Laundry, Lies, and a Jockstrap
Brad stood in the doorway, water still dripping from his hair, towel hanging way too low on his hips, smirking like he knew exactly what he was doing. “Dude,” he said, cocking his head at me. “Are you seriously drooling right now?”
I opened my mouth to respond, maybe deny it, maybe make some dumb excuse but then, without a care in the world, he untucked the towel from his waist and let it fall to the floor.
Just like that. Like it was the most casual thing on earth.
I swallowed so hard it felt like my throat locked up.
He wasn’t naked, thankfully or not thankfully, depending on how you looked at it. He had on a pair of tight, black boxer-briefs that hugged every inch of his thighs and package like they were sprayed on. His dick clearly had room to grow, and the outline left very little to the imagination. He turned slightly, grabbing his phone off the dresser, and I saw the way his ass shifted, jiggled, flexed.
My cock twitched instantly.
Brad glanced at me over his shoulder. “I sleep in my underwear,” he said casually. “If you drool on the floor again, you’re cleaning it up.”
He didn’t even wait for a reaction. He just started walking around the room, checking his phone, sipping from a protein shaker, totally unfazed. He bent to plug his charger into the outlet by the bed, and his ass popped up so high I had to pretend I was busy on my phone just to survive. I flicked through TikToks, pretending to be fully engaged while my eyes betrayed me every five seconds.
I peeked again. His cock bounced slightly when he moved. He really was packing. Like, a lot. I shifted on the half-inflated mattress, trying to adjust myself without looking like I was adjusting myself.
What the hell was I doing? Was this a mistake? Moving in with Brad; the same Brad who apparently walked around in skin-tight underwear without a second thought? Who looked like he belonged on the cover of Men’s Health? Who was straight? And chill about me being gay? And just… shirtless. All the time, apparently.
Because right before he climbed into bed, he turned to me and said, “Oh, heads up. I’m usually shirtless. Like, 90% of the time. Hope that’s not a problem.”
I blinked. “Yeah, cool. No problem.”
It was a problem.
I lay back down, heart still racing, and pulled my hoodie over my lap just in case. Brad turned off the lamp on his nightstand, the room dimming to a faint blue glow from outside. The bed creaked when he flopped into it. I didn’t dare look over.
Instead, I opened Instagram.
And, yeah.
I scrolled through Brad's profile.
This absolute thirst trap of a man was five feet away from me, sleeping in tight black underwear, and I was on his grid, pretending it was totally normal to be deep-diving his shirtless gym selfies at 1 a.m.
I saw one where he was flexing in front of a mirror in a hotel bathroom. Another where he was shirtless in the snow, like a psycho. Then one in neon pink underwear—abs sharp as knives, bulge very prominent.
I dropped my phone on my chest.
This was going to be a long stay.
The next morning, I woke up to sunlight cutting through the blackout curtains. The bed across from me was empty. Sheets messy, pillows shoved to the side. Brad was already gone: either at work, at the gym, or doing one of those random things jocks do without telling anyone.
I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and looked around the room.
Jesus Christ.
His room was a disaster.
There were shirts on the floor, empty shaker bottles on the nightstand, socks that had clearly been kicked off mid-sleep. I found one gym shoe under the bed, the other near the wall. A protein bar wrapper. A tangled phone charger. Just complete chaos.
And maybe it was the gay in me or just my need to not live in a war zone but I couldn’t take it.
So I stood up, cracked my neck, and started tidying. I folded shirts into a semi-neat pile. Gathered bottles and wrappers. Lined up his shoes. Even fixed the curtain so it actually blocked the sun properly.
Then, when I was reaching under the bed to adjust the storage boxes, I spotted something crumpled near the edge of the frame.
Hot Red. Strappy.
My hand froze.
It was a jockstrap.
Just… tossed under the bed. Not hidden. Not carefully folded. Just thrown there like it was any other pair of underwear.
I blinked down at it. My heart thudded.
What the hell was Brad the straight jock doing with a jockstrap? He didn’t play sports anymore. Not the kind that needed those. And this didn’t look like a functional one. It looked… hot. Like something you’d see on some guy’s NSFW page.
I picked it up carefully, like it might explode.
And of course, that was the exact moment the front door creaked open.
Footsteps.
Then Brad’s voice. “Yo, I got some PopTarts from Target. ”
I turned just in time to see him walk in, freeze in the doorway, and look straight at me. Me, crouched in his room, holding his jockstrap like it was sacred.
Brad grinned, eyes flashing with amusement.
“Well damn,” he said. “Didn’t know you were into laundry foreplay.”
Author Note:
Thank you so much for reading my stories. In case you want to support me, I have a lot of erotica on Patreon Consider checking out. All parts released on Patreon.
Part 3, 4 and 5 already live on my page.
