The screen was my altar, and his profile was a gospel. Every picture was a nude, a testament to a body sculpted for worship. There was no face, never a face. It was all body, all form. A shot from behind, showing the powerful curve of his glutes and the strong, hairy line of his thighs. A close-up of his chest, the dark hair swirling around his pecs, his nipples tight and perfect. An overhead view, his entire frame laid out on a bed, his half-hard cock resting thick and heavy against his thigh, a dark nest of hair at its base. They weren’t artistic nudes; they were pure, unadulterated bate-fuel, and for a man like me, they were everything.
This was Ben. Our chats were the only thing that accompanied the visual feast. He was smart, funny, and surprisingly grounded for a man who so openly displayed his physical perfection. He knew what he was doing. He knew men like me savor these images, and would use them to fuel my own private sessions. He liked that. He liked to be wanted, to be the object of a very specific, very intense kind of desire.
Tonight was a rare gift. The notification popped up: Ben was live in the video chat room. My heart hammered. The still images were one thing, but live… the opportunity to watch him in motion.
I clicked the link, and there he was. He was sitting on a chair, one arm thrown back behind his head, displaying the dark, thick hair in his armpit. The camera was angled low, capturing the defined muscles of his torso and the powerful V of his hips. His legs were spread, and his cock, fully hard now, lay against his stomach. He wasn’t touching it. He was just letting it be there, allowing us to look. Allowing *me* to look.
He wasn’t saying anything, but his body spoke volumes. He’d shift his hips, and his cock would bob. He’d stretch, and the muscles in his abdomen would ripple into sharp relief. It was a slow, deliberate tease, a masterclass in exhibitionism. He knew I was there, lurking and inspecting. He’d mentioned me in our chats before. “I know you’re watching,” he’d typed. “I know what you do when you watch.” And he was right. My hand was already on my own cock, stroking slowly as I drank in the sight of him.
The occasional texts provided a direct link to him. “You’re quiet tonight,” he typed. “Just gonna sit there and edge to it, or you gonna tell me what’s on your mind?”
My fingers flew across the keyboard, my own arousal making me bold. “I’m thinking about how much better this would be if that camera wasn’t in the way.”
His reply took me by surprise. “Yeah? What would you be doing if it wasn’t?”
I didn’t hesitate. I started to type, giving him the fantasy that his photos and his presence had created in me.
In my head, I’m not in my room. I’m right there with you. The camera and the screen are gone. We’re not in a chair, we’re on your bed. You’re leaning back against the headboard, and I’m nestled between your legs, my back against your chest. Your arms are wrapped around me, holding me close.
He let out a low hum of approval, and his hand moved from its resting place on his thigh to his stomach, his fingers tracing the line of hair that led down to his cock. He still wasn’t touching it, not yet. He was drawing it out, making me describe it.
I can feel the warmth of your skin all along my back, the coarse hair on your chest tickling my shoulders. I can feel your heart beating, steady and strong, against me. Your chin rests on my shoulder, and I can feel your breath on my neck. It’s perfect. It’s safe. I take your hand in mine and guide it down my chest, over my stomach, until our fingers are laced together just above my own hard cock.
A soft groan escaped him, and finally, his other hand moved to wrap around his own cock. He gave it one slow, tight stroke from base to tip. My own hand mirrored the movement, the pleasure sharp and immediate.
We just stay like that for a while, a tangle of limbs and shared warmth. Then I start to move. I rock my hips back against you, feeling your own hard cock press against my ass through the fabric of my shorts. I turn my head to the side, and you kiss me. It’s a slow, deep kiss, full of tongue and shared breath. Your hand tightens on mine, and you start to move it, guiding my hand up and down my own shaft. You’re stroking me with my own hand, setting a slow, torturous rhythm.
He started to stroke in earnest now, a steady, rhythmic pace. His gaze was fixed on the camera, on me. He was no longer just performing for a room; he was with me, lost in the fantasy I was weaving for him. He was using my words to get himself there, and the power of it was intoxicating.
I let go of my own cock and reach back behind me, my fingers digging into the thick muscle of your thigh. I start to stroke myself faster, matching the pace I can hear in your breathing. Your free hand begins to wander, massaging my chest, tweaking my nipples, tracing the lines of my stomach. You’re touching me everywhere, exploring me, claiming me. It’s overwhelming and perfect all at once. I can feel you getting close, your thrusts against my ass becoming more erratic.
He came with a strangled moan, his body arching off the chair as he spilled all over his own chest and stomach. The sight of it, combined with the raw sound of his release, sent me over the edge. I came hard, my own climax tearing through me as I stared at the screen, at the image of the man I had just brought to the edge with nothing but words.
For a long moment, we were both still, the only sound our collective panting. He finally reached for a towel, cleaning himself off with a lazy, sated grace. He looked back at the camera, a genuine, warm smile replacing the earlier smirk.
“Damn,” he typed. “You’ve got a good imagination, you know that?”
I smiled back, my body thrumming with contentment. “It helps to have good inspiration.”
He winked. “Next time, maybe you can share more of your fantasies.”
My spent cock gave a hopeful twitch. “I’ll start writing it now.”