I came out of Julien’s bedroom trying to look like a perfectly normal human being who has absolutely not just been facefucked by my jock roommate.
I closed his door gently. Not too gently. Casual gently. Is there a difference? I don’t know. My brain is still foggy and my mouth feels like I swallowed all my dignity with that morning load.
I ran a hand through my hair. Mistake. It was probably a mess. I probably looked all flushed. I probably looked guilty too, like “Just sucked off my swimmer roommate’s dick” written on my forehead in bold.
And of course — of course — when I lifted my head, Greg is there.
Leaning against the corridor wall.
Watching me.
Arms crossed over his massive rugby chest, black gym tank stretching over it like it’s fighting for survival. His jaw tight, eyes narrowed just enough to make my stomach drop.
He must know.
There’s no way he doesn’t know.
“What’s up?” he said.
But the way he said it feels like an interrogation.
“Yeah, just needed to ask him about our next session”
I answered, trying to keep my voice steady and not sound like someone who just committed a felony. That seemed to trigger something in him because he pushed himself off the wall and walked past me. Way too close.
His bare shoulder brushed mine. Not accidental. I’m almost sure it wasn’t this time. His frame was huge yeas, warm and solid like a rock, but this time his move seemed deliberate. He smelled like sweat and something faintly metallic.
He didn’t look back, but I swear the corner of his mouth twitched.
- - -
The whole day turns into a series of… small incidents.
Little collisions. Little intrusions. He grabbed a snack from the cupboard while I was pouring myself water for example, which made his arm reach over my head instead of around me. His strong chest pushing against my back. He could have taken a step back. He didn’t.
Later he walked past me in the hallway and his hand briefly rested on my lower back to move me aside, like I was in his way and he had to be the only one there.
He said nothing special. Just short sentences:
“Move.”
“Careful.”
“You’re in the way.”
But he never sounded annoyed.
Just… heavy. Intentional.
And I started realizing this isn’t just straight-guy nonchalance.
He’s aware.
Of what I did. And it seems he wants to send me a message.
- - -
In the afternoon Adrien appeared from his room in a loose t-shirt and gray boxers, hair slightly messy:
“Do either of you want to play Mario Kart?” he asked in that calm, analytical tone of his, like he’s proposing a group experiment.
Greg grunted something that means yes.
I hesitated.
But saying no would be weird.
So five minutes later we’re all squeezed onto the couch. Adrien on one side. Me in the middle. Greg on the other. Greg still wearing his black tank and boxers. Legs bare. Massive thighs spread slightly. Too slightly.
His knee touched mine almost immediately, like a ritual now.
I didn’t even try to shift, his knee would have followed mine.
The race started. I must say, this was the latest Mario kart and I never had a chance to begin with. Yeah, I played Double dash on the Game cube at some point in my youth, but this was like 20 years ago, even more perhaps. I had no idea so many new episodes had been released since then.
Without much surprise, I lost. Even the worst bot was a challenge for me. Adrien seemed to be the most consistent out of my two roommates, with his quiet efficiency, Greg would always end up second.
“Jesus, Steph,” Greg muttered. “You driving with your eyes closed?”
“I’ve never played this version before,” I defended myself. “Don’t know any circuits, and the controls suck man.”
Adrien nods kindly:
“I mean, the drift mechanics are all different, no wonder you struggle dude, it’s fine.”
Greg snorts. “Translation: you suck.”
“Fucking sucks yeah.”
Greg smirked at his own words, his knee pressed more firmly against mine during the next race. I tried to focus. I crashed into a wall. Multiple times.
“Unbelievable,” Greg says, but there’s something almost amused under the roughness. “You’re getting smoked bitch.”
Adrien added:
“You’ll improve.”
“Yeah,” Greg said. “If he survives the humiliation.”
You’re so mean to me Greg, what’s the deal here?
He leaned back, arm stretching along the back of the couch — behind me. Almost touching. I can feel the heat of him, the heat emanating from his hairy pit, right next to my nose. God it smells strong.
“We should make the loser do the laundry.” Greg proposed, amused.
“Again? I mean, why not bro, but Steph will not like that.” Adrien answered. “
When I laughed nervously, Greg glanced at me:
“It’s your week to clean anyway, so that wouldn’t be a problem right?”
His eyes dragged over my face like he was measuring something.
- - -
By the third race I’m completely aware of it.
This is intentional.
He’s not saying anything.
He wants some of it too.
Dominant in his silence.
And every time I lost — which was every time — he bumped his knee into mine lightly.
“Hopeless,” he muttered once.
Adrien calmly explained why my acceleration timing is flawed while Greg just kept sitting there. Big and warm, judging me.
At one point, Greg ordered me to go grab beers for everyone. It was done in a slightly distant, cold way, but I could feel his intention was very clear: he wanted it to be me and only me doing it — and for it to be the first of many times.
No need to recount the rest of the gaming session — it was a disaster. I kept losing on repeat until we finished the Grand Prix and I couldn’t stand looking at my score anymore. Maybe Greg was right, maybe I was a lost cause. Still, that didn’t stop me from having a good time with them.
When the end credits started rolling, Greg tossed his controller into a corner and made it clear I should get moving.
“Listen, you know where the mop is, and the vacuum too, right?”
“Yeah, Adrien showed me,” I answered, automatically following Greg as he cleared the empty beer bottles.
“Good. Then get to work. And make it shine.” With that, he almost shoved past me, his impressive build making me feel like a traffic cone next to a moving truck.
