I failed to keep my eyes on the upper part of Schneider’s body. In my defense, anyone presented with the view of him in all his naked glory would  have undoubtedly done so too. Once again, the words ‘human perfection’ sprang to mind. God had seen fit to endow this man with one of his greatest gifts: a humongous cock. Another set of words occurred to me as I shamelessly stared at his cock: hung like a horse. Schneider had won the gene lottery apparently.   

“What is that on your back?” Schneider asked and the tone of his voice made me shiver again.

His eyes, now a dark grey, were firmly fixed on my back. 

“Huh?” It took me a moment to realize what he was talking about. “Oh. My scar.” I instinctively reached over my shoulder and touched the welted skin at the tip of the vertical scar on my back. It didn’t hurt anymore -hadn’t for a long time- which is why I often forgot it was even there. When it was still fresh after removing the stitches and the skin was a bruised pink, it gave people quite the fright seeing it on display whenever I went to the beach of a hotel pool. Once, I’d been asked to put my shirt back on because I’d scared a kid. Back then, I’d considered getting scar revision plastic surgery. I hadn’t gotten around to it with my busy work schedule, of course. Eventually, the scar had faded and people started noticing it less. 

“How did you get it?” Schneider asked with concern lacing his voice, coming to stand behind me to inspect it closely. 

I was now even more aware of his nudity with him standing right behind me. He radiated heat like a goddamn radiator. It made getting out the words nearly impossible as I relayed my accident to him, “I had a car accident a few years ago. The car seat cut into my back- ah!” 

Schneider touched the scar and I gasped, so startled by the sudden contact that I faced forward. 

He traced two fingers down its length. According to doctors, it was over twelve inches long and about two inches wide, starting between my shoulder blades and reaching to the small of my back. The touch was… electric and cold. It sent chills bolting up and down my spine like a lightning bolt. 

“Does it hurt?” he asked in a low voice that made liquid heat pool in the pit of my stomach. His breath when he spoke fanned my nape, raising the fine hairs on it. 

“N-Not anymore.” 

Slowly, his fingers gently traced the scar lower and lower until they stopped at the small of my back.

The breath caught in my throat when his hand trailed even lower, past the scar and to the waistband of my pants. I was frozen in the moment, unable to utter a word nor move a muscle. 

He hooked two fingers beneath the waistband and tugged downward. The pants soundlessly dropped to the ground. 

Oh, my God.  

I still couldn’t breathe or speak. My heart was knocking against my chest with bone-breaking force. Anticipation coiled in my body like a snake about to strike. I felt trapped in the moment, at the mercy of his whims. And his touch. 

What was he doing? Every answer that I could think of nearly sent my mind spiraling. 

His presence behind me abruptly disappeared, and so did his touch. 

Breathing raggedly, I dared to look over my shoulder again. Schneider was stepping into a stall. He slammed a hand against the water faucet and water sprayed from the showerhead on him. 

Heart still hammering, I surreptitiously watched him bathe. His back was to me, and when his magnificent body and incredible hair became wet, I started downright salivating. 

Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.  

I looked away, eyes wide and my entire face and neck beetroot red. 

I decided to follow his example and shower quickly. Hopefully, I’d finish showering and get dressed before he did, giving me time to shield myself in my clothing before he ever turned around again. 

Awkwardly, I stepped into a stall and began the tedious process of bathing. Once the water was running, I pulled the soap from the plastic bag and lathered myself with it before I even got completely wet. The slippery soap bar slipped from my hand and shot across the showers and right between Schneider’s legs.

I want to die. 

He looked down, noticed the soap bar and looked over his shoulder at me with a raised eyebrow. “Careful. Don’t go dropping your soap in prison.” 

I want to die faster.

I mumbled an apology and faced away. I decided I’d soaped up enough. I ran my hands over my body, washing every nook and cranny. Once I was sufficiently clean, I reached for a towel-

I didn’t have a towel, I realized belatedly. They hadn’t given me one. All they’d given me was the extra jumpsuit uniform. 

Schneider turned off the water. His wet feet smacked against the tiles as he neared me. I could hear water dripping off him and splashing on the floor. 

I refused to look at him.

“Ever since some fool committed suicide with a bunch of tied towels hanging from the upper bunk, they removed the entire prison’s towel privileges.” I heard Shneider say from right behind me.  

“Don’t call him that. You don’t know what drove him to suicide.”

“He got outed as a pedophile. He knew he’d be killed painfully, slowly. He decided to do himself a favor.” 

“That’s morbid.”

“Only if you’re a pedophile.” 

Exasperated with him, I whirled around just in time to see him bend down and pick up my discarded uniform off the floor. I didn’t even have time to start worrying about my state of nudity in front of him. Schneider proceeded to wipe himself with it. 

My jaw dropped. 

It wasn’t that he was using my used clothes to dry himself. It was the way he was doing it. Holding eye contact the whole time, he first wiped his arms and chest painstakingly slowly, running the cotton fabric across that wide expanse of his chest, drying every rivulet of water. Then, he dragged the uniform lower like a makeshift towel, wiping his-

Help me God; I can’t look away.  

He fondled his balls gently, and then he wiped down his cock which was by now half-erect. He rubbed the bulbous head as if it were an eight-ball and he was trying to shine it. After what felt like forever, he finally dried his legs and then dropped the fabric onto the ground.

“Use old clothes to dry yourself,” he said in a gruff voice that tickled my spine.   

And like an idiot, I muttered, “O-Okay."