We were having lunch at a little place around the corner from his apartment. A blessing from the heavens allowed it, as it had finally stopped raining for 15 seconds.
I was still wearing the stranger’s clothes. I chewed into my bite of sandwich and raised my eyes and one of my brows to his assessment of the situation.
“Yeah, ok, he eats all my food and watches me fuck and masturbate. But I don’t know. I think he’s just one of those things that keeps life interesting.”
We went back to his place, where I had now been living all week with nothing of my own. He left to visit loved ones that night, and I decided to try out this idea of masturbating while the rafter boy watched for myself.
I slipped my hand under the stranger’s favorite t-shirt and spread my legs while I sat on the bed and leaned on the wall behind. I looked into my baby’s eyes from across the apartment as he crouched halfway on a rafter and let one leg swing below him. Two fingers slipped inside me, and I moaned louder to make sure he could hear. Louder than I ever had before. It was so fake. I wanted him to touch himself, but he only watched. His eyes were fixed on the center of my thighs, and it made them warm. I felt his gaze tingle on me as laser vision attacked my labias’ sensitive nerve endings. He made my pussy weep with the odd excitement of enticing a stranger without touching him. A stranger above and across the room, yet on another plane of the universe as he poised, unmoving, atop his precious rafter. I played for near an hour, and Baby watched for all that time. Those shark-like, empty, yet endlessly curious eyes never leaving that spot where I directed both our attentions and all my energies. I only did this once, but for weeks after, I was dying to fuck him.
My lover finished in me,
and I kissed his lips adieu.
My stranger tried his flavor
and for weeks, he never knew.
This place became my home.
I was left never alone.
Because
the boy in the rafters
was like me:
forgotten too.