A Feast for the Eyes Through the Half-Closed Door

The microwave dinged, signaling my leftover curry chicken and rice was ready. I grabbed a fork and settled at the table. After one bite, I texted Luke: "Hey, I’m having leftovers from yesterday’s Vietnamese. Curry chicken and rice. Enough for you if you’re hungry. Lemme know. — Heidi." He’d been a recluse lately, so I wasn’t hopeful.

I met Luke at a Book Soup writer event in West Hollywood. We bonded over honest critiques and mutual support. He gets the artist life. Recently, I’d paid off debts and moved from a dump near MacArthur Park to this Glendale place. Luke, meanwhile, got evicted from his WEHO spot. Having been helped by friends before, I offered to share the apartment. He agreed.

Then his life imploded—lost his bank job, got dumped, sank into depression. He barely left his room, lights off even midday. I worried. Thought some food and company might help.

The text showed "read." I nibbled, scrolled emails, waited. Twenty minutes later: "That’s alright. I’m not hungry. Thanks tho." Disappointing, but you can’t force it.

I ate, then crashed on the couch with a book. Half an hour in, a yelp—like a woman’s cry—came from his room. Then again. Curiosity piqued, I crept to his door, slightly ajar. Moaning. Flesh-on-flesh sounds. Peeking in, I saw Luke on his bed, iPad in one hand, the other in his boxers. On screen: a woman pulling down a guy’s pants, sucking him off, eyes locked on his. Hot.

His boxers dropped, revealing his cock. He rubbed beneath the crown, eyes shut. My hand slipped into my sweats, finding my wet pussy. He stroked faster; I mirrored him, torn between watching and joining. The thrill of spying won. My sweats and panties hit the floor. Two fingers in me, the other hand pinched my nipple. Eyes closed, I chased release.

He stroked harder, nearing climax. I pinched my clit and nipple, finger-fucking myself. Then he groaned, cum shooting onto his belly—thick, white, gorgeous. My orgasm hit, legs buckling. I stifled a scream, mastering silent cumming.

A tremor slumped me against the wall. He glanced up but didn’t move, head back, grinning—first time in weeks. I pulled up my sweats, returned to the couch, and resumed reading, fantasizing about joining him someday.