I work my dick until it’s fat and long and fucking hard as hell, until my balls are swollen up, needing to blow. I’ve always been a bigger guy. Even in peewee football, when we’d shower and stuff, I was bigger than the other kids. Until DG, I’ve never seen another guy as big as me. Like this thing is a ball bat and my balls are damn balloons. Well, his are too.

  I hold my balls for a while, letting my dick ache like it deserves. I could probably come without touching the thing. Coming off those meds has taken my dick back to seventh grade; today I got a semi from pissing—in the school bathroom.

  I start to bounce my palm under my balls, breathing deeper as that makes my junk vibrate with good feels. Then I grip the base of my cock and squeeze as I watch DG. He’s so big and tall and solid that it’s sort of funny how young he looks curled up in his bed.

  He shifts onto his side, and I swear I can see a bulge in his boxer briefs. I think of pulling those briefs down, running my fingers down his crack, parting his cheeks and feeling for his little soft, tight, puckered hole. I’m sure no one’s ever sought it out. He doesn’t seem like the type to push things into himself—although of course, I could be wrong. I’m gonna bet he’s never taken one of his big fingers, never felt the jolt of being filled with something. The need to move around that thing, to clench and shift, as your balls harden and your dick juts and—

  Oh God. I shut my eyes and let go of my cock before I come too fast. My heart rate slows and my dick aches as I remember Miller up against me, warm and sweaty, panting as I work him.

  If I played with his hole, I’d give him two fingers, not one. I’d get them both lubed good and push them in and draw right out, and get more lube. I’d do that a few times, try to fill him up. Then, when he’s ready, I would give him three fingers. I’d stretch him out and push in deep. I’d push in deep enough to find his prostate. When I did, I bet he’d really start to fucking leak—all over the place.

  I’m gripping my cockhead as DG’s hand goes to his dick and covers it.

  Oh Jesus.

  I imagine that I'm pumping his cock, hearing his hoarse, throaty noises. I imagine that he’s full of lube, his freckled cheeks all red from being fingered till his cock is aching. Till his balls are sensitive and sore. I imagine that he’s got his ass up in the air for me, and I’m rubbing some lube onto my cock. I’d rub my dickhead all around his hole. I’d kinda press down so he felt the pressure, so he’d start to want it more.

  I’d make him beg.

  And when he did, that’s how I’d know that he was ready. He’d be wanting me to push it into him and rub around, and push in more until his prostate got kissed by my cockhead. He’d be sagging on his shaking arms. Maybe he would rub his cock against the duvet. He would want it. He would want it.

  Oh, Christ.

  I catch the cum in my boxers, moaning as I step into the bathroom and just stand there for a second. Feeling deviant. Oh God, I am such a deviant fuck.

  I clean up and stuff my cum-drenched boxers down into the hamper I share with him. I’ll have to do a load of laundry—only mine—tomorrow. As I’m hiding the evidence of my perversion, I come across a white T-shirt with “Miller” written on the tag in Sharpie. I bring it to my nose and inhale.

  So good. I stuff the thing under my arm as I clean myself up. Then I grab a roll of TP, turn on the lamp in my room, and sink into the armchair. I give his shirt another sniff then stuff it in between the chair’s back and its cushion. I tuck the football pillow in the crook of my arm and my eyelids drop shut. I touch my balls again, give them a few tugs. It feels okay. I can smell him, still—the kind of shampoo he uses.

  Miller's dick. My hand around it. And I'm getting hard again.

  I move onto the bed. I know I shouldn't—almost always, getting horizontal is something I really regret—but I want to get under the covers and jerk off one more time. It's been so long. I'm surprised by how my whole body feels good when it happens.

  I fall asleep holding a wad of toilet paper, and I wake to Miller's face, his wide eyes inches from mine. His hands are on my shoulders like they always seem to be.

  He looks concerned. "Are you okay?"

  I wipe my eyes. "Only if you've got one of your gay boy boners for me."

  I hate how shaky my voice sounds. But I love what his face does in response to my words. I chuckle. "Ohhh, you've got one. Sit back on your knees and let me see it."

