The Jock Next Door #3
I'd just finished my last summer class and had a few dead hours to kill before a meeting with Dean Keller of the English department, so I did something I never did—I took my notebook out of my dorm.
The risk made my stomach clench, but the top floor of the library was practically abandoned during summer session, and I figured if I tucked myself deep enough into one of the empty stacks, I could write and draw in peace.
Maybe even indulge a little further than that, if the coast was clear enough.
And the coast was clear. The empty library alone was enough to make me hard, because my body already knew what was coming: something dirty, risky, and more exciting than anything I’d ever done before.
I found a dead-end aisle in the far corner of the fifth floor—oversized reference volumes on maritime history that nobody had touched since probably before I was born—and sat cross-legged on the carpet with my notebook open, my pencil moving, and a story taking shape about two guys fucking in a library aisle.
About me and Trey fucking in a library aisle.
The writing got filthy fast, and so did my hand, which migrated from the page to the front of my shorts with an urgency that wiped out whatever remained of my common sense.
I tugged my shorts down and pulled myself out, moving onto my knees before I could think better of it. Then I gripped my skinny, stiff dick and started jerking hard, hips thrusting forward into my fist.
It felt wrong. Filthy. Taboo.
The cool air-conditioned air of the library brushed over my dick and balls, and I loved it almost as much as I was terrified of it. My heart was hammering. My legs felt unsteady. I kept thinking there might be a security camera watching me, but I didn’t check. I didn’t have the nerve.
The possibility alone was enough.
It made me wilder. Hornier. Like the sketches and stories had finally pushed me past the edge of fantasy and into something real—something lewd and reckless and completely unhinged. I was jerking off in public, tucked away in a dead-end aisle where anyone could have found me.
It was the hottest thing I’d done since I started drawing. Maybe that was why it only took a minute before the familiar tension coiled tight in my core.
I came hard. Biting down on the collar of my T-shirt to keep quiet, I arched back against the metal shelving, legs trembling as the orgasm tore through me with a ferocity that left me dizzy and stupid and buzzing with deranged pride. I felt every jolt as cum blasted out of me.
And there, on the dark beige carpet beneath me, pearly splatters shone under the fluorescent lights.
I’d gotten away with it.
That deranged pride was the problem.
Because I floated through the rest of the afternoon in a post-orgasm haze—the dean's meeting, the walk to the shuttle stop, the bus ride home—my brain still wrapped in cotton, my body still loose and dumb and satisfied.
It’s the only reason I didn't notice Trey behind me on the bus.
And I didn't notice the side pocket of my laptop bag was unzipped.
And I didn't notice the spiral notebook—every drawing, every story, every filthy fantasy rendered in loving detail with Trey's face and tattoos and the name Trey written on page after page—slide out of my bag and land on the vinyl seat as I stood up and walked off.
I didn't realize it was gone until late that night.
The panic was instantaneous.
I tore my room apart—every drawer, every shelf, under the bed, behind the desk.
Nothing.
I retraced my steps across campus in the dark, my heart slamming, checking benches and sidewalks and the lost-and-found bin in the student center.
I climbed back to the fifth floor of the library and paced the maritime history aisle three times, finding nothing but the faint, damning stain on the carpet that made my stomach turn now that the horniness had been replaced by dread.
The notebook was gone.
I spent the next three days in a slow, grinding spiral. I barely ate. I barely slept.
I told myself, over and over, that nobody could connect the drawings to real people—all anyone would find was a collection of dirty comics starring two guys named Riley and Trey. Big deal.
Common enough names. No last names. No dorm numbers. Unless someone knew me personally and knew Trey, the connection was invisible.
It helped. A little.
What actually hurt worse than the fear was the loss itself—months of work, months of fantasies I'd poured myself into, gone.
Then, on the third night, lying in the dark with my anxiety circling the drain, my brain did something unexpected.
It served up an image: one of the jocks I always stared at in the dining hall finding the notebook.
Flipping through it. His expression shifting from confusion to recognition to something darker—not disgust, but arousal.
His hand drifted under the table as he turned the pages, massaging his dick through his shorts.
The thought hit me like a fist. I was rock-hard in seconds.
