Shy Inspector Rubs Tenant in the Shower

Conrad climbed the stairs to the third floor with his clipboard pinned against the soft curve of his stomach, pale blue work shirt sticking to his back. He was seventy, and the landing always winded him. Gray hair clung to his temples. He had always been shy, and the private bicurious ache he carried, a pull toward men he had never acted on, had only made him shyer. He was here for the semi-annual inspection. The drip under the kitchen sink. Tenant: Dmitri, forty-one. Conrad had written that age on the form and had not needed to look at it again.

He knocked twice and waited with his eyes on the peephole.

The door opened on Dmitri in thin gray sweatpants and nothing else. Forty-one looked settled on him: chest hair dark against skin that had seen sun, a softness at the waist, strength in the shoulders, bare feet on the runner. His hair was damp at the edges. He smiled, and the smile went straight to the place in Conrad that Conrad pretended was not there.

"Inspector," Dmitri said. "Come in. I was about to shower, if that's all right. You can start wherever. I won't get in your way."

"Semi-annual," Conrad managed. His voice came out thin. "Won't take long. Sink was dripping last time."

"Still is." Dmitri stepped aside, and Conrad had to pass close enough to smell soap and warm skin. "Bathroom's down the hall. Door'll be open. I don't mind."

Conrad nodded, unable to hold his eyes, and went to the kitchen because kitchens were safe. He ran the faucet and crouched with a grunt, belly folding over his belt, to check the pipe. The drip was still there, a slow bead. He made a note in his blocky handwriting. He told himself it was the stairs.

Water started in the bathroom. The door had not shut. He heard it swing and stay. Steam drifted into the hall, green with shower gel. Conrad checked the living-room latches, wrote them down, checked the bedroom smoke detector from the little stepstool, and when he stepped down his eyes went, guilty and helpless, toward the open door.

The shower glass was clear. Dmitri stood with his back to the doorway, water sheeting over his shoulders, down his spine, and over the full curve of his ass. Rivulets traced the cleft and ran down his thighs. He shifted his weight. One cheek lifted. He turned a fraction, just enough that his cock hung visible in profile, heavy and soft, gleaming, the head a dusky color against his thigh. Conrad's mouth went dry. He looked at the clipboard so fast his neck popped. He wrote the word pass in a box that did not ask for it. He looked again.

Dmitri knew. Conrad could see it in the unhurried way he soaped his chest, palms sliding down his stomach, stopping just short of his cock, framing it. The door stayed wide. The exhibition was deliberate, a hope that the older man would look and keep looking. Conrad stole another glance, then another. His face burned. His cock thickened behind his zipper, a heavy swell he could not will down. He was seventy, a shy chubby inspector, standing in a tenant's hallway staring at a forty-one-year-old man's bare ass and cock, and every time he tore his eyes away they went back.

He checked the hall detector without seeing it, just to remain. Dmitri turned a little more. The cock swung, water dripping from the tip.

"Hey," Dmitri called over the water. "It's Conrad, right?"

"Yes."

"Hurt my back. Can't bend to get the gel. It's on the floor of the stall, by the drain. Would you mind?"

Conrad's pulse knocked. He could still refuse. He could shut the door from the outside and leave with his dignity and his hard cock both unacknowledged. His feet did not take that path. He set the clipboard down, wiped his palms on his khakis, and stepped into the steam.

The gel bottle lay by the drain. Conrad reached past the open glass and closed his fingers around it. For one unbearable second his face was level with Dmitri's cock. Up close it was thicker than the glances had prepared him for, veins faint under wet skin, the head flushed, a drop clinging to the slit before it fell. He straightened too fast. His shoe skidded. He caught the frame.

"Got it," he said.

Dmitri turned fully. Water ran down his chest, over his stomach, into the hair at his groin. He did not cover himself. His cock hung forward, soft, twitching as if it knew it was seen. He looked at Conrad's scarlet face, at the shirt pulled across that chubby belly, at the ridge pressing the front of the inspector's pants, and something hungry and patient moved through his eyes, the same unfinished bicurious want Conrad recognized in himself.

