BLUE SILHOUETTE
In the daylight he looks clean and harmless.
Neat shirt, pressed slacks, soft voice. A grown man in his twenties, Bible under one arm, laughing with the kids after service, talking sports with the fathers, listening carefully to every old lady.
The pastor-in-training bows his head when he prays. He keeps his eyes pure.
Or tries to.
Because at night the blue room calls.
It leaks that cold neon glow under the door at the end of the hallway, the room where the main pastor sleeps. Or is supposed to sleep. The rest of the building is dark and quiet, but that slice of blue is loud to him. It’s like it hums in his chest.
Some nights he resists. Most nights he doesn’t.
Bare feet on the tiles, T-shirt and sweats hanging loose on his pumped-up body. He moves like a thief, but his heart is punching against his ribs. He doesn’t even have to knock. The door is always left just a little open, like the light, like the invitation.
Inside, it’s nothing but blue.
The small lamp, wrapped in dark film, paints the walls, the bed, his own skin. The older man is already on the mattress, sheets pushed low, a thick shadow against the headboard. Naked. Waiting. Breathing slow and heavy, eyes fixed on the standing mirror by the wall.
The trainee steps in front of the mirror.
He doesn’t say a word. Neither does the man on the bed. They never talk here. That’s part of it. No sermons, no verses, no advice. Just breath.
He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his sweats and pushes them down. First the shirt comes off, dropped on the floor, then everything but the tight, dark briefs that bite into his hips. His muscles stand out under the strange light, cut and hard, his body built from years of iron and discipline.
In the glass he looks like someone else. A blue statue. A sin carved out of flesh.
He starts slow. Turning one shoulder, tightening his chest. Arms coming up to flex, veins crawling along his biceps, abs squeezing into deep shadows. He watches himself, but he also watches the bed behind him, the older man’s hand sliding down, the way the sheets bunch and shift with every tense breath.
No words. Just the rustle of cotton. A muffled grunt.
The trainee shifts pose. Sideways now. Hips pushed out, legs spreading. Quads carved up, calves sharp. He feels the briefs stretch over him, feels how full they are, how the fabric presses back. He runs a hand over his own torso, over the hard ridges of his stomach, just to see what it does to the man behind him.
The sound from the bed gets rougher, needier.
He bends a little at the waist, rolls his shoulders, arching his back. One arm behind his head, one hand gripping his thigh. Every pose dirtier than the last, but he does it like he’s on stage, like this is some strange kind of worship. Offer the body. Hold the gaze. Breathe.
He doesn’t touch himself. That’s the rule. He just lets it build. The pressure. The heat. The wet ache caught under the tight fabric. The pastor’s breathing is ragged now, the mattress squeaking in short, sharp bursts.
The trainee’s own lungs burn. His legs tremble from holding the pose. A thin sound breaks from the bed, half-choked, helpless.
The blue light seems to thicken in the air.
He feels it before he hears it—something break in the room, in the silence, in the older man. A low, guttural moan, dragged out of the chest, not the throat. The sheets jerk, then go slack.
At the same time a wave crashes through the trainee’s body, fierce and sudden. His hands curl into fists. His hips jerk forward once, twice, his whole body clenching around the sharp, hot release trapped inside his briefs. Cum flowing down his thighs. No touch. Just that strange bond between them, snapping tight and then letting go.
He stares at his own reflection. Chest heaving. Sweat shining on blue skin. The bulge in his underwear heavy, marked with what just happened. The cum felt like an offering.
On the bed, the older man is shuddering through the last of it, one arm thrown over his face, the other limp at his side. Breathing like he’s run a race. Eyes half-closed, still fixed on the mirror.
Still fixed on him.
The trainee lets his arms drop. Rolls his shoulders out.
He picks up his shirt but doesn’t put it on yet. Just slings it over one shoulder. Gives the mirror one last look. The body he’s never shown a girl. The body that gets him invited back to this room again and again.
He knows this is wrong. He also knows he isn’t going to stop.
This is another kind of training. For big things, the older man had whispered once, back before they stopped talking.
Now there’s only the blue light, the quiet bed, and his own reflection, already hungry for the next night.
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