18+ Adult Content | All characters are 18+ | Explicit MM themes | 100% Pure Fiction
Cody’s eyes snapped open. The room was still dark, the faint glow of the streetlamp casting long shadows across the ceiling. His heart pounded against his ribs, and for a disorienting moment, he couldn’t place what had woken him. Then it came flooding back: Jason’s mouth, hot and insistent, the wet heat of his tongue as it darted around his hard cock.
He exhaled slowly, forcing his breathing to even out. The sheets were tangled around his legs, and his boxers felt too tight. He was hard again.
Of course he was hard.
His body had apparently decided to replay the highlights of yesterday without consulting his brain first.
“Fuck,” he whispered into the darkness.
He stared at the ceiling, trying to avoid the thoughts his dick kept leading him back to. The familiar shapes of his room materialized around him: the tennis trophies on the shelf, the neatly folded laundry on the desk chair, the graduation gown still in its plastic bag, draped over the back of his desk chair like a ghost waiting to be worn.
Jason’s voice echoed in his head.
“Just a blowjob.”
As if it had been nothing. As if Cody hadn’t sat in his car afterward, hands shaking on the steering wheel, reeling from the taste of Jason’s lips. A taste that would not leave his memory.
He kicked the sheets off and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cool against his bare feet, grounding him in the present. He needed to do something—anything to burn this restless energy out of his system before it consumed him entirely.
His phone showed 6:47 AM. It was slightly earlier than he usually woke on a Sunday, but sleep wasn’t coming back. Not with the memory of Jason’s eyes looking up at him, pupils blown wide, lips stretched around his cock.
Smiling as he gorged himself on Cody’s fleshy member.
Cody stood abruptly and headed for the shower.
The water was cold at first, shocking his system into alertness. He adjusted the temperature, letting the heat soak into his shoulders, trying to wash away the thoughts of Jason’s hands on his hips during training.
It didn’t work.
Nothing worked.
But at least the routine was familiar.
By 7:15, he was dressed in his tennis gear, his racket bag slung over his shoulder.
The house was quiet. His parents wouldn’t be up for another hour at least. He left a brief note on the kitchen counter:
“Went to the club. Back for lunch.”
The drive to the athletic club took fifteen minutes. The roads were empty, the morning light soft and golden through his windshield. He drove with the windows down, letting the cool air whip through the car, hoping it would clear his head.
It didn’t.
The parking lot was nearly empty when he arrived. Just a few cars near the entrance, belonging to the early-morning regulars.
Cody grabbed his bag and headed inside, the familiar scent of rubber and floor polish filling his nostrils.
The indoor courts stretched out before him, pristine and gleaming under the overhead lights. The high ceilings amplified every sound: the squeak of his sneakers, the zip of his bag opening, the soft thwack of the ball as he bounced it against his racket strings.
He started with serves. The motion was mechanical, practiced thousands of times until it lived in his muscle memory.
Toss the ball. Bend the knees. Rotate the shoulders. Snap the wrist.
The ball rocketed over the net, landing precisely in the service box with a satisfying pop.
Again.
Toss. Bend. Rotate. Snap.
Again.
The rhythm settled into his bones.
This was who he was: controlled, precise, disciplined.
Not some guy who got blown in a car by his coworker and then couldn’t stop thinking about it.
But Jason’s mouth kept intruding.
The way he’d taken Cody so deep, no hesitation, no gag reflex. The hungry sounds he’d made, like Cody’s cock was the best thing he’d ever tasted.
Cody’s next serve went wide.
He cursed under his breath and retrieved another ball.
Focus.
He drilled for an hour, working through his usual routine: serves, forehands, backhands, volleys. Sweat rolled down his temples, stinging his eyes. His shirt clung to his back, damp and heavy. His muscles burned with the pleasant ache of exertion.
But the focus he sought remained elusive.
Every time he found his rhythm, Jason’s face materialized in his mind. That knowing smirk. The challenge in his eyes. The softness of his lips.
“Shit.”
Cody slammed his racket against the ground, then immediately felt stupid.
He never lost control on the court.
That was the whole point.
He retrieved his racket and took a breath.
This wasn’t like him. He didn’t get rattled. He didn’t let anything interfere with his game.
But Jason wasn’t anything.
He was a force of nature—chaotic and magnetic—and Cody had walked right into his orbit.
He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing the court, the net, the lines.
When he opened them, he felt steadier.
He played for another thirty minutes, pushing himself harder than usual. By the time he finally stopped, his legs were trembling and his lungs burned. He collapsed onto the bench near the water fountain, guzzling water like a man dying of thirst.
The court was silent except for his ragged breathing. The other early-morning players had finished and left.
He was alone with his thoughts, his exhausted body, and the persistent ache in his chest that had nothing to do with exercise.
He pulled out his phone and checked the time.
9:23 AM.
He’d been playing for nearly two hours.
