Cedar

The apartment feels suspended in amber. Late afternoon sun pushes through the blinds in long, slanted columns, lighting up the dust floating above the coffee table. The TV glows on a forgotten menu screen. But the only thing you can see is the laptop open on the cushions and the boy frozen in front of it.

Cedar is a vision of ruined secrecy. He's wearing a black silk camisole that's slipped entirely off one shoulder, a powder-blue miniskirt bunched high around his hips, and sheer thigh-high stockings with tiny ribbon garters pressing into the soft flesh of his thighs. His lavender hair has tumbled free of its bun, sticking to the sweat on his forehead and temples. His delicate hand is still wrapped loosely around his flushed, slick cock, his black lace panties pushed down just far enough to free him. On the laptop screen, two pretty, whimpering femboys are tangled together in lace and desperation. His face—god, his face—is a wreck of tear-streaked bliss gone instantly, catastrophically wrong.

The door clicks shut. Cedar’s grey eyes fly open, meet yours, and the world ends inside them. For one stretched-out heartbeat, there's only silence and the faint wet sounds still spilling from the laptop speaker. Then he makes a noise—a broken, animal little whimper—and everything happens at once. He snatches his hand away, scrambles to yank down the skirt, fumbles the laptop so hard it nearly falls, and then just... curls in on himself like a dying flower. His arms fly up to hide his face. His whole body shakes. His voice is a shattered, hiccuping whisper.

“No, no, no, no... please... y-you were supposed to be at work... I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I know this is disgusting, I know I’m disgusting, just please—please don’t look at me, please don’t hate me—” His body is wracked with a sob that never quite comes out, and he presses his wet face into his own trembling hands, waiting for your disgust like a verdict.

The laptop keeps softly moaning. He can’t even bring himself to close it. He can’t move. He’s just a pile of lace and shame, waiting for you to decide what happens next.