"Jerk-Off Story"

Some erotica I wrote for a job I didn't get. They wanted "a jerk-off story."

I first spotted Serge the day my realtor showed me the apartment I live in now. We’d been all over the city that day, in the stifling mid-August heat, seeing cozy brownstones, stylish lofts, condos with all the amenities - mostly out of my price range. This, our last stop, was pretty under-whelming: a studio, 300 square feet, fifth floor walk-up, modern kitchen, recently remodeled bathroom, the smell of grease and fried food wafting up from the Chinese take-out place downstairs.

The realtor – Danielle, I think her name was – had to take a call, leaving me alone in the stuffy little apartment. I walked over to one of the three windows facing out over the alley. There was only eight, maybe nine feet of airshaft between my building and the one next door. I pressed my forehead against the glass, feeling frustrated, exhausted.

And that’s when I saw him: a pale, dark haired slip of a boy asleep on a red sofa in the apartment across the airshaft from mine. He was naked, lying on his stomach, one leg dangling off the sofa, smooth, round little ass on display. It reminded me of the way house cats stretch out in the sun, all lazy, aloof sensuality. I could feel my tightening, tender flesh pressing softly against fabric. Why doesn’t he close the curtains? I thought. And then, I hope he never does.

I heard Danielle’s cell phone snap shut behind me as she re-entered from the hall. “So what do you think?” she asked skeptically, as if to say, Yeah, I know it’s kinda a dump.

“It’s...actually…” The boy across the airshaft shifted in his sleep, rolling over onto his back. His uncut dick nestled in a thick tuft of black pubic hair, his full pink lips slightly parted. “It’s actually just what I’ve been looking for.”

* * * *
His name’s not really Serge, that’s just what I call him. Although, it might be. I don’t know his real name, so I guess I don’t know that it’s not Serge. It would be pretty weird if it was. He looks vaguely Eastern European, so Serge it is.

I’ve lived in this apartment for almost a year now. Serge renewed his lease six months ago. I watched him sign it at the coffee table in front of his red sofa, fold it up, slip one copy into an envelope which he licked with his perfect, strawberry red tongue. I’ve seen him do other things with his tongue. He’s constantly bringing other guys home to fool around. Usually they head to the bedroom, where I can’t see them. But every now and then they’ll stay in the main room, on the red sofa. Serge loves to suck cock, from what I can tell, anyway. He’ll push the guys down on the sofa and unbutton their flies. They’re usually hard before he even pulls it out of their boxers or tighty whities, pre-cum oozing out of the tip. He’ll wrap his hand around it, mouth open, and look up and the guy, blinking. He’ll flash a wicked smile and, without breaking eye contact, he’ll slip that cock into his mouth and down his throat. I don’t know if it’s something they talk about before, something he tells them he likes, but the guys usually end up grabbing Serge’s head with both hands, grasping his dirty shaggy hair and fucking his face. They pull out and cum all over those pretty cherry lips. It happens almost every time.

But most of the time I just watch Serge at home, all on his own. During the summer he’s naked more often than not. And he’s constantly masturbating. I guess that’s because he’s young, 18, maybe 19, in his sexual prime. Today, he’s home early from class (Intro to Sociology; I watched him study last night). He drops his messenger bag at the door, pulls his white t-shirt over his head, kicks off his Chuck Taylors. He falls onto the sofa in his faded jeans and studded leather belt, starts rubbing his crotch. He unbuckles the belt, slides his jeans off.

And then he looks right at me.

I freeze. A deer in headlights. I duck behind my curtains, wait, then slowly peek back around them. Serge is smirking at me, still naked, holding his belt in one hand, the other on his freshly shaven cock. He winks at me and puts the belt around his cock and balls, pulling them up. He slides the belt between his legs and rubs himself on it, letting the rough leather slip between his ass cheeks. He’s getting hard. His cock quivers and stands up all on its own. He bounces it for me. He tosses the belt aside and leans back on the sofa, stroking his cock with one hand, the two fingers of the other in his mouth. He lifts his thighs and shifts in my direction, so that I can see his pink asshole. He takes the two fingers from his mouth and rubs the little puckered button. He slips one inside, slowly, and then the other. He’s playing with himself, lips parted, eyes closed. If I could hear him, I know he’d be making soft whimpering sounds. His skin is flushed a deeper pink than usual. He starts bucking his hips into his own hands, fingers sliding over his cock, in and out of his ass. He’s wide open, his mouth a gaping, trembling O, the sound a long deep moan as he comes all over himself.

Serge stands up, licks some of the cum off his hand and blows me a kiss.

The next day, the curtains are drawn over Serge’s windows.