Through Glass, Beneath Neon, We See Ourselves

A week later, I'm slipping out the back door of Jason Caldwell's house party, my head throbbing from cheap vodka and conversations that went nowhere. Another Friday night wasted on people who think they're more interesting than they are.

The night air hits me like a splash of cold water. I check my phone: 1:37 AM. Too early to go home, too late to find something better. I start walking, letting my feet carry me wherever.

I'm not surprised when I end up at the Quik-N-Go.

The fluorescent sign casts that familiar blue-white glow across the empty parking lot. Only one car—Ben's ancient Honda. My lips curl into a small smile. I didn't plan this, but now that I'm here, I might as well have some fun.

Instead of using the front entrance, I circle around back. I've never been back here before. It's darker, the employee entrance illuminated by a single bulb above the door. The asphalt is cracked, weeds pushing through. There's something illicit about being here, in this not-for-customers space.

That's when I hear it.

A faint rhythmic sound coming from inside. My first thought is music, but there's no melody, no bass line. Just a soft, consistent... something.

There's a small window in the back door—grimy wire-glass, the kind that's reinforced with metal mesh. It's high up, but I can just see through it if I stand on my tiptoes.

The stockroom is dimly lit, with towers of soda cases and paper products creating weird shadows. At first I don't see anyone. Then movement catches my eye.

Ben is leaning against a stack of Coke pallets, his back half-turned toward me. His phone is propped against a box, the screen casting a blue glow across his face. His right arm is moving in a steady rhythm.

It takes me a second to realize what I'm seeing.

He's masturbating.

My first instinct is to back away, to give him privacy, but something roots me to the spot. I've never seen Ben like this—totally unguarded, thinking he's completely alone. His face is different, his features relaxed into something almost beautiful. His lips are slightly parted, his eyes intense as he stares at whatever's playing on his phone.

I should leave. This is crossing a line.

But I don't.

Instead, I watch. My heart hammers so loudly I'm afraid he'll hear it through the door. But he's completely oblivious to anything outside his private moment.

His movements become faster, more urgent. His breathing changes—I can see his chest rising and falling rapidly now.

The rational part of my brain is screaming at me to walk away, but a different part—a part I didn't know existed—is mesmerized. This isn't the shy, awkward boy who fumbles with the register when I flirt with him. This is someone raw, someone real.

When he comes, his entire body tenses, then shudders. The expression on his face is almost painful in its intensity. His head tips back, eyes closed tight.

And then something unexpected happens. As the moment passes, shame washes over his features. He quickly tucks himself away, glancing around nervously, as if someone might have seen. Guilt contorts his face, transforming it back into the Ben I recognize.

I finally step back from the window, my legs wobbly. My chest feels tight, my throat dry.

What just happened wasn't about me. He wasn't thinking about me. He wasn't performing for me. I had no power or control over what I just witnessed.

And yet I feel more powerful than ever.

Because now I have something genuine from Ben, something he gave me without knowing—a secret side of himself that's raw and honest in a way our counter-flirtations never were.

I back away from the door, careful not to make a sound, and slip around the corner of the building. The night air feels electric against my skin as I walk quickly toward home, the image of Ben—vulnerable, exposed, unaware—burned permanently into my mind.

I'm home, but sleep won't come. My bedroom feels too warm, too confining. I kick off my sheets and stare at the ceiling, my mind replaying what I witnessed behind the Quik-N-Go like it's on an endless loop.

Ben. Against the pallets. His face in that blue light.

I've seen plenty of guys masturbate before. I've even watched porn with past hookups, performatively critiquing techniques while they stroked themselves beside me. But this was different. This wasn't for show. He didn't know anyone was watching. He was just... being.

I roll onto my side, pressing my face into my pillow. I should feel guilty for invading his privacy like that. Instead, I feel this strange, intoxicating rush. Not the usual buzz I get from wrapping some guy around my finger, but something darker, more primal.

I close my eyes and see him again. The tension in his shoulders. The way his breathing changed. That look on his face when he finished—like he was both present and somewhere else entirely. Then that flash of shame afterward.

