Chapter 3
North stares.
For a long moment, he just stares at my dick, then at my face, then back at my dick.
“Holy shit, Gav,” he breathes. “You’ve been walking around with a fire hose in your pants, and you’ve never told me? You never bragged about it? Nobody fucking knew. The FBI’s gonna want to talk to you. That’s a concealed weapon.”
“It’s not that big.”
“Not that big? Bro, I feel inadequate.”
“What? You have a great dick. You have, like, a perfect dick.” I’m instantly embarrassed I said it out loud. Am I really sitting here complimenting my best friend’s penis? But it’s true. His is sculpted, aesthetic, perfectly proportioned with a slight upward curve. Mine is just big.
“You think so?” He grins, puffing up his chest a little. “Yeah, it’s a good one. I’m not gonna lie. But I’m six-five. Not to be rude, but you’re, like... what? Five-nine? You’re carrying two-thirds of your body weight in your cock. How are you even standing upright?”
“Jesus, North. Talk about hyperbole.”
“I’m not exaggerating. You have a goldmine between your legs. And you’ve been hiding it under those sad grandpa briefs? You know if you went freeballing in sweatpants, you could rule this campus, right? You’d be drowning in pussy. Drowning. You could do porn.”
“I don’t want to do porn.” I instinctively try to cover myself with my hands. This is too much. Too much attention on a part of my body I usually try to forget about.
He bats my hands away. “Don’t you dare hide that beast. Grab it. Be proud of it. Let’s see it in action.”
His own erection hasn’t flagged one bit. If anything, it looks harder. The head is a deep, angry purple. The sight of it does something to me. Something confusing and alarming.
“I’m not having a race with you,” I mutter, but my fingers wrap around my own shaft. “Not everything is a competition.”
“Everything’s a competition,” he says, spitting into his palm. “And you, my friend, are about to find out you could have been playing on easy mode your whole life.”
He starts stroking himself in earnest now. Long, slow pulls, twisting at the head. He watches the screen, where the pizza guy is now on the kitchen floor, baseball cap still on, and the woman is riding him like a mechanical bull. But every few seconds, his eyes flick back to me. To my dick.
I start moving my own hand. It’s awkward.
I’m too in my head. The room feels too bright.
The fake moans are too grating. But the friction is real.
The heat building in my groin is real. My hand glides easier with each pass as I leak onto myself.
I glance at North. His arm is moving faster, his bicep flexing.
He has so much strength. His thighs are thick and powerful where they sprawl across the bed.
I can see the outline of his abs through the thin fabric of his shirt.
It’s such a different body from the one I see in the mirror every day.
Mine is lean. Stringy. His is built for impact.
Built to stand tall in the pocket with three-hundred-pound linemen charging at him.
My eyes follow the trail of dark hair that starts below his navel and disappears beneath his fist. His knuckles are white where he grips himself. He’s breathing harder now, little huffs of air that sync with the rhythm of his strokes. I match him, unintentionally. The same pace. The same crescendo.
He catches me looking. Grins, all teeth. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Doing this together.”
I can’t argue with that. It does feel good.
But the ‘together’ part is what’s messing me up.
Because it feels good in a way it probably shouldn’t.
The heat from his thigh searing into mine.
Our shared breathing. The scent of his deodorant, sweat, and arousal, all mingling.
The sight of him, so unguarded, so lost in his own pleasure.
I’m getting closer, faster than I ever have on my own, and it’s not the woman on the screen pushing me there. It’s the man beside me.
No, that’s not right. It can’t be. It’s just the situation.
The adrenaline. The shock of it all. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to think of Staci.
Staci’s ass, as North so eloquently put it.
Staci’s tits. Staci’s... whatever. But the image won’t stick.
It keeps dissolving into a blur of dark hair and a white-toothed grin.
A deep, husky voice saying, “Come on, buddy.” Hard pecs. A pulsing vein.
I open my eyes and catch North looking at my dick again.
His jaw is tight. There’s a bead of sweat running down his temple.
He’s not looking at the TV at all. His gaze is fixed on me, on my hand moving up and down my length.
The look he gets on the football field. The same look he gets when we’re playing Mario Kart and he’s about to pass me. He’s trying to win.
“Fuck, Gav,” he groans. “I’m close.”
Hearing my name from his lips, in that moment, is a lit match thrown on gasoline.
My hips jerk up off the bed. My balls tighten.
A surge of pressure rips up my spine. There’s no stopping it.
I give in, gasping, and the first rope of cum stripes across my stomach, warm and sticky.
Another follows, then another. It keeps coming, flying in all directions, coating my fist, my chest, the bedsheets.
My own goddamn chin. I feel the wetness drip onto my neck.
Holy shit. I didn’t know I had that much in me.
I collapse back against the headboard, panting, my ears ringing.
Through the haze, I hear North’s sharp intake of breath.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he says, and then he’s coming too, a guttural groan torn from his chest. I watch, my eyes heavy-lidded, as his cock pulses in his fist, thick white streams of it striping his stomach and the blue fabric of his T-shirt.
His whole body shudders with the force of it.
He keeps pumping, milking every last drop, then slumps back with a satisfied sigh.
The scene on the TV reaches its climax as the pizza guy delivers a final topping. Cum dribbles down the girl’s face, with globs of it clinging to her fake eyelashes. Then the screen goes dark.
Now our breathing is the only sound. Two sets of ragged breaths.
Shaky inhales and exhales. The smell is potent—salt and musk.
I look down at the mess on my chest. My jeans are tangled around my ankles.
My dick is starting to soften against my thigh, a smear of cum on the tip.
North is in a similar state. His softening cock lies in a puddle of wetness.
There’s a dark spot on the front of his shirt.
What do you say after something like this? ‘Nice race?’ ‘Good game?’ My usual social awkwardness feels like it’s been amplified by a thousand.
Fortunately, North isn’t socially awkward.
He grabs the hem of his shirt, pulls it over his head, and uses it to wipe the cum off his stomach.
He balls it up and tosses it somewhere between all the boxes.
“Well,” he says, his voice a little raspy.
“I guess you win this round, Marsh. By a fucking landslide.”
My brain is still buffering. The sight of his bare chest makes it worse. He’s all smooth skin and hard muscle. A light dusting of dark hair between his pecs, trailing down his abs. The V-lines that cut into his hips. Why am I noticing this? Why do I feel a renewed, faint twitch in my spent cock?
“I, uh…” I start, but I have no idea how to finish.
“Here.” He swings his legs off the bed, completely unconcerned about his nakedness.
He’s soft now, but still impressive, a heavy club swinging between his thighs.
He opens a box on the floor labeled BATHROOM, pulls out a roll of paper towels, tears off a long strip, and tosses it to me. “Clean yourself up, you mess.”
And while I wipe myself down, the rough paper scraping against my skin, I watch him. He moves to the small window and pushes it open to let some air in. The afternoon breeze stirs the blinds. Sunlight cuts across his back, catching the ridges of muscle along his shoulders.
It’s like looking at a familiar painting in a new light.
I don’t like this. This feeling. This unsettling fizz in my stomach. I prefer my world neatly alphabetized on a shelf. Predictable. Safe.
But I’m rooming with North now.
And my world just got a whole lot messier.