With My Little Eye

NOTE: This story depicts adult fictional characters in imagined situations. Any likeness to real people or situations is purely coincidental

---------

I always had an inkling that my experience of sexuality was a little different. And not in the expected ways - sure, I found myself more attracted to cock than cunt as I grew into my own manhood, and yes, I'd cultivated a list of more than my fair share of non-normative kinks (BDSM, locker rooms, wrestling singlets, just to scratch the surface.) But when I say that my experience of sexuality is different, I don't mean in those ways. It's something more fundamental and, by definition, isolative. Not that I mind. You see, discovering what my cock truly craved was itself probably the peak sexual experience imaginable for me, and though such ambition may seem trite to the casual reader, chasing that high has since been my life's main purpose.

I wonder if an illustration of what I mean might be helpful.

First, a bit about me, so that my readers can begin to craft an image. At the time my sexual discovery took place, I must have been in my mid-twenties - a lean, verifiable twink about 5'8 in stature with meaty legs and glutes that come from a history of gymnastics and dance. Regarding what's between my legs - the description of which my hungry little readers are probably haphazardly searching for while their lube bottle stands at the ready - I ask for your patience. We'll get there in due time. I'll make it worth your while.

But I digress. The thing I need you, my dear reader, to understand is that my discovery really was an accident. What happened afterward wasn't, I'll admit that, but I never intended to be this way. But I need you to believe: I didn't go seeking this out.

At the time of my discovery, I was unremarkable sexually; just your run-of-the-mill perpetually horny bastard with a near-constant woody-the-woodpecker hard-on and nowhere to put it. Except, of course, the occasional Grindr hookup's throat or the one-off bottom bitch in need of a breeding. Which, at the time, was plenty for me. That's really all I thought I needed: I'd paint a cumdump's intestines with my load, exchange perfunctory niceties, and be on my way for a while, my orgasm urgency temporarily sated. I didn't really think about it, but I didn't really have any desire for that to change. It worked for me.

Until my discovery, that is, the memory of which burns bright though my neural network, like a firework that never fades. It was in August (I remember because it occurred right before my 24th birthday), and given that I was living in a commuter part of town at the time, I was walking home (from some obligation or another, surely). Now reader, believe it or not, I'm normally offensively oblivious - in fact, I've been called out for not noticing friends or relatives walking (quite literally) across the street from me, nearly doing jumping jacks to get my attention. It's a genuine flaw. But for some reason, something that day penetrated my oblivious nature and caught my attention. Walking the same path I'd always walked, passing by the same shops and windows and doors, I turned the corner off the main drag and began treading the side road I'd come oh so familiar with; as I did, I noticed a mild flashing coming from one of the windows of a garden-level apartment on my right. I wasn't nosy - I think anyone (including you, my reader) would have done the same - but almost instinctually, my head turns to the right almost as if in automated response to the sudden sensory stimulation. Like a moth to a flashing bulb.

The gentle flashes were coming through an open, unshaded window, and to my surprise (and before my brain could process it), the window revealed a man who, given his 5 o'clock shadow and body hair, must have been in his early 30's. The flashes came from a computer screen that was facing towards the window at an angle, such that the man was sitting in a computer chair facing it (and away from the window) to the right. Piece by piece, the following revelations became clear as my visual field clarified the immediacy of the sensory information: the man was completely nude, the only remnant of clothing was what appeared to be a pair of boxers barely visible around his ankles; his chest and arms were muscular, despite the mild "fluff" around his midsection, reflecting what most people would describe as a "dad bod" these days; his left hand was tugging at his scrotum beneath what appeared to be a throbbing erection (that must have been at least 9 inches, its was monstrous), while his right hand hovered over the computer mouse; and hardcore lesbian pornography was playing full screen on his computer.

My brain finally caught up with reality: I'd caught this complete stranger masturbating.

