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The last time Robin had seen Quentin, he had at some point boasted about the state of the security in his building. Apparently he had been overreaching in this confidence.
The first text was a photograph. It was of Robin's bedroom, taken with a camera with a very, very good zoom, from a building across the street. Angled slightly upwards, as the building was shorter, and Robin was in the penthouse. He usually didn't bother to close his blinds for this reason. And also because he didn't really care. Though he hadn't expected anyone to take advantage of that to photograph him.
Though it wasn't just him in the photograph: it was him and Quentin, from the one time they had had sex in Robin's home. Robin was on his back with his legs wrapped around Quentin, who despite his small stature was actually quite good at topping (and who had balked a bit when he'd seen the size of Robin's cock).
A text followed it: he's bored out of his mind. fucking you is like doing his taxes.
That was all that came, until the next day, when another photograph arrived. This one was also of Robin's bedroom, empty this time. An unmade bed. Except this time the photograph was clearly taken by someone standing inside the bedroom.
And following that picture were a string of texts detailing Robin's recent sexual encounters, each critiquing his performance in increasingly vulgar and cruel terms.
And at the end of those, a voice recording. Quentin's voice saying "I apologize, I'm not good company tonight. Perhaps I should go while you still have time to salvage your night."
A text followed: kind of him not to just tell you what utter rubbish you are. the little whore will fuck anything that moves, but he draws the line at you.
Robin grew more and more murderous as he read through all this, coming close to throwing his phone against the wall. In the end, he called Quentin, whom he hadn't spoken to since that night, and demanded to meet him. He chose a bar on the other side of the city from his apartment, and waited for him there.
The first text was a photograph. It was of Robin's bedroom, taken with a camera with a very, very good zoom, from a building across the street. Angled slightly upwards, as the building was shorter, and Robin was in the penthouse. He usually didn't bother to close his blinds for this reason. And also because he didn't really care. Though he hadn't expected anyone to take advantage of that to photograph him.
Though it wasn't just him in the photograph: it was him and Quentin, from the one time they had had sex in Robin's home. Robin was on his back with his legs wrapped around Quentin, who despite his small stature was actually quite good at topping (and who had balked a bit when he'd seen the size of Robin's cock).
A text followed it: he's bored out of his mind. fucking you is like doing his taxes.
That was all that came, until the next day, when another photograph arrived. This one was also of Robin's bedroom, empty this time. An unmade bed. Except this time the photograph was clearly taken by someone standing inside the bedroom.
And following that picture were a string of texts detailing Robin's recent sexual encounters, each critiquing his performance in increasingly vulgar and cruel terms.
And at the end of those, a voice recording. Quentin's voice saying "I apologize, I'm not good company tonight. Perhaps I should go while you still have time to salvage your night."
A text followed: kind of him not to just tell you what utter rubbish you are. the little whore will fuck anything that moves, but he draws the line at you.
Robin grew more and more murderous as he read through all this, coming close to throwing his phone against the wall. In the end, he called Quentin, whom he hadn't spoken to since that night, and demanded to meet him. He chose a bar on the other side of the city from his apartment, and waited for him there.
