Chapter Text
The blue light from the laptop screen cast shadows on Paul Landers' face as he navigated the forum, his search progressing with mechanical precision. It was late, past midnight, that kind of hour when the dormitory plunged into its deepest sleep, when only the hum of the refrigerator and distant traffic broke the silence.
He hadn't intended to click the link. It appeared in some obscure thread about postmodern literature, a comment from a user he'd never seen before. But something about Entweihen's username caught his eye, and below it, a profile picture that was pure darkness, interrupted only by the faint suggestion of a silhouette.
The gallery loaded slowly. Paul held his breath.
Who in their right mind would publish this on a literature website? Or rather... how did this garbage end up there without being banned? He wondered.
The first video was brief, no more than three minutes. The lighting was dim, atmospheric, perhaps by candlelight or the glow of a single lamp. The framing showed a person from the waist down, reclining on what appeared to be a leather sofa. The camera angle was deliberate, even artistic, focusing on the curve of the hips, the tense muscles of the thighs, the slow, rhythmic movement of a gloved hand between the legs.
His pulse quickened. He shouldn't be looking at this. He should close his laptop, go to sleep, wake up tomorrow, and forget about it.
But he couldn't look away.
The person in the video was moaning softly, their breath failing with each movement. Paul strained to hear the words; they were muffled, indistinct. But there was something in the rhythm, in the desperation, in the raw vulnerability that made his own body react. He felt the familiar warmth build up in his chest, in his stomach, in his groin. His hand moved almost unconsciously to the waistband of his pajama pants.
What the hell am I doing?
But he didn't stop.
He could no longer contain himself, and he wasn't even in puberty anymore, but that was fine. He was still twenty years old. He could still expect this from what he was about to do.
Landers' hand slid inside his own pajama shorts, his fingers finding the stiff length of his penis. The touch sent a wave of electricity through his body, and he bit his lower lip to stifle the soft sigh that threatened to escape.
On screen, a person continued their slow, deliberate movements. The camera angle remained fixed, capturing every subtle movement of muscle and flesh. Paul's other hand rose to protect against the cold metal of the laptop, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge.
"Fuck," he whispered, the word almost inaudible in the silence of the room. What the hell, was he really masturbating to a stranger's perverted video?
His movements were hesitant, but he gained confidence as the video progressed. He watched and played simultaneously, his mind was creating connections that shouldn't exist between the anonymous figure on the screen and the sensations coursing through his own body. The person's breathing became faster, more irregular. Paul kept pace with his own rhythm, his hand moving in sync with the rising tension in the video.
His interest found the glans, spreading a drop of moisture that had accumulated there. The sensation made his hips move involuntarily against his fist, a silent scream escaping his throat.
"God..."
The person on the screen was close now. Paul could feel it in the way his movements became more urgent, in the broken cries they emitted. His own cock swelled in his grip, increasing the pressure at the base, squeezing with an intensity that made his toes curl.
And then came the release, both on screen and in his own body. The person's back arched, his hand moved faster and faster, until he climaxed with a muffled moan that Paul felt in his own throat. His penis throbbed in his hand, the hot semen gushing onto his fingers and in thick jets onto his stomach.
Paul leaned back against the headboard, his chest heaving, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his ears. The laptop screen still glowed in the darkness, the video ending with a final, prolonged shot of the person's trembling thighs.
He stared at the darkness of the screen, his mind already replaying the images, already craving for more.