Warm Air

By AlexisVane.

The hallway smelled like eucalyptus and old coffee grounds — the kind of scent that stuck to tile floors and past relationships. He stood outside her apartment door, shifting his weight, one hand clutching the canvas bag she’d told him to bring.

The door clicked open.

— Hey, she said flatly. Not cold, but not welcoming.

She looked the same — maybe better. Dark green tank top, no bra, joggers low on her hips. Her hair was tied up, messy, freshly washed. Bare feet on the laminate. She held her phone but didn’t check it. Just stared at him like a chore she hadn’t crossed off yet.

— You can grab your stuff. I put it all in the bathroom.

He nodded. No hug. No comment. Just tension. Thick and domestic.

He passed her wordlessly and walked down the hall. The place hadn’t changed. The hallway mirror still had that crack in the corner. The living room was still too clean. But the bathroom…

It was warm.

Steam clung to the mirror, fresh condensation. She’d showered. Her towel was still on the rack, damp. On the counter: a zippered pouch full of his old toiletries, a couple of books, and a worn t-shirt she’d once stolen from him.

He heard her footsteps fade. Back to the kitchen, maybe. Or watching.

He sighed. Unzipped his jeans. He’d spilled water on them while biking over — the fabric stuck to his thigh. He peeled them down, then his boxers, stepping out of both. He leaned to grab the bag and started sorting through — book, charger, hair gel, an old USB stick. He didn’t hear her return.

Until the hairdryer clicked on behind him.

— Don’t move, she said.

He froze.

She was in the doorway, holding her Dyson like a weapon. Her smile wasn’t cruel — just curious. Amused.

The air hit his inner thigh first. Then higher.

Then directly there.

He jolted.

— Just a test, she said sweetly. Let’s see what memory lane does to you.

The gust of hot air struck dead center.

Noah flinched — not away, but forward, reflexive, like his body didn’t know what to do with sudden heat on exposed skin. The blast swept under his balls, across the underside of his shaft, lifting it. Lightly. Pathetically. It wanted to rise, but only partially.

She circled slowly, crouching behind the dryer as if handling lab equipment.

— Fascinating, she murmured.

He started to cover himself. She turned up the heat.

— Hands at your sides, please. It responds better to dominance.

His dick twitched once, half-up, then dropped again.

She tilted her head.

— Aww. It tried. That was adorable.

His chest rose and fell too fast. Sweat began to form above his lips — from the heat, the panic, the knowledge that she was looking, studying him like a curiosity she’d once mistaken for a man.

She stepped closer.

— You know what I was thinking? she said, waving the dryer in a slow arc across his groin like a sculptor fine-tuning a bust.

— Maybe it was always like this. Perhaps I didn’t realize how small it was at the time. I was just generous. Romantic.

The head of his cock jerked once in response — a faint, involuntary lift.

She laughed — short and sharp.

— THERE it is. There’s the little guy.

Click. The dryer snapped off.

Silence. His ears rang in the sudden vacuum of sound.

Then another click — her phone screen lighting up.

She raised it. He flinched.

— Oh come on. You owe me this.

She snapped the photo.

He stood there, naked, soft, slightly damp, one hand twitching at his side like he wanted to disappear into the towel rack.

She looked at the screen, squinted, then zoomed in with two fingers.

— Hm. I thought maybe the heat was making it shy. But no — that’s just its default setting.

She tapped something. Flash. Another photo.

He finally spoke.

— Delete that.

She looked up.

— Or what?

A beat.

— You’ll come back harder next time?

He said nothing. His breath shook. His legs trembled.

— Jesus, Noah. I blow warm air at it, and it goes limp. That’s the most honest reaction I’ve ever gotten from you.

She lowered the phone.

Then, smiling without teeth, she stepped back and gave a final, casual flick of air at his balls.

FWHIP.

He winced.

— Want me to blow harder… or is that its limit?

He didn’t answer.

He just reached for the bag, slowly. Everything inside him was boiling — and not from the heat.

He stood there a few more seconds, stunned by the silence. The air still buzzed in his ears where the dryer’s whine had cut off, but now it was just the faint hum of the bathroom light and the racing of his own heart.

His hand gripped the edge of the sink, pale knuckles tight.