  He doesn't move, which means he's still partway on top of me. I cup his jaw with my hand.

  "Miller, Miller." My other hand is roving down the front of him. His chest is bare and warm and ridged with heavy muscle. I want to kiss his throat, reach lower till my hand is petting that dark line of hair that leads into his boxer briefs. I can't kiss him, so I reach down and find the waistline of his briefs.

  "I didn't know you gays were like this,” I say. “Boners all the time, for everything. If I reach lower, will I feel you poking through these briefs? Does that dick want a mouth?"

  "Stop it," he grits, but he doesn't move as I walk two fingers slowly—slow enough to give him time to move—toward the bulge in his briefs.

  "Seems like you're always hard when you're around me. What do you do in physics?"

  "I'm not," he says, but it's a soft whine.

  I close my hand over him, cupping the tip of his thick shaft.

  "Is it just at nighttime?" I rasp. "You get hard and it won't go down?"

  "It's because I'm waking up,” he manages. “Because of you."

  "How do you get back to sleep? Do you have to come first?"

  I move my hand down lower, so I'm cupping his balls.

  "Yours are pretty full, DG. You've got a nice, big dick for some dick sucker to suck in his mouth."

  I'm surprised when his hand moves mine off his bulge. "Stop saying shit like that.”

  "So I can feel you up and you’re all good...as long as I don't say dick sucker?"

  I grab him again, giving him a slow stroke through the cotton of his briefs.

  "I've never seen another guy come. I want to see you jizz your pants again. It's like a game for me. This thing," I say as I pump it, "is so obvious. With girls, they just get puffed up and a little wet. And they start humping on you. Sometimes that's the only way you can tell. Well, that and their nipples."

  I find Miller’s nipple, give it a pinch. Then I lean down to bite it, and he moans. I feel him shudder, and he moves off me. Fuck—I think he’s leaving, but instead he drops back down to lie on my bed. He curls over on his side, facing away from me.

  Game on, bb.

  "I bet your freckles are going red and those big, cum-swollen balls are aching. I bet what you really want is someone sucking on your dickhead. Is it Arnie you want?"

  I scoot closer to his back, so my pecs brush against it. My dick throbs as I reach around to pinch his nipple. "If you want me to stop, you have to say so. Turns out, I like fucking with you."

  I squeeze that thicc ass, expecting him to move away, but he just starts to breathe harder.

  "Why are you doing this?"

  "I told you—I like to see you squirm. I want to push something into your hole and see if it hurts or it feels good. I want to suck on your balls till you go crazy and come without even meaning to.” I stroke my fingertip around his nipple. “If I had a finger in your hole, I bet you would still come. All the gay boys like their holes stretched by a big dick. Unless you're a top. Are you a top, Millsy?"

  I reach into his briefs and stroke two fingers down his crack. His torso is pumping with his fast breaths. I feel chills pebble his warm skin. I know if I reach around his hips, I'll feel a big, warm boner.

  "How full are those briefs now?" I'm whispering near his ear. I stroke his hip. "Roll over on your back for me, and I'll touch it for you. I bet you're a virgin, aren't you?"

  "Are you queer?" he whispers as he does what I ask.

  I move between his muscular legs, spreading them open for me. I look up at his face as I gather his long, hard cock and his big balls in both of my hands.

  "Hell no. I'm with Cara, and I love to eat her pussy. This with you is just a game. You're such a good boy, Miller. If anything," I tell him as I pull his briefs down, freeing his erection, "I want to fuck you up. I want to see you twist around and hear you grunt like an animal. I want to make you come so I can rub my finger in it, and I’ll push my finger into you. And see how you like that."

  He's panting as he looks up at me with heavy eyelids. He grabs his own cock as I rub my palm over his warm, hair-dusted quads. I can tell by his face that he's nervous, but he's too dazed to say so.

  "There are things that I could give you. That would make you more sensitive, or make you hold your load for longer. I could get you high and put my fingers in you. Just to see how dirty you are. But first I'm gonna suck you off. Not because I like you. It's because you keep on coming in here, seeing me cry. I want to hear you moan and feel you shake. I want to squeeze your balls until you almost can't come" —I do that now, lifting them up off his briefs, which I’ve got tucked behind them— "but I'll make you.