“Good,” he said aloud, his voice rough. “That’s good.”
But it wasn’t good.
Nothing about this was good.
He’d gone to the courts to clear his head, and instead he’d spent two hours torturing himself with memories of Jason’s mouth.
He gathered his things and headed for the showers.
The hot water rushed over his aching muscles, washing away the sweat but doing nothing for the turmoil inside.
He needed to get a grip.
Today was supposed to be about routine—about maintaining the structure that kept him sane. Tennis, graduation errands, breakfast with his parents.
Normal things.
Safe things.
Not thinking about Jason Archer’s mouth wrapped around his cock.
He turned off the water and toweled off, his movements sharp and efficient. The locker room was empty, the mirror fogged with steam. He wiped a clear spot and stared at his reflection.
Hazel eyes stared back, red-rimmed and tired. His brown hair was plastered to his forehead, dripping onto his shoulders. A small, faint scar ran along his left cheek, a reminder of a childhood accident.
He looked the same as always.
Same face. Same body. Same controlled expression.
But something had shifted inside him—something he couldn’t see in the mirror but felt with every breath.
“Get it together,” he told his reflection.
His reflection stared back, unconvinced.
He dressed quickly and headed out. The graduation supply office opened at 10:00 AM, and he wanted to get there early to beat the crowd.
The drive took ten minutes. The storefront was small, tucked between a dry cleaner and a nail salon. A handwritten sign in the window read:
“Graduation Gowns – Cap & Gown Packages – Honor Cords.”
Cody pushed through the door, a bell chiming overhead.
The interior was fluorescent-lit and climate-controlled, the air smelling faintly of new fabric and industrial cleaner. Plastic chairs lined one wall, currently empty. Display racks held sample gowns in various colors.
A middle-aged woman sat behind the counter typing on a computer. She looked up as he approached.
“Can I help you?”
“Bennett,” he said. “Cody Bennett. I’m here to pick up my gown.”
She nodded, fingers flying across the keyboard.
“ID?”
He handed it over.
She glanced at it, then back at her screen, nodding again.
“Everything’s paid for,” she said in a tone that screamed monotony. “Let me grab your package.”
She disappeared into a back room, returning moments later with a plastic bag containing a folded mass of dark blue fabric.
She slid it across the counter.
“Congratulations,” she said automatically.
“Thanks.”
He took the bag, the fabric surprisingly light in his hands.
That was it.
No fanfare.
No ceremony.
Just a transaction—a rite of passage reduced to plastic and polyester.
He stood for a moment, the bag dangling from his fingers.
In two days, he’d wear this gown, walk across a stage, and receive a piece of paper that signified the end of his childhood.
Everything he’d worked for—all the discipline and focus—culminating in a moment that should feel momentous.
“Is there anything else?” the woman asked, her tone suggesting she was ready for him to leave.
“No.”
He managed a tight smile.
“Thanks.”
The bell chimed again as he stepped outside.
The morning had warmed, the sun bright in a cloudless sky.
He opened the back door of his car and tossed the gown onto the seat, where it landed in a shapeless heap.
He should feel something.
Pride, maybe.
Accomplishment.
Instead, all he could think about was Jason—and how badly he wanted… no, needed to feel it again.
He slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine.
His phone buzzed with a text from his mom.
Breakfast at Rosita’s at 11? Dad wants to celebrate your last day of freedom before work starts.
Work...
Jason would be there.
Every day.
In close proximity.
With that mouth.
“Sure,” he typed back.
See you there.
The drive to Rosita’s took fifteen minutes.
The restaurant was housed in a converted gas station, its walls painted bright bubblegum pink and yellow. Papel picado banners hung across the windows, their intricate designs catching the light.
The smell of sizzling chorizo and fresh tortillas wafted through the air, making Cody’s stomach growl despite everything.
He parked and sat for a moment, gripping the steering wheel.
He needed to pull himself together.
His parents couldn’t know anything was wrong. They had spent eighteen years praising his stability, his control, his ability to handle anything that came his way.
He wasn’t about to shatter that illusion over a blowjob.
He took a breath, smoothed his hair, and climbed out of the car.
The interior of Rosita’s was warm and crowded, the air thick with the sound of chatter and clinking dishes.
Cody spotted his parents in a booth near the back, his dad already halfway through a cup of coffee.
“Hey.”
He slid into the booth across from them, forcing a smile.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“You’re not late,” his mom said, sliding a menu across the table. “We just got here.”
His dad looked up from his phone.
“How was tennis?”
“Good.”
Cody reached for a chip from the basket in the center of the table, the crunch loud in the brief silence.
“Productive.”
“You’re always productive,” his dad said, something between pride and amusement in his voice. “That’s what I like about you.”
Cody smiled tightly.
“Thanks. I learned it from you.”
The waitress appeared, a young woman with a bright smile and a notepad.
