Tristan. Shows. Off.

20131225-075644.jpgTristan. Shows off. Who would like to see more of Tristan? NSFW.

The phone beeped. I tried to ignore it, but I found myself squinting through half-closed eyes at the dark room. What the hell time was it? It felt middle of the night late, too far away from the night to be part of it, not yet feeling the distant change of light and wind that would mean dawn. It beeped again. Two were harder to dismiss. I flung out an arm from the sheets and knocked the phone to the floor. Fuck. Eyes shut, I moved over and did a tired sweep of the carpet next to the bed. There it was. I grabbed it, and rolled over on my back. I blearily looked at the bright white of the numbers. 3:37. Who was texting me? I pressed the little green square with the 2 in the corner, like an angry exponent. The message window opened and I froze. Watch me, said the first message. Then I tapped at the picture to make it fill the whole screen, and it still wasn’t big enough. Tristan. Taking a selfie. I wondered for a minute if the phone was wet, as wet as he was. He was leaning against the tiles in the shower, the water splashing on to his torso, which was sleek and shining, rivulets flowing down the muscled core of his body, to land and hover in the neatly trimmed tight curls that partially hid his balls from view. Nothing else was hidden though, and the blood-flushed tip was coated lightly with water, and something else, something that showed his excitement in posing like this. Pressing send. Knowing the effect it would have. On anyone. The phone beeped again, and the next picture scrolled into view, his hand firmly grasped around the hard flesh. His eyes were less amused now, dark circles, slightly unfocused. A minute passed. The phone beeped. This time the photo was blurred, his eyes closed tight, his hand another blur within the photo, movement. I felt my face grow warm, the familiar sinking heat spreading down. He was a statue, the muscles taut and flexed in his shoulders and arms, the dip of the lines by his hips a rigid indent. Another minute, a beep and the new photo appeared. His eyes were wide open now, and his lips were wet and full, slightly open, as though he had been taken by surprise. His hand was still tight around himself, pulling out the last tremors of furious pleasure. The evidence was captured as it struck him, adding to the sticky wet sheen that covered his heated skin.

I shut my eyes for a moment. It was almost too much. Then the phone beeped again. It was a message this time.

Your turn.

Alice Severin – Access Unlimited – out very soon

2 thoughts on “Tristan. Shows. Off.

  1. Nancy says:

    We don’t want teasers. We want the entire book! When? If you don’t like our impatience, then you shouldn’t write such compelling literature….

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