The dorm room door slammed with enough force to make the cheap bookshelf against the wall rattle. I didn't have to look up from my textbook to know who it was. Only Tyler had that particular brand of frustrated energy that vibrated through the walls.
I kept my eyes fixed on the chapter about macroeconomic theory, highlighting a sentence I'd already highlighted three times. My heart was thudding against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. The room suddenly felt too small, too warm.
"Fucking bitch," Tyler muttered, his voice rough. The metallic jangle of his keys hitting the desk, followed by the heavy thud of his backpack. I could picture him without looking: jaw tight, a muscle jumping in his cheek, those blue eyes narrowed with irritation.
He always took bad dates out on our shared space. Like the room itself had personally offended him by not containing a willing girl.
I heard the rustle of clothes, the distinct sound of denim hitting the floor. Just ignore him, Alex. Just focus on supply and demand curves. My highlighter skidded, leaving a bright yellow streak across the page.
The box springs of the top bunk creaked above me as he climbed up. A wave of warm, humid air washed down, carrying the familiar scent of him—sweat from the gym he'd hit before his date, expensive cologne now fading, and something else, something sharply male. The bunk bed frame groaned as he settled.
Silence for a moment. Then, a rhythmic sound started. A soft, slick, repetitive noise, accompanied by a faint grunt.
My entire body went rigid. I couldn't breathe. He was doing it. Right above me. The springs squeaked in a steady, obscene rhythm. He's not... he wouldn't... But he was. Of course he was. This was Tyler. When Tyler was frustrated, Tyler took care of it. Privacy was a concept that existed for other people.
I squeezed my eyes shut, then forced them open, staring blankly at the textbook page. The words blurred into meaningless shapes. The slick sounds got faster, more insistent. The bunk swayed slightly. His breathing hitched, a low groan vibrating through the wooden frame directly into my mattress.
Just breathe. Just be invisible. He's not thinking about you. He's not even aware you're here. This is just... stress relief. A normal guy thing.
The rhythmic noise stopped. A sharp, wet sound. A heavy sigh of release from above. Then silence again, broken only by the pounding of blood in my ears. I lay there, frozen, my textbook held limply in my hands, until I heard the soft tear of a tissue box. He was cleaning up.
A few minutes later, Tyler's bare feet thudded on the ladder. He dropped to the floor beside my bed. I didn't dare look, keeping my face buried in the book. He stood there for a long moment, just breathing. The air around him was thick, humid with the smell of his exertion. Then, without a word, he padded to the bathroom.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding, my chest aching. My hands were trembling. I told myself it was fear, disgust. Nothing more. Just another weird night with my jock roommate. In the morning, we'd pretend it never happened. We always did.
***
Two weeks passed. The "bad date" routine became a semi-regular event. Maybe once a week, Tyler would come in, irritated and tense, and I would hear the familiar squeak of the top bunk. I got better at pretending. I mastered the art of staring intently at my phone screen, scrolling through the same three social media posts over and over while the sounds from above filled the small room. I learned to recognize the pattern: the increasing tempo, the strained grunts, the final shuddering sigh. It was a weird, disgusting rhythm to my life now, but I had a system. Ignore. Endure. Forget.
Tonight was different.
The door didn't slam. It clicked shut softly. I looked up from my laptop, startled. Tyler was standing by the door, just watching me. The dim light from my desk lamp cast long shadows across the room, highlighting the hard lines of his abs under a tight white t-shirt. He looked pissed, but it was a quiet, contained fury.
"Date sucked," he said, his voice flat. He didn't elaborate, just started stripping. T-shirt off, revealing the defined landscape of his chest. Jeans kicked away. He stood there in just a pair of gray boxer briefs, the fabric clinging to powerful thighs. He ran a hand through his dirty blond hair, making it stand up in messy spikes. The room already smelled like him, that potent mix of clean sweat and something uniquely Tyler.
I turned back to my laptop, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Okay, he's just getting ready for bed. He's going to climb up and... and do his thing. Just another night.
He didn't climb the ladder.
Instead, I heard the soft scrape of his desk chair being pulled across the linoleum. And then he sat down. Right next to my bed. So close I could feel the heat radiating from his bare skin. My own bed frame was cold against my back. I was trapped between the wall and him.
The rhythmic sound started again, but this time it was next to me. Not above me. The slick, wet noise seemed impossibly loud in the quiet room, punctuated by his soft, sharp exhales. I could feel the vibrations through the floor, through my bed frame. My heart hammered against my sternum, a wild, frantic beat. I stared at my laptop screen, at a blinking cursor in a blank document, my entire body tensed.
Just a bro being a bro. Guys get frustrated. Doesn't mean anything. He's not looking at me. He's just... sitting here.
