He’s The One (m/f – watching)

Juan Ravero stopped swimming as he approached the beach, glad to catch his breath as he floated in the sparkling blue water around him. He treaded water silently, studying the villa in front of him, its sprawling gardens reaching down to the scrubby edge of the beach. He let his legs sink until he could feel his toes on the sandy ridges of the sea floor, six feet below.

He waded slowly through the surf, shielding his eyes from the glare of the strong Adriatic sun until he stood on hot sand.
As he walked up the beach, leaving perfectly-outlined footprints in the wet sand, he reached behind his neck and squeezed the sea out of his black wavy hair. The salt water trickled over his shoulders, down his back and over a tanned, muscular chest, his wet swimming trunks flexing tight over round buttocks as he moved.

He stood at the grassy edge of the deserted property and listened. The gentle roll and hiss of surf on sand came from behind him, a cry of circling gulls in the distance. Juan noted the drawn curtains and slatted blinds at the villa’s windows, was aware of the cameras mounted on white poles in the garden and on the walls of the house but gave them no more than a glance.
Juan made his way around tufts of spiky dune grass then jumped over an ornate white picket fence into the garden. He felt the cool, springy give of pampered lawn under his bare feet as he made his way past mock wagon wheels and barrels, past love seats and empty hammocks slung in the deep shade of tall pines. He stepped onto a gaudy mosaic path, following it round the side of the house.
At the front door he reached round to a tiny pouch in the small of his back, held in place with a thin strap around his waist, and unzipped a key.
He let himself in, moved quickly to the alarm box in the hallway, entered the ten-digit code, then lent back against the cool, white wall and gave out a relieved laugh.

He flexed his neck and rolled his shoulders. The swim around the headland, about a ten-minute drive south of Vieste on the Italian east coast, had been tougher than he expected, the tide stronger.
‘No matter, hard part done,’ he said slapping the wall, then adjusting the bulge in the front of his trunks before going off in search of a drink.

With a glass of the owner’s single malt inside him, a refill in his hand, he padded wet-footed across the marbled hall, past a sweeping, open staircase to an oak door. Inside the small office he paused for a moment, looking round the room. Drawers had been pulled open, document folders scattered across the desk, papers strewn on the floor.

Juan turned to the bookcase nearest the door. He slid back a cover disguised as a row of book-ends then frowned at the blank, lifeless security monitors, and the DVD recorders with their trays open like thirsty dogs.
He went to the desk and while taking gulps from his second glass absentmindedly flicked through some of the documents and peered in the open drawers. None of what he saw distracted him for more than a quick glance.

In the main lounge he found the same harried mash of papers and folders skittered across the glossy parquet floor. A photograph of the Tremonte family – husband, wife and teenage daughter – lay face up, its glass trampled. The man stood behind a park bench suited and bored, his arms folded. Mother and daughter sat arm-in-arm on the bench, tall trees and large buildings behind them. The mother wore a trouser suit and wide, colourful hat, the younger woman tight jeans, leather jacket and a Sapienza university baseball cap.

That was the weekend the girl had gone to Rome to start her studies, Maria – housekeeper, cook and Juan’s girlfriend – had told him.

‘Eighteen years old, new life, new friends,’ Maria had said, shaking her head. ‘And the start of her problems,’ she added with a heavy sigh.

He snatched the bottle from the drinks cabinet, bounced up the oak stairs and went in the first bedroom he came to.

Large suitcases lay open on the four-poster king size bed, arms and legs of clothing hanging like drunks over the sides, underwear scattered around the floor. He went straight across the room, to the dressing area off to one side, pushed his way past the racks of clothes until he’d made a space. He knelt in front of a safe built into the wall.

He stared at it for a moment, then sat back on the floor and began laughing, loud and deep, without bitterness. The safe door was wide open, shelves empty. Shaking his head, he returned to the main room. He was still chuckling as he grabbed the bottle in one hand, glass in the other, and headed for the bedroom at the end of the landing.

The daughter had a spacious, airy corner room, painted the same Mediterranean white as the rest of the house. There were built-in wardrobes with mirrors extending along the wall next to him and a dressing area off to one side, similar to her parents. He put his drink down on a large bedside dresser, walked across the room and slid open the French windows on both sides of the corner.

Then he hesitated, stood back behind the gently billowing veil curtains and cautiously peered out from side to side.

‘She’s a fool,’ he said loudly, remembering what Maria had told him. ‘If there was anyone there they’d have seen me walk across the garden,’ forcing a laugh.

Juan stepped onto the balcony, leant on the rail as he breathed in the hot scent of jasmine and lavender and listened to the sound of ocean rolling over sand. After another scan across the gardens he turned and went back in.