The shame sat in his throat like a physical lump. It didn’t feel abstract — it was hot, wet, real. His cock, still soft and pointed downward, twitched again uselessly in the still air, caught in that state between exposure and paralysis.

She hadn’t left.

She leaned against the doorframe like it was a show. One foot flat, the other crossed over her ankle. Her phone hung lazily in one hand — screen still lit with the last photo.

— You know what the best part is? she asked.

He didn’t respond.

— I didn’t even mean to humiliate you.

She shrugged.

— Not at first. I just… wanted to see. But then you flinched. And flinched again. And then that little blip of movement?

She raised her brows.

— God, Noah. You practically offered it up.

He pulled the drawstring on the bag too fast — it caught, tangled. He fumbled. One of the books slipped out and hit the floor with a thud. He cursed under his breath, bent to grab it — and of course, in doing so, his ass faced her directly. Exposed. Still damp with heat. Balls dangling.

— Careful, she whispered.

— I might blow on those, too.

His spine stiffened. He stood without looking at her, clutching the book like a shield. He pulled up his jeans too quickly, his skin sticking to the denim, the zipper catching near his hip. Still no underwear. She had seen everything.

He could feel her still watching. Still smiling.

Then she spoke, a little quieter. Not mockingly. Just… assessing.

— You know, I think this is the most honest moment we’ve had since we broke up.

He turned halfway toward her, jaw clenched.

She held up the phone. Showed him the screen — not the photo, just the file name.

“noah_blown1.jpg”

— Don’t worry. I won’t post it.

A pause.

— Probably.

His fists balled at his sides, shaking. But he said nothing.

What was there to say?

He finished tying the bag and slung it over his shoulder. One final glance toward the towel on the rack — the dampness, the imprint of her hips. It felt like a museum now. His memory no longer lived here. Just his size. His shame.

She moved aside as he passed her. Close — too close — and he could smell her shampoo. Or maybe the same goddamn eucalyptus from the hallway.

Right before he reached the door, she called out casually:

— If you ever want a second chance…

He paused.

–…bring something I can actually blow without feeling bad.

He shut the door behind him harder than necessary.

But the only thing louder was the sound of her laugh — muffled through the wood — and the faint beep of her camera saving another shot.

The End.

*****

Zoom Slip

By AlexisVane.

It was just supposed to be a five-minute check-in. Quick Monday sync, no client cameras required, no presentations — just status updates and muted nods. Noah had even asked in the team Slack:

“No video, right?”

And got the lazy thumbs-up emoji from Dana, the project lead.

So when he logged in from his bedroom, still in that old band tee and a pair of navy boxer-briefs — legs crossed on his rolling chair, laptop propped on a shoebox — he thought he was safe. Anonymous. Off-camera.

That illusion lasted seven minutes.

The new hire, Asha, a chipper UX researcher from Bangalore with impossible punctuality, had joined with her camera on. Then another. Then Dana. Then the senior copywriter. The screen turned into a mosaic of sleepy faces, messy kitchens, bookshelves, and blurred-out toddlers. Noah didn’t switch his on.

Then Dana spoke.

— Let’s just make this quick. Go around the circle — cameras on, five-second recap, cool?

Noah’s cursor hovered over the cam button.

Fuck it. He didn’t think. Didn’t feel the breeze on his thighs. He just clicked.

His face popped into the gallery grid.

He smiled, muted.

Everyone smiled back. Except for Asha — who had her mic on and chirped:

— Hi Noah! Good to finally see you.

He gave a little wave. All fine.

Then Dana said:

— Can you walk us through where you’re at with the checkout wireframe?

And without thinking, Noah stood up.

It was instinct. He liked to pace. He stood in most meetings. He’d even done practice calls standing.

But not like this.

His webcam was angled down. Just enough. Not enough to catch his knees — just enough to capture the tight, visible bulge of his soft cock in dark briefs, stretching with the natural slouch of cotton. Slightly right. Slightly low. Fully outlined.

And for two seconds, maybe three, the Zoom grid froze.

Then Dana’s square blinked black. Muted herself. Asha didn’t. Asha was staring directly, mouth twitching, then quickly turned her camera off.

And in the chat window, one message appeared:

👀

Then another:

☕

Then:

🍤

Noah’s blood drained.

He looked down.

And realized.