I put my headphones on and took advantage of cleaning time to listen to a few new history and culture podcasts I liked to play while doing chores. It was almost pleasant — even soothing — to clean the sink, wipe the shelves, and run the mop across the floor.
To be fair, it needed it.
I could practically trace each roommate’s meals on the floor, judging by the crumbs and the variously colored stains.
They’re kind of gross, honestly. You can tell it’s a flat shared only by straight cis guys.
And yet, a part of me didn’t mind.
Not at all.
Weird. It was the first time I’d felt that way. That strange sense of being… comfortable picking up their mess, tying up the trash bags and getting them ready to take out. Almost comforting, even, to neatly stack the mugs and beer glasses after drying them.
All in all, cleaning wasn’t so bad after all.
Things got more complicated when I started putting the cleaning products away.
- - -
The rest of the afternoon dragged, my throat raw from Julien's morning facefuck, that bitter cum taste lingering no matter how much water I chugged.
I avoided the guys at dinner, hiding in my room with history notes blurring on the page, mind replaying the deal I made with the swimmer. He owned my mouth now, or so he thought.
By 10pm, the apartment hummed quiet, Adrien out with friends, Julien still playing with his band, just me and Greg. Him sprawled at the living room table nursing a beer, me stuck cleaning up my dishes in the open kitchen. Plates piled high, grease and sauce crusted here and there. I washed his own dishes, without thinking too much of it, but with this afterthought of helping Greg so he would be nicer to me in the future.
Greg lumbered up behind me all of a sudden, his giant rugby frame blocking the light, chest and arms bulging the thin tank top, sweat stains dark under his pits. He reached past me for a rag, body pressing close, his hard abs brushing my back, pinning me against the sink edge.
He grunted low, but he didn't pull away, just loomed there, one massive hand gripping the counter beside mine.
I froze, heart pounding, the heat off his unwashed skin hitting me, musky and thick, like he hadn't showered since two days at least. I shifted awkward, trying to focus on scrubbing a fork, but he crowded in again, 'accidentally' bumping me as he grabbed a plate.
His loose shorts tented slight, that massive dick rubbing hard against my ass through the thin fabric, thick and heavy, pressing insistent like he meant it.
Fuck, it throbbed warm.
The outline was clear: it was way thicker than Julien's even soft, balls shifting low underneath.
My face burned, dick twitching traitorous in my jeans, first-time panic spiking as I remembered the cum stains he'd mocked me about earlier.
“Hmm... Greg?” I muttered, voice shaky, but he just huffed silent, pinning me tighter, his breath hot on my neck, breathing low.
He lingered too long, hips grinding subtle, that sweaty package dragging along my thigh now, the scent rising sharp—salty sweat mixed with stale piss and also his balls, probably unwashed junk making my head spin from the mix.
I dropped a plate clattering, suds splashing, and he laughed rough, low:
“Clumsy bitch.”
His hand shot out fast, hooking my ankle like he was tripping me casual, but the yank was deliberate: he sent me stumbling backward, knees buckling. I hit the tiles, face-first right into his crotch, nose smashing against the loose shorts, that huge package enveloping my vision, the fabric damp and warm from his sweat.
Greg bucked instant, silent but feral, hips thrusting forward to grind his dick and balls over my face, the hefty bulge smothering me. Grunts rumbled from his chest, muffled and animal, like a wild bear rutting, his massive hands clamping my head tight, fingers digging into my scalp.
Shit shit, what’s happening?
I gasped, mouth opening against the shorts, tasting the salty fabric, inhaling deep that overpowering musk
My cock hardened full, pressing painful in my jeans, submissive urge hitting hard as he humped my face raw, shorts riding up, exposing the base of his thick shaft.
He yanked his joggers down roughly, the waistband snapping past his hips, and his massive dick sprang free.
His dick was so much thicker and hairier than Julien’s. So thick it somehow looked more virile, even though it had to be a good two inches shorter — already impressive for a man — around six to seven solid inches of dense flesh.
I was stunned by his girth.
Fuck…
It must be thick as a standard beer can, and certainly the biggest I’d ever “handled” in my life. The kind you never forget.
I quickly noticed the broad purplish veins running along it, like the veins on a leaf. You could see those channels pulsing steadily, the blood clearly rushing through at an impressive volume. My eyes drifted lower, naturally, toward his jewels.
Holy shit. Those balls.
I didn’t think it was possible for a man to have them that big. The guy had bull’s balls — there’s no other comparison. They looked like two large kiwis, just as hairy and rounded. My mouth literally fell open in immediate admiration, and that bastard felt it.
He let out a low, greasy laugh, like he knew perfectly well the effect his package had on people.
I hesitated, not sure what to do while facing those monster balls swinging, bigger than I'd ever seen, swollen and full, the skin wrinkled and damp, scent hitting even stronger now.
Greg didn't wait, he scooped one massive ball in his palm, the orb filling his hand easy, and shoved it rough over my mouth, the hairy sack pressing down.
Instinctively, I tried to lick it the way Julien had made me earlier, but Greg didn’t stop. He kept pushing harder against my parted lips, and his ball gradually forced my jaw wider and wider. I let it happen, until the equivalent of a kiwi with an intense taste finally slipped into my poor, stretched mouth.
Shit.
It was incredibly warm and heavy, and strong in flavor too — his fruit was definitely ripe.
In that moment, I knew that with Greg, things would be far wilder and rougher compared to Julien.
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