Everyone is 18+ and fully consenting.
Okay so here's how the actual order went.
We decided the three non-Gregs would go first so the mirror would already be marked up before I went, which I argued was unfair because the baseline comparison required a clean surface but was outvoted three to one on the grounds that I would clearly destroy any comparison regardless of what was already on the mirror and also that I was the one who set the penalty so I could deal with the mirror conditions.
Fine.
Marcos went first. He stood in front of the door mirror in his joggers, which he pushed down to his thighs without ceremony. He had the most comfortable relationship with his own body of any of us, which tracked because Marcos had been on the swim team and locker rooms had clearly demystified the whole nudity thing for him years ago. He was already mostly hard. He worked himself up the rest of the way in about thirty seconds, no fanfare, his eyes on himself in the mirror the whole time.
He came into the mirror from maybe four inches away. It was a single streak, clean, running diagonally from upper right to lower left. Medium volume. Not a rookie load. Definitely honored the three days, I'd assume for sure.
He stepped back, pulled up his joggers, and looked at it critically the way you'd look at your your midterm or final before turning it in. He was proud.
"That was good," he said. Satisfied.
Ish was next. He took a little longer, which he blamed on the ambient weirdness of the situation and which Connor blamed on the zinc not working for people who weren't taking it. Ish's result was two streaks, both thinner than Marcos', both lower on the mirror, reaching maybe I'd say what, mid-thigh height?, on the reflection behind them. He stood there for a second looking at his contribution and then muttered something about being nervous with a nervous in front of an audience. But he added: "Cmon dudes, that's a respectable load." His tone, however, suggested he knew it wasn't entirely respectable. I mean not compared to what awaited everyone.
Connor went on his mini supplement rant.
"It takes time," he said. "The supplements need to build up. Three days isn't enough baseline."
"You bought zinc last night," I said.
"Connor. Just go! We all did it."
Connor went.
He produced approximately the same output as the first time. Which was two thin streaks at knee height. He stood there looking at it. He looked at Marcos' diagonal. He looked at Ish's two marks. He looked at his own.
"It's just I'm too used to staring at porn," he said.
"Next time we'll rent you a slut for the day," Ish said.
"Okay. Listen. It's go time, folks. Main event," Marcos had a wicked little giggle in his voice.
They all looked at me.
I stood up.
I want to be accurate about my state at this point in the evening, for the record.
Three entire blue-balling days. Meanwhile my college body normally requires three to four good wank sessions per day to maintain baseline.
I hadn't slept well in two nights. I had been managing a semi-permanent boner in my shorts since approximately day two's afternoon. My balls felt like they were audibly complaining.
I was at a level of backed-up that I had genuinely never experienced in my nineteen years of being alive. Looking back on it now, it probably crossed some kind of medical threshold that a doctor would have warned against.
"Move to the center of the room," Marcos said.
I looked at him.
"Think about it," he said. "If you go in front of the mirror we won't be able to tell your shit from ours." He was already getting up off the bed. He had clearly thought about this more than was socially normal. "But Connor, no offense, you lost, dude. So we need you to be in the ring of fire."
Connor spoke up quick: "Ring of fire, my ass! Fuck you, dude."
"Listen. You stand four or five feet away. But you did lose. And we all agreed on consequences. So I think whatever reaches you, reaches you... Most just lands on the floor."
"I'm not cleaning the floor," Connor said.
"That's what the towel's for."
Marco ripped a dirty towel off Connor's computer chair and laid it out on the grown like a picnic. Now more like a splash shield for my sperm babies.
"We'll figure it out." Marcos pointed at the center of the room. "Greg. Center, baby. Come center." He pointed at the floor. "Five feet back."
"I'm not risking my shirt," Connor said as he stood there, taking his shirt off and chucking it aside for safe keeping.
He was in position.
Then Connor just slowly looked at me, expressionless. He glanced at Ish and Marcos and looked back to me. He saw the position on the floor Marcos was indicating. Which I guess was approximately five feet from where I was standing. A distance that felt theoretically safe and practically uncertain given the evidence of the previous ten minutes.
He got on his knees.
The image of Connor shirtless on his knees five feet in front of me in our dorm room at eleven-thirty at night while Marcos and Ish watched from their respective beds was one I was going to have to process at some point in the future. Right now I was trying to stay focused on the task at hand, which was significant.
I was standing in the center of the room. Connor was on his knees facing me at five feet. Marcos and Ish were on their respective beds. The mirror on the back of the door was behind me and therefore irrelevant. The floor between us was about to become very relevant.
