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He knows, he knows in his heart, at the surface and deep down..that this is royally fucked up. And while he’s aware that he’s making it aware, his fingers continue to move down and graze the front seam of his jeans briefly before he undoes the button. It is fucked up.
If he was smart, he’d call the cops. Hell, that should have been done weeks ago. Then there would be a report and hopefully the police would cause the letters to stop and his life would be back in order once more. He wouldn’t have to go through the automatic movements of investigating to see if anything was out of place, even minor, no dread hanging over him as he checked his mailbox and sorted his letters, no pool of heat that collected in his belly as he began to recognize which letters were Jack’s.
But of course he didn’t inform the cops; instead he got comfortable, leaned back against the smooth supple leather while finally allowing himself to undo the zipper and bring out his cock. The head already shined with his precum as he stroked himself a few times while his eyes scanned the latest letter in his hands.
It all felt like a whirlwind. At first he found humour in them, because really, who were they talking to? He wasn’t exactly scared of a lot. Eventually concern began to sink in, only minor but there, when the messages became more detailed and solely about things he did in correspondence to whatever day the letter entailed. Mostly he tried to ignore them, but the more intimate and revealing they were, the more it started to turn Brock on.
He was already breathing heavily, almost panting, and he stopped only to spit against his palm before he picked up the pace. The slats of the blinds were open to show him outside to the backyard, light bleeding further out towards the woods he lived next to, despite how dark it was that he could barely make out a single detail.
Releasing a low grown, his legs spread wider in a deliberate show and his mind wandered, curious to know if Jack could see him right then, and if he could did he know what exactly he was doing to Brock?
No one else would be there to see, the place was a bit rural, the trees too wild and thick, but he hoped Jack was. The light he bathed in was a sharp contrast to the darkness, and he could imagine just how much of a spotlight he was putting upon himself like this.
Just for Jack.
Jack’s letters have always had a narrative of need. Of want. He wants to take Brock and hold him down, keep him painfully pinned and fuck him over any piece of furniture he can put to use at that moment. It’s vivid and oh so very detailed.
He continues on further by telling Brock just exactly how he’d cry and plead for him to fuck him harder, how he’d make him scream and moan out until his voice went hoarse and his throat was raw. In reality Brock’s not sure if he’d be screaming in need or for him to stop but the more he thinks about it, the more what Jack tells him he’ll do turns him on.
He knows even in this fantasy though that Jack isn’t going to play nice. He won’t handle him with care, and touch him like he was made of glass. He won’t tell him how pretty he looks or how much he cares for him, no delicate sincere words by his ear as he thrusts into him. It’ll be rough and fast, if he's lucky he’ll get some prep but it’ll never be enough; it's that thought alone that causes Brock to cry out so abruptly, hips faltering and cum shooting hot and sticky across his shirt and over his jeans.
Brock’s eyes stay closed as he catches his breath, and even as the haze begins to dissipate he still continues to hope Jack was watching him. He hopes it was hot enough for him and that he’s already writing about it in his new letter that’ll be waiting patiently in the mailbox the following morning.
He grabs some tissues off the side table and quickly cleans himself up just enough to tuck himself back in and head upstairs to take a shower. He folds the latest letter and carries it into the dark hallway next to the stairs, it’ll return to its place at the top of the pile tucked into a shoebox that’s hidden deep within his closet.
It’s at the stairs Brock pauses, senses noticing something his eyes haven’t yet picked up..but then he does. As he’s scanning up towards his bedroom the door is barely left ajar. He rests his hand on the railing, sliding his fingers along the smooth surface while he begins to make his way up and his heart beats a bit quicker.
It was a bit odd, he swears he left the door open before he came down to do his little show. And maybe Jack had missed seeing what he had just done.
Maybe tonight he was more interested in being a little more hands on.