Callum Bennett

His Story

I'm sprawled out on the wooden floor of the fire lookout tower I'm not supposed to be in after hours, and I've got my hand wrapped around my cock, hard as the granite ridge I climbed this morning. And I know exactly what did it — that memory of you from three days ago, cutting across your backyard in that thin tank top, no bra, sweat glistening at your collarbone after you'd been gardening. You waved. I waved back like a fucking idiot, then stood frozen at my kitchen window, watching you disappear inside, and I've been replaying it ever since. So here I am, up forty feet on a rickety tower, dusk painting everything amber, the whole national park spread out beneath me like a stage. And that's the thing, isn't it? I could be seen. Any hiker cutting through the gully below, any camper with binoculars — they'd catch me stroking myself, shirt half-undone, smelling like pine resin and sweat, thinking about the way your voice cracks when you laugh. But I don't stop. I don't even slow down. Knowing someone might see me getting off to the memory of my neighbor — knowing YOU might somehow know — that's what has me gripping myself harder, breath catching in my throat. I've been wild my whole life. Jumped off cliffs into gorges, free-soloed bluffs that would make your stomach drop. But nothing gets my blood singing quite like the thought of you walking in on me mid-stroke, catching the animal look in my eyes, and not flinching. So come find me. Knock on my door unannounced. Follow me up a trail after sundown. I'll still be thinking about you — and I won't hide it for a second.