My hand slides down my stomach before I even realize what I'm doing. I'm already wet, have been since I left the gas station. I press my fingers against my underwear, feeling the damp fabric.

"Shit," I whisper into the darkness.

I slip my hand beneath the elastic waistband, finding my clit already swollen and sensitive. I make slow, deliberate circles, the way I like it, but tonight it's different. Usually when I touch myself, I think about abstract scenarios—faceless men, specific acts, moments from porn I've watched. Clinical almost, just scratching an itch.

Tonight, there's only Ben.

I slide lower, dipping my fingers inside myself, then back up to my clit, spreading the wetness. I'm soaked in a way I rarely am when I'm alone. My breathing gets heavier as I pick up the pace, my hips starting to move against my hand.

What would Ben do if he knew I'd watched him? If he knew I was touching my pussy right now, thinking about him? Would he be horrified? Turned on? Both?

"Fuck," I gasp, my back arching slightly off the bed.

I'm not just thinking about what I saw in the stockroom anymore. I'm imagining Ben here, in my bed. Not the awkward, fumbling Ben from behind the counter, but the Ben I glimpsed tonight—intense, focused, unguarded. I imagine his hands replacing mine, his mouth on my breast, his cock inside me.

My fingers move faster now, my other hand gripping my sheets. I'm close, so close. I push two fingers inside myself while my thumb continues to work my clit, and the dual sensation sends me hurtling toward the edge.

When I come, it hits me like a freight train. My entire body tenses, then convulses in waves. I cry out—something I never do when I'm alone—a sound between a gasp and a sob. The orgasm seems to go on forever, aftershocks rippling through me even as I slowly withdraw my hand.

I lie there panting, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling.

What the hell was that?

I've had plenty of orgasms before, good ones even, but nothing like this—nothing that left me feeling like I've been turned inside out, exposed to myself.

A disturbing thought surfaces: maybe the power I thought I had over Ben was just an illusion. Maybe he's somehow gotten under my skin without even trying.

I roll over and bury my face in my pillow again, this time to muffle a frustrated groan. This wasn't supposed to happen. He wasn't supposed to matter.

But as I finally drift toward sleep, Ben's face—vulnerable, genuine, unbearably human—follows me into my dreams.

The rain was driving into the asphalt, making the parking lot shimmer under the fluorescent lights. Through the windows, the world looked warped—everything outside distorted by sheets of water.

Thursday nights were always dead. Which is why I didn't mind being the only one on shift, even during a storm like this. I'd rather be alone with my thoughts than make awkward small talk with my manager. Especially after that night in the stockroom. Especially after what I'd been thinking about Avery.

I was restocking the candy aisle when headlights swept across the front of the store. A car pulled into the spot right by the door, and there she was, running through the rain, clutching something to her chest. Even soaking wet, she managed to look put-together—like the rain was an accessory she'd chosen on purpose.

"Evening," I called out, keeping my voice casual. Normal. Like I hadn't been replaying our encounters in my head for days.

"Hey," she said, pushing wet hair from her face. "Your bathroom still work?"

"Yeah, first door on the— you know where it is."

She nodded, heading down the short hallway. I went back to hanging bags of Skittles, trying not to think about how her thin white t-shirt had gone nearly transparent in the rain.

Ten minutes later, I remembered the bathroom was out of paper towels. I grabbed a roll from under the counter and headed down the hall. I'd been meaning to fix that lock for weeks—it stuck sometimes, making customers think it was occupied when it wasn't.

I approached the door and noticed it wasn't fully closed. The lock indicator showed green, not red. Empty, then. I pushed the door open with my knuckles, already planning where to put the new roll.

The world stopped.

Avery stood with her back to me, topless, her skin golden under the harsh bathroom lights. The elegant curve of her spine led my eyes downward to the dimples just above her jeans. As she shifted, reaching into her bag, I caught the side of her breast—small, perfectly shaped, with a nipple darker than I'd imagined.

My throat closed up. My skin burned. I couldn't move, couldn't breathe.

This was wrong. This was so wrong. But the image seared itself into my brain in the half-second before my basic decency kicked in.

