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I sigh as Colonel Une finally leaves, her thinly veiled attempts at seduction neatly sidestepped yet again. Someday I will have to have a serious talk with her, but I really dread it. I fear I will lose a useful ally if I tell her the truth, that I will never be interested in her that way. Ever.

It's not as if she is horribly unattractive, though her personality leaves a lot to be desired. It's the fact that she lacks something that is required of all my lovers.

A cock.

Of course, this is still OZ and I must be discreet. So finding a lover is difficult. Especially when the one I want, have wanted for years really, is unattainable. All the men I've been with have been poor substitutes.

The fact that they have nearly all had blond hair should be telling.

The thought of blond hair returns to be as I slide into my rose- scented bath, drawn so perfectly by the very non-blonde and non-male Une. I groan, partly from the perfect, near-scalding temperature of the water, and partly from the image that returns to me, unbidden.

I had been out earlier, inspecting the mobile suits, when an unexpected rainstorm hit. Damn unreliable weather; no precipitation had been forecast for today. Luckily, I was able to duck into the shelter of a building before I got too soaked. Unlike someone else.

Zechs had apparently been out jogging; that was the only explanation for the clothes that he was wearing. Or, rather, the clothes that were plastered to his body like a second skin. A red t-shirt and very short white shorts, the conscious part of my mind noted, while my libido noticed that the wet shirt clung to his well-developed chest, outlining his muscles and clearly showing his hard nipples. I hadn't seen Zechs out of uniform for many years, and the sight of him went straight to my cock.

As I settle back against the sloping end of the tub, laying my head on the cushion, I close my eyes so I can better picture the scene. My cock is already rising, remembering how he looked...

Long blond hair plastered to him, clothes drenched, Zechs ran under the cover of an overhead walkway. I was already half-hard, and I didn't know if I could even speak to him while he was dressed like that. It had been far too long since I had found a lover that I desired. So I ducked back into an alcove, where a potted tree would hide me from view. I felt like a voyeur watching him like that, but I couldn't help myself. He turned his back to me, and the thin white shorts he wore clung to his tight ass in a way that made me completely hard instantly.

I groan as I remember how he pulled at his shirt, then pulled it up off his head quickly. I stifled as gasp as I feasted my eyes on his bare skin, broad shoulders and slim waist. He shook his head back and forth, and droplets of water flew everywhere. He draped his wet shirt over his arm, then turned toward me as he ran his hands over his hair to smooth it back. My mouth went dry as I looked at him.

His arms were up, causing his muscles to bunch, and water ran down his chest. I watched its progress, over his sculpted pecs, down across his taut abdomen, to disappear into the waistband of the white shorts. Shorts that had gone nearly transparent with the rain.

Slowly, teasing myself, I slide my hand down my stomach, under the water and toward my rock hard length. I think of the way the shorts clung to his cock, how I could clearly see its outline even though he wasn't aroused. But I was. I was harder than I'd ever been, standing there behind a potted plant, General Khushrenada looking like a peeping tom. But I wouldn't have missed the show for the world.

Because then I wouldn't have this wonderful image to think about as I wrap my hand around my aching erection. I wouldn't be able to clearly see his nearly naked, wet body in front of me as I imagined him peeling his shorts off as well.

Which he didn't do, of course. Unfortunately for me. He waited a moment until the downpour lessened, then darted out and made for his quarters.

Leaving me leaning against the wall, breathing hard and aroused as hell.

An arousal that I had to ignore until now, as I bite my lip, playing a game with myself. How long can I hold my cock this way, unmoving, until I give in to the urge to stroke myself? Because if I give in, this sweet ache will be gone all too soon, spurred on by thoughts of my blond fantasy, my unrequited lust. The anticipation is the best part, except for the climax, of course, the release of my pent-up need. That goes far too quickly, so I tease myself like this, knowing I will lose the battle.

It's the thought of what he would look like, completely naked and standing in front of me, that finally spurs my hand into motion. I picture him here, in my private chambers, joining me in this bath that's easily big enough for two.

I've seen him wet now, I know what his golden skin looks like sheened with water, and I need to see it again. Here with me, just for me.

I stroke, quickly, upward, just a short stroke but already I'm moaning. He's always affected me this way, even years ago when I first decided I liked other boys. We'd known each other since we were young; I was 14 and he was 9 when we first met. I remember thinking that he was pretty even then. And wishing he was older.

When we met again a few years later, he was stunning and I was just off to join the army. I spent many nights thinking of him, and when he was old enough he followed me. As his commanding officer and a friend, I felt I couldn't act on my desires no matter how much I wanted him. And since he never showed more than friendly affection toward me, I felt my hands were tied.

But that didn't stop me from thinking of him.

And think of him I did, nearly every time I had sex with anyone, at some point or other I would get an image of him, imagine what he would look like in whatever position my current lover was in.

Yes, I am obsessed, but what a wonderful obsession.

I give up all pretense of holding back now. I use long, slow strokes, all the way from the tip to the base of my erection, stimulating every sensitive nerve. I arch up into my hand now, driving my cock into the tight tunnel of my fingers. At the top of each stroke, I run my thumb over the head, feeling the gathering moisture. At the bottom of each stroke, I push down, pressing at the base of my cock, just above my balls; I've always loved pressure there.

Long, slow, strokes, using every inch, thinking of him all the while. What he would look like below me. Would he be shy, needing to be coaxed into spreading his legs for me, a blushing virgin? Or would he be wanton, on his hands and knees, begging for it, for me to ram into him?

Or on his knees in front of me... looking up at me as he opened that mouth, wrapping it around my cock as I buried my hands in his platinum hair? God, I'd love to fuck that mouth... watch my cock disappear in and out, see his cheeks hollow as he sucked me dry.

And that's the image that does it, drives me over the edge, gasping as my climax hits me like a train. My eyes close, my muscles clench, my back arches and I struggle to keep moving my hand, drawing out every second of pleasure from my release. I know it's only seconds but it feels like forever, this tightening of my body and the pulsing of my cock. I feel my seed leave me, feel it cover my hand and chest, nearly as warm as the water I lie in.

Then it's over, and I lie panting, the image of Zechs before me printed indelibly in my mind. Even if I can never have him I will always want him.

Maybe someday.

Until then all I have is this.