At the dresser he picked through a scatter of brushes, makeup kits and perfumes, took a long gulp of his drink then got on the bed. He pushed his face into the pink satin pillows, breathing deeply before pulling back the sheets, lying on his front and rubbing his groin over the bed, in the centre, where he imagined she would lay.

He got up, refilled from the bottle and began exploring: opening drawers, running his fingers through underwear, feeling around and under cupboards. He searched haphazardly, like a child, didn’t care what he found; whether it was a few photos, the sort she wouldn’t want her parents to see, or a hot teen-diary full of college love.

In the dressing area off the main room, at the bottom of a box overflowing with clothes, odd shoes and handbags, his fingers ran over a thin, shiny square of plastic. He pulled it out, grinning, then reached in and found three more DVD cases.

He took them to the player he’d seen earlier on the corner of the dresser. Selecting one at random he stretched out on the bed, drink in hand, and waited as the flat screen mounted on the wall flashed into life.

The girl he had seen downstairs in the photo was leaning over a tanned, muscular chest, the man lying back on a bed, his face out of picture. In the background a bedside dresser lay open, some of its drawers pulled out. A silver case lay on the bed next to her. She brought her face down, to a line of white powder trailed across the man’s chest. Her hair fell forward, across the shot, then after a moment she lifted her head, pinching her nose. Juan heard the man laugh. She ran her tongue around glossy lips and grinned.

A pair of hands moved over her head, pushing her down. The camera followed as she kissed and licked down his chest, belly, pubic hair. His large, erect cock came into view. She looked at the camera then opened her mouth wide. Juan watched as the cock’s swollen, shiny head disappeared past her red lips, one inch then two. She pulled back for a second then plunged again, taking more of his thick shaft, her hand with its varnished nails working up and down.

The camera zoomed in as she withdrew. Juan hit pause on the remote, the girl’s face filling the forty-inch screen, mouth open wide, poised over the swollen head.

He reached over to the bedside table and grabbed the cordless house-phone while he stared at the TV.

‘Hi Maria.’

There was a hiss of exasperation from the other end, ‘Are you finished?’

‘Not yet.’

‘What the hell is taking so long?’

‘Just settling back with a drink and a home movie.’

‘You said you’d be in and out! I should never have told you. We could be in a lot of trouble. I-’

‘Relax. I don’t think the owners are worrying about the housemaid right now.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘You’ll see. Just get over here, quick as you can. I’m ready to burst.’

Maria said, ‘Get out of there now or I’m calling –’ He put the phone down.

The girl’s eyes on the TV screen followed him as he sauntered over to the bathroom. His cock sprang out as he slipped off his trunks and stepped into the shower. He let the hot water sting over his taut, smooth skin, washing off sweat and salt water, feeling it cascade over tight muscles, trying to resist the urge to stroke himself.

‘The way I’m feeling, I’ll be doing Maria a favour if I unload one before she gets here,’ he muttered, wrapping a hand around his shaft. He closed his eyes, thought of the girl in the video with her mouth open, lips waiting.

He began stroking, trying to keep the pace slow but the rush of the break-in, the whisky, the video quickly took over. ‘Oh yeah! Have that baby! Take it!’

Within minutes he felt the familiar surge of power and energy rise from his groin.

‘Swallow that!’ he shouted, hitting the tiled wall with two spurts of juice, the third splattering on the floor. He finished, easing out the last of him before stepping out of the shower.

He wrapped a towel around his waist, letting his upper body air dry as he re-entered the bedroom.

Glancing up at the TV he stopped, frowned, then studied the bedroom in the shot, behind the girl’s head. He looked from screen to bed and back again. After a moment he strode across the room to her dresser, his wet feet slapping on the polished floor. He pulled out drawers, starting at the bottom and working up. Behind the third one he tried, taped to its back, he found the silver case.

Juan sat on the bed, smiling at his detective work, one leg crooked across him, his towel falling open. He wedged his glass in a fold of duvet, flipped the lid on the silver box, stared at the paraphernalia for a moment then took a line.

He picked up his glass, eased back against her pillows and hit the play button.

The daughter’s head jerked back into life, diving down on the man’s cock, mouth sucking deep once more before pulling back.

She laughed as the man moaned, his hands trying to force her back on. She shook free and crawled on all-fours to the centre of the bed, pouting to the camera as it zoomed out, bringing the man fully into shot for the first time. Juan nodded in appreciation – the man was older than himself, maybe mid to late forties but he was handsome, heavy-built, well gym-ed.

The man lifted off his back and moved behind her, on his knees. His tanned chest shone under the bedroom lights as he took a deep breath, flexing his pecks. Juan subconsciously copied.

The man reached down, taking his wet, pre-cummed cock, rubbing it up and down between her legs, drawing little cooing and moaning sounds from her as she wriggled. He adjusted his position, getting the angle right, paused, then with a grunt of satisfaction thrust hard.