I pulled the door shut as quietly as possible, wincing at the soft click. My heart hammered against my ribs as I retreated down the hallway, paper towels forgotten in my sweaty grip. I ducked behind the counter, leaning against the cigarette rack, trying to slow my breathing.

What the hell was I doing? I wasn't that guy. I'd never been that guy.

But the image wouldn't leave: the graceful line of her shoulders, that glimpse of her breast, the vulnerable nape of her neck with water droplets still clinging to her hairline. I pressed my palms against my eyes, willing the picture away.

I heard the bathroom door open. Footsteps approached.

"You got any of those cheese danish things?" she asked, her voice completely normal.

I lowered my hands and looked at her. She was wearing a dry black t-shirt now, her wet hair combed back neatly. Had she noticed? Did she know? Her face revealed nothing—the same slight smirk, the same penetrating gaze.

"Um, yeah," I managed, pointing to the pastry case. "They're a day old, though."

"Even better," she said, sliding a dollar across the counter. Our fingers didn't touch this time. I was careful about that.

As I handed her the danish in its little wax paper sleeve, I wondered what she would do if she knew her private moment had been invaded the way she'd invaded mine. Would she be disgusted? Angry? Or would she find some way to use it against me, part of whatever game she seemed to be playing?

"Thanks," she said, already turning to leave. "Stay dry."

"You too," I replied automatically, watching her walk toward the door.

She paused with her hand on the handle, turning back slightly. "You okay? You seem weird."

"Fine," I said too quickly. "Just tired. Night shift, you know?"

She nodded, unconvinced, then pushed through the door into the rain.

I stood there for a long time after her taillights disappeared, haunted by the knowledge that I now carried a secret of my own.

I sit in my car, rain drumming against the roof, watching him through the wide front windows of the Quik-N-Go. The danish sits unwrapped in my lap, forgotten. My fingers are still damp from my wet hair, and the heater blows lukewarm air against my legs.

Ben moves through the empty store like a ghost. Straightening candy bars. Wiping down the coffee station. Checking his phone. Each movement mechanical, rehearsed. I wonder if he does this exact routine every night when no one's watching.

But I'm watching. I'm always watching him now.

The memory slides back into my mind without permission: Ben in the stockroom, illuminated by his phone screen, his face caught in that moment between pleasure and shame. His hand moving rhythmically. The small, broken sound he made at the end.

A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with my damp clothes.

It's strange how powerful that memory makes me feel. Not like when I make some married guy at a bar buy me drinks while his wedding ring catches the light. Not like when I let my econ professor's eyes linger too long on my legs during office hours. This is different. More intimate. More real.

I tap my fingernails against the steering wheel, still watching Ben through the rain-streaked windshield. He's counting cigarette cartons now, making notes on a clipboard. So dutiful. So unaware.

That's what makes this delicious. He has no idea that I saw him. No clue that when I walk in there with my practiced smile and calculated hair flip, I'm carrying this secret knowledge. I know what he looks like when he comes. I know the face he makes when he thinks no one is looking.

In a weird way, I feel like I possess a part of him now.

I pull down my visor mirror and check my reflection. My eyes look different somehow—brighter, more focused. I look like someone with a plan.

Because I do have a plan, even if I haven't fully admitted it to myself. I've been coming here more often. Finding reasons to stop by. Wearing slightly more revealing tops. Lingering a bit longer with each visit. It's like I'm circling something inevitable, getting closer with each pass.

What would happen if I just walked back in there right now? If I locked the door behind me and backed him against the freezer cases? Would he be shocked? Eager? Would he fumble like the awkward guy he pretends to be, or would he transform into the version I saw in the stockroom—focused, intent, unashamed?

The thought makes my skin flush hot despite my damp clothes.

He looks up suddenly, staring directly at my car as if he can sense my thoughts. I duck down slightly, feeling ridiculous. When I peek back up, he's turned away, restocking the drink case.

I start my car, the engine rumbling to life. I should go home. Change into dry clothes. Watch something mindless on Netflix. Forget about awkward gas station Ben and his secret stockroom habits.

But as I put the car in reverse, I already know I'll be back tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that.

Because this game—my game—is just getting started.