I shoved my boxers down and grabbed myself and stroked with a desperate, feverish intensity that caught me off guard—three days of pent-up tension unloading all at once.
When I came, it was violent. Thick ropes of cum arced across the tile floor in front of my bed, more than I'd shot in months, pooling in the lamplight like evidence of my own perversion.
I lay there afterward, breathing hard, staring at the mess, and I felt something I hadn't felt in days—calm.
Yeah, the notebook was gone. But the odds of it landing in the hands of someone who could connect it to me were almost zero.
I was being paranoid. It was time to move on.
I cleaned the floor, turned off the lamp, and fell asleep for the first time in three nights.
Everything was going to be fine, I told myself again and again, actually believing it for the first time in a while.
But three nights later, I had a knock on my door—and my heart stopped.
It was past midnight. The hallway had been dead quiet for hours—summer session meant the dorms were practically empty, and the few guys still living on my floor kept to themselves.
Anyone I even loosely considered a friend had gone home for the summer. Nobody knocked on my door. Ever.
I muted my laptop and sat frozen on the edge of my bed, staring at the door like it had just spoken to me.
The knock came again.
Three firm raps, unhurried, confident—the knock of someone who had absolutely no doubt they'd be let in.
I crept to the peephole and pressed my eye to it.
I think every cell in my body froze in that moment.
Trey Van der Meer filled the hallway like a wall of muscle.
He was wearing a tight, ribbed wife-beater that clung to the thick slabs of his chest and shoulders, and a pair of heather-grey boxer-briefs that hugged his massive thighs and left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
Even through the tiny, distorted fish-eye lens of the peephole, I could see it: the heavy, undeniable bulge packed between his legs, pressing against the thin cotton like it was stretching the fabric around it.
I stopped breathing. I actually stopped breathing.
Trey had never looked at me. Not once. Not in the hallway, not on the quad, not in the dining hall. I was furniture to him—background noise, a door he walked past on the way to his own life.
And now he was standing outside my room at midnight in his underwear?
This couldn’t be real.
"Come on, Riley," he said through the door. His voice was low and easy, almost playful. "Open up. I know you're in there."
And he knew my name?
I stood there with my eye glued to the peephole, my pulse so loud I was sure he could hear it through the wood. I was convinced I was dreaming—that I'd fallen asleep at my desk again and my subconscious was serving up another fantasy for me to jerk off to and feel guilty about in the morning.
But the knock came a third time, and it didn't feel like a dream.
I took as deep a breath as I could gather, and tried to compose myself as I opened the door.
The peephole had not done him justice.
Up close, Trey was staggering—six-foot-three, two-thirty, every inch of him thick and carved and covered in dark hair that trailed from his chest down the center of his abs and disappeared into the waistband of those utterly-too-small-and-too-tight boxer-briefs.
The anchor tattoo on his left pec. The naval compass stretching across his ribs.
Those steel-grey eyes with flecks of warm brown, looking right at me with a sharpness that made my knees feel unreliable.
My gaze dropped before I could stop it.
Down his chest. Down his stomach. Down to the bulge.
Massive. Undeniable. The thick outline of his cock pressed clearly against the heather-gray cotton, angled left and heavy enough to pull the fabric taut.
I swore I could see the shape of the head through the thin material. But I figured it had to be an illusion.
There was no way he was actually that big. Right?
I stared a full second too long before I hauled my eyes back up to his face.
Trey grinned. Wide. Devastating.
"I can't believe I've lived next door to you all year and we haven't even talked," he said, leaning one massive arm against the doorframe. "I'm Trey."
"I know," I said, and immediately wanted to die.
"Can I come in for a second? Got a favor I want to ask you."
My heart was trying to escape through my throat.
I stepped aside and waved him in because saying no to Trey Van der Meer in his underwear was not something my body was physically capable of doing.
As he squeezed past me—close enough for me to smell him, warm skin and deodorant and something woodsy underneath—I caught sight of my desk.
The drawing. The drawing was open on my desk.
It was one of the worst ones, yet. Or the best ones, depending on who was looking—a full-page spread of Trey with his enormous cock buried to the hilt in my ass while I clawed at the sheets beneath me, my mouth open in a silent scream.
I'd spent an hour on the shading alone before I couldn’t help but jerk-off to it.