makes himself obvious.
A man who does not know he is being watched does not.
I wait until late afternoon, when the light is warm, and the air has thickened with the kind of heat that makes movement seem unreasonable. Ryan has been working outside since the morning, and has just retired inside.
I remove my shirt on the terrace, folding it over the back of a chair, then walk down the stone steps toward the pool.
I make no effort to look toward the cottage, pausing at the edge of the basin and stretching, extending my arms above my head and arching my back slightly, the way one does when the heat has settled into the muscles and requires release.
With exaggerated slowness, I unbuckle my belt, letting it slip through the loops, before thumbing open the button of my trousers and easing down the zipper. As the fabric is pulled down my legs, I’m left only in a pair of sleek black briefs that I know cling to my body sinfully.
I give it a second, dragging my thumbs underneath the tight waistband, then strip those away as well, leaving them with my discarded pants in a small pile beside the edge of the pool.
I then stretch again, really prolonging the movement, the flex and length of my body, and the way my cock hangs heavy and unashamed in the heat. For a moment I simply stand there, exposed to the trees and whatever view the window might afford a certain prickly little neighbor.
The skin on my arms prickles, not with shame, but with a sense of performance.
Dipping one foot into the pool, I shiver at the coolness, then step in fully.
The bottom is slick limestone, and the water has the clarity of cold glass.
I wade in to my knees, then my waist, then drop, submerging myself before surfacing with a toss of my head, water streaming in rivulets down my skin.
I stand, the water lapping just below my hips, and run a hand down my chest, indulging in the feel of eyes watching me. I continue down my stomach, tracing the lines of the muscles there, then reach for my cock, loosely grasping it.
I begin stroking my thick length unhurriedly, tugging once, then twice, watching the window’s sliver of glass for any tremor of movement.
I smile, eyes half-lidded, and draw my palm up my shaft again, lingering at the head to squeeze out a gush of pre-cum.
The show of it—the sheer audacity of it all—makes my skin hum.
I stroke myself harder, until the world shrinks to the cool lick of spring water and the possibility of Ryan’s eyes on my naked body.
My mind begins to fill with quicksilver images—the slight fullness of his bitten mouth, the tentative way his gaze drifts over me and then away, as if he is afraid not of looking, but of being looked back at.
I imagine him pressed to the other side of the window, one palm flat against the glass, breath fogging the pane as he watches.
I imagine him hardening, shame battling hunger, stroking himself to the rhythm of my hand without daring to draw the curtain wider.
I let myself come to the edge, savoring that exquisite moment where tension burns liquid through the gut, but do not finish.
Instead, I sink again beneath the surface, the water’s frigid chill serving as both punishment and reward, and swim a circuit around the basin before wading out.
The limestone nips at the soles of my feet as I retrieve my towel and dry off in the open air.
I do not look toward the cottage window, not directly, but in the flat of the glass, I can catch a glimpse of movement—a curtain trembling ever so slightly before falling still.