I’m a groundskeeper at a prestigious Fraternity house on a large University Campus. Delta Tau Lambda. The residents refer to it as “Legion House.” It’s populated mostly by jocks. But they have their fair share of academics.

Everyone there seems to be Gay or at least Bisexual. All the Jocks get off fucking all the Academic Twinks on a regular basis. Occasionally, a Jock will get drunk and bold and tackle one of his football buddies and fuck him hard and fast.

What do I know about all this? Well, I like to watch, and have made it my business to spy on them. I have recordings that make for good masturbation materials. Well, until I get caught. Now, I’m part of the recordings my hidden cameras capture.

The summer air was thick and heavy, clinging to the windowpane like a wet blanket. Outside, the bass from the kegger thumped a steady, primal rhythm against the side of the house. Each beat was a pulse point for the party, a signal for another red solo cup to be filled, another laugh to be shouted into the humid darkness. But in my small basement room, the only rhythm was the frantic, slick slap of my fist and the ragged gasp of my own breathing.

My eyes were glued to the monitor array I’d built into the wall behind a fake bookshelf. Three screens, each a window into a world I could only ever observe. The top left showed the bathroom, the camera I’d hidden in the vent giving me a perfect, high-angle view of the shower. Tonight, it was Kyle, a freshman twink with blond hair that darkened to honey when wet. He was soaping up his lean, hairless chest, completely oblivious. On the top right was the living room, where a group of lacrosse players was already drunk, their shirts off, muscles gleaming with a sheen of sweat as they played beer pong. But my main screen, my prize, was the bottom monitor. It was wired to a pinhole camera in the captain’s bedroom.

And the captain, Brad, was in there with another guy.

Brad was a god. A six-foot-four wall of muscle, with a jawline that could cut glass and shoulders so broad they strained the fabric of every t-shirt he owned. Watching him move, even just standing there, was like watching a predator stretch in the sun. Right now, he was sitting on the edge of his bed, and one of the newer pledges, a lanky soccer player named Leo, was on his knees in front of him. My own cock was a steel rod in my hand, precum leaking over my knuckles as I matched my strokes to the bobbing of Leo’s head. I had the volume turned up just enough to hear Leo’s muffled whimpers and Brad’s low, guttural groans.

“Yeah, just like that,” Brad grunted, his voice a deep rumble that vibrated right through my speakers and into my bones. “Take it all.”

That was it. That was the trigger. The tight coil in my gut snapped, and I was coming, hard, spurting over my own stomach and onto the cheap, worn-out comforter. I leaned back in my squeaky office chair, my eyes fluttering closed as waves of pleasure washed over me. For a moment, there was only the sound of my own panting and the distant muffled thump of the party.

Then, my doorknob rattled.

My eyes shot open. Panic, cold and sharp, seized me. I fumbled for the mouse, my hand shaking so badly I could barely control it, clicking frantically to shut down the feeds. The screens went black, plunging the room into near darkness, save for the blinking red lights of the recording equipment. I yanked my sweatpants up, the sticky mess inside a horrifying reminder of what I’d been doing. I shoved my half-hard cock into my waistband, wincing, and tried to look casual, like I was just ... sitting in the dark. Doing nothing.

The door swung open, flooding the room with light and the cacophony of the party. A silhouette filled the doorway, a mountain of a man. It was Brad. He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of gym shorts and a drunk, determined look. He stumbled in, squinting.

“Yo, where’s the can in this dungeon?” he slurred, his voice even more imposing in person. “Gotta piss like a racehorse.”

He took another step into the room, his eyes adjusting to the dimness. They swept past me, then over my desk, then settled on the wall of monitors. Even though they were blank, the setup was obvious. His drunken haze seemed to evaporate in an instant, replaced by a sharp, predatory focus. His gaze dropped from the monitors to my face, then down to my bare chest and the sweats I was clutching around my waist like a lifeline. He saw the wet spot. He saw the shame. He saw everything.

A slow, cold smile spread across his face. It wasn’t a happy smile. It was the smile of a shark that had just found a seal.

“Well, well, well,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. “What the fuck do we have here?” He took a step closer, and I could smell the beer on his breath, the faint, clean scent of his sweat. “You’re the groundskeeper, right? The weirdo who mows the lawn.”

I couldn’t speak. My throat had closed up. I just shook my head, a pathetic, useless gesture.

“Don’t lie to me,” he snarled, and in one fluid motion, he crossed the remaining space between us. His hand shot out and grabbed my arm, his fingers like iron bands. “What’s all this shit, huh? You get your jollies watching the guys? Is that it, you fucking pervert?”

He yanked me forward, and I stumbled, my legs tangled in my own pants. I landed hard on my knees in front of him. His other hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of my hair and forcing my head back. I cried out, a pathetic yelp that was swallowed by the thumping bass from upstairs.