I risked a glance from the corner of my eye. Bad mistake. He was staring right at me, his half-lidded blue eyes fixed on my profile. His other arm was braced on my mattress, right next to my pillow, boxing me in. The movement of his arm was fast, efficient, the skin flushed and tight. The scent of him intensified, hot and musky, filling my lungs with every shallow breath I dared to take.
He grunted, a low, guttural sound. "Fuck," he breathed out.
My stomach plummeted. I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, then forced them open. I had to keep up the pretense. I moved the cursor, typed a single letter, then deleted it. See? I'm working. I'm busy. I'm not involved.
His breathing grew heavier, faster. The slick noise accelerated. I could hear the skin-on-skin friction now, the desperate, needy sound of it. He was getting close. I knew the signs. My entire body was a coiled spring of panic. He was right there. Right next to me. And I was the only other person in the room.
A sharp intake of breath. A choked-off groan. Then, a wet, splattering sound.
Something hot and wet hit the side of my arm, just below the sleeve of my t-shirt. I flinched violently, a gasp caught in my throat. I jerked my arm away, staring at the wet, pearly smear on my skin.
Tyler let out a long, shuddering sigh. He didn't move. He didn't say anything. He just kept breathing, his chest heaving, as he watched me stare at the mess on my arm.
"what the fuck Tyler" I yelled, "this is not OK" .
Tyler started laughing "your reaction, priceless!" and got up and headed towards the bathroom. "Just a bit of friendly fire dude, chill out." He turned on the shower and I stayed frozen in bed. The water started running and I realized my arm was still sticky. I got up, and went to my desk to grab some tissues and wiped it off. It's just protein, nothing more. Friendly fire? seriously? I need to get out of this dorm. But where would I go? This was the only housing I had.
I went back to bed and laid there. The shower turned off and the bathroom door opened. Tyler walked out, a towel around his waist and another one rubbing at his damp hair. He looked completely relaxed, all the earlier tension gone. He glanced at me, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Night, Alex," he said, his voice casual. He climbed the ladder to his bunk, leaving me to lie there in the dark, the phantom sensation of wet heat on my arm still burning.
***
The next morning, the silence in the room was thick and heavy. I woke up early, the faint light of dawn just starting to filter through the blinds. I lay still, listening to Tyler's deep, even breathing from above. I didn't want to move. I didn't want to be the one to break the quiet. The image of that pearly smear on my skin was seared into the back of my eyelids.
Eventually, I couldn't stand it anymore. I slipped out of bed, grabbed my shower caddy, and fled to the communal bathroom. I stood under the scalding water, scrubbing at my arm until the skin was red and raw, but it didn't help. I still felt dirty.
When I came back, Tyler was awake, sitting on the edge of his bunk. He was already dressed in a pair of gym shorts and a tight-fitting t-shirt, scrolling through his phone. He looked up as I came in, his expression unreadable.
"Mornin'," he said, like nothing had happened.
"Morning," I mumbled, avoiding his eyes. I dressed quickly, my movements jerky. I needed to get out, to be around other people, to feel normal again. "I'm gonna grab breakfast."
"Cool," he said, not looking up from his phone. "Catch you later."
I practically ran from the room. The entire day, I sat in the library, my textbooks open but my mind a complete blank. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him. The look on his face, the sound of his breathing, the splatter on my arm. I told myself it was an accident. A horrible, disgusting accident that would never happen again. Tyler was just... Tyler. A caveman with no boundaries. I was the nerdy roommate who happened to be in the splash zone. It meant nothing.
I came back late that night, hoping he'd be out. But he wasn't. He was at his desk, headphones on, playing some loud, aggressive-sounding game on his laptop. The room was filled with the scent of hot pizza and the faint, lingering smell of him from last night. My stomach clenched.
I gave him a tight nod and climbed into my bunk, pulling the blanket up to my chin. I pulled out my phone, scrolling aimlessly, trying to create a small, private world for myself in the bottom bunk. The intense sounds of gunfire and explosions from his headphones were a strange comfort. As long as he was distracted, I was safe.
He played for another hour before finally ripping the headphones off. He stretched, a long, languid movement that made the muscles in his back ripple under his shirt.
"Fuck, that guy was a cheater," he grumbled, more to himself than to me. He stood up and stripped off his shirt, tossing it onto the floor. He'd clearly just gotten back from the gym before I arrived; a faint sheen of sweat still gleamed on his shoulders and chest. He ran a hand over his face, sighing.
Then he started unbuckling his jeans. My blood ran cold. No. Not again. Please, not again.
He stepped out of his jeans, leaving him in just a pair of tight black briefs. I squeezed my eyes shut, then forced them open, my gaze locked on my phone screen. Just ignore him. He'll go to the top bunk. He always goes to the top bunk.
