The Jock Next Door #4
I lunged for it, snatching the spiral off the desk and tossing it face-down onto my bed with a casualness that was about as convincing as a car fire.
"Sorry—it's, um—it’s messy in here. I wasn't expecting anyone," I stuttered.
Trey didn't seem to notice, or didn't seem to care.
He was looking around my room with the unhurried ease of a guy who had never once felt uncomfortable in any space he occupied. Hands on his hips, that grin still parked on his face, his big body making my dorm room feel smaller than it already was.
Then he sat on my bed. Right next to the spiral.
"So… what's this?" He picked it up before I could stop him.
"Don't—that's private—Trey, stop!" I begged. Suddenly, this was starting to feel less like a dream and more like a nightmare.
He was already thumbing through the pages. I grabbed for it and he leaned away, holding it out of reach with one long arm, flipping pages with the other, his grin widening with every drawing he passed.
"Relax," he said. "What's the big secret? I've already seen your other stuff."
I went cold. "What do you mean you've already —"
Trey reached behind his back, under the hem of his wife-beater, and pulled out a spiral notebook he’d been hiding from me. And not just any notebook.
My spiral notebook. The lost one. The one I'd torn my fucking room apart looking for, the one I'd convinced myself had vanished into the void.
He held it up, and my heart didn't sink—it cratered. It fell through the floor and kept going.
"You're really talented, by the way," Trey said, thumbing through the lost notebook now, tilting a page toward me—a full rendering of him naked, with his legs splayed wide and his cock as the focal point; erect, every vein painstakingly detailed.
"I mean, your drawing skills are legit. Especially this?" He tapped the page. "Is there a secret hole you drilled into our wall or something? Because it's kind of unreal how accurate you got my dick. Looks a lot like it."
My brain short-circuited on the word accurate.
"What?" I managed.
"My dick, bro." He said it like he was commenting on the weather. "You pretty much nailed it. The size, the sort of downward curve of it—even the way my balls hang. It's actually impressive."
The room tilted. Because what he was telling me—casually, with that infuriating grin—was that the cock I'd drawn, the eight-plus inches of thick, heavy, veined monster I'd convinced myself was a wild exaggeration, a fantasy I'd inflated for my own lonely pleasure—was real.
"I…I haven't been spying on you," I blurted, my voice cracking. "I swear. I just—I hear you. Through the wall. At night. Moaning and… I don’t have a hole or anything. I promise. Believe me, if I did, I… well, I don’t. I definitely don’t."
Trey raised an eyebrow. "So, you hear me having sex, huh?"
"I hear you moaning. I just—I assumed you were—you and some sorority girl or cheerleader girl or whatever…" I fumbled.
"How do you know it's girls?" Trey smiled.
The question landed like a grenade in the silence of my dorm room.
I stared at him. He stared back. That grin hadn't moved—it only grew wider and more satisfied.
"Wait—what?" I said slowly. "Is it... are you...?"
"Have you ever actually heard a girl moaning on the other side of your wall?" Trey asked, tilting his head, chuckling.
I hadn't.
I realized it all at once—every muffled sound I'd heard through that wall, every groan and gasp had always been low and masculine.
"You're… gay?" I whispered, like I was asking if he’d committed murder.
Trey laughed—a short, easy bark that filled the room.
"Nah. Not really. I fucking love pussy," he said, and shrugged those enormous shoulders.
"But sometimes boypussy is way easier to get than regular pussy.
Especially over the summer, when all the girls go home and the only ones left on campus are jocks like me, and well… and cute little nerds like you."
The phrase boypussy detonated somewhere behind my sternum and sent shrapnel into every nerve in my body.
My dick was hard in an instant—painfully, obviously, catastrophically hard, tenting the front of my thin boxers with a visibility that I could do absolutely nothing about.
Trey's eyes dropped to it. His grin sharpened.
"Oh, you like that, huh?" he said.
"I'm not—it's just—" I had nothing. No excuse.
No cover story. I was standing in front of the man I'd been drawing naked for months with a raging erection pointing at him through my boxers like a compass needle. And he knew I’d been drawing him.
He knew all the dirty things I wanted to do with another guy. With him.
Trey set both notebooks aside and leaned back on my bed, legs spread, those grey-brown eyes pinning me where I stood.
"So you've been fantasizing about me and my dick all year. Drawing these dirty little comics. Writing these filthy stories."
He wasn't angry.
He wasn't disgusted.
