The Jock Next Door #5
My fingers barely met my thumb around his girth, and the shaft felt like warm steel sheathed in velvet, harder and heavier than anything I'd imagined during all those lonely nights at my desk.
This was a real cock. In my real hand.
Not my own measly four- or five-inch dick. Not Cody Deffenbaugh’s in a pickup truck after graduation.
This dwarfed both of those. This was attached to the guy I’d been fantasizing about for months, and the surreal, dizzying thrill of that alone was almost enough to make me cum right there on my knees.
I hesitated. One more second of hovering on the edge between fantasy and reality, between the safe little world inside my notebooks and the terrifying, exhilarating world where I actually did the things I'd only drawn.
Then I leaned in and licked the tip.
The taste of his pre-cum hit my tongue—warm, salty, faintly sweet underneath—and I let it slide down my throat like melted frosting.
Then, I kissed the tip of his dick—slow and sensual.
“Mm,” Trey moaned softly, just loud enough that I could hear it.
I pulled back and licked my lips and grinned to myself, and in that small, private moment, everything I had ever wondered about myself was answered.
This was what I wanted. This was what I was built for.
The taste of a man on my tongue, the heat of his cock against my lips, the low rumble of Trey's moan vibrating through the air above me as my tongue grazed the sensitive underside of his swollen head.
That moan—deep, surprised, real—was gasoline on a fire.
I opened my mouth and took him in.
His cockhead filled me completely, the wide flare of the ridge pressing against the roof of my mouth, the smooth, hot skin gliding across my tongue.
I sucked—instinct more than technique, sloppy and eager and clumsy—and Trey groaned so loud the sound seemed to rattle the thin dorm walls.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Yeah, just like that."
I took more. Another inch. I tried two more. The shaft stretched my lips obscenely wide and I could feel the veins sliding across my tongue, each pulse a reminder of how alive and hard and present he was.
Spit pooled around my lips and dripped down his shaft and my chin, and the wet, obscene sounds of my mouth working him filled the tiny room like a confession.
“Yeah…” Trey moaned with a long sigh.
I wanted to deepthroat him. I'd drawn it—panel after panel of my own fantasy-self swallowing Trey to the hilt, nose pressed into his pubic hair, throat bulging around his length.
But the reality was merciless. Three inches in and my throat was not having it, a violent gag that made my eyes water and forced me to pull back, gasping.
"Easy," Trey laughed, his fingers sliding into my shaggy blonde hair and gripping gently. "Don't hurt yourself. I’ve got all night."
I went back in—slower this time, finding a rhythm, bobbing my head while my fist worked the inches my mouth couldn't reach. Meanwhile, I learned to slide my tongue out against the underside to cover a bit more ground.
Trey's hips rocked forward in shallow, patient thrusts, feeding me his cock an inch at a time, and every time I gagged he'd ease back with a grin and a murmured "there you go" that made me want to try harder, take more, prove that I was worth every filthy fantasy I'd written about us.
"Fuck," Trey groaned above me, his grip tightening in my hair. "All those stories you wrote about sucking my dick, and you actually back it up."
The praise made me harder—and hungrier.
"Suck my balls, bro," he groaned.
I pulled off his shaft with a wet gasp and dropped lower, pressing my mouth against his heavy sack.
I inhaled the scent of him and sucked one ball past my lips, feeling the dense, warm weight of it filling my mouth, the loose skin stretching over my tongue.
I thought about what was inside—all those virile sperm, churning and building, waiting to be emptied somewhere on me or, with any luck, inside me—and the thought made my own neglected dick throb so hard it hurt.
I reached into my boxers with my free hand and gripped myself, stroking in time with the rhythm of my mouth on Trey's balls, my other hand jerking his spit-slicked schlong in slow, twisting pumps.
The room was nothing but wet sounds and heavy breathing and the smell of him—musk and sweat and arousal—saturating every breath I took.
Then I felt Trey's thighs tense. His hand tightened in my hair.
"Hold on—ugh, fuck—hold on, bro. Don't make me bust yet," he groaned.
I let go and his balls slipped from my lips. I sat back on my heels, panting, my lips swollen and shining, a rope of spit still connecting my lower lip to the head of his cock.
Then Trey moved.
He grabbed me under the arms and lifted me—actually lifted me off my knees like I weighed nothing, two hundred and thirty pounds of muscle picking up a hundred and thirty-five pounds of twink like a rag doll—and threw me face-down onto my bed until I bounced atop it.