I started.
I had to slow down twice. I had to think about my Econ professor, who was sixty-seven and wore orthopedic shoes. But the buildup reached a point where the Econ professor couldn't help anymore. Three days of intense pressure. Like a pipe sealed at one end. My body had known where this was going for forty-eight hours and was not interested in further delay.
"Brace yourselves," I said.
"Don't say that," Connor said. He was on his knees five feet away, shirtless, looking at me with the expression of a man who had agreed to something and was now fully inside the consequences of having agreed to it.
"I'm just giving you a heads up."
"Please don't say heads up."
"Fine. Brace yourselves."
"You just said it again."
I was about ten seconds out. Maybe less. My jaw started to lock. I was breathing through my nose. I thought secretly five feet, fuck, that might not be enough, sorry broski.
Then Marcos leaned over from the bed and slapped Connor on the ass.
"Good luck, bitch!" He really slapped that ass.
Connor lurched forward. His knees slid on the floor and he caught himself on both hands, dropping to all fours.
He was significantly closer to me now.
Closer to the floor too.
His head was down. His bare back was right there. Like some kind of canvas.
I had this quick flash. I don't know where it came from. But Connor on all fours with his head down and his back exposed looked exactly like one of those bukake sluts from any number of PornHub videos I occasionally jerked to. But instead of a circle of horny meat heads, it was just me. My buddy Connor about to become a human cum rag. I had seen those videos. Everyone had seen those videos. I had never once imagined someone I knew in this kind of up-close position. Like a human bitch sacrifice.
I couldn't help imagining it now. Connor is your bitch.
"Fuck, fuck, dudes," I said. "I'm gonna blow."
Connor made a calculation in about a quarter of a second. Getting back up to his knees and scrambling backward? Too risky. So he did the only other thing available. Which was push his head down. Face toward the floor. So that only the back of it was visible, and hold very, very still.
It felt so wrong but in that split second I aimed my dick lower. Right at him.
The first gigantic shot went across his shoulder blades. The second monster load splatted on the back of his neck. Three, four and five landed in his hair. The target zone was increasing.
The rapid-fire section followed. Less precise, so to speak, but just flinging my nut butter in sheer overwhelming joy. An orgasm I had never, ever, in my entire life conceived possible. It started blasting his upper back like no tomorrow. Soaked the base of his skull. Frosted the top of his head. Three days of buildup released with nothing to stop it.
By the time my body was done, Connor's back looked like ten or twelve guys had just nutted all over him in succession.
The room was silent after some brief cheers and fucks. They couldn't take their eyes away. We all awaited Con's reaction.
Connor stayed in position. Face down. Both hands flat on the floor. He was completely still the way something was completely still when it was trying to assess the full scope of a situation before responding to it.
"Is it done," he said, hesitantly.
He was so fucking soaked.
"Yeah," I said. "It's done." Like I was the Jesus of Cum.
He didn't move immediately.
"Someone... for the love of god.... please please get me a towel," he said. Quietly. With great restraint. Given the circumstances.
Marcos and Ish looked at each other. They looked around the room. The room, as previously established, didn't have anything but what was already on the floor. It looked mostly uninjured by the blast fallout.
Ish picked up Connor's folded shirt from the bed and held it out.
Connor still hadn't moved.
Ish walked it over and set it on Connor's back.
"Use this, dude."
Connor picked it up. He straightened to his knees. He looked at the shirt for a second, a decent shirt, a grey crewneck he wore a lot, but fuck it, he started scrubbing.
Nobody said anything.
The four of us sat with what had just happened. The room had a quality of a room where something has just concluded and nobody is ready to be the first person to speak about it.
Ish eventually said: "That was..."
Marcos: "I mean dude..."
Nobody finished their sentence.
My dick had just Jackson-Pollack'd my buddy's back in the most ridiculous way. He had gotten entirely frosted, cum-soaked, drenched it. It felt criminal.
Connor kept scrubbing. That shirt was def not gonna be enough. But he was very thorough. He was also, I realized, not looking at any of us, and hadn't said anything since the towel request. He was going to need a few minutes before this became a story we told casually.
And not gonna lie. I was still so horny. I could go again. I knew it.
Marcos, who had started this whole thing with a slap on the ass delivered at the exact wrong moment, had the decency to look at least partially responsible for the outcome. Aware of the chain of events he had set in motion.
Meanwhile, apparently, my dick seemed to really like having a willing flesh target. Even if it was my roommate buddy.
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