The Jock Next Door #7
My own, full-body orgasm continued, a fresh aftershock triggered by the feeling of his cum filling me, and we shared it—both of us moaning and panting and shaking on my narrow dorm bed, his cock pulsing weakly inside me, as I swore, I could feel the newly-formed ocean of his cum somewhere deep inside me.
We didn't move for a long time.
Trey stayed inside me—softening slowly, his chest heaving against my back, his forehead resting in the damp curve of my neck. I could still feel him pulsing in faint, fading throbs, and I clenched around him gently, not ready to let go.
We lay there tangled together, his huge body curled around mine in the narrow bed, spooning in a way that felt less like a cheap hookup and more like something caring and secure.
The room smelled like sweat and lube and cum and us, and through the thin wall I could hear the hum of an empty hallway, the quiet that only existed on a college campus in the dead of summer.
My spiral notebook was on the floor where it had fallen during the act, pages fanned open to a drawing of exactly this—Trey's body wrapped around mine, his cock deep inside me, my face twisted in ecstasy.
Trey shifted behind me, his lips brushing my ear. "I guess you’ll have plenty of material for your new comics, now."
I turned my head, still dazed, still leaking his cum. "You don’t mind?"
"Nah." He said it simply, like it was obvious. "Besides, I need a nice boypussy to keep my balls empty during football season so I can concentrate on the field." His hand squeezed my hip, possessive, certain. "And you've got the best one I've ever had."
Trey grinned and added, “So it’s a deal? I let you keep up these comics, and you give me that ass on the regular.”
I then felt as he pulled out slowly—the wet slide of his softening cock leaving my body drew a shudder from both of us, and I felt the warm trickle of his cum seeping from my stretched, aching hole and running down the inside of my thigh.
Trey stood up, grabbed a towel from the back of my chair, and cleaned himself off with the casual efficiency of a guy who had somewhere else to be.
He pulled his boxer-briefs back up, tugged his wife-beater down over his chest, and headed for the door.
But he paused with his hand on the knob and looked back at me—wrecked, naked, lying in a pool of our combined mess on a twin mattress in my tiny dorm room that now smelled of cologne, cum and sex.
That million-dollar grin. One last time.
"Anytime I knock," Trey said, "have that ass ready for me."
With a wink, he was gone. The door clicked shut, and I was alone.
I lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, feeling the slow pulse of Trey's cum inside me and leaking onto the sheets.
My asshole throbbed—sore, stretched, used to the point that I wasn’t sure if I could even walk right—and every heartbeat sent a dull, satisfying ache radiating through my core that reminded me of what had just happened.
Now, not only did I have my comics and my stories, but the real thing was right next door. And all I had to do was answer the door when “inspiration” came knocking!
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