‘Ye-sss…’ Juan hissed as he watched the pair begin to grind against each other. His hand reached down, hesitated, then wrapped itself around his thick shaft again, slowly stroking up and down in time with their movement.

He stopped himself and picked up the phone.

‘Babe, you’ve got to get here…’ he said.

‘Get out of there you stupid fuck!

‘Maria-’

‘You have no idea. I’ll ring the police myself if I have to.’

‘Maria?… Maria?… Fuck it.’

He threw the phone across the room, emptied his glass in one gulp and settled back.

The girl had arched her back, her slim waist hidden behind the man’s thick arm, her breasts swaying under her as he thrust harder and faster. She gasped with each quiver of her round ass as he pounded into her. Juan resumed his stroking, timing his run with theirs’, watching the screen intently as he worked his shaft.
The man was driving in hard, shouting and roaring, the girl pushing back, laughing, Juan stroking faster, not wanting to be last.

For the second time that afternoon he felt a tingle spread from balls, up through his groin as the pair on screen reached their peak. Juan closed his eyes, moaning out loud as a long, creamy jet splattered over his matted chest, then a second, over his belly, the rest of his juice squeezing out over his fingers. He slowed, drawing out the last of it before wiping his hand on the duvet and laying back, letting the drink and drugs and exercise finally take him.

* * * * *

Hard, urgent thumping on the front door woke him with a snort. He looked at the blank screen, empty glass and silver case beside him. The noise continued as he eased off the bed, steadying himself against the dresser.

After rubbing over his chest and stomach with the towel he wrapped it around his waist and crept to the window.

A plain dark saloon car was parked near the door, another behind it. Detectives, he thought. The bitch. I’ll kill her!

On the way down the stairs, towards the increasingly short-tempered banging on the door, he had an idea, one which might just work if the cops weren’t local – it might at least buy him time to get away.

He closed the study and living room doors, hiding the mess, then paused behind the front door and took a deep breath.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ he snapped as he threw open the door.

Two men stood in front of him; one with shoulder length dark curls like Juan’s, one cropped, both men momentarily taken aback by his shouted question. They looked early thirties, wore slacks, loafers, had heavy torsos beneath brushed cotton shirts. They could have been trattoria owners or life guards.

‘Mr Tremonte?’ the cropped one asked.

Juan smiled. These boys obviously didn’t know the owner by sight. Not locals, she must have called the city number. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘The owner of this property?’

‘Yes,’ Juan said, puffing himself up slightly. ‘And I would like an explanation.’

The man shouted over his shoulder, ‘Got the little fucker, boss.’

‘Oh crap!’ Juan said, his shoulders slumping as the man from the video, now suited and blinged, slowly got out of the backseat of the second car.

Juan wheezed, doubling up as he was punched hard in the stomach. He stared, unfocussed, at the gravel, felt his feet leave the ground as two pairs of strong hands lifted him, pinning his arms.

‘Put him in next to me,’ said the man in the suit as he got back in the car. The cropped-top got in after Juan, squeezing up against him.

‘I don’t wish to retire here,’ shouted the man, impatiently tapping the driver’s shoulder. Both cars spun round on the gravel and sped down the drive, out through the ornate double-gates.

The suited man rolled a fat, unlit cigar round his fingertips. ‘I know you’re not Tremonte,’ he said.

‘I’m just…’ Juan stumbled and coughed over his words, rubbing his stomach.

‘I know who you are. You’re the maid’s man. A self-maid man.’ He began laughing, encouraging the others to join in.

He silenced them with one hand. ‘I always like to know who I’m doing business with, get close to the family. I like to know what I’m getting my dick into, so to speak…’

He lifted an eyebrow, as though expecting Juan to nod in agreement before continuing. ‘So you can imagine how hurt I felt when I called earlier and found they’d vanished without leaving a forwarding address.’

Juan watched as the man pulled a large silver lighter from its socket in the wood-veneered panel in front of him. He lit his cigar, turning it, the end glowing red as he drew heavily.

‘But I told my boys to be patient, watch and wait; virtue is always rewarded. I’m one-hundred K down, and you or the maid are going to help me get it back.’

‘I don’t know-’ Juan said, stopping as crop-top slowly raised a large fist in front of him, shaking his head. Juan looked at the hard lines across the man’s face, his narrow eyes hooded below thick brow, a long, prominent nose.

Then he glanced past the man, out the side window. As their car joined the main road two others sped past, going the other way, sirens rising and falling, flashing blue lights reflecting inside the big saloon.

Juan’s desperate, begging eyes followed them. He watched through the rear window as the cars turned off the main road towards the house, stared at a fading swirl of dust until crop-top gave him a sharp tap on the knee.

The suited man spoke, ‘I believe we were discussing how you are going to help me…’

Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/5qdhl5/hes_the_one_mf_watching