Chapter 4
Walker
Kit is always doing something.
Even when he’s just hanging out, his brain is usually three steps ahead of his face.
But give him a chance to be lazy, and he will.
He’ll nap anytime, anywhere, like a big cat.
So when I walk in and he’s dead still on the couch, I assume he’s out cold.
It’s Wednesday, and I know he’s coming off a marathon lab session.
I swap my jeans for gym shorts—freeballing, because jeans and underwear are for the outside world—grab a beer, and head back to the living room.
Kit hasn’t moved an inch.
I sit at my spot on the couch, lift his feet onto my lap because that’s what you do—you don’t wake the bro when he’s tired even if he’s lying on your spot. Then I channel-surf until I find a UFC replay, and try to figure out where we are in the fight.
It’s a solid middleweight match, and both guys are technical as hell. I watch it. I drink my beer. I try to pay attention.
My eyes keep drifting to Kit.
The thing is—and I’m not proud of this, I’m just being honest—the thing is that the last two weeks have been weird for me.
Okay, “weird” is the wrong word here.
Distracting.
I’ll be at the gym, mid-set, and then suddenly I’ll be thinking about that night.
Like this morning, for example.
I was on the incline press, decent weight on the bar, second set going smooth. Then, out of nowhere, I’m back to holding Kit’s legs.
Specifically the weight of that meat.
Specifically that.
Specifically how it felt to hold him wide open for Finn and Miles to fuck him.
Those legs were heavier than I expected because Kit’s got real muscle.
I remember adjusting my grip and looking down at him all folded up, and thinking that that’s a good position to get fucked.
It is a weird thing to think mid-situation, but I’m a kinesiology guy. Can’t turn it off.
I dropped the bar.
It hit the rack with a loud-ass clang. The guy on the next bench stared, and I had to pretend I meant to dump the set. The rest of the workout was a wash because I got bricked up and had to leave.
And then there’s Chloe.
Chloe is great. She’s hot, she’s funny, and the sex has been top-tier for the eight months we’ve been together.
Saturday she went down on me, and it was good. I was completely there and present. Then she pulled back and just held my cockhead past her lips. Just that. Eyes up, mouth soft around my tip.
My brain switched channels so fast it would’ve been funny if it wasn’t sad. Suddenly, I was thinking about standing over Kit with his head yanked back, burying just the head of my dick in his mouth. I was thinking about the way his lips rested there, yielding and wet.
I only gave him the tip that night. I held back because I was playing it safe. I don’t regret being careful, but I can’t stop thinking about what it would’ve felt like to shove it deep like Grant did. To test his gag reflex. To see if he’d just take it while I pumped his throat full of my nut.
I think he would’ve.
Chloe finished, looked up and asked, “where’d you go?” I told her I was just in the zone, which was a total lie. She bought it, and we went to sleep.
I look at Kit again.
He’s on his side, and his boxers have slid up enough to show the bottom curve of his ass. He’s got a killer ass. I remember it with total clarity—a memory burned into my palms. Round and soft until you dig your fingers in and find the muscle underneath. The combination is lethal.
I look at the TV.
Respect the bro, I tell myself. That was one night. Weird circumstances. Don’t be that guy.
Two minutes go by, probably.
I look at his ass again.
My hand moves from my own leg to his calf.
I tell myself I’m just checking on him. Making sure he’s really just napping. That’s a reasonable thing to do—check on your bro, make sure he’s breathing.
I slide my hand up to the back of his knee. Then his thigh. He’s got thick muscle through the quads, and I know exactly what that feels like when it’s shaking from an orgasm.
My dick is waking up, pressing against the mesh of my shorts. I’m aware of it, and I’m choosing to lean into the friction. So I shift my hips a little, and let the fabric rub against the head. Hell yeah.
It hits me while my hand is resting on his thigh and the UFC guys are scrambling on screen: if Kit was actually out, he’d have flinched by now. Chloe wakes up if I breathe too loud. My roommate in freshman year used to wake up if someone coughed in the hallway.
People who are actually sleeping react to hands on their body.
Kit hasn’t reacted to anything I’ve done in the last five minutes. Not when my hand brushed his calf. Not when I slid up to his knee. Not when I palmed his thigh.
Which means Kit’s not sleeping.
Which means Kit is doing the thing.
Which means Kit lay down on this couch, went still and waited for it.
I sit with that for a second.
I drink my beer, letting the realization settle: my roommate, the guy I’ve already been inside of, is voluntarily posing as a sex object for me again.
“Fuck it,” I mutter to the empty room.
I reach over, and get my hand inside his boxers through the leg hole.
My palm finds his ass and—fuck. Yeah. It’s exactly as good as I remember.
Soft on the surface, but rock solid underneath, that perfect double-layered texture.
I squeeze it the way I do with Chloe’s tits when we’re watching something—just because it’s there and it’s a good thing to have in your hand.
I watch the fight while I’ve got a beer in one hand and Kit’s meaty cheek in the other. I feel weirdly calm about it.
My dick is a rock. It’s concrete against my shorts, and Kit’s foot is right there on my lap.
I look at it for a second. Look at the TV. Then back at the foot.
I press it against my cock through my shorts, and—yeah, okay. That works. That works incredibly well, actually. I shift it so the arch sits right against my shaft, and roll my hips forward. The pressure is good. It’s really good.
I feel great about this.
My dick slips out through the leg of my shorts after a minute, the tip already slick.
I press the sole of Kit’s bare foot directly against my cock and put it to work.
He’s not doing anything, so I do the work for him.