The rush of blood hit him so fast he nearly tripped over his own chair. Noah slammed himself back into the seat, yanked the laptop lid half-closed, and hovered his shaking cursor over the camera icon — too late.

Too. Fucking. Late.

He was unmuted by accident.

A sound slipped out — not a word, just a strained grunt, like someone trying to muffle a scream inside a paper bag.

A second later, Dana’s voice returned, calm but clipped.

— Let’s… come back to that. Sam, go ahead?

The floor passed to the junior dev, who started mumbling about server queues, while Noah sat half-folded, face hot, cock colder, trapped in his own cotton mistake. The chat window continued to blink. Someone dropped:

🕵️♀️

📉

tinyurl.com (quickly deleted)

Then, from someone anonymous:

— Tell me that wasn’t it.

Followed by:

— I mean… the shadow agrees.

Asha’s camera flickered on again. She wasn’t laughing. But she also wasn’t smirking. She was typing something — paused — then erased it.

Noah glanced around the grid. Everyone’s faces were distant now. Avoidant. Polite. Falsely blank. Like a silent consensus had formed to pretend nothing happened — while everyone was burning to talk about it.

His inbox pinged.

Private message from Becca in HR:

— “Let’s have a quick 1:1 after this. No stress 😊”

He wanted to die.

But it wasn’t over.

Dana, the queen of cold efficiency, closed the meeting fifteen minutes later with:

— Alright, everyone — stay clothed, stay productive.

The call ended.

His screen faded to the desktop.

And in the dim reflection of his black monitor, he saw himself: pale, limp, legs spread, laptop heating his thighs like an accusation.

And the faint outline of his cock — still curled awkwardly sideways, still soft, still exactly what they’d seen.

The HR call was scheduled for 11:15. It was 11:12, and Noah had changed into jeans three times. Every pair felt tight. Not physically — just… symbolically. Like no fabric would ever cover what had already been exposed.

His heart hammered as the Zoom window reopened. Becca’s face appeared, framed by the same office plants she used for her onboarding slideshow. She smiled warmly. Too warmly.

— Hey Noah! Thanks for hopping on so quick.

— Yeah, of course, he croaked.

Pause.

— Just wanted to do a quick touch-base. I know mornings can be… chaotic.

He nodded, unsure what she was actually saying.

— Just a reminder, she continued gently, that cameras are powerful tools, and sometimes we all forget they can see more than we mean to. But you handled it well! Staying calm and re-centering is important.

He didn’t remember staying calm. He remembered recoiling, mouse fumbling, clenching every muscle in his body while his limp dick sat in boxer-brief spotlight.

— We don’t think it was intentional, Becca went on, glancing once toward something offscreen. Legal probably. — But we did get a few… concerned messages. Nothing formal, just colleagues flagging what they saw.

He nodded, voice stuck in his throat.

Becca tilted her head.

— I do have to ask — were you aware that your camera was on when you stood?

Noah hesitated.

— I thought… I mean, I didn’t realize it angled down that far.

Becca nodded. Her smile turned pitying. That was worse than anger.

— Happens to the best of us.

Then, after a pause:

— And Noah… so that you know, you don’t need to respond to the emoji thread.

His face burned.

— Wait — what thread?

She blinked.

— Oh. I thought… I assumed you saw it.

She clicked something. His Slack pinged. A private group called “Zoom Zoo”.

He opened it.

It was worse than he could’ve imagined.

There were screenshots. From the moment. Cropped. Zoomed. Annotated. Asha had added a ruler emoji. Someone else had drawn a thought bubble:

“Send help, I’m cold and scared.”

Another image showed just the bulge, with a caption:

“Is this an HR violation or just nature?”

His stomach dropped.

Becca sighed.

— Again, not an official complaint. But you should probably avoid the general channel for the rest of the day.

He nodded, barely breathing.

She smiled one more time, soft and final.

— You’re doing fine, Noah. Just… stay seated next time, yeah?

The call ended.

And Noah sat there, motionless, staring at his own reflection in the blank screen — jeans tight across his lap, heart hammering, and the echo of one phrase running through his skull like a curse:

“The shadow agrees.”

The End.

*The opinions/views expressed in this story (and in any comments) are those of the author and do not represent this site. We support freedom of speech. This story has been previously published on other free websites and is now in the public domain, which is why we are able to republish it here.