Chapter 9 #2
“Fuck, did you see that throw?” Walker exhales, his hips jerking a little, mashing his now heavier sack deeper. The sudden weight forces me to take a massive and desperate drag of air through my nose, inhaling nothing but the musky air right out of his asshole.
It’s a really good thing Walker doesn’t fart a lot, I guess—not that a fuck-doll has any right to complain about what its user does to it.
“Dude,” Grant laughs, from the other couch. “You are tea-bagging the doll and you’re talking about football?”
He shrugs, and I can feel it flexing through the tight ring of his hole.
“It was a hell of a throw.”
* * *
It becomes routine. Like how Grant cooks on the weekends, and how Walker leaves protein powder residue on every surface, and how Finn’s always got some stream playing in the background.
The doll is available.
And the guys use what’s available.
Whenever.
However.
One afternoon, Walker folds me over on my hands and knees in the living room, drives into my ass from behind, and starts doing bicep curls with a dumbbell in his free hand.
Just getting a casual pump in while he hammers my guts out.
Grant casually grabs the back of my head and takes my mouth from the other end, skull-fucking me while chugging a beer.
Finn’s on the couch, scrolling Insta. He’s not in me anywhere, he just keeps reaching over to slap my ass when he thinks of it—probably just to see it wiggle.
The conversation going on over my head has nothing to do with me.
“—so Dre said the party starts at ten, but Dre always says ten and it means midnight.”
“Dre is a pathological liar about time, I swear.”
“Hey, bro, how’d the Tinder thing go?” Walker asks, his hips snapping forward in a meat-slapping thrust.
Grant laughs, his dick shaking inside my throat. “Bro, she thought he was a theater major because he was wearing a turtleneck.”
It’s Walker’s turn to laugh. The contraction of his core makes him hit my prostate dead-center.
“I wear turtlenecks,” Miles says, from an armchair, where he’s watching me being spit-roasted, and doing something that he’d describe as relaxing, and I’d describe as lazily bating.
“You looked theatrical, man.”
“I looked sophisticated!”
“Didn’t she call you a tortured artist?”
“She wasn’t wrong about the tortured part, yeah.”
“Bro, did she at least let you hit?”
“Wasn’t interested anyway,” Miles says after a beat of silence.
Walker laughs again, and I hear him and Grant high-fiving over my body.
Grant’s hand comes back to me, and he starts fucking my face faster, telling Miles to get ready to tag in because he needs to empty his balls after being blue-balled like that.
I exist.
I don’t think.
Somewhere in the middle of a debate about whether hot dogs are sandwiches, with Miles delivering a very confident “a hot dog is a taco, the bread folds, it’s geometrically correct to say”, and Grant pulling out to say, indignant, “geometric correctness doesn’t determine food taxonomy”, and Miles saying “then what does determine food taxonomy, dude, enlighten me”…
I come.
Totally untouched.
Just leaking a massive puddle of cum onto the living room floor from the sheer degradation of being their communal spit-roast toy while they argue about hot dogs.
Nobody notices immediately because they’re still arguing about bread.
Then Finn looks down, and goes, “oh, nice,” and reaches over to slap my ass once more.
The debate continues.
10 Loads
As I’ve probably bitched about a thousand times already, Derek was a total fucking nightmare.
I don’t wanna waste any more air on that prick because he doesn’t deserve the head-space, but for context: Derek had zero chill about, like, everything.
The vibe in the house when Derek was here was just permanently off.
You couldn’t relax. You couldn’t exist normally.
You definitely couldn’t have a communal-use setup with the bros because Derek would’ve either called the cops or started a shitty podcast about it.
Derek moved out a couple of months ago and we’ve been decompressing ever since.
The problem is rent.
Rent doesn’t care about our decompression. Rent is a fixed monthly event, and having an empty room means we’re splitting the bill five—four, technically—ways instead of six.
So. Roommate hunt.
We post the ad on a Thursday. By Friday we’ve got eleven responses.
Three were immediately disqualified because they used the word ‘fellowship’ to describe what they were looking for in a living situation—hard pass.
Two more because they just felt like narcs.
And one because Finn recognized him from a campus drama situation that he explained at length, and that I stopped following after the third plot twist.
We interview five people.
The first guy yaps about himself for forty minutes without asking a single question about the house.
The second one asks if we have a cleaning schedule in a way that suggests he will enforce it.
The third one is fine, totally fine, nothing wrong with him, and we all sit there after he leaves going “yeah, he’s fine”, but none of us want fine.
We want fits, and fine isn’t fits. The fourth one is Miles’ pick, and I’m pretty sure it’s because they share a dealer.
We spend ten minutes with this guy before Grant texts the group chat a single skull emoji.
The fifth one is called Reid.
He shows up on time, which already puts him ahead.
He’s maybe six-one, lean build, but definitely not a gym rat like most of us.
He has dark eyes, dark hair, and is wearing an all black outfit and leather jacket that is less bad boy, and more former high school loner.
He’s got some ink on his forearms, geometric stuff and rings mostly, and a resting bitch-face that would genuinely intimidate me if I wasn’t, at this point in my life, fairly desensitized to intimidating.
He sits down.