And I'm the only one who knows all the rules.

I've been circling the Quik-N-Go for twenty minutes, telling myself I should just go home. But something pulls me back—the same magnetic force that's had me returning night after night for the past week.

Ben's shift ended ten minutes ago. The store's dark except for the security lights. His beat-up Honda is still in the employee spot, but he's nowhere inside. Where did he go?

That's when I notice the padlock on the abandoned service garage is hanging open.

I kill my headlights and park around back. The rain has stopped, leaving everything with that clean, electric smell. Slipping out of my car, I approach the garage silently, my sneakers quiet on the wet asphalt. One of the small side doors is cracked open.

I tell myself I'm just curious. That this is just another move in our silent chess match. But my heart is hammering against my ribs as I edge toward the door.

The garage is pitch black except for a weak shaft of moonlight cutting through a grimy skylight. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust. The space smells of old motor oil and dust. Forgotten tools hang on the walls like the skeletons of strange animals.

Then I hear it. A soft, rhythmic sound. Breathing. Movement.

I ease behind a stack of tires, peering around them into the darkness.

Ben is leaning against a workbench, his face turned up to the skylight. Moonlight catches the angles of his face, transforming him from the awkward gas station clerk into something almost beautiful. His eyes are closed tight, his features tensed in concentration. His jeans are pushed down to his thighs, and his hand is working steadily between his legs.

My mouth goes dry. This is the second time I've watched him like this, but it feels different. More dangerous. More intimate. I should leave. I know I should leave.

Instead, I press myself deeper into the shadows, unable to look away.

He's more confident here in the dark, his movements sure and practiced. His cock looks thick in his grip, the head glistening each time it appears from his fist. His breathing grows faster, more ragged.

A hot, liquid feeling pools low in my belly. I press my thighs together, fighting the urge to touch myself.

Suddenly, the huge bay door at the front of the garage starts to rise with a mechanical groan. Fluorescent lights flicker on overhead, flooding the space with harsh, unforgiving light.

Ben freezes like a deer in headlights, desperately fumbling to pull up his pants.

A middle-aged man in a tow truck uniform stands in the doorway, his hand still on the light switch. It takes him a second to process what he's seeing. Then his face twists with disgust.

"Jesus Christ, kid. Get a hotel room," he says, shaking his head. He walks over to a toolbox a few feet from Ben, grabs a wrench, and heads back to the door. "Lock up when you're done, for fuck's sake."

The door rolls down behind him with a thunderous bang, leaving Ben standing there with his pants half-fastened, his face a mask of absolute humiliation.

He slumps back against the workbench, his knuckles white where he grips the edge. His head drops forward, hair falling over his eyes. He looks utterly broken, and something unexpected twists in my chest—sympathy, maybe. Or recognition.

Before I can think better of it, I step out from behind the tires.

"Avery?" His voice cracks, horror spreading across his face as he realizes I've been watching. Again.

I should say something cruel. Something that maintains the upper hand. But seeing him caught, exposed, humiliated—it's done something to me. The power I thought I wanted suddenly feels hollow compared to this raw, electric moment.

"Watching you get caught," I say, my voice husky and unfamiliar even to my own ears, "I think that's the wettest I've ever been."

Ben stares at me, his mouth slightly open, like he can't process what I'm saying.

I move toward him, climbing onto the dusty workbench across from him. I spread my legs, my skirt riding up my thighs. "Are you going to fuck me?" I ask plainly. "Or are you going to let him be the last person to see you like that tonight?"

For a long moment, he just looks at me. Then something shifts in his eyes—a decision being made.

He steps forward, and I brace myself for him to grab me, to take what I'm offering with the same urgency I saw when he was touching himself.

Instead, his hands come up to cup my face with unexpected gentleness.

"Avery," he says, and my name in his mouth sounds like something breaking open.

Then his lips are on mine, and there's nothing gentle about it anymore. He kisses me like he's drowning and I'm air, his hands tangling in my hair, pulling me against him. I wrap my legs around his waist, grinding against the hardness still evident beneath his hastily fastened jeans.