He didn't.
I heard the scrape of the desk chair again. My heart started that frantic, trapped-bird thudding against my ribs. He sat down, right in the same spot as last night. Right next to my bed. I could feel the heat from his body, could smell the clean, sharp tang of his post-gym sweat.
The rhythmic slick sound started.
I froze, my thumb hovering motionless over my phone screen. This can't be happening. This can't be happening again. But it was. The sound was so close, so intimate. I could hear every wet slide, every soft grunt of effort. He was closer this time. I could feel the faintest vibration through the floorboards.
I tried to focus on my phone, on the bright, meaningless images scrolling past. Anything but the reality of what was happening a foot away from my head. But my senses were overwhelmed. The room was small, the air thick with his scent and the raw, private sounds of his arousal. My own breathing felt loud and ragged in the silence.
His grunts came faster, more strained. The slick noise grew more urgent. I knew he was close. My stomach twisted into a nauseated knot. Don't look. Don't you dare look. Just... wait for it to be over.
I squeezed my eyes shut, a pathetic, cowardly shield. I heard his breath hitch, a choked-off sound. Then, a hot, wet splatter on my blanket, right on my chest.
I jolted, my eyes flying open. A thick, white rope was seeping into the blue fabric of my blanket, right over my sternum. Another one followed, landing just below it. I stared, horrified, at the growing wet patches on my blanket. On me.
Tyler let out a long, satisfied groan. I felt the chair creak as he leaned forward. I looked up, my gaze clashing with his. He was staring down at my chest, a slow, satisfied smirk spreading across his face. His blue eyes were dark, heavy-lidded with satisfaction.
He didn't say a word. He just watched me for a long moment, his chest still heaving slightly. Then he stood up, stretched again, and walked calmly toward the bathroom. I heard the shower start.
I lay there, frozen, the wet spots on my blanket growing cold and sticky against my skin. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. The sight of it, the feel of it, was burned into my brain. This isn't an accident. This can't be an accident. Not twice.
But what was it then? What was the alternative? The thought was so terrifying, so alien, that my mind shied away from it. He was just a jock with no boundaries. A caveman. This was just a... a prank. A disgusting, gross prank.
With a trembling hand, I peeled back the blanket. The wet spots were obvious, obscene. I scrambled out of bed, my heart pounding, and ripped the blanket off. I balled it up, shoving it deep into my laundry hamper, as if I could hide the evidence. As if I could hide what happened from myself.
I grabbed a towel from the closet and wiped frantically at my chest, scrubbing until my skin was pink. The smell was faint but persistent—salty, a little bitter, clinging to me like a ghost. I changed into a fresh t-shirt, my hands shaking so badly I could barely get it over my head. I climbed back into my bare bunk, pulling the thin top sheet up to my chin, and stared at the underside of Tyler's mattress until my eyes ached.
***
The weekend was a blur of avoidance. I spent every waking hour in the library or the student union, anywhere but our room. When I had to sleep, I'd wait until I was sure Tyler was out, then creep in and fall into an exhausted, nightmare-riddled sleep, waking at the slightest sound.
He never mentioned it. Not once. On Monday morning, he acted as if the weekend had never happened, complaining about an early class and stealing one of my granola bars. It was disorienting. The casual normalcy was more unnerving than if he'd gloated about it. It was like living in a gaslit room, where I was the only one who could see the poison in the air.
By Tuesday, I was starting to think—no, hope—that it was over. Maybe he'd gotten it out of his system. Maybe he'd found some other outlet.
Then came Wednesday.
I was studying at my desk, leaning on my elbows with my textbook in front of me. Tyler came in, dropping his gym bag with a heavy thud. He was fresh from a workout, sweat plastering his blond hair to his forehead, a damp patch on the gray t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders. The room immediately filled with that sharp, humid scent of male exertion.
"Leg day," he grunted by way of explanation, though I hadn't asked. He started peeling off his clothes, right in the middle of the room. T-shirt. Shorts. He kicked them aside, standing there in just his jockstrap, the athletic straps framing the firm, pale globes of his ass. My face burned. I stared down at my book, the words swimming in front of my eyes.
He didn't go for the desk chair this time.
He walked to the side of my desk and stood there. I could feel the heat from his body like a radiator. I was trapped, my back pressed against my chair. My blood was a river of ice in my veins.
"Alex," he said, his voice low.
I didn't look up. "Yeah?"
He didn't answer with words. The familiar slick sound started, impossibly close now. I could hear the wet slap of skin, the slight catch in his breath. He was standing over me. Standing over me and... doing that. While I was studying at my desk.
