Chapter 1: Smoke Got Me Throbbing for My Roommate's Load
Winter break hit and almost everyone in the frat bailed for home. Flights, family dinners, all that shit. Me and Chris, though, ended up staying back. He said he didn’t feel like dealing with his parents’ questions about graduation, and I just didn’t have the cash for a ticket. So it was us, the empty house, and a fridge full of leftover beer.
I was sprawled on the couch scrolling when I heard the rumble of his Jeep pulling into the lot out back. The door slammed hard enough to rattle the windows. Classic Chris. Nobody slams a door like the senior who reps 315 on bench and knows it.
He came in smelling like cold air and gym sweat, duffel slung over one shoulder, white tank clinging to his chest, gray gym shorts riding low on his hips. That lazy jock swagger was dialed all the way up, like he knew exactly how good he looked after leg day.
“Thought you’d be holed up playing video games all break, but damn, Cal, you actually look less scrawny,” he said, grinning wide. He dropped the bag with a thud, kicked off his shoes, and yanked me into one of those rough, back-slapping hugs that always left me a little dizzy. His chest was solid against mine, bicep flexing against my back. I prayed my body didn’t react.
He smelled like cedar body wash and that cheap frat laundry detergent all of the lads used. I hated how fast it hit me.
“Missed you, little man,” he said, ruffling my hair before flopping onto the couch like he owned it. Tank rode up just enough to flash the bottom row of his abs and that dark blond happy trail I’d jerked off way too many times since we moved in together freshman year.
The house was dead quiet except for the low hum of the heat kicking on. Most of the brothers were gone, so it felt bigger, emptier. Just us and miles of hallway.
Later, after we demolished leftover pizza and argued over what to watch, he appeared in my doorway holding a perfectly rolled joint. “Wanna smoke, dude?” His grin was easy, confident, the same one that got him free drinks at every party.
“Yeah, sure,” I said, trying to sound casual even though my pulse jumped.
We ended up in my room because it had the better speaker. He sprawled across my bed like it was his, shoes kicked off, tank riding higher every time he moved. I sat at the footboard, trying not to stare at the way his shorts gaped when he shifted. The first hit went straight to my head. By the third, I was laughing at his dumb stories about keg stands and sorority girls who “can’t handle the full Christopher sex experience.” He flexed half joking, half serious, reminding me he was pushing 315 on bench now.
I passed the joint back, letting my eyes drag over him when he wasn’t looking. Every laugh made his abs flex. Every stretch, every scratch, the waistband slipped lower.
“You quiet as hell, huh, Callum?” he said, voice slower, heavier from the weed.
“Working on it,” I mumbled.
He rolled his head to look at me, red rimmed eyes half lidded. “You’re shy, Cal. Always have been.”
The room went quiet except for the faint bass from the speaker. He took one last hit, held it, then blew it toward the ceiling. Smoke hung between us like a curtain.
He stretched again, arms overhead, tank almost up to his pecs, obliques flashing. My mouth went dry.
“Don’t jerk off too loud tonight, yeah?” he smirked, completely casual.
I choked on air. “Dude.”
“What? We share a bathroom. Thin walls, bro. I hear everything.” He laughed low and lazy, then rolled off the bed and headed toward his room. “Night, little man.”
I lay there staring at the ceiling, heart thudding, trying not to replay his words on loop. Told myself it was just the weed talking, just dumb frat guy teasing. But the house was too quiet, and my head was too loud.
Then, maybe twenty minutes later, my door creaked open again.
“Can’t sleep,” he said, stepping in like it was nothing. Same tank clinging to his chest, shorts riding even lower now. That lazy grin still in place. “Weed’s got me horny as fuck. Gotta bust a load before I crash.”
My stomach flipped hard. “Uh… okay,” I managed, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile.
He shrugged and flopped onto my bed again, sideways this time, head on my pillow, one arm draped over his eyes. “Come on, man. Don’t make it weird. Guys in the house jerk off together all the time. Chill.”
I hesitated, pulse hammering. “Is it not… weird? Like, roommates with their dicks out right next to each other?”