“What can I get you?”
“Chorizo and egg,” his mom said without looking at the menu. “Extra cilantro.”
“Beans and cheese,” his dad added. “And another coffee.”
They both looked at Cody.
“Same as always,” he said.
“Scrambled eggs, bacon, avocado.”
The waitress nodded and disappeared.
His mom leaned forward, her eyes warm.
“Big day this weekend. Graduation. Along with your job at Freshway, you’re really setting yourself up for college.”
Cody nodded, reaching for another chip.
“Yeah. Just another step.”
“We’re so proud of you, Cody.”
Her hand reached across the table, squeezing his briefly.
“You’ve always known how to handle yourself.”
Handle yourself.
The words landed like a weight in his chest.
If she knew.
If either of them knew.
“Thanks, Mom.”
He kept his voice steady, his expression neutral.
“I appreciate it.”
His dad took a sip of coffee, his gaze sharpening slightly.
“This job at the grocery store. You’re sure it’s the right move? I mean, with tennis and everything...”
“It’s fine.”
Cody forced another chip into his mouth to buy time.
“The hours work with my schedule. And the pay is decent.”
“Plus the employee discount,” his mom added, clearly trying to be helpful.
“Right.”
Cody nodded.
“The discount.”
The food arrived, plates steaming and fragrant.
Cody busied himself with assembling his taco, the motions familiar and soothing.
“So,” his dad said between bites, “any interesting coworkers?”
Cody’s hand stilled.
He almost choked on the scrambled eggs.
For a fraction of a second, his composure cracked.
Then he recovered, reaching for the hot sauce.
“Not really,” he said.
“Just the usual mix, you know. Some high school kids, some older folks.”
“No one special?” his mom asked.
Her tone was casual, but her eyes were curious.
Cody focused on his taco—the eggs perfectly scrambled, the bacon crisp, the avocado creamy.
He took a bite, chewing slowly.
“No,” he said finally.
“No one special.”
The lie tasted bitter, but he swallowed it down with the food.
They talked about other things: the weather, graduation logistics, his mom’s garden, his dad’s golf game.
The conversation flowed easily, the familiar rhythms of family breakfast settling around him like a warm blanket.
But underneath it all, Cody felt the split widening.
The stable, controlled son his parents saw.
And the confused, hungry person he was becoming.
Two versions of himself, existing in the same body, neither fully real.
By the time he finished his second taco, the restaurant had filled up, the noise level rising.
“I should get going,” he said, reaching for his wallet.
“Got some stuff to do before tomorrow.”
His dad waved him off.
“I’ve got it. You go do what you need to do.”
“Thanks.”
Cody slid out of the booth.
“See you at dinner?”
“We’ll be here,” his mom said with a warm smile.
He left the restaurant, the heat of the morning already giving way to the oppressive warmth of midday.
His car sat in the parking lot, waiting.
He climbed in and sat for a moment, hands on the steering wheel.
The graduation gown lay in a heap on the back seat.
In the front seat, his tennis bag emitted the faint scent of sweat.
Home was ten minutes away.
Ten minutes of silence.
Ten minutes of space.
Ten minutes of trying to hold himself together.
He started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot.
The drive was uneventful.
The radio played something forgettable, the announcer’s voice a low hum beneath his thoughts.
He focused on the road, on the steady flow of traffic, on the familiar landmarks of his suburban neighborhood.
By the time he pulled into the driveway, he felt marginally steadier.
The house was empty. His parents were still at the restaurant.
He let himself in and headed straight for his room.
The space was exactly as he’d left it that morning: the bed unmade, the graduation gown draped over the chair, the faint scent of his own cologne lingering in the air.
He closed the door behind him and leaned against it.
Alone.
Finally alone.
He quickly made his bed and emptied out his gym bag, tossing the clothes into the wash.
Then he came across it.
His green work polo.
The one he wore last night.
Cody stared at it for a moment.
Then the memory hit.
It still carried the faint hint of yesterday, and the memories came flooding back.
He tossed the shirt—not into the hamper—but into his closet.
The one item in his room not in its proper place.
He crossed to the bed and flopped onto his back, staring at the ceiling.
The fan spun lazily overhead, casting shifting shadows across the walls.
His mind drifted, as it always did, to Jason.
The car.
The rain.
The heat of his mouth.
The casual way he’d fixed Cody’s battery afterward, as if nothing had happened.
As if Cody’s entire world hadn’t just tilted on its axis.
“Just a blowjob.”
The words echoed.
Jason had acted like it was nothing.
But Cody remembered the way his own hands had trembled slightly when he and Jason reached for the jumper cables.
How he could not make conversation as they finished getting Cody’s car to start.
For Cody, this was his first time and it had been with someone for whom the act meant so little.
His reflection stared back, unconvinced. And in a few days, he would see Jason again.
This time, he didn’t know what he would do.
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