I am not here. I am not in this room. This is not happening. I repeated it like a mantra in my head, but my body was screamingly present. My heart hammered, my breath hitched, every nerve ending alight with a terrifying mixture of revulsion and a weird, unwelcome jolt of adrenaline.
His grunts were softer now, more controlled. He was taking his time. Drawing it out. The minutes stretched into an eternity of slick sounds and the overpowering scent of him. I kept my head down, my gaze fixed on a diagram of the Krebs cycle, the arrows and abbreviations meaningless scribbles on the page.
"Look at me," he commanded. His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the noise in my head. It was an order.
My body obeyed before my brain could protest. My head lifted. My eyes met his. He was staring down at me, his blue eyes dark and intense, his fist moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm. The head of his cock, flushed and angry-looking, disappeared and reappeared from the circle of his fingers. I couldn't look away. It was like watching a car crash in slow motion.
A muscle in his jaw flexed. "That's it," he breathed. He was getting closer. His grunts became sharper, more ragged. His hips jerked forward slightly.
I squeezed my eyes shut, a final, desperate act of defiance.
Hot wetness splattered onto my collarbone. I flinched, a choked gasp tearing from my throat. Another spurt hit the side of my neck, warm and sticky. I could feel it trickling down my skin, beneath the collar of my shirt. Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.
He let out a long, shuddering sigh. I heard the wet sound of him releasing himself, a final shake. He didn't move. I could feel him standing there, over me, his presence heavy and absolute. I kept my eyes squeezed shut, praying for the floor to open up and swallow me whole.
His fingers, rough and warm, brushed against my throat. I flinched again, my eyes flying open. He was leaning over me, smearing the wetness he'd just deposited on my skin. He rubbed it into my collarbone, the motion slow, deliberate, possessive.
"Clean it," he said. His voice was quiet, but it held no room for argument. He nudged my own desk chair closer with his knee, forcing me to face him more directly. He pointed with his chin, not at me, but at the small wet spot on the wooden desk where a stray drop had landed.
My mind went blank with panic. How? With what? My gaze darted around wildly, landing on the sleeve of my own hoodie. I hesitated, my hand trembling uncontrollably.
"Just use your finger, Alex. Lick it off."
The words hung in the air between us, heavy and obscene. No. No fucking way. My entire body rebelled. My stomach churned. I shook my head, a tiny, jerky motion.
His eyes narrowed. The lazy amusement vanished, replaced by something harder, colder. "Don't make me ask again." He leaned in closer, the scent of him overwhelming, his breath warm on my face. He was still naked from the waist down, still semi-hard, an intimidating, physical threat.
My throat was too tight to swallow. My hand, as if it belonged to someone else, slowly lifted. My index finger trembled as I reached toward the small, pearly drop on the desk. The wood was cool under my fingertip as I smeared the fluid. It was slippery, warm. I brought my hand back, staring at the glistening bead on my own skin.
My gaze was locked with his. I couldn't look away. He watched me, his expression unreadable, waiting. My heart was a frantic, painful drum against my ribs. Breaking out of that trance, I wiped it off on my sweater. Still not saying a word. Just shocked.
Tyler's smirk returned, a slow, predatory curve of his lips. "Cute," he said, his voice a low rumble. He straightened up, breaking the intense connection. "Guess you're not as hungry as I thought." He turned and walked to the bathroom, leaving me sitting there, my finger stained with the ghost of him, my neck and collarbone still sticky with the rest. I heard the shower turn on.
I scrambled to my feet, my movements clumsy and desperate. I grabbed a clean towel from my closet and scrubbed frantically at my neck, my chest, my collarbone. The rough fabric was almost painful against my skin, but I didn't care. I had to get it off. All of it. The feel, the smell, the memory.
When my skin was raw and red, I threw the towel into the laundry hamper on top of the balled-up blanket. I stood in the middle of the room, my chest heaving, the water running in the background. I felt… violated. A cold, sick feeling pooled in my stomach. This was a new line, one he hadn't just crossed, but obliterated.
The shower stopped. I tensed, bracing myself. A few minutes later, Tyler came out, a towel slung low on his hips, steam billowing around him. He glanced at me, a flicker of amusement in his eyes.
"Staring's rude, dude," he said, grabbing a pair of clean boxers from his drawer. He dropped the towel and pulled them on, unashamedly naked for a brief moment.
"I wasn't staring," I mumbled, turning away, my face on fire.
He chuckled, a low, infuriating sound. He climbed into his bunk without another word.
I didn't sleep. I sat at my desk until the first hint of gray light touched the window, my textbook open but unread. My mind kept replaying the scene: the command, the smear on the desk, my own trembling hand. He was just messing with me. Testing me. I didn't do it. I passed the test. It's over. But it didn't feel over. It felt like the beginning of something I couldn't name, something terrifying.
To be continued..
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