  “If you're gonna come in every night and see me crying like a little pussy, I can turn you into nothing but a pussy for me. I'll make your hole drip with your cum. You can run around with all the guys at soccer, but at night you're nothing but a hot, tight hole that wants to be stuffed full of my dick. Isn't that right?"

  I bend down and lick behind his balls. The reward is instant. Miller bucks off the bed. I run my tongue over his hole, and he groans, drawing his knees up. I lick my way up his fat sac and trace the tip of my tongue up along his shaft.

  I'm so fucking hard inside my boxers—as hard as he is—and my tongue aches from the strain of licking up him. Then I get to his rim, to that little soft spot on the underside of his cockhead, and when I lick it, he moans damn loud and his knees squeeze around my shoulders.

  “Fuck,” he grunts.

  I lick again there, and his body shudders. Then I wrap my hand around his shaft and brush my lips over the tip of his head. Jesus, he’s slick—and I’m gonna come if I don’t watch out. I lap the precum off him, squeezing his balls a little too hard to keep him from noticing that I’m losing my shit. When he writhes, I seal my mouth around the tip of him and suck the smooth, hot, thick head into my mouth.

  “OH GOD…”

  That’s right, Mills.

  I've never sucked a dick before. It tastes like sweat and musk and just a little bit like cum smells. His is long and thick. It's swollen up. Every time I suck the head of him, he jerks and moans like it hurts. One of his hands grips my hair.

  I’m thinking I should suck more of him into my mouth when I roll my tongue around the head of him, and his whole body flinches. Cum jets into my mouth as his muscles quake and constrict. I don't know if I can swallow, so I let it drip into my hand, and when he’s panting—he’s gone nearly limp—I paint his hole and up and down his crack with the stuff. I rub the spunk into his pubes and then up toward his navel.

  "That was messy."

  A little tremor vibrates through him. His eyes are closed, his lips parted, his big chest pumping as he pants.

  "Wake up, Miller." I lean up and nip his earlobe, grab onto his shoulders the way he does mine. When he doesn't sit up, I wrap my arms under his broad back and pull him up against me like a rag doll. His eyes are dazed and confused as they touch mine.

  "Don't feel weird about it." I give him a fucked-up grin. "It looks like I'm pretty good at blow jobs."

  I run a finger through his dark pubes, then stroke my hand up his hip.

  "This was gay as fuck. I hope you’re happy. Go wash all this jizz off you."

  He looks at me like I've grown a second head before he gets up off my bed and disappears into the bathroom. I lie back and squeeze my hand around my aching boner. I'm there in under a minute. Smirking to myself as I clean up with my shirt and then drape my arm over my eyes.

  This is fucked up—I’ll admit it.

  Is it wrong how much I love it?

  Seventeen

  Josh

  We have a pattern. He skips homeroom. (I heard him tell Cara at lunch that he’s gotten permission to go over football footage with Coach Nix). Lunch, I sit at the usual table with Brennan, Marcel, and the rest, but I don’t get within three or four seats of Ezra. I make sure that I can hear him, but not too well. That I can see him, but only in my periphery.

  Cara fawns all over him, and even though I’m pretty sure she’s trying to make James jealous, I don’t like the sight of it—so I try not to look their way. Mostly what comes through to me at lunch is his laugh. I don’t hear it often, but sometimes he lets one out, and it’s a really good sound. He looks happy at the lunchroom table. Like a hot, straight football player with a girlfriend.

  I see him again in physics. That’s the best and worst part of my day. He’s close enough that I can’t help but look at him. When I glance down, I see his bare knee inches from mine. His quads have gotten thick and strong and tanned from being outside at practice. The more he lifts, the thicker his forearms are getting—and more veiny. They’re always on the table, moving, flexing. His hands. I can feel the pattern of his breathing. Every time he shifts on his bar-stool seat, I get a little jolt. Sometime in the last week, we’ve reached an unspoken consensus: Try not to look at one another. My whole body sweats and prickles, but we rarely make eye contact.