He looked delighted.
"I have to admit, some of those stories got me hard, bro. You’re pretty good at this stuff."
"Trey—please don't tell anyone about this. I'm begging you. If anyone found out —"
"Relax." He cut me off, his voice dropping into something lower, something that vibrated in my chest. “It’s not like I want the whole campus knowing I fuck twinks like you on the side. So, this’ll all be our secret, right?”
I was speechless. Meanwhile, Trey continued.
"You know… maybe it'd help your comics if you actually saw the real thing. Instead of guessing."
I blinked. "What?"
"A hands-on session. What do you artists call it? A life-drawing session or something?"
And just like that, Trey’s thumbs hooked into the waistband of his boxer-briefs, and he tugged—tortuously slow—pulling the elastic down just far enough to reveal a thick trail of dark hair and the faintest glimpse of the impossibly fat base of his shaft, right where it met his body.
My mouth went dry.
My knees went soft.
I could actually see a hint of his cock—almost exactly like I'd imagined and drawn it—disappearing into the grey cotton that still concealed the rest.
I hesitated.
A small, terrified voice in the back of my head screamed that this was a trap—that the jock was baiting me, that the second I took it seriously he'd laugh in my face and tell the whole campus what a pathetic little gay boy lived in the room next to his.
But his bulge was bigger than it had been when he walked in. Visibly bigger.
It was straining against the cotton. And his breathing had changed—slower, deeper, his massive chest rising and falling with a heaviness that didn't match his easy grin.
Trey wasn't fucking with me. Trey was getting turned on. He was getting hard.
“Well? You going to come over here and get a taste of the real thing, or not?” Trey grinned.
I'd spent an entire year writing about this moment. Drawing it. Dreaming about it. Getting myself off to the fantasy of it a hundred times over.
I didn't say a word. I just dropped to my knees and everything happened at once.
The elastic cleared his hips, and his cock swung free—long, thick, and heavy—bouncing once against his thigh before settling into a rigid, slightly downward-curving arc that pointed directly at my face.
His balls spilled out after it, big and round and low-hanging, settling between his massive thighs in a heavy, fleshy sack dusted with dark hair.
“Shit…” I moaned. I didn't mean to. It came out of me soft and helpless and completely involuntary, like the sound had been trapped behind my ribs for months and the sight of Trey's cock had finally knocked it loose.
Because it was real. It was finally fucking real. Every inch of it. Every fantasy I'd sketched at my desk in the dark, every exaggerated detail I'd told myself was wishful thinking—it was all right there, inches from my face, and if anything, I'd undersold it.
It really was seven or eight inches long. Easily. Maybe more.
The shaft was a pale pink—darker than the rest of his skin, flushed with blood and heat—and threaded with fat, powerful veins that climbed the underside like cables beneath silk.
The head was enormous—a wide, flared dome of pale pink with a sculpted ridge that spread from the shaft like it had been designed to ruin someone.
Designed so that whoever took it inside would feel every inch of it—and come away changed.
The slit at the tip glistened with a bead of pre-cum that caught the light from my desk lamp and hung there, trembling, before stretching into a thin, clear thread that dripped lazily toward the floor.
It was the most beautiful cock I had ever seen.
And the most terrifying.
And the most suckable.
That fat, pink head looked like it was begging to be wrapped in a pair of lips, like a lollipop made of flesh.
I looked up at Trey. He looked right back down at me, those grey-brown eyes glinting, that grin still firmly in place.
"What do you think?" he said. "You inspired yet?"
I nodded. Dumb. Happy. My mouth hanging slightly open like an idiot, my eyes drifting back down to his shaft because I physically could not keep them on his face.
A part of me still whispered that this was a trap—that any second now he'd yank his underwear back up and laugh and tell me I was a gullible ‘little homo’ who'd fallen for the oldest trick in the book.
Then Trey wrapped his fist around his shaft and stroked himself—two slow, lazy pumps that made the veins swell and the head darken a shade—and let go.
His cock swung forward and slapped against my cheek. Heavy. Hot. The wet smear of pre-cum on my skin was like a brand.
"Go on, bro," Trey said. "Suck it."
I wrapped my hand around him. I wasted no time. For the first time in my life, I acted before I could overthink it.
The heat was the first thing—radiating through my palm like I was gripping something alive. Then the throb, deep and steady, Trey's heartbeat pulsing against my fingers with every surge of blood. And the thickness. Fuck, the thickness.