We tumble from the workbench to the cold concrete floor, a mess of limbs and desperate, grasping hands. My skirt is pushed up around my waist, his fingers hooking into my underwear and dragging them down my legs. I'm fumbling with his belt, his zipper, shoving his jeans down his thighs.

"Condom," he gasps against my mouth.

"I'm on the pill," I pant back. "Just—please."

He hesitates for half a second, searching my face. Then he's positioning himself between my spread thighs, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance. I'm so wet it's almost embarrassing, slick and ready from watching him, from the strange power of being discovered together.

When he pushes into me, I cry out—a sound I've never heard myself make before. Not calculated, not performed. Real.

He fills me completely, stretching me, the sensation bordering on too much. He stills for a moment, his forehead pressed against mine, our breath mingling. Then he starts to move.

There's nothing careful about the way we fuck. It's animalistic, desperate, driven by shame and want and something else I can't name. My nails dig into his shoulders through his shirt. His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise. Each thrust drives me against the concrete floor, but the discomfort is nothing compared to the white-hot pleasure building inside me.

"Fuck, Avery," he groans, his voice raw. "You feel so good."

Words pour out of me, filthy and honest. "You too—god, your cock feels so good inside me."

He drives deeper, hitting a spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. My back arches off the floor. "There, right there, don't stop."

His rhythm grows erratic, more desperate. One of his hands slides between us, his thumb finding my clit and circling it with unexpected precision. The dual sensation—his cock filling me, his thumb working my clit—pushes me toward the edge.

"I'm going to come," I gasp, the admission feeling more vulnerable than my naked body beneath his.

"Look at me," he demands, and I do, our eyes locking as the orgasm crashes over me. I clench around him, wave after wave of pleasure radiating outward from where we're joined. My vision blurs, but I keep my eyes on his, letting him see what he's doing to me.

The sight of my release triggers his own. With a final, deep thrust, he buries himself inside me, his cock pulsing as he comes. I feel every throb, every spurt of warmth filling me.

For a long moment, we lie there tangled together on the dirty garage floor, our breathing the only sound. His weight on top of me should feel oppressive, but instead it feels like an anchor, keeping me from floating away.

Slowly, reality seeps back in. The cold of the concrete against my back. The smell of dust and old oil. The wetness between my legs.

And the realization that something fundamental has shifted between us. This wasn't just sex. It wasn't just another game of power and control.

For the first time in longer than I can remember, I don't know what happens next. And even more surprisingly, I don't want to.

I haven't been back to the Quik-N-Go since that night in the garage. Not from shame—I've never really known shame—but because whatever happened between us felt too big, too real to casually follow up on. For two days, I've stayed away, telling myself it was just a weird, hot fuck born from the moment and nothing more.

But tonight, I'm here again.

The fluorescent lights cast everything in that familiar sickly glow as I push through the door. Ben is behind the counter, his back to me as he restocks cigarettes. The store is empty except for us. When he turns and sees me, his expression freezes, unreadable.

I don't say anything. I don't have any clever lines prepared. I just stand there, my heart hammering in my chest like I've run a mile.

"We close in ten minutes," he says, his voice carefully neutral.

I nod, pretending to browse the candy aisle while the last customer—an old man buying lottery tickets—finishes up and leaves. Ben locks the door behind him, flipping the sign to CLOSED.

The silence between us is deafening.

He walks toward me, stopping close enough that I can smell the faint scent of his soap beneath the lingering odor of fried food that clings to his uniform. His eyes search my face, looking for something. I don't know what.

Words fail me. For the first time in my life, I have no smart comeback, no calculated move.

Ben reaches out and takes my hand. Without speaking, he leads me through the store to the back hallway, past the bathrooms to a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. The stock room. The place where this all started, where I first watched him.

He flicks on a single overhead bulb that casts long shadows across the cramped space. Metal shelving units line the walls, loaded with boxes of snacks and supplies. The air is dusty and still.

Ben turns to face me, his expression intense. Then he's pushing me back against the shelves, his mouth finding mine in a hungry kiss. Bags of chips crinkle behind me as I grip the metal edge for support.

His hands are everywhere—in my hair, sliding under my shirt, gripping my waist. There's an urgency to his touch that makes my knees weak.

