Straight Man's Game
Pinched against the bedroom door, Jerry desperately fought the mental urge to surrender. He might have been physically overpowered, but he would not let his heart—or his groin—betray him further. He turned his head away, struggling for purchase, striving to feel only revulsion for the man who had just admitted to ruining his life out of a selfish curiosity.
But Jerome was relentless. His grinding was deliberate, his body a furnace of hard muscle and undeniable heat.
“Ooh, you smell so fucking good, Jerry,” Jerome whispered, his breath hot against Jerry’s ear, his voice husky with lust. “I can already feel myself getting hard by your smell alone… Oh, fuck, I’m getting hard, baby.”
Jerome looked down, his eyes locking onto Jerry’s face. Jerry’s cheeks were flushed, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth in a futile attempt to stifle the moans. He couldn’t hide it anymore. The decades of suppressed desire, the years of fantasizing over this specific man, had overwhelmed his moral guardrails.
His mind went blank. He stopped fighting and gave in to the moment, pushing his hips forward to match Jerome's rhythm. Two men, fully dressed but utterly exposed, pressed together, both hard, both moaning low, guttural sounds of building tension.
Jerome’s control snapped. He released Jerry, quickly fumbling with his own pants. Before Jerry could process the shift, Jerome was aggressively thrusting his hips, a soundless, desperate culmination of suppressed history. Jerry followed suit, his own pants undone, both men moaning and grunting until the sheer force of it buckled Jerry's knees.
He collapsed to the floor, panting, out of breath, his head spinning. Jerome, still vertical, still shuddering, caught the sight of Jerry on the floor and, with one last agonizing heave, emptied the remainder of his cum directly onto Jerry's shocked face.
Jerry stared up, feeling the warm, sticky residue. The world swam. He had just achieved his first real, intense, pleasure-driven high, and it had been from the man he loved, the man he hated.
A minute passed as the immediate pleasure subsided, leaving behind the crushing weight of reality. Jerome, now calmer, smirked down at the man kneeling before him.
“Oh, you thought this was over?” Jerome asked, his tone dangerously possessive. He took a firm grip on his now-softening member and began stroking it, watching Jerry with an arrogant lust. “Seeing you down there, having some of my cum residue on your face… it makes me fucking hard all over again. Stand up. I still want to suck you off.”
Jerry swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. The proposition was terrifying, yet thrilling. This was the exact, unimaginable fantasy he had performed countless times in private, screaming Jerome's name while looking at an old yearbook photo. He needed that feeling again. He needed to be owned by this man who had haunted his desires for so long.
“Okay,” Jerry managed, his voice barely a rasp.
Jerome continued to stroke himself, watching Jerry quickly rise from the floor. Hesitantly, Jerry touched his own member, still tender and slick, stroking it until it hardened again. He leaned back against the door frame, preparing himself for the fulfillment of the ultimate fantasy.
Jerome knelt down. He continued holding his own erection with one hand, while the other took firm, knowing control of Jerry's. Then, the warmth of Jerome’s mouth closed over him.
Jerry's eyes crossed at the sensation. This was an entirely different level of pleasure than his polite, functional sex with Jasmine. Jerome knew exactly what he was doing, how to worship another man.
“Ah, uh, oooh my god, Jerome,” Jerry breathed heavily, gripping the doorknob behind him. “Your mouth feels so incredibly… hot.”
Jerome temporarily pulled back, his voice thick and husky against Jerry’s skin. He wasn't just sucking; he was tasting, licking the tip like a delicacy. “Mmm, fuck, baby, you taste so good. I love the smell… the taste of your cum from before and the precum you created just now from your erection, taste so sweet.”
His explicit obsession with Jerry’s body drove Jerry closer to the edge. Jerome went back to work, deep-throating, taking not just the length, but the impressive girth that made Jerome gag slightly. The sensation of his lover struggling beneath him, giving him everything, was the final push. “Oh my God, Jerome!” Jerry shouted, losing control.
In a moment of pure, blinding anger mixed with pleasure, Jerry grabbed the back of Jerome’s head and began thrusting forward, humping his mouth with desperate force. He turned his head away, eyes squeezed shut, and let his mind go back to the image of Jerome, his massive, veiny member penetrating Jasmine.
“Mmh, I hate you! I fucking hate you!” Jerry’s voice was a grunt of pain and fury, the words driven out by each desperate thrust. “You could have had me! You could have… fuck, uh! You could have had this every day! But instead, you chose your sister… uh, my wife…”
He was cumming. He was about to explode. Jerome, allowing the forceful act, kept moaning, sending vibrations up Jerry’s length, driving him insane. He stared up at Jerry, his eyes watering, watching the ecstasy of his best friend, his former crush, who was simultaneously railing him and cursing him. Jerome was cumming, too, his own grip tightening on his member.
“I’m about to fucking nut inside your throat, bitch! Aaah!”
And then, Jerry squirted, thick and hot, deep into Jerome’s throat with every single thrust. Jerome followed, his cum spilling out of his own self and onto the floor.
After the torrent ceased, Jerome finished his high, his cheeks slick with tears and cum. He gently pulled off Jerry’s member, but instead of wiping it, he continued to suck the leftover residue like a lollipop.
“Mmh, yes, Jerome. Eat it all. Lick them dry…” Jerry whispered, stroking Jerome's sweat-damp hair, watching the man he loved—the man he realized was so completely, beautifully nasty—swallow every bit of his cum. And he loved every shocking second of it.
