The peeping tom slipped through the front door of the Abdel apartment with the practiced silence of someone who had done this many times before. His skinny frame barely disturbed the air as he moved, his greasy blond hair falling across his sunken eyes.
The apartment was empty, just as he had known it would be. He had been watching the building long enough to know everyone's schedules. Khalil was at work. Kota was out doing whatever Kota did when he wasn't being the most infuriatingly attractive person in the entire building.
He crept down the hallway toward Kota's bedroom, his heart hammering in his narrow chest. The small camera in his hand was a sleek, expensive model, the kind that streamed high definition video directly to his tablet back in his own unit. It was worth it. This was an investment in his collection. His art. His lovers.
He justified it to himself as he knelt beside Kota's dresser, searching for the perfect angle. This wasn't creepy. It wasn't weird. He was only going to use it to spy on Kota when he brought a femboy over. That was all.
Just to capture more footage of those massive, jiggling asses getting railed by the biggest cock in the city. It was for his collection.
His archive.
His private library of depravity.
It wasn't like he wanted to watch Kota specifically.
He didn't care about Kota.
Kota was just the vehicle.
The tool.
The instrument by which femboy ass was properly destroyed.
He could have been anyone.
He could have been faceless.
He could have been—
He shook his head, forcing the thoughts back into their proper shape. He hated Kota. He hated how tall he was. He hated how broad his shoulders were. He hated how his stupid deep voice made something warm curl in the pit of his stomach every time he heard it. He hated how his stupid kind smile made the corners of his own mouth twitch upward involuntarily. He hated how he had watched that video of Kota railing Kin and Yuki at least fifty times, and how his eyes always drifted to Kota's face, his expressions, his grunts, his—
No. Shut up. Shut up shut up shut up. He wasn't attracted to Kota. He wasn't gay. He wasn't anything. He was just a collector. An archivist. A documentarian of the human experience. The fact that Kota's body made his tiny nub twitch in his pants was purely physiological. A biological response. It didn't mean anything. It didn't mean he wanted to be pinned down on that bed and—
Stop. Focus. The camera.
He positioned it carefully on top of the dresser, angling it toward the bed. The lens captured the rumpled sheets, the football posters on the wall, the weight bench in the corner. Perfect.
He would be able to see everything. Every femboy Kota brought home. Every moan. Every thrust. Every clap of ass against hips. It was going to be magnificent.
He stood up, brushing the dust from his knees, and his eyes landed on the nightstand. A fleshlight sat there, the matte black exterior gleaming in the dim light filtering through the blinds. His breath caught in his throat. He recognized that model. High capacity. Designed for repeated, high volume use. He stifled a moan, his hand flying to his mouth.
His feet carried him toward it before his brain could intervene. He snatched it from the nightstand, his fingers trembling, and brought it to his nose. He inhaled deeply, hoping, praying, desperate for some trace of Kota's scent to still be there.
But it was clean.
Scrubbed.
Soap and hot water and nothing else.
The toy was empty.
Sterile.
Useless. Shit. Shit. Fucking shit. He had been so close. If he had just come a few hours earlier, before Kota had cleaned it, he could have smelled him. Tasted him. Saved a sample for later.
He sat down heavily on the edge of Kota's bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. The sheets still smelled faintly of sweat and sleep and something else, something musky and masculine that made his head spin. He should leave. He had planted the camera. His work was done. He should go back to his own unit and wait for the footage to start streaming. But his body wouldn't move. His eyes kept drifting toward the corner of the room, where a pair of gray boxers lay crumpled on the floor near the laundry basket.
He tried to ignore them. He really did. He stared at the wall. He counted to ten. He recited the periodic table in his head but couldnt remember anything after the 10th. But his eyes kept sliding back toward the gray fabric, the soft cotton, the faint dark stain near the front that was probably just sweat but could be something else, something better, something precious.
He lunged for them. His fingers closed around the fabric and he brought it to his face, pressing it against his nose and inhaling so deeply he nearly passed out.
The smell hit him like a freight train.
Musk.
Salt.
Male.
Kota.
Pure, unfiltered, concentrated Kota.
It was the smell of his skin, his sweat, his essence. It was better than anything in his collection. Better than any photo. Better than any video. It was real. It was here. It was in his hands.
A loud, desperate moan tore from his throat before he could stop it. "Oh god. Oh fuck. This is—this is perfect. This is the best thing I've ever smelled. I'm going to cherish this forever. I'm never washing this. I'm going to keep it under my pillow. I'm going to bury my face in it every night. I'm going to—"
The front door opened. The sound of keys jingling. Footsteps in the hallway.
His blood turned to ice. He scrambled off the bed, his heart slamming against his ribs so hard he thought it might crack through bone. The gray boxers were still clutched in his hand. He couldn't put them back. There was no time. He dove for the closet, yanking the door open and throwing himself inside just as the bedroom door swung open.
Kota walked in, still wearing the white hoodie and cargo pants from the shopping trip. He looked tired. Satisfied. His hair was slightly mussed, and there was a faint flush on his cheeks that made the peeping tom's stomach do a strange, fluttering thing he refused to acknowledge. Kota stretched his arms over his head, his hoodie riding up to reveal a strip of dark skin and the defined ridge of his abs.
The peeping tom watched through the slats of the closet door, his breath caught in his throat, his tiny nub straining painfully against his pants. Kota was right there. Inches away. Close enough to touch. Close enough to smell. The gray boxers were still pressed against his nose, and he inhaled again, silently this time, the scent flooding his senses and making his head spin.
Kota pulled off his hoodie, then his cargo pants, standing in nothing but his boxers.
His body was incredible.
Broad shoulders. Strong arms. The defined planes of his chest and stomach. The heavy bulge between his legs that even soft was bigger than anything the peeping tom had ever seen in person. Kota grabbed a towel from the back of his chair and walked out of the room toward the bathroom.
The sound of the shower starting was the peeping tom's signal. He pushed the closet door open, his legs shaking, and crept out of the bedroom. He moved through the apartment as fast as his skinny legs would carry him, the gray boxers still clutched against his chest like a sacred relic. The front door clicked shut behind him, and he was gone, disappearing into the stairwell like a ghost.
Kota stepped out of the shower twenty minutes later, a towel wrapped around his waist, steam billowing out behind him. He pulled on a fresh pair of sweatpants and a clean t-shirt, then started gathering his dirty clothes for laundry. He picked up his hoodie. His cargo pants. His socks. He looked around for his gray boxers, the ones he had worn yesterday. They weren't by the bed. They weren't in the bathroom. They weren't anywhere.
"Huh. Weird." He shrugged and continued gathering the rest of his laundry.