Confide/ant - 1. Chapter 1

I doubt he knows I’m watching him. If he did, he’d probably stop, or slap me if he’s feeling brave, but he certainly wouldn’t just keep going like that. Surely, he can’t know I’m watching him.

It’s unspeakably early for a Tuesday morning. I left the house to avoid my parents and their arguments. They were loud enough this time that I could hear them all the way from my bedroom in the east wing of the house, a fancy name for the semi-independent extension my father had built so he could quietly get me out of the way. But that was back when he and mum were still on speaking terms. These days, it’s stony silences and blazing rows: I’m never sure which is worse. The music building, my home away from home, isn’t open yet so I came to the sports complex. I run laps until I feel sick then jog back to get my stuff. Passing the showers, I hear a noise, and then I can’t help myself.

It takes all my self-control now, not to act, not to say something which will make him realise I’m there and watching his every move.

Hrishi Sethi is standing under the shower, naked, his long hair pulled over one shoulder, masturbating. His eyes are closed, but he hasn’t shut the curtain. His face is turned the other way giving me a clear unadulterated view of his slim brown body; his fist moving furiously over his cock. I pause, desperately wanting to join him, but somehow to scared to act. If he bolts, I’ll have revealed myself for nothing. If he runs his mouth, it’ll be even worse: my parents keep up on social media, and I don’t want their bitter anger turned on me instead of each other. And, even though it’s early and there’s no one else around, we are in the sports centre of our sixth form college; and, the doors don’t lock.

On top of that, he’s a jerk, a nerd, and he acts like I’m dumber than the sole of his shoe. It’s risky.

Hrishi’s panting distracts me from all my other thoughts, and as I watch him roll his hips into his hands, my resolve to leave him alone crumbles. I undress as fast as I can without making any noise, and slip into the cubicle behind him. The moment I enter the hot spray of water, his chocolate brown eyes snap open and he grunts, covering his cock with his hands. He thinks I’m about to beat him up or this is some strange game of gay-chicken. I can see it in his face; fear mixed with frustration and lust. I slip my arms around his slim torso brushing over his tight pecs and his dark nipples. He moans and bites his lip; I never realised how super-white his teeth were before.

“Keep going,” I murmur into his hair, my voice at least an octave lower than I’m used to hearing. He grunts in relief, and I am only just holding onto my self-control as he wraps his fingers once more around his throbbing dick. I watch over his shoulder still touching his skin, knowing he can feel my own penis thickening against his butt and the small of his back. His chest’s heaving, and the pink head of his cock revealed by his tight foreskin vanishing in and out of his fist through the water makes me want to spin him around and touch him myself. It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen.

He speeds up, and I know he’s close. I trace a line from under his ear to his shoulder with my lips and bite down on the smooth flesh. He cries out in pain as I pull up a bruise the size of my thumb, but his free hand reaches up and tries to grab the back of my hair. It’s fucking hot.

I wonder what he’ll look like when he comes, what he’ll do. Is he one of those guys who shouts or swears? I think about his cum, whether it’ll be like mine, or thicker, or maybe it’ll be thin and clear and shoot all the way up to his chin.

“Ungh…” He’s so close, his fist moving in a blur over his cock. I can’t help myself; I just have to touch him.

“You’re beautiful.” I mutter softly against his skin, dropping my hand to his hip and bringing my fingers over the exposed head of his cock just as he comes. Hrishi practically growls, but doesn’t say anything as his thick ejaculate coats my fingers for a brief moment, before the water of the shower washes it away. This is by far, the most turned on I’ve ever been in my life.

He slumps back against my chest, panting, his lungs heaving with the requirements for oxygen; the top of his head barely reaches my collarbone. I can feel his thighs trembling against mine and wrap an arm around his waist to support him. He weighs more than he looks like he should in my arms. I feel like I should say something smart or witty, but my brain is full of rampant horniness, and my cock is trying to nestle in the cleft of Hrishi’s smooth butt. I didn’t take the time to look at him properly, so I roam over his body with my free hand and squeeze the mound of firm flesh. I want him, and he must be able to tell.

“You can’t fuck me yet.” They are not the first words I expect to come out of his mouth, but right now I can barely remember my own name, so I’m not sure what I’m expecting.

“Alright.” I’m already panting even before my hand reaches my cock, and I know I’m not going to last very long at all. I jack myself right up against him, a combination of my own fingers and his smooth flesh rubbing along my length. My lips return to the hickey on his shoulder, brushing over the skin I’ve damaged, as he turns his head to bite my ear lobe.

“Come. Now.”

His voice pulls my orgasm up from my balls, right through my system, and my heart feels like it’s going to explode as I ejaculate against his back.

“Fuuuck!”

I can barely stand, but Hrishi seems to have recovered and he steps away as the evidence of my orgasm vanishes into the shower drain.

