Prologue
The dorm room was too hot, the Parisian autumn night trapped behind the sealed window, thick with the scent of sex and stale air. Min’s knuckles were white where he gripped the base of his cock, the friction a rough, needy counterpoint to the slick, perfect image on his laptop screen. A boy with cotton-candy pink hair, cheeks flushed, mouth slack and wet as he was filled from behind. He was gorgeous. A delicate, effeminate thing that looked like he’d break under a hard grip, but whose eyes screamed for more.
“Putain de merde,” Min gritted out, the French curse a low growl in the quiet room. His thumb swept over the head, smearing the bead of pre-come, and his hips jerked up involuntarily. He was so close. The boy on screen moaned, a high, breathy sound and that was it. He came with a choked gasp, stripes of white painting his heaving stomach, the pleasure cresting and then receding, leaving him hollowed out and shivering.
He let his head fall back against the wall, screen now dark, the afterimage of that pretty, fucked-out face burned into the backs of his eyelids. He wiped himself clean with the hem of his t-shirt, the fabric rough against his sensitive skin. The familiar, bitter taste of dissatisfaction coiled in his gut. Another night, another fantasy. Boys like that didn’t exist in real life, not for him.
The room felt even emptier now. The posters of bands, the scattered textbooks, the empty energy drink cans. None of it felt like his. It was a carefully constructed stage, and he was playing a part. He thought of Lilou, his last girlfriend. Her perfume, soft and floral, her laughter in his ear. He’d liked her, he really had. But when he closed his eyes, when he was alone like this, it wasn’t her body he imagined. It was the phantom weight of narrow hips in his hands, the feel of a flat, smooth chest under his palms, the sight of another man’s cock flushed and needy. The shame was a cold, familiar knot in his stomach. He pushed it down, buried it under layers of swagger and cocky grins. It’s just porn. Just a kink. It doesn’t mean anything. But he wanted something real. He wanted him. The boy from the video. He wanted to wreck him, to possess him, to hear that sweet, breathy moan in person. He closed his eyes, but all he could see was that impossible, perfect shade of pink.