"Can you rub it on?" Dmitri said. The ask under the light voice was plain. "My back's really shot. I can't reach. If you're willing."

Conrad hesitated. The bottle sweated in his grip. Seventy years of not doing this pressed against the want that had built since the door stayed open. He was shy to his bones. His cock ached. The man in front of him was forty-one, naked by choice, asking by choice, watching so he could stop the moment the answer was no.

"All right," Conrad said, barely louder than the water. "If you want me to."

"I want you to."

"Just rubbing. I'm not taking my clothes off."

"Just your hands," Dmitri said. "That's what I'm asking for."

Conrad squeezed gel into his palm. Cedar and something green. He set his hand on the wet back. Heat. Muscle shifting as Dmitri exhaled and braced on the tile. Conrad rubbed slow circles over the shoulder blades, down the spine, careful at the tender place low on the left where Dmitri winced and said, quieter, "There." Suds bloomed and slid. His other hand steadied the younger man at the hip. Water speckled his khakis. He did not pull back. He cared about the grateful sound Dmitri made, and about his own cock throbbing in time with his pulse.

"Lower," Dmitri said. "Please. I can't get it myself."

Conrad's hands slid over the small of the back, then over the swell of the ass. The gel made everything slick. He spread it across both cheeks, thumbs tracing the curves, palms cupping the weight. Dmitri shifted his feet apart. The cleft opened. Conrad's slippery fingers followed, rubbing into it, not pushing inside, just coating, feeling the clench and the softness and the firmness under it. His face was so hot he thought he might sway. Dmitri's breath hitched. Against his thigh the soft cock began to thicken, lifting by degrees, the head rising, the shaft filling until it stood out from his body, heavy and hardening under the spray.

Conrad watched it from over Dmitri's shoulder. Watched his own soapy hands be the cause. A dizzy thrill went through him, bright as the steam.

"You're good at that," Dmitri said, voice breaking. "Don't stop at the ass."

"You want me on your cock."

"Yes. Rub it on. All of me. I want your hand there."

Conrad reached around and closed his gel-slick fingers around the shaft. Dmitri's cock jumped, the last softness gone, fully erect, hot even through the slick, the head pushing past Conrad's fingers on one experimental stroke. Dmitri's hips rolled forward into the grip. A sound left him that was not politeness.

"Like that," he said. "Don't stop."

Conrad stepped into the shower.

Water soaked the blue shirt in seconds, plastering it to his chubby chest and belly, showing the gray hair and the soft give of his stomach. His khakis darkened. His shoes filled. He did not take anything off. He stood close behind Dmitri, one arm around the younger man's waist, and masturbated him with long, slippery strokes while the spray pounded them both. Dmitri leaned back against the tiles, mouth open, and thrust into Conrad's fist, unashamed, wanting the shy inspector to watch his cock drive through that soapy hand and back out, wet and red and wanting.

Conrad had never done this. Seventy years, and the first cock in his hand that was not his own was thick and thrusting, and the man it belonged to was forty-one and making sounds that went straight to Conrad's groin. His free hand stayed on the soapy ass, squeezing, spreading, feeling the muscle clamp with every stroke. He worked from root to tip, slow then faster, twisting under the head, spreading gel and water and the clear slip of precome. He could feel every ridge under his fingers, the way the head flared when Dmitri thrust, the heat that the water could not wash off.

"Harder," Dmitri gasped. "I want to come for you."

Conrad tightened. The sound under the spray was filthy. He was clothed and harder than he had been in years, trapped against soaked cloth, and he did not free himself. He did not ask to be touched. He gave his hand. Dmitri fucked that fist in short needy thrusts, then longer ones. Conrad's arm burned. He kept the rhythm, forehead briefly against a wet shoulder, watching his fingers shine. The younger man's thighs trembled. His cock swelled fatter in the soapy grip, and Conrad, shy even with his shirt soaked through, did not look away.