“You’ve got some explaining to do.” He glares at me, his eyes hard and suddenly unreadable. I thought I was so in control of the situation; but it appears, I was to be wrong. “I’ll be in the computer lab at lunch.” He steps forward and my mind flashes into a brief fantasy where he smiles, reaches up and kisses me with those soft lips. Instead, his mouth is a hard line. “Don’t make me come fucking looking for you Marty.”

He is gone as quickly as I appeared. By the time I make it into the changing rooms in my now slightly damp jeans and yanking my black vest on over my head as I go, Hrishi has vanished.

*

As I carry my checked shirt over one arm even though it’s sort of cold, I feel strange walking through the college building with my hair wet and unstyled. I hadn’t had the foresight to bring a towel with me, so all I have is a pocketful of plectrums and my harmonica. By the time I reach the main building, the hair and beauty department is open and there are clients in there already.

In our sixth form, the social hierarchy is a bit strange. Everyone has to do a sport of some type as a mandatory requirement, but there isn’t a PE course, so there are no jocks. The social life of the school is controlled in part by the girls from hair and beauty therapy, and generally provided by the music department. There’s a gig or a jam session to see every night of the year around here. And I’m lucky because though I’m not the most handsome guy in school, I’m pretty popular. I play guitar, lead and rhythm, keyboards, and flute, though hardly anyone knows that fact, and I sing pretty well too. The hair and beauty girls love me and they indulge my slightly erratic hairstyle habits.

“Hey, Marty.” Christina, wearing her all black uniform of short trousers and fitted tunic, is hanging over the front desk . “No guitar today? You not going to serenade us?”

“Is it raining?” Bayley glances up from the appointment book then frowns at me. “You lost the product we gave you, didn’t you?”

“No, I just forgot…” It’s only a little lie because I didn’t spend ten extra seconds in the house this morning to find matching socks, let alone style my fringe. “Help me?”

“C’mon…” Bayley takes my hand and leads me deeper into the teaching salon. Her black curls are styled and highlighted with strands of sparkly gold, and I’m faintly jealous. She shoves me into a chair and I glance at my reflection, feeling faintly guilty.

I attacked Hrishi Sethi in the shower. However I’d like to dress it up as a sexy rendezvous, I can’t hide the fact that I basically molested him or that it felt so fucking good too. I liked his uncertainly, his sudden shyness, and the way he’d basically ignored me until he’d tried to grab hold of my hair. For the first time, I regret letting Bayley shave the back and sides of my previously permanently spiked black hair. I think Hrishi was totally into what happened in the shower, but the way he glared at me afterwards makes me feel like a stain on the carpet. He’s a cocky son-of-a-bitch when there’s no one around to see it or when he’s putting someone down for not knowing some technical computer fact. I hate that it makes me like him all the more.

Bayley ruffles clay-textured fingers through my fringe and begins to style it with little twists and tugs.

“I still think you should let us dye it for you.”

“Totally,” the girl next to us whose name I can’t remember agrees. “It’d totally go with that rock star thing you’ve got going on.”

“Thanks.” I give her a good smile. I might not really like girls, but they don’t know that.

“She’s right. And we could colour it to match your guitar…” Bayley finishes my hair and squeezes my shoulders with a grin. “Think it over Marty. You’d have everyone drooling after you…”

I leave what spare coins I have ferreted away in my pockets in the tip jar on my way out, and head to the music building, and my locker.

I started keeping everything in my locker back in September when it became clear my parents’ arguments were going to get worse. We all get storage room for our instruments, and whilst my very favourite Telecaster and most of my amps are home, I keep a second Fender in my locker along with a tiny carry around amp which runs on nine-volt batteries. But, I don’t reach for that. I grab my bag and books, snatch the slim case of my flute and head to one of the practice rooms. I need time to think.

The flute was my first instrument as a kid. It’s the least fashionable, but I didn’t care when I was six. My flute teacher was this really cool old guy with long hair and an earring. I’d been playing for two years before I realised that this was my parents’ way of getting me out of the house so I wouldn’t hear them fighting. By that time, he’d given me a CD of Jethro Tull and I remember staring at the pictures of the lead singer standing on one leg with his hair streaming out behind him as he played his flute to thousands upon thousands of screaming fans. Since then, I’ve learnt many of their songs, and now I find my fingers moving over the keys, playing a melody as tight and frustrated as I feel.

I wish my parents still cared about me hearing them shouting at each other. Though I know neither of them is naturally violent, every now and then, there’s the sound of things breaking. When there’s tension in the room now, I know to leave, hide myself away with music turned up loud, and try not to think about what’s going on between them. They hate each other that much is clear, but they are both too proud and too stubborn to let the relationship go. Bitterly, I think sometimes they’re doing it for me and wish I could tell them how much I hate my life at home.

