3 #2
Tommy looked up at me with those enormous blue eyes—not surprised, not scared. Delighted. Like a chess player watching the final piece move exactly where he'd planned.
"The deal," I said. My voice was thick and my cock was so hard it was visible through the thin practice shorts, straining against the fabric like it was trying to escape. "You do my homework. You help me pass. And you?—"
"I get to suck your cock?" Tommy finished, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes dropped to my shorts, and I watched his pupils blow wide. "You sit back, whip it out and let me make you feel good?"
How could I resist that kind of a sales pitch?
Still, I stared at him for one more second—one final, flickering moment where the version of myself I'd spent twenty years constructing tried to reassemble itself and failed—and sat down on the edge of my bed, shaking my head with disbelief that I was actually going to do this.
Whether Tommy had made up the phone call—whether the whole thing had been a performance calibrated to push me past the breaking point—I didn't know. He was smart enough to pull it off.
Devious enough? I didn’t know. But he was a genius who could hack exam databases and solve physics problems in his sleep.
Either way, I didn't care.
I was done thinking with the head on my shoulders and ready to let the one between my legs take over. I was ready to drain my balls, even if it meant doing it into another guy; a cute, nerdy twink with a grin like he'd just won the long game.
Which, I was beginning to suspect, he had.
“Fuck you,” I said, still shaking my head and almost grinning from respect.
“We don’t have to do it. I’m not forcing you,” Tommy grinned.
“No shit,” I said. “Get over here and get ready to suck.”
I stood up and hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my shorts.
This was it. The line. The actual, physical, no-going-back line between thinking about it and doing it, and I was standing on the edge of it in a twelve-by-fourteen dorm room with a hard-on that could've been registered as a weapon and a five-three physics major kneeling on the floor in front of me,
grinning like he'd just won the fucking lottery.
I took a deep breath and pulled my shorts down slowly. Not to tease—because my hands were shaking and I needed the extra seconds to convince my brain that what my body was about to do wasn't going to destroy my identity.
Showing my dick to another guy was one thing.
Showing it while it was already rock-hard—thick, heavy, straining upward with a visibility that left zero room for ambiguity—was another.
And showing it to a guy who was on his knees, licking his pouty lips with the focused, glistening anticipation of someone who intended to suck me dry, was a category of experience I had no words for.
Tommy watched. Those blue eyes tracked the waistband's descent the way a cat tracks a bird—patient, locked, hungry.
The shorts hit my upper thighs, and everything spilled out.
My cock swung free—nearly nine inches of thick, heavy, flushed shaft bouncing about with its downward curve, before settling into its full, rigid form. Below it, my balls hung low and heavy in a loose pink sack, swaying with the motion, full and warm and aching with days of unspent need.
Tommy's reaction was immediate, unfiltered, and so gratifying it almost made the entire crisis of sexuality worth it.
"Holy shit," he breathed. His eyes went wide—actually, physically wide, the blue irises shrinking as his pupils blew open. "Are you kidding me?" He shook his head, slow, disbelieving, that grin stretching until his cheeks dimpled. "Your dick is… it’s fucking massive. It’s gorgeous. I love it…"
Then—as casually as reaching for a glass of water—he wrapped his hand around my shaft as if he’d already owned it.
The heat of his palm hit me like a circuit closing.
His fingers were slim and warm and just faintly met around the girth, and when he stroked—one slow, firm pull from base to tip—a moan slipped out of me before I could catch it.
“Fuck…”
I hated myself for the sound. Hated that I was standing here, the best tight end in the conference, getting jerked off by a freshman boy and moaning about it like some desperate guy getting touched for the first time.
I looked up at the ceiling, trying to disconnect—to pretend the hand on my cock belonged to anyone else, to reframe this as what it was: a transaction. A service. A slutty twink fulfilling his purpose.
That's all this is, I told myself. He's on his knees because that's where he belongs. I'm the alpha here. He's serving me.
But I could feel Tommy's breath on the head of my cock—warm, close, deliberate—and the knowledge that his mouth was right there, inches away, his lips parted and ready, made the pretense feel as thin as the practice shorts bunched around my thighs.
And then Tommy's tongue touched the slit.
One lick. Light. Precise. The tip of his tongue dragging across the slit and collecting the bead of pre-cum that had been sitting there, and the sensation—electric, wet, impossibly delicate—made my whole body shudder.
My hips rocked forward involuntarily, chasing the contact, and I heard Tommy hum with satisfaction.
Then his lips closed over the head, and every lie I'd ever told myself about what I wanted dissolved like sugar in hot water.
His mouth was—fuck. I don't have the vocabulary for what his mouth was.
I'd gotten blowjobs before—plenty of them. From girls who were enthusiastic, girls who were talented, girls who treated it like an audition for a role they desperately wanted. None of them—not one—had felt like this.