We do the thing—the vibe check questions, the logistics stuff, the “are you the kind of slob who leaves dishes in the sink” interview that Grant runs every time.
Reid answers everything straight up. No bullshitting or trying to sell himself.
He asks three questions back, all of them practical—parking, wifi speed, and if we’re cool with him smoking.
At some point, Walker asks what his major is.
“Pre-law,” Reid says. “Criminal justice.”
I feel my phone vibrate against my thigh. I don’t look at it because I’m busy sizing Reid up, but I’m 99% sure it says something like “ew, a narc.”
Reid ends up doing the thing that seals it, though. Grant’s bitching about the neighbors—the ongoing war with the guy two houses down who keeps parking in front of our mailbox—and Reid listens, and then at the end he says, completely dry: “Have you considered pissing in his gas tank?”
We all look at each other.
Grant starts laughing.
Reid moves in in a week.
* * *
The conversation about the doll situation happens the next day, because it has to.
We’re in the kitchen. Grant’s working the eggs while the rest of us hunt for caffeine.
“So,” Grant starts, not looking up from the pan. “The new guy.”
“Reid,” Miles mutters. He’s still pissed that we shot down his pick, I guess.
“Reid, right. We’re flying blind with him.”
“Pre-laws, man,” Walker says, leaning back. “They always have a massive stick shoved up their ass. I don’t trust them.”
“Pre-law guys are either rigid as hell or obsessed with bending the rules.” Finn shrugs. “Reid looks like he’d bury a body for the right price.”
Miles tilts his head, his eyes sliding over to me. “He spent a hell of a long time staring at Kit’s ass.”
“Did he now?” I perk up, leaning into the table. My brain immediately goes: new dick in the rotation, hell yeah. I wonder if he’s packing.
“Yeah, man. Dude was staring a hole through you.” Miles shoves his glasses up the bridge of his nose, making a weird face.
“Isn’t that just... what people do when they talk?” I ask, trying not to sound like I’m not having very pornographic thoughts.
“Not like that, it wasn’t.”
“Probably just counting the hickeys on your neck, bro,” Walker chimes in. He jabs a finger toward my throat with a smirk, acting as if he isn’t the one who marks his territory there like a fucking animal every single morning.
“Anyway,” Grant cuts in, pointing his spatula at me before I can snap back. “We bench the doll thing while he’s here. First week or two, we play it normal. We see how he settles. If he seems cool, we invite him to the party. If he’s giving off Derek, we stay discreet.”
“We are famously not discreet,” Finn notes.
Grant slides the eggs onto a plate, ignoring him, and props himself against the counter. “You good with that?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m good.”
He nods once.
The thing is—and I don’t say this out loud because the guys are already on edge—I’m not worried about Reid. The guys are stuck on logistics and disruption, wondering if the system we built can survive an unknown variable. That’s the smart play. That’s the right thing to think about.
But I watched Reid yesterday. I caught the way his eyes tracked the house during the tour. There was a specific weight to how he looked at things. So I think the question isn’t if he’ll figure out the arrangement, but when.
* * *
Reid moves in on a Saturday. He doesn’t carry much—mostly boxes, a high-end desk chair that Miles eyes the whole time it comes up the stairs, and a row of thick case-law books that he lines up on his shelf.
Grant and Walker handle the heavy lifting.
Grant does it because it’s his nature to help; Walker does it because he turns every box into a max-rep set.
Miles offers a nod from the hallway. Finn gives him the breakdown of the pantry: the snacks that are up for grabs, versus the “touch these and get your ass beat” ones.
Reid absorbs it all without a word, not trying to fill silence that doesn’t need filling. That’s the first thing I register about him up close—he’s comfortable in the quiet. Most people aren’t. Most people feel the need to bleed words into every gap. He just lets the silence sit.
He catches me with a heavy look while we’re shuffling furniture in our shared room. It lasts maybe two seconds, but it’s direct. Not checking me out, exactly. He looks at me the way you look at something you’re trying to figure out.
I look right back.
He moves on.
That night, the house settles into its new shape—six bros instead of five.
I lie in bed with my status set to Standby, the reality sinking in that the morning routine is trashed. Walker can’t exactly come over and hammer my ass with the new guy three feet away.
I glance over at Reid. He’s been out for an hour, kicked his sheets to the floor, twisted into a bizarre position, and is clutching his own peck for some reason.
He’s got a solid frame under those black clothes.
He isn’t all muscle, but he’s got more meat on his bones than Finn.
I’d put him just under me for mass, even though he’s pushing Miles’ height.
The guy’s got serious potential, but he looks like the type who only started hitting the rack freshman year.
It’s a classic move—college makes you feel small as hell, and you realize you gotta level up your build just to stay in the mix.
I wouldn’t peg him as a guy who obsesses over the aesthetic, though.
There’s more ink hiding under his shirt. The shadows eat the details, but I can see pieces on his chest, and earlier I caught glimpses of a line tracing his spine.
I squint through the dark, trying to catch the outline of his dick through his sweats, but I kill the thought before I cross into creep territory. I want to know if he’s packing a monster under there, but I can wait.
I pull up the app again and stare at the Standby mode, wondering if Reid will ever be the one using it. If I’ll ever wake up to his dick buried inside me.
I close the app.
Go to sleep.