His hands found the waistband of my boxers and ripped them down my legs in one rough yank. The cool air hit my bare ass and I gasped, my skin prickling, my hole suddenly exposed and clenching against nothing.
Instinct took over. I arched my back and pushed my hips up, raising my ass into the air like an offering, my face pressed into the pillow, my cheeks spread just enough to show him everything.
Behind me, Trey let out a slow, reverent exhale.
"Fuck, bro," he said, his voice thick and almost awed. "You've got a girl's ass. Look at that perfect boypussy."
A whimper clawed its way out of my throat. I reached back between my legs and wrapped my fingers around my own dick—skinny, hard, aching—and started stroking, making sure Trey could see exactly what his words were doing to me.
Then I felt his hands on my cheeks. Big. Rough. Spreading me wide open.
And then his tongue.
It hit my taint first—a broad, flat, aggressive swipe that dragged upward through the valley between my cheeks and landed square on my asshole with a pressure that buckled my arms.
“Ugh…” I cried out into the pillow. Loud. Muffled. Completely uncontrolled.
Trey's tongue was as strong as the rest of him.
He didn't tease. He didn't ease into it.
He ate me with the same confident, ravenous hunger that defined everything about guys like him—his tongue pressing flat and hard against my hole, then curling, then pushing, the tip breaching the tight ring of muscle and shoving inside me like he was claiming territory.
I let go of my dick.
I needed both hands to brace myself as my body tried to buck and writhe away from the intensity of the sensation.
My fingers clawed at the sheets, my face buried in the pillow, my back arched so deep it ached.
“Fuck…agh…” The sounds coming out of me were sounds I'd never made before—broken, desperate, animal moans that vibrated through the cheap dorm mattress.
This was what I'd written about. What I'd drawn in shaky pencil lines late at night with one hand. And now it was real—the hot, wet, relentless assault of Trey Van der Meer's tongue shoving just inside my ass, opening me up, breaking me apart, turning every nerve ending in my body into a lit fuse.
He shoved deeper. I shuddered and cried out his name into the pillow as I felt the gentle ache of being pried open.
His hands gripped my cheeks hard enough to leave marks, spreading me wider, his face buried between them, and I could feel his stubble scraping the sensitive skin around my hole, could hear the wet, filthy sounds of his mouth devouring me, could feel every swirl and thrust of his tongue reaching places inside me that I didn't even know could feel pleasure.
The orgasm built from somewhere deep and sneaky—not in my dick, not in my balls, but in my core, radiating outward like a shockwave gathering speed.
I couldn't believe it. I was going to cum from his tongue, alone. Just his tongue. No hand on my dick. No friction. Just Trey's mouth eating my ass like he was starving for it.
I was too embarrassed to let myself cum from getting eaten-out. So, I cried out as best as I could, "Trey… ugh, fuck… I'm gonna cum. I can't—I'm going to…"
He pulled back. The sudden absence of his tongue left me gasping, clenching around nothing, my hole twitching and wet and desperate.
Then his palm spanked my ass. Hard. Sharp. The sting bloomed hot across my butt cheek in a pink blotch, and shot straight to my throbbing dick.
“No cumming until I do, bro,” Trey warned. “And I’m not done with you, yet.”
Trey's voice dropped into something low and serious—a tone I hadn't heard from him yet, stripped of the teasing and the bravado.
"You want to feel what you've been writing about?" he asked.
I nodded into the pillow.
My ass was still in the air, still wet from his mouth, still clenching and unclenching from the orgasm he'd just denied me.
I knew what was coming. I'd drawn it a hundred times. I'd written it in scene after scene, story after story, fantasy after fantasy—and now, the fantasy was standing behind me with eight inches of hard cock and a grin I could feel without seeing.
"Use lube," I said, reaching for the nightstand and fumbling the small bottle into his hand. "Please. You're way too big and I've never—I haven't done this before."
Trey took it without a word.
I heard the cap snap open, heard the wet squeeze of the bottle, and then felt his slick fingers press against my hole — not pushing, not yet, just rubbing the cool gel over the tight, swollen ring of muscle his tongue had already softened.
The contrast of the cold lube against my overheated skin made me hiss through my teeth.
Then he pushed a finger inside me.
The intrusion was slow, intent, and devastating. His finger was thicker than anything I'd ever had in there—thicker than my own, thicker than Cody Deffenbaugh’s—and I felt every inch as it sank deeper, stretching me open with a pressure that walked the razor line between pleasure and too much.