I had no doubt that I had struck gold. Not a "strange situation" or a "coincidence," but a specific, awesome arrangement that, from the very first week, ceased to surprise me and simply began to delight me. I lived with two straight jocks who were constantly horny and completely unashamed to show it. And me? I knew exactly what role I played here, and I liked it more than I was willing to admit to anyone but myself.
Mike was the louder one. A typical athlete: broad shoulders, thick thighs, confident movements, without a moment's hesitation. He walked around the apartment in boxer shorts or naked, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. If he wanted something, he said it directly. Sex was a physical need for him, like training or eating. No philosophy.
Jackson was his opposite. Quieter, more sensual, provocative with what he didn't say. He could say more with a glance than Mike could with a whole sentence. He exposed himself less often, but when he did, he did it more slowly, more consciously. He knew how silence and tension worked.
In our apartment, nudity was not an event, and erections were not a topic for jokes, they were a fact. The rules were clear from the start. They were straight. They didn't change labels. They needed to release tension. I was a gay man who liked to touch, suck, take them in my mouth, and had no problem with that. Respect worked both ways. No pressure. No shame. Full consent.
Over time, rituals emerged. Small benefits of living together that made life easier and more enjoyable. One of them was morning blowjobs.
And that's the kind of morning this day was heading towards. The apartment waking up. Footsteps, the refrigerator, quiet murmurs. And I knew that before the day really began, someone would be kneeling and someone else would be coming. And all of us would be one hundred percent fine with that.
I woke up before the alarm clock rang. Not because of the noise, but rather because of intuition, developed by living together. A low sound of the refrigerator opening came from the kitchen, followed by the metallic clink of a bottle on the countertop. Someone moved a chair. Someone else stepped heavily with bare feet on the laminate flooring. The morning began exactly as it should.
I stretched slowly, consciously, feeling my body wake up with the thought that it was one of those mornings again. I put on only loose pants, no shirt, and left the room. The kitchen was flooded with soft light. And full of tension that I knew all too well.
Mike was standing at the counter. His boxer shorts were low on his hips, and he had a baseball cap on his head, as if he were about to leave for training. He didn't even try to hide anything, his erection clearly visible under the fabric, hard and unashamed. He leaned on the counter with one hand and held a mug with the other, as if it were the most ordinary morning in the world. He glanced at me briefly, with that confident, lazy smile of his.
Jackson was sitting at the table. Shirtless, in loose boxer shorts pulled low on his hips. Calm. Sprawled out. His cock was already hard, protruding freely from under the fabric, as if he saw no point in covering it up. He looked up more slowly than Mike, holding his gaze on me for a fraction of a second longer. He didn't have to say anything. His gaze did the job.
I stood in the kitchen doorway and just watched for a moment. Two straight jocks. Two morning erections. And me, exactly where I should be.
There was not a shred of hesitation in me. No questions of "is it appropriate" or "is it normal." It was normal. It was our everyday life. Morning tension that had to be released before the day could go on. I took a few steps toward them, feeling the atmosphere thicken, calmly, naturally.
Mike put down his mug. Jackson spread his knees a little wider.
The morning was ready.
Mike spoke first. It was always like that, no fuss, no introduction.
"Dude..." he muttered, running his hand over the fabric of his boxers, as if just checking the obvious. "I don't feel like jerking off. Will you help me before I go out?"
He said it in the tone normal people use to ask for the salt. No tension. No hesitation. Just a specific need and the certainty that there would be only one answer.
"Sure. Take it out before it goes down."
Jackson snorted softly, the corner of his mouth lifting in that calm, irritating smile of his.
"Look at it," he said lazily. "It hasn't had its coffee yet, and it already wants premium service."
I felt something pleasantly tighten inside me. That cheeky ease, that absolute normality of the situation always had the strongest effect on me. I smiled, slowly, without haste. I didn't respond with words. There was no need.
Instead, I took a step forward. Then another. The kitchen suddenly seemed smaller, tighter, filled with the smell of morning and male bodies. Mike moved away from the counter for just a moment, making room for me. Jackson leaned back in his chair, spreading his legs wider, calm, ready, watching.