Minutes later, the high had crashed, leaving Jerry feeling cold and tainted. He quickly fixed his pants, his hands shaking with a lingering adrenaline, the physical euphoria replaced by crushing clarity. Jerome, already composed and dressed, held him from behind, kissing the side of his neck.
“That was incredible, baby,” Jerome murmured, his tone satisfied.
The touch felt nice, intensely desirable, but the situation remained a chaotic, self-destructive nightmare. Jerry gently pulled away and turned, looking at Jerome with a raw confusion that hurt more than the initial betrayal.
“So… what are we, Jerome?” Jerry asked, keeping his voice low. “I mean… do you even like guys, now?”
Jerome considered the question, a faint, almost pitying smirk playing on his lips. He told the truth, a truth that crushed Jerry’s decades-long secret hope.
“I don’t like them romantically, Jer. Not like that. It’s just something to get the edge off every once in a while.” Jerome elaborated, his explanation clinical and self-serving. “In college, my roommate was gay. I reminded him I was straight, but one night we got drunk and had sex. I remembered it all, decided to do it again, and realized… I like the physicality of it.”
Jerome shrugged, cementing the definition. “I’m straight, Jerry. I just happen to mess around with men from time to time.”
Jerry stared, the disappointment a hollow ache in his chest. Was he hoping Jerome was secretly gay? That their shared act had changed Jerome's identity and meant they could finally be together? Jerry wasn't sure. But hearing Jerome justify his actions with such casual, selfish logic made him realize what an arrogant jerk he truly was.
He rolled his eyes at the sudden use of the nickname "baby." “Don’t think what we just did fixes anything. This changes nothing.”
“Why not?” Jerome challenged, his smirk widening. “This was what you wanted, right? You got mad at me for hooking up with someone else, so I sucked your dick, and you're still pissed off?”
Jerry had no answer. Jerome was right; he had fantasized about that moment. But Jerome had first slept with his own sister, Jerry’s wife. Jerry was too confused, too emotionally exhausted, and too sexually fulfilled to argue. He needed to clear his head, desperately. Jerome agreed to leave, but not before Jerry, against his better judgment, promised they were still friends. The lie felt necessary just to make him leave.
Another week passed. Jerry couldn't stop thinking about Jerome. Their secret had woven itself into the fabric of his marriage.
Night after night, Jerry let Jasmine ride him, but his mind refused to engage unless he imagined the scene differently. He envisioned Jerome, muscular and dominant, riding him instead, Jerome’s erection rising and falling with aggressive force. That vision—the forbidden image of his brother-in-law, his crush, pouncing on his thick girth—was the only key that unlocked his release into Jasmine's body.
Jasmine was similarly entangled. She too found herself needing the mental image of her brother, Jerome, to climax on Jerry's member. They loved and respected each other as co-conspirators in a complicated, broken life, but they were not in love. They were using each other to avoid the truth: they both still revolved around the chaotic gravity of Jerome.
One night, the four of them, along with their children, were gathered for dinner at Stacy and Jerome's house. Stacy, who had chosen to forgive her husband for his past infidelity, kept the atmosphere light. The conversation flowed easily, fueled by wine and laughter. Jerry even received congratulations on a recent promotion at his father's law firm.
Everything felt normal, almost painfully so. Then, Jerry looked across the table at Jerome.
Jerome was taking a sip of wine, holding the glass so it covered the bottom half of his face. Only his eyes were visible above the rim, and in that moment, he secretly winked at Jerry. It was fast, cold, and utterly possessive.
The action sent a flush of heat immediately across Jerry's face. He felt his heart flutter, the calm induced by the wine instantly evaporating. He quickly stood up.
“Excuse me,” he mumbled, heading for the bathroom, ostensibly to clear his head.
Jerome noticed the hasty retreat. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and announced to the ladies that he was stepping outside for a smoke. He stood up and secretly followed Jerry upstairs.
Jerry splashed cold water on his face in the upstairs bathroom, trying to regain his composure. He had felt so stable downstairs, protected by the company and the wine. But that look from Jerome—that claim—had ignited everything again. He needed air.
As soon as he opened the bathroom door, he saw Jerome leaning casually against the door frame, a shadow in the dim hallway.
“J-Jerome!” Jerry stammered, his sudden fear mixed with a jolt of lust. “What are you doing he—”
Jerome shoved the door shut, pushing Jerry back into the small, confined space. Jerry stumbled backward, catching himself on the edge of the sink, baffled.
“Jerome, you cannot be in here! I’m in here!”
“Sshh,” Jerome said, advancing. He looked down at Jerry, gently cupping his cheek, while his erection, hard and straining through his jeans, pressed against Jerry’s. Jerry closed his eyes, a soft, involuntary moan escaping his lips.
“Jerome, please… not now,” Jerry begged, the lustful quality in his voice betraying the words. “I can’t…”
Jerome tilted Jerry’s chin, forcing him to look up. “You can’t… or you won’t?” Jerome tightened his grip on Jerry's waist, pressing their groins together. Jerry gasped, locking eyes with the intense lust in Jerome’s gaze.
Jerome then leaned in and kissed him.
Jerry's previous attempt to fight the urge had only led to more intense sex. This time, he didn't resist. They deepened the kiss, Jerry wrapping his arms tightly around Jerome, consumed by the illicit desperation and the terrifying risk of discovery. Downstairs, the muffled sound of Stacy’s laughter drifted up, underscoring the immediate, dangerous betrayal unfolding behind the locked door.