  Then it’s only glimpses of him outside on the practice fields. I get home before he does, since soccer ends before football. I shower first and head into my room to do homework and some bench press. He comes home and showers. Finally, my mom calls us to dinner, and it’s just the same as always, somehow.

  I treat him like he’s annoying. He acts like he finds me quaint and amusing. There’s a lot of smirking. He eats everything my mother gives him, while I try to pick at my food. I don’t want him touching my stomach and not feeling six-pack abs like his.

  After dinner, study more and I watch something in my bedroom. Usually ESPN. When my eyelids start feeling heavy, I make myself brush my teeth. Then I strip down to my boxer briefs and climb into my bed and wonder.

  Will this be a night that Ezra wakes up screaming? I make myself hope it’s not. But almost every night, I wake to the sounds of him caught in a nightmare. I run to his room like Super Miller. Usually, he’s on his side, curled up and shaking, murmuring. I hold his shoulders, gently shaking him awake.

  His bedside lamp is always on, so I can see his eyes wet when he opens them. I can see the fear on his face. Fear, or sometimes anger. I don’t know what’s in his head, what’s in the dreams, but I know he seems wrecked before he blanks his anguish off his face and dives for my dick.

  These past few nights, he’s seemed more startled when he wakes up, breathing harder like he’s scared…and he’s been rougher. Likes to shove me, wrestle me onto my back, straddle my hips and squeeze me too hard. He’s started sleeping in a pair of loose, faded jeans, so I can’t fully see his erection. Maybe he believes I think there’s not one. But there is. I have eyes, and he’s got a bulge the whole time he messes with me.

  He’s really good at it—so good that I’m damn near helpless when he starts up on me. He gets me off in minutes. And that’s the nights he doesn’t tease my asshole. Usually, he does. He licks back there or prods or tickles that spot between my balls and my hole. It makes me come harder and faster. When I come, he’s got a hand around my balls, a hand around my shaft, and usually his mouth is sucking on my head.

  The sucking’s perfect.

  He says mean shit between blowing me. Stuff that sort of bothers me, like, “That’s right, homo. Give me what you’ve got,” or “this dick creams just like a pussy.”

  Sometimes he’s damn brutal with my balls. I’ve come once or twice in some level of pain—but the night it hurt the worst, he saw me cupping my nuts when it was over, and I’ve noticed that he hasn’t squeezed that hard again.

  “Oh look, it’s the little gay boy,” he says one night as soon as I wake him up. This time, he was crying when I found him, and his eyes are still red and puffy as he pushes my briefs down my hips.

  “What a perfect doll. A perfect dick and perfect balls.” He licks down my happy trail. “I like how you get those chills. Such a virgin.”

  His mouth wrapped around my dick is heaven. His hand works me just the way I like, a little firm but not too tight, and lots of long, smooth, rhythmic strokes, with fingers teasing my balls and his tongue lapping my cockhead. I come fast and hard, sensation building in me then exploding in an inferno of pure bliss. Always blacks me out for half a second.

  When I open my eyes, I find Ezra over me, his eyes hot but his face grave—the way it almost always is.

  I lift my knee, wanting to rub between his legs and feel where I know he’s hard, too. But he sits back on his haunches. I reach for him, thinking to return the favor. I know for a fact he’s gotta want it. Even if he’d never say so. When my palm brushes his bulge—tight and hard behind his jeans—everything happens fast.

  I have the thought: Thank God he's hard too. Followed by: I touched him!

  Then my wrist is aching, and I’m yelping at the pain. I gasp, and he lets go before moving off me.

  My head spins as my wrist throbs.

  "I'm not gay, Miller."

  He says that with his boner pushing at the denim of those beat-up jeans. His cheeks are flushed in the light of the bedside lamp, his eyes aglow with what I know is lust.

  "Right." I sit up, messy from where he smeared cum all over me. My heart pounds so hard that I can feel it in my temples. "You're not gay," I tell him, getting off the bed. "Not bi either, are you? Just an ordinary liar."

  "I like to fuck with you.” He gives me a pretty sneer—the Ezra sneer I’ve come to know so well. “You’re just a toy."

 

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