Then, without warning, he drops to his knees in front of me.

My breath catches as he looks up at me, his eyes dark with want. Slowly, deliberately, he pushes my skirt up around my waist. His fingers hook into my underwear, drawing them down my legs until I step out of them.

"I've thought about this," he says, his voice low and rough. "Every night since the garage."

He leans forward, pressing his mouth against my inner thigh. The heat of his breath against my skin makes me shiver. His hands slide behind me, cupping my ass, pulling me toward his mouth.

The first touch of his tongue against my pussy is electric. My head falls back against the shelves, a gasp escaping my lips. He licks me slowly at first, broad strokes that make my hips jerk forward. Then his focus narrows, his tongue circling my clit with precise, devastating pressure.

"Oh god," I breathe, one hand tangling in his curls, holding him against me.

He slips a finger inside me, then another, curling them forward as his tongue continues its relentless attention to my clit. The dual sensation is overwhelming. I'm wet—embarrassingly so—my arousal coating his fingers, his chin.

"You taste so fucking good," he murmurs against me, the vibration of his words sending another shock of pleasure up my spine.

I can't remember the last time someone went down on me like this—with such focus, such clear enjoyment. Most guys treat it like an obligatory stop on the way to getting their dick wet. But Ben... Ben is worshipping me, his entire being concentrated on drawing out my pleasure.

His fingers pump into me faster now, his tongue flickering rapidly over my swollen clit. The pressure builds low in my belly, my thighs beginning to tremble.

"I'm close," I gasp, tightening my grip in his hair. "Don't stop, please don't stop."

He groans against me, the sound vibrating through my core. His free hand grips my hip, holding me steady as I start to come apart.

The orgasm hits me like a freight train, intense and overwhelming. I cry out, my body clenching around his fingers as waves of pleasure crash over me. He doesn't let up, working me through it until I'm shaking, oversensitive, pushing weakly at his shoulders.

Ben rises to his feet, his mouth glistening with my arousal. Without a word, he spins me around to face the shelves. I grip the metal edge as he fumbles with his belt behind me, the metallic clink and rasp of his zipper loud in the quiet room.

Then I feel him, hot and hard against my ass. He kicks my feet apart further, widening my stance. One hand grips my hip, the other guides his cock to my entrance. He pushes inside in one long, smooth stroke that makes me gasp.

"Fuck," he hisses through clenched teeth. "You're so wet."

He fills me completely, stretching me in the most delicious way. For a moment he just stays there, buried to the hilt, his forehead resting against the back of my neck. Then he starts to move.

There's nothing gentle about it. He fucks me hard and fast, each thrust shoving me against the shelves. Boxes tumble, bags crinkle and pop. I don't care. I push back against him, meeting every stroke, taking him deeper.

"Is this what you wanted?" he grunts, his fingers digging into my hips. "Coming back here to get fucked in the stockroom?"

His words send a fresh wave of heat through me. "Yes," I gasp. "God, yes."

He reaches around, his fingers finding my clit, still sensitive from his mouth. The added stimulation is almost too much. I'm already building toward another climax, faster than I thought possible.

"I'm not going to last," Ben warns, his rhythm faltering. "You feel too good."

"Come inside me," I urge him, the words spilling out before I can think better of them.

His pace becomes frantic, erratic. I feel his cock swell, pulsing inside me as he comes with a muffled groan against my shoulder. The sensation of his release triggers my own, a softer, rolling orgasm that has me clenching around him as he empties himself inside me.

For a long moment, we stay like that, connected, his chest pressed against my back, both of us breathing hard. His weight pins me against the shelves, but I don't mind. There's something comforting about being trapped between his solid warmth and the unyielding metal.

Finally, he pulls out slowly, both of us wincing at the sensitivity. I feel his cum trickling down my inner thigh as I turn to face him. I should be reaching for the tissues on the shelf beside us, cleaning myself up, making a joke to break the tension.

Instead, I just stand there, looking at him in the dim light, feeling more naked than I ever have despite being mostly clothed.

The air between us feels heavy, charged with things neither of us knows how to say.