Chris lifted one eye, smirk still there. “Only weird if you make it weird. You’re overthinking it. Just relax.” He grabbed his phone, scrolled a second, and pulled up a video. Moans spilled from the tiny speaker: some Latina girl working a huge cock, lips stretched, tongue moving slow.
He rolled onto his back, tank hiking up to just under his pecs, and started stroking slow and easy while he watched. I swallowed hard, heat pooling low, and finally gave in. My hand slipped under the waistband of my sweats, matching his rhythm, eyes flicking between the screen and his face.
He kept going, relaxed and confident, like this was the most normal thing in the world. Then he shifted, shorts sliding down just enough to give me a full view of his dick. Eight thick inches, veiny, flushed, already leaking at the tip. My mouth went dry. My own six inches felt small next to him, but I stroked anyway, trying to keep my breathing steady.
“Christopher…” I breathed, barely audible. “Is that fucking real? What the fuck bro…”
He laughed low, teasing, tapped his cock against the phone screen. “This big boy’s gotten plenty of bitches in trouble on campus. One hundred percent real, little man.”
I swallowed, heat crawling up my throat. “No wonder… girls probably choke on it, right?”
“Yeah,” he admitted, a little sheepish but still smirking. “Not one has managed to take it all.”
I tilted my head, voice dropping softer, teasing. “What if I tried?”
His eyes widened for half a second. “Bro, what the actual fuck?”
I leaned closer, heart pounding so loud I was sure he could hear it. “Come on. You’re hard as fuck and leaking. Bet I could take it all.”
His jaw tightened. Hand slowed on his shaft. Uncertainty flashed across his face, but his eyes flicked to my lips and stayed there. He was curious. Horny. Caught off guard.
“Look at you,” I murmured, shifting closer, fingers brushing his hip. “Just let me help.”
He froze, then groaned low, gripping the sheets. He didn’t stop me when I moved between his legs. Hot breath mixed. I held him steady and slowly wrapped my lips around the head, teasing, licking, tasting salt and heat. He hissed, hips jerking slightly, little curses spilling out.
I took my time. Tongue dragging slow up the underside, swirling around the ridge, savoring every twitch. His hands tangled in the sheets, chest rising fast, breaths ragged. I felt small next to him, forearm pressed against his thick thigh, but the sounds he made went straight to my dick.
“Shit…” he moaned, voice rough.
I pulled back just enough to tease the tip with my lips, teeth grazing lightly, watching his hips buck. “Fuck… if I knew you sucked dick like this,” he rasped, “I’d have stopped jerking off alone months ago.”
I smiled around him, hand gliding along the base, keeping him on edge. Took him deeper, gagging just a little at first, then finding the rhythm. Tongue pressed flat, lips tight, edging him slow and deliberate. Every moan vibrated through me. His thighs tensed under my palms.
He started shaking, moaning my name like it embarrassed and thrilled him at the same time. “Jesus… Callum… fuck… yeah…”
I didn’t rush. Dragged my tongue along every vein, stroked the base in slow pulses, let him ride the edge. His hips twitched, chasing more, and I gave it to him, humming softly, taking him as deep as I could.
His groans got louder, desperate. “Fuck… Callum… you’re insane…”
I edged him again, slow and merciless, until his hips jerked hard and he came with a deep, guttural groan, hot and thick. I swallowed carefully, milking him through every shudder, tasting him, letting the moment stretch.
He collapsed back, chest heaving, eyes half lidded, completely spent. I stayed close, lips brushing his shoulder, feeling the heat rolling off him.
“Shit, bro…” he muttered finally, tugging his shorts back up. That lazy grin crept back, softer now, a little shaken. His thumb brushed my swollen lips, rough and slow. “You’re fucking dangerous, little man.”
I lay there buzzing, lips tingling, pulse still racing. He stood, stretched, grabbed his tank off the floor.
“Alright,” he said, heading for the door. “Gotta try to sleep before the sun comes up.”
The door clicked shut behind him. I stared at the ceiling, tasting him, replaying every groan, every twitch, every swipe of his thumb. Heat pooled low in my stomach. The house was silent again.
I couldn’t stop smiling. Winter break had just started, and it was already way better than I expected.
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