Now, I need you to know, my initial response was shock. That part of my humanity was intact - I in no way expected to stumble across such a private moment, and although I can't say for sure, I don't suspect this guy had intended to leave the window unblinded for the unwitting eyes of passersby. He was probably just going about a nightly routine of sorts and, like all of us occasionally do, forgot this one time to ensure complete privacy. I'm sure you can empathize with those kinds of slip-ups, reader - perhaps you've discovered, while cleaning jizz off your chest, that you'd forgotten to use incognito mode on a shared computer; or maybe, while your butt plug was still inside, you realized that your headphones were not in fact plugged in and the volume for your noncon porn was on full blast for literally all of your neighbors to hear. It's human, and I suspect that was what happened with this stranger that day: an innocent slip-up that resulted in uninvited eyes unexpectedly (and unbeknownst to him) bearing full witness to an otherwise private moment.

After the initial shock passed, I felt my heart skip a beat as it sent a surge of blood to my dick, which was beginning to form a tent in my jeans (which, thankfully, was covered by an oversized hoodie). Almost like a kid who'd been caught swiping cookies from the jar, my eyes darted left and right to see if anyone was bearing witness to my sin - my crime. As was usually the case, this out-of-the-way side street was empty, meaning that, in essence, the coast was clear. Instinctively, I got my phone out and put it to my ear: not to record, mind you, but as an alibi. "Oh, I'm just on the phone with a friend," I'd say if someone asked what I was doing, aiming to appear as mindless, clueless, and brainless as possible should a curious mind put the pieces together. Then it hit me: by crafting this plausible explanation to explain why I remained where I stood, my body was implicitly communicating a desire to stay. To continue watching. To continue violating this stranger's expressions of self-intimacy and eroticism.

My staying wasn't conscious at first - please know that, reader.

But stay I did. Intrigue overcame me, but it wasn't the only facet of my experience, nor was it the most dominant. For example, shortly after I'd pulled out my phone to create the illusion of an innocent passerby, I noticed this stranger take his left hand off his member and begin typing something with both hands. From there, it appeared that he began perusing for a different video - I assumed for a different kind of pornography - and mere moments after that, he clicked on something, maximized the screen, and leaned back in his chair, returning his left hand to its simple but sacred task. Up and down... slowly... yeah, that's it. The video he'd selected began with (or at least he'd fast-forwarded to a part in which) gigantic circus tits dominated the screen. However, and much to my surprise, as the camera panned down, its focus shifted from these concrete balloons to what was unmistakably an achingly tumescent penis.

Dirty bastard liked t-girls.

When the pornstar's dick came into view, my unwitting stranger seemed to shiver in anticipation, and his cock visibly throbbed - as if to communicate its satisfaction with the viewing choices of its obedient servant. My stranger then glided his fingers gently over his clearly moistened piss slit, rubbed the sex dew between his fingers, propped his right leg on his computer desk, and then sent his lubed fingers further south than they'd ventured so far. He was lubricating his opening. And at this point, I became acutely aware of the pressure my now achingly hard dick was creating against its denim menagerie. To say that all of this was "turning me on" would be a grossly offensive understatement.

I understand if you're judging me by this point, my reader, so I must take some time to explain. Yes, there were inherently sexual elements to what I was witnessing, but I confess, those were not (and are not, to this day) the most alluring elements to me of what I was witnessing. Yes, it was exciting to see dick. Sure, porn is enjoyable. Of course, the man was attractive. That was all well and good. But what truly got me - the new element that I had heretofore never experienced, let alone dreamed of - was the element of power that overlayed not just what I was witnessing but how I was witnessing it. This moment was supposed to be his - a moment between him, his hand, and God (whether you interpret that to mean a religious figure assessing the holiness of this man's actions, or whether you interpret that to mean his cock is entirely up to you, my reader). Not only that, but clearly he was engaging in something so deeply private that even he himself might be ashamed to step outside of himself and admit what he was doing. My stranger appeared, by all accounts, heterosexual: he was not particularly well groomed; sports memorabilia adorned his untidy living space; and the masculine hubris in lesbian porn ("no dicks, just chicks") was almost laughably offensive. But here he was, secretly exploring a potentially new and taboo side to himself, obeying the demands of his penis and clearly relishing the acquiescence. Was this his first t-girl exploration? His second? His hundredth? Who could know. All I knew was: I wasn't supposed to see. No one was. That was supposed to be his - his secret, his pleasure, his shame - and, without his consent, I had borne witness to all of it. I had stolen that from him, that power over his secrecy now entirely in my hands.

