1 - RACHID

Rachid had just come out of the shower. Water was still running over his shoulders when he stood in front of the bathroom mirror, shaving cream in hand. At twenty-seven, the Moroccan had a body that looked sculpted: thick pecs, defined abs, and those obliques that disappeared beneath the waistband of the gray sweatpants he’d put on with nothing underneath. He passed the razor calmly, looking at himself with that natural arrogance he had.

When he finished, he dropped onto the living-room sofa, still bare-chested. He put his bare feet up on the coffee table, grabbed the TV remote, and put on an action movie at a volume that echoed across the whole landing. The muscles of his chest moved with each lazy breath as he absentmindedly scratched his freshly trimmed beard.

In the apartment next door, Ernesto couldn’t take it anymore. The sixty-two-year-old executive, suited and with his hair perfectly combed, had been listening to explosions and gunshots through the wall for twenty minutes. He took a deep breath, adjusted his tie, and went out onto the landing. He stopped in front of the door marked 4B, raised his fist, and knocked firmly.

The door flew open.

Rachid appeared filling the whole frame, imposing, sweaty, and shirtless. He looked him up and down with obvious contempt.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“Rachid, please… the television. I’ve had a terrible headache for half an hour. Could you turn it down a little?”

The Moroccan let out a dry laugh.

“Go fuck yourself, fag.”

And he slammed the door in his face.

Ernesto remained planted there, his heart beating so hard it felt like it was going to burst out of his chest. It wasn’t anger he felt. It was something else. A shameful heat rising from his stomach to his crotch. That word, said with so much contempt, had made his cock hard inside his suit pants.

He went back to his apartment, locked the door, and leaned against it. He unzipped almost without thinking. As he jerked off furiously, he could only imagine one thing: being on his knees at the feet of that straight male, smelling his sweaty sneakers after the gym, licking between his toes while Rachid looked at him with disgust and told him how useless and faggy he was.

That night he barely slept. The fantasy had sunk so deep into him that he could no longer get it out.

The next day, while browsing the internet looking for anything to distract him, an ad caught his attention. A product on Amazon with a ridiculous and promising name: “Remote to Stop Time.” The reviews were clearly fake, but the description… “Stop the world whenever you want. Do what no one can prevent you from doing.” The price was high. He bought it without thinking twice.

The package arrived that same afternoon. Ernesto opened it. It was a small black remote with one large red button. There were no instructions. Only a sticker that said, “Limited trial: 30 min...