I should feel sated and relaxed because I’ve come in the shower against Hrishi’s skin and watched him jerking off, but I don’t. I close my eyes as I play and remember the texture of his lips, the salt and spicy taste of his skin when I bit him: I’ll never want for masturbation material again. His body is different than I thought it might be, his skin smoother than I thought possible, and far more muscle definition than I associated with his nerdy skill set. Along with our college’s assertion that everyone has to do sports, we each have to take an academic unit in an area of study outside our specialism. On a whim, and because I can’t draw for shit, I chose computer science and programming. Twice a week I have to hightail it over the main road, which runs through the centre of our campus, and make my way into the computer lab, populated with actual PCs―not the sleek, sexy Apple Macs which cluster in the sound-labs―and nerds.

Hrishi is a nerd, through and through. Or at least, I thought he was until he glared at me all hard and cold, when all I’d wanted to do was relax into the afterglow of the best orgasm I’ve ever had. The boy knows fucking everything about computers, and sometimes when he, his friends, and the lecturer get going, I only understand about one word in ten. He speaks to me like I’m thick when I can’t instantly tell the difference between Java and Python and part of me hates, that he’s lodged himself so firmly into my late night fantasies.

I can’t help it. I’m a guy after all and when I’m in bed, there’s only one place my hands roam to. The established social order says hair and beauty girls like rock stars and handsome men who look like they stepped out of GQ magazine. Some of them are inexplicably into the lecturers though, and not even the young ones. Guys with guitars are either into chicks with way too much make up on or they like those odd girls who wear too much eye liner and want to grow up to be children’s librarians. The goths all like each other and I swear no one can keep track of who’s with whom, not even them most of the time. Everyone seems to assume that nerds and geeks, the real ones, not the fake ones who are into computer games and Japanese anime, will stick to themselves and not get laid until we all graduate to university or get out into the real world. But there’s something about Hrishi, with his too-long hair and smart shirts, his prim and proper exterior, his quick sharp-witted retorts, and the way he chews his lower lip when he concentrates.

And I know, he’s been watching me too.

The first few weeks, I felt sure I was imagining it. Every time I’d glance up, he’d look away really fast, like he was guilty of something. He turns away before I have time to smile, but more than a dozen times our eyes have met for the briefest of moments. The boy has lightning reflexes. He chose a sports unit in athletics too, though I’ve never actually seen him run, and I’ve caught him glancing at me in the changing rooms. He’s not been imagining the swell of my cock when he looks, because whenever I find his eyes on my body, I get instantly hard as a damn rock. I’ve spent a fair number of PE sessions jogging around the track with an iron bar stuffed into my shorts.

I’ve watched other far more popular guys than myself mess him around, slap his books out of his hands, push him roughly out of the way, jeer and laugh as he or his friends line up in the cafeteria or cross the parking lot on the way to the bus stop. I’ve never done anything about it, but then, I’ve never seen him try and defend himself. The boy just gets up and walks away and it makes me want to punch him myself, just to get a reaction.

Well, this morning I certainly got a reaction. I still can’t fathom if it’s a good one or not.

I pack my flute away and stow it in my locker. Grabbing my books I head for the most academic of my music lessons – Soundboard - and don my headphones for an hour of noise distortion and EQ balancing. After twenty minutes, Leon wanders in late and slumps into the seat next to me. There’s a slightly confusing moment when he yanks out my jack, plugs his splitter in and then the noise is back. I turn down the volume and move one earpiece aside as Leon half slumps against my shoulder.

“Kill me...”

“Seriously dude? It’s a Monday!” I can’t believe Leon has been up all night, again.

“I’m not hung over,” he groans, flipping his hood up. It’s not an action that makes me inclined to believe him. “I locked myself out of the damn house. My parents are away in shitting Aruba or somewhere so I had to sleep in my car.”

“All weekend?”

Leon simply shrugs.

“Fucking hell dude.” I keep my voice low; our lecturers are cool and everything, but it’s still best not to be caught openly swearing in lessons. “Why didn’t you just come round? You know you could’ve kipped at mine.”

Leon gives me his best smile, the one that has groupies-to-be fawning over his every move. He might be a mess now, but in his element, Leon has the most incredible stage presence I’ve ever seen; even I want to fuck him when he turns on the charm. And we’ve known each other since we were fourteen.

“Didn’t want to interrupt you and Debbie now, did I?”

“Leon! You know that ain’t even a thing.”

“Why not? You two looked all cosy and cute after the gig on Friday. I did see her getting in your car.”

“I drove her home,” I sigh.

“Uh-huh.” Leon doesn’t believe me, and I jab him in the arm.

“Really. Other people can go more than a day without trying to shag the next thing which moves y’know.”

“Jerk. I have standards.”

“Sure, a pulse.”

“And tits,” Leon reminds me. Apparently, five minutes is all he needs to recover from his weekend of poor sleep. “You and Debbie would be a good fit. She’s cute and knows her way around a drum kit. And you know all the heavy-metal girls get really fucking kinky when the lights go down….”

“Do your damn work, Leon.”

“Uh huh, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”