A Close Shave Ch. 01

"Oh shit," I said. "Oh God damn it, no..."

But yes - the crotch of my pants was much, much darker than the surrounding khaki. And yes - it was incredibly obvious.

I grabbed a washcloth from the wicker basket on the back of the toilet and started wiping away at the mess, working frantically and making no noticeable difference to the situation whatsoever.

"Fuck." I ran the cloth under the faucet, then brought it back to my pants. I paused.

Soooo...said a voice inside my head. Your plan is to...make your pants wetter?

I...can make it look like an accident, I thought. Get the legs a little wet too, then blame it all on a malfunctioning faucet...

Disgusted with myself, I folded the washcloth and placed it on the sink. She'd see right through that, I told myself. Just like how she sees right through you...like, sees everything that goes on inside your head. And it's not like you were super subtle about running in here. She knows exactly what's up.

I groaned and buried my sweaty face in my clammy hands.

"How did I fuck this up so badly," I muttered, then jumped at the sound of the knock on the door.

"Jordy," said the voice from the other side of the wood.

"Yep, yeah, uh huh," I replied, face still hidden.

"What's going on."

She knows, I wailed internally. She knoooooows.

"Oh, nothing, you know, just...just indigestion...sorry. Just need a minute." I paused. "Sorry."

There were a few beats of silence. Then I heard footsteps padding away from the door and my heart sank into my gut.

Nice lie, liar, I told myself. Super effective.

Well what was I supposed to say? I thought back. 'Heyyy, I'm so pathetic that a few kisses and a single bump 'n' grind is all I need to blast my slacks?'

A small click interrupted my self-persecution. And before I could even turn towards the sound, the bathroom door swung open and there she stood, giving me the exact same look she wore when we first met three weeks back.

***

"Give me your number."

Her voice wasn't overly loud, nor was it demanding the way you might expect it to be. But there was such power in it, such confidence and direction, that I still heard her through my brain's generic-coffee-shop-noise filter.

"Huh?" I said. I looked up from my phone, saw her, and was immediately intimidated.

"I'd like your phone number," she said, pursing her lips slightly as she blew some steam away from the tiny vent in the lid of her cup. She took a sip, her big, dark eyes watching me coolly from behind a pair of half-frame glasses. It was a look that left me wondering whether she found me amusing, a waste of time, or a bit of both.

"I need to get to work," she continued, once it was clear that I was too tongue-tied to say anything. "But I want to be able to text you about your terrible taste in music."

"Uhh...oh. Oh!" I looked down at my shirt, which I had bought at a gig for a local band I really liked. "I mean, what, these guys are great."

I tried to stretch out the "what", raise the pitch, make it playful...but my voice cracked hard. Seriously, it was like I was the star of a movie called Puberty 2: Adolescence with a Vengeance.

She kindly pretended not to notice. Instead, she held up her phone.

"Yeah. I need to go to work. But I want to text you. So I need your number."

Nothing like this had ever happened to me before. I had never had a girl come up and ask me for my number. Hell, I had never even asked for a girl for her number - not directly, at least. No, it was usually accomplished through spending a lot of awkward will-we-won't-we time together, followed by some sort of fumbling social dance that resulted in an awkward exchange of numbers, followed by an awkward relationship, awkward sex, and an awkward breakup.

Fortunately, the part of my brain that hadn't yet been liquefied let me know that her half-and-half expression was starting to lean towards "waste of my time".

"Uh, yeah, sure, it's..." I gave her my number, leaning over to make sure she entered it into her phone right, and doing everything in my power not to look at the way the strap of her messenger bag pressed down hard on the middle of her chest...

***

"So," she said, three weeks after I first gave her my number, standing in the doorway of her bathroom while I fumbled about and tried to hide what had happened to the crotch of my pants. "What's up?"

"Me? Oh n...nothing. Nothing. What's up with, uh...you?"

God damn, the power in that stare. She didn't have to say a thing. She just had to keep my gaze, keep her eyebrows arched, and I basically just...told her. Flat out.

"Icameinmypants," I mumbled. Okay, not quite flat out. She couldn't understand what I said - and neither could I, for that matter.

A deep blush raced up my neck like a forest fire. Ash coated the inside of my mouth, and I hrmmhped a few cinders free from my throat. "I...uh...I came in my pants."

Esme smirked. "Obviously," she said. "I just wanted to hear you say it."

"I'm...sorry," I said, trying to scoot past her. "I'll...I'll just leave."

"Whoah, now," she said, putting a hand against my chest. Her fingers were electric, and they stopped me right in my tracks.

"You can't leave here like that, sweet boy." She pointed to my crotch. "That's my mess. I earned it, and it belongs to me. Nobody else should get to see it."

Nobody ever called me "sweet boy" before. Not even my own mother. And nobody - especially not my mother - had ever claimed my premature ejaculate as their own. I didn't think the back of my neck could get hotter, but it did.

She uncrossed my hands and pulled them away from my pants, maintaining eye contact the whole time. I barely resisted her. I was completely overwhelmed - between the pleasure and panic of cumming in my pants, to the frantic clean-up attempt, to the sheer shock at the audacity she displayed by barging into her own bathroom to find out why her date squealed like a pig and then waddled in here-

I blinked and shook my head. "Sorry," I said. "What was that?"

She stepped in close then, grabbing me by the front of my shirt and pulling me down to her mouth. The kiss was hard, hard enough for me to feel the steel curve of her lip ring leaving an indentation on my lower lip. My chest hitched once, twice, three times, trying to get me to start breathing again, while down below, bathed in sweat and basted in its own juices, my softening cock started twitching awake for round two.

Esme pushed me away from her, still holding onto my shirt so that I didn't fall backwards. She laughed, then let go of me and ran her hand through the very short, very curly hair on top of her head. Her eyes gleamed.

"Strip," she said again.