I knelt between them with a movement practiced through repetition. My knees touched the cool tiles.
Mike looked down at me, confident, uninhibited. Jackson ran his hand through my hair, lightly, as if checking the texture of the moment.
We didn't need to agree on the order. Routine did it for us. Mike was already leaning back against the counter, spreading his legs. Jackson took half a step back, becoming an observer, for now.
The morning could continue.
First one.
Then the other.
Mike leaned his back against the counter, heavily, steadily, as if taking a position for something he had done hundreds of times before. He spread his legs without a word, pulling his boxers down just enough for his cock to pop out freely, hard, thick, pulsing with morning tension. He stood over me, tall, dominant, absolutely sure of what he was about to get.
I lifted my head and just looked for a moment. I liked that second of silence. That fraction of time when he knew he was about to feel my lips. Mike snorted quietly.
I wrapped my hand around the base, feeling the warmth of his skin, the tension in his muscles. My lips parted of their own accord. I took him into my mouth confidently, deeply, without unnecessary foreplay. I liked his weight, the way he reacted immediately, a short, low sigh, his hips pushing forward slightly.
I worked rhythmically, with practiced movements. Tongue, lips, throat. Without haste, but without pause. Mike put his hand on the back of my neck, not pressing hard, but rather marking his presence, his control. He was breathing harder, athletically, like during the last reps at the gym.
"Fuck… yeah." he muttered. "Exactly like that."
I could feel his body tensing up. The tension that had been building since morning was starting to find an outlet. I took him deeper, my throat opening without resistance. I liked the moment when he lost his rhythm, when his hips started moving on their own.
"I'm close," he muttered, his voice heavy with tension.
I didn't pull back. On the contrary. I kept up the pace, steady, confident. His hand tightened on my hair, and then I felt the first spurt of cum on my tongue. Warm, heavy, full. I took it all in, my throat working automatically until the last twitch ran through his body.
Mike sighed deeply, as if after a good workout. He took a step back and reached for a paper towel, more out of habit than necessity.
"Relief like gold," he said with satisfaction. "Thanks, man."
He pulled up his boxers, grabbed his bag, and was already thinking about something else. Morning problem solved. He walked past me, patted me lightly on the shoulder, and left the kitchen as if he had just taken care of one of his many daily tasks.
I remained on my knees.
And I knew that the morning wasn't over yet.
"Jackson, I see you're waiting," I said quietly, looking him in the eyes. "I'll take care of you now."
Jackson didn’t move right away. He always gave that moment some space, as if he liked the contrast after Mike. He slid his boxers down and sat more calmly, his weight settling into the chair, spreading his legs slowly, without haste. His cock was already hard, ready, but he didn’t push forward. He waited.
I got up from my knees just for a moment to change position, then knelt in front of him again. Closer. More intimate. Jackson leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his thighs. One hand slid into my hair, the other rested on the back of my neck, warm, present, guiding.
"Take it easy," he murmured softly. "We have time."
That was the difference with him. With him, everything slowed down. He looked into my eyes, not looking away as I took him into my mouth. More gently at first. My tongue slowly traced the head. He responded with a quiet breath, the tension in his hands.
I worked my mouth slower, deeper, letting him set the rhythm. Jackson didn't push his hips. Instead, he pulled me in subtly, guiding me when he wanted more. Our eyes met every few moments. It was a different kind of sucking. Less task-oriented. More personal.
"I like the way you look at me," he said quietly, almost in a whisper.
His fingers tightened in my hair as I took him deeper. My throat relaxed naturally, as if it already knew the way. I felt his body slowly tense, his breathing quicken, not violently, but in a controlled manner.
A moment later, I felt a hot spurt hit my throat, an intense, heavy, pure impulse. I took it all without pulling back, until the last twitch of his hips. He closed his eyes, his head fell back, and a quiet moan of relief and satisfaction escaped his lips.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then he opened his eyes and looked at me with that calm, ironic smile of his.
"High quality," he said quietly. "It's really worth living here."
He got up slowly, stretching lazily, as if after a good start to the day. I liked watching them at moments like this.
With them, every day was full of surprises. And every time, I couldn't wait for the next one.
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