Page 18 of Big Britches

Titus jerked away, yanking the sheers closed. He stepped backward, stumbling over a pair of discarded sneakers and falling hard to the floor, landing on his bare bottom with a thunderous thud.

“Everything OK up there?” came Roz’s voice from downstairs.

“Yeah. Yeah,” Titus said. “I, uh—I dropped… my shoes.”

“Shoes? Sounds like an elephant up there.”

Titus didn’t know whether to laugh or feign offense. He was more worried that Pedro may have seen him. It’s one thing to flirt with your yardman, but to stalk him naked from a window was kind of?—

Pervy.

“Yeah. That’s it. I’m up here hiding Dumbo. He was gonna be a surprise.”

“Let me guess… I need to fix a plate for him, too?”

“Haha. Very funny.”

He stood and went to the window again, parting the sheers just a tad with his index finger. There was Pedro, mowing his fourth long strip, eyes ahead, business as usual.

Maybe he didn’t see me.

Titus let the sheers close and went into the bathroom.

Through all of this, he still had an erection. Now, it was pointing toward the shower as if suggesting: Come on, big guy, let’s get in that hot box and shuck some corn!

He turned on the water and reached for the lotion bottle on the counter, pumping a generous amount in his hand before entering and closing the shower door.

The water was warm, splashing on his shoulders and down his back. The tenderness of his rear end resurfaced with the heat, but he ignored it. He reached down, gripping his cock with his slick hand.

Oh, yeah. Yeah. Man, I needed this.

And like that old Saturday morning commercial where it takes only three licks to get to the juicy center of a lollipop, Titus stroked.

One.

Two.

Three.

He seized with a grunt and hot magma shot from him with such intensity that he could have sworn he heard the splat on the opposite shower wall, even over the sound of the running water. His head went light. He reached out, leaning into the tiled wall for support, collapsing into waves of something bordering both ecstasy and exhaustion. His cock was still in his hand, hiccuping with a life of its own, its remaining spillage mingling with the shower water and spiraling into the drain below.

He saw none of this, though. Titus’s eyes were closed and Pedro’s face had returned to his mind’s eye–his black coffee eyes, the slight tilt of his smile, and that telling blush creeping up his neck and into his hair. Oh, how Titus wanted to be that blush, wanted to caress that skin, wanted to taste the firm flesh of that neck while his fingers raked through Pedro’s soft ebony locks.

He opened his eyes and saw his wilting penis. It winked at him.

Thanks, hoss. I needed that.

He straightened himself from leaning.

“Holy cow!”

The tiled wall was beaded with clear water and what looked like a white paintball fired at close range. He studied the viscous tendrils exploding outward from the center, creeping slowly down, and forming a milky, translucent Rorschach pattern. To Titus, it didn’t resemble the typical generic design most people saw–faces, animals, insects.

No.

What Titus saw was a flower, a very specific flower—a camellia. Nostalgia snatched at him, his thoughts flashing to childhood and his grandmother. She had adored those shrubs, had giant ones on all four corners of her house. She once told him that the blooms of a camellia symbolized undying love.

He heaved a deep sigh, smiling at the reverie before disengaging the hand-held shower to rinse the wall.