I drag his foot up and down my shaft, watching the skin turn shiny as it spreads my fuckjuice.
I turn it into a little game. Make sure every inch is coated. Ball of the foot, arch, heel, the spaces between his toes. The UFC guys are trading knees in the clinch, and I’m watching it happen while I edge myself on my bro’s foot, coating it in my thick pre-cum.
Kit doesn’t move.
His foot is dead weight in my hands, completely limp, going wherever I force it.
I could be edging myself with a fuck sleeve for all the reaction I’m getting.
He’s acting exactly like one of those silicone headless torsos, but better—because this is warm meat equipped with a real tight hole waiting to be wrecked.
My dick throbs, getting thicker when I think about exactly what he is right now.
An object to goon over.
An object to dump my load inside.
Fuck! So much for respecting the bro.
I use his toes to stroke my cock, pulling them up and down the shaft, feeling the bones digging into the sides while I watch the fight.
I let myself hit the edge, then back off.
I do it three times. The fourth time, I have to think about my grandmother’s house just to keep from blowing my load all over his foot.
Then I look at Kit.
Then I look at his ass.
I chug the rest of my beer, drop the can, and take a real second to think.
If Kit was actually out, he would’ve woken up the second my hand went up his boxers. He hasn’t moved an inch, which means he’s fully aware of what’s happening, and he’s letting it happen.
I sound like an asshole for that, I know.
I position his hips up, knee-walk up behind him, and press my dick right against his crack. I roll my hips forward.
A low, involuntary groan escapes me.
God damn.
I shove both hands into his boxers through the leg holes, grabbing his cheeks and yanking the fabric up until it’s buried in his crack. The fabric split his ass, making it look like the world’s best thong. I grind on him, hands locked on his cheeks, staring at the back of his head.
His breathing is completely level. He’s putting on an acting clinic.
“Yeah. You’re not asleep.”
I yank his boxers down.
And I just stare at his hole.
Small, pink and perfectly tight, acting like nothing ever happened to it. Acting like four dudes didn’t just take turns destroying it three weeks ago. I thought that hole was permanently wrecked, but look at it, all pretty and fresh.
Chloe won’t let me near hers. I’ve been curious about it for years, and then that night happened and I found out, and now I’ve spent three weeks thinking about finding out again.
Yeah, I’m gonna open it up one more time.
I spit on two fingers and press them against his hole, not pushing in yet, just feeling the give of it. I rub my thumb in a slow circle around it, and that tight ring of muscle twitches. Just once. A little reflex he can’t control.
“Fuck yeah. Okay. Okay.”
My dick’s so hard it’s actually embarrassing. Like, teenage-boner-in-math-class embarrassing. It’s curved up, lifting the leg of my shorts and leaking a steady drip. Every time I breathe, it twitches.
I spit again, right on his hole. Then I press my thumb against it, feeling it clench and release, clench and release, like his ass is trying to suck my thumb in.
Clench. Release.
Clench. Release.
Yeah, he’s hungry for it.
I shove my shorts down, get the waistband under my balls, and line myself up. My cockhead drags across his opening, back and forth, back and forth. The ridge catches on his rim every time, and every time, his hole tightens up. My dick bucks in response. Feels like a really hot conversation.
I could do this all day. I kind of want to do this all day.
“Three weeks,” I tell him, keeping my tone conversational as I press a little harder. “I’ve been thinking about this hole for three weeks, bro. You have no idea.”
I lean my weight forward, applying pressure, feeling the tight resistance of the ring.
“I was benching yesterday and I almost dropped the bar on my face because I was thinking about your ass, man. Would’ve died with a boner.”
Nothing from Kit other than his fake-sleep breathing. His face is blank. Eyes half-closed. A doll.
But his body’s not fooling anyone.
“Yeah,” I say, pushing my hips forward until the head starts to sink in. “Chloe’s great. She’s great. I’m not complaining.”
The head pops past the tightest part, and his ass clamps down around me.
Fuck.
It feels so good my eyes roll back in my skull. My mouth falls open and I actually have to grab the back of the couch to keep from collapsing on top of him.
“Fucking hell,” I breathe. “But she doesn’t—she doesn’t do this.”
I shove the rest of it in.
Kit’s whole body shudders and his back arches just a millimeter off the cushion.
His face stays blank.
That’s what gets me, I think. That’s what makes my dick throb inside him. He’s fighting every instinct to move, to moan, to fuck back, and he’s winning. Just lying there, taking it. He’s tough as hell and I like it.
I reach around his waist and find his cock.
It’s rock-hard, leaking a puddle onto the couch cushion, screaming while his face plays dead.
That’s hot.
“Yeah. You like my big cock, don’t you?” I say, feeling a little smug. “Your dick already told me everything.”
I wrap my fist loosely around his dick and sink deeper into his ass.
I take it slow, partly because I don’t want to completely tear him up right out of the gate, but mostly because it feels insanely good.
I refuse to blow my load before beating Finn’s pathetic forty-second record.
Plus, this hole is tight as hell right now, so taking it slow is mandatory.
“Fucking tight,” I tell him, like he doesn’t know. “Wild, bro. I thought we permanently ruined this hole that night.”
Nothing.
“You’re squeezing the shit out of my dick. Best fucking hole I’ve ever hit.”
Still nothing.
I bury it to the hilt and just hold it there—my hips pinned flush against his cheeks, his leaking dick in my hand—and I glance up at the TV for a second like a normal dude casually watching a UFC match.
One of the fighters lands a heavy takedown. The crowd loses it.
I start pumping.