And most notably (and the part that makes my cock throb even as I write this in hindsight): he had no idea. Had this man explicitly and with total consciousness invited me to watch him engage in the exact same activities, it would have been a completely different experience, and - though I deign to say it for the certainty of your disapproval, dear reader - a decidedly less enticing one. The element that got my juices flowing, the active ingredient that my cock had craved since sexual feeling was possible (though it knew it not), the high that my dick would demand for years to come... it was the element of seeing without being seen. The knowing without being known. The inherent violation of another's decisional autonomy and sexuality without their approval, consent, or interaction. And best of all, like the stealthiest of sleuths, I was completely undetected. My stranger still had no idea I was there, and he never would. So I could steal this moment, I could take this power, and past my own processing of what this meant for me, there would never be a single tangible consequence.

Fuck, even typing that makes my balls tighten in yearning.

So I kept watching. I'd continue to check my surrounding for other passersby, but it was as if I and the rest of the population on earth were in on the scheme together. They were my aiders and abetters, and their role was to stay the fuck away so that this moment - my moment - could stretch out unperturbed. And as partners in crime, their compliance was spotless.

My stranger seemed in a lust-driven trance - one hand massaging his pulsing head, the other exploring the tightness of his unexplored pleasure ring, all the while never once glancing away from the hypnotic star commanding his full attention. In a way, I felt connected to him (though he, of course, knew it not), as the drip of his precum faucet seemed to mirror the growing wetness I had been curating in my own boxer briefs. Suddenly I saw tension in his back: what could it have meant? I'm not sure, reader - perhaps his goon-fueled clumsiness resulted in inadvertent harm to his hole, or perhaps he rode the edge closer than he'd wanted. Not yet, just a little more. All I know is, the next thing I witnessed was: him, suddenly standing, putting his left hand behind his monitor to bring it closer; his ass muscles clenching as he mimicked humps of nut-hungry desperation; him throwing his head back, presumably accompanying moans or attempts at dirty talk; and then, almighty ropes of white finality pumped from his meat and landed over the screen and thus his t-girl fantasy. My stranger had reached the frenzied end of the show, and after several jizz-driven shivers, he shrugged and seemed to let out a sigh of completion. Then, as if to take an encore, he leaned over and - much to my surprise, reader - he began licking his seed off the screen. In particular, off the t-girl's cock.

Naughty stranger.

I'm not dense, reader, and I know when the curtain call comes; it became clear at this point that my "phone call" needed to end. So, like any well-to-do man with nothing to hide, I adjusted my erection upward (the head poking over the waistband of my underwear), "hung up" my phone, returned it to my pockets, and continued on to my original destination.

No porn was needed that night for me. It may sound voracious and almost animalistic, but I busted out 3 loads that night - one after the other - simply recalling the images of what I wasn't supposed to see. Naughty. After my chest and underwear were caked in my loads, it dawned on me (though it may be obvious to you, reader) that this experience was a template for me. A foundation for something new, something that, with time and brains, I might be able to get again. And let me tell you, no matter how many loads I sprayed, no matter how much I fed my cock the memory of that discovery, it craved more. I don't know whether any of you have ever felt true addiction, my readers. I have. And let me tell you, this beat them all.

Nothing could sate me. I needed more.

And I had a plan for how to make that happen.

TO BE CONTINUED