Dmitri came with a broken moan, pulsing in Conrad's fist, spilling in spurts the shower rinsed almost as fast as they landed, hips jerking, ass clenching hard. Conrad stroked him through it until he sagged against the tile, chest heaving.

Conrad let go. He stepped out of the spray, dripping, face scarlet, and could not hold Dmitri's eyes.

"I'll note the sink," he said. "That's the inspection."

Dmitri, flushed and smiling, nodded. "Next time. If you want."

"If you want," Conrad said, and left a wet trail to the door.

Weeks later the calendar sent him back for the leak, and Dmitri's email sat in the work inbox: Might be napping. You've got the unit key. Let yourself in. Conrad read it until he had it memorized. His hands shook when he turned the key in 3C. Same pale shirt. Same khakis. Seventy, chubby, shy, and no longer pretending the want was only in his head.

The apartment was dim, afternoon light in bars through the blinds. Dmitri lay on his stomach across the bed, naked, face turned away, breathing slow. His ass was bare and prominent, one knee drawn up to open the view, his cock against the sheet, half-hard already. Conrad knew a performance when he saw one. The pose was too perfect, the same deliberate exhibition as the open bathroom door. Dmitri was awake. He was hoping to be seen, and hoping the clothed inspector would do more than look.

"Dmitri."

A small sound. The hips shifted, offering more, the cock dragging and thickening.

"You're not asleep."

"Mm." The voice came rough and pleased, fully present. "Didn't want to make you ask if you didn't want to. The key was the invitation. I'm awake. I want this. Only if you want it too."

Conrad wanted it. He crossed the room, still fully clothed, and sat on the edge of the bed. His hand hovered over the warm ass. Dmitri pushed back into the almost-touch, a waking yes.

"Same as the shower," Conrad said. "Just my hand. No mouth. I'm not taking my clothes off."

"That's all I want. Your hand on my cock. I want you to watch me come."

Conrad's palm settled on the ass, squeezing, feeling the give and the sigh, the way Dmitri spread his knees wider. Then he reached under. Dmitri lifted his hips, no longer feigning anything, and the cock filled Conrad's hand, swelling from half-hard to rigid in three slow strokes. He worked him dry at first, then slicker as precome welled and he spread it down the shaft with his thumb. Dmitri moaned into the pillow and thrust, fucking the fist the way he had under the water, except now there was no spray to hide the sound, only skin on skin in the quiet apartment.

The room smelled like clean sheets and the faint salt of arousal. Conrad's chubby stomach pressed the edge of the mattress as he leaned in, clothed from collar to shoes, giving only his hand. He watched the ass flex under his free palm. He watched his fist work the hard length, the head darkening, the shaft jumping when he twisted. He did not undress. He did not ask to be touched. He did not put his mouth anywhere. He just masturbated the man on the bed, long strokes, a squeeze at the base, faster when the hips demanded it. Precome strung between his fingers and the swollen head. He could feel how close Dmitri was in the way the cock swelled thicker, the pulse under his thumb going wild.

"Faster," Dmitri gasped, face turned so Conrad could see the flush, the open eyes that were not a sleeping man's. "Conrad. Please. I'm right there."

Conrad went faster. His arm ached. His own erection pressed his zipper and he let it ache, ignored. He watched the back tighten, the ass clench, the cock surge, and he kept the rhythm steady and sure.

Dmitri moaned and spilled, thick ropes of cum striping his own stomach and the sheet, pulse after pulse, hot over Conrad's fingers, hips jerking. Conrad stroked him through it, quiet, a deep satisfaction in his chest he did not need to speak, until the younger man shuddered and went loose, breathing hard, cock twitching in the loose circle of his fist.

For a few breaths he stayed, watching the shine of it, the rise and fall of Dmitri's ribs, the quiet proof of what his hand had done. Conrad wiped his hand on the edge of the sheet. He straightened his shirt where it had twisted at his chubby waist. He stood. Dmitri's eyes were half-open, glazed, a small smile at his mouth, cum shining on his stomach. Neither of them said a word. Conrad walked out, locked the door with the unit key, and both of them, he knew, were already anticipating the next inspection.