Cliff took me for granted. For some reason he thought I was safe. Once I overheard him tell one of those guys he brought home that he wanted only straight roommates, guys who wouldn’t hit on him, because he only wanted to fuck when he was in the mood. Well, he had been in the mood a lot these past several weeks.
And he also didn’t know me worth spit. I only stayed around here and waited on him and cleaned up after him like I did because I wanted him.
I wanted him so bad.
I’d stay awake nights waiting to hear the scrape of the key in the lock. Then I’d hold my breath and close my eyes tight in case he checked on me before he took his pick of the night to his room. I’d wait until I started to hear the moaning and then I’d quietly leave my bed and steal across to the dark living room, right there in the darker shadow of the TV cabinet, where I could get a good view of the bed in his room. He never shut the door. It was almost as if he expected me to watch—but I’m sure he didn’t, because he sure didn’t show any interest in me when we were alone.
Sometimes Cliff was the top and sometimes he was the bottom. I only really got into the scene when he was the top, though. I wanted him to top me. I’d never done it with a guy before, but I knew from the first time I saw him fucking one of those guys he’d brought home late at night that I wanted him to fuck me. I’d watch them sucking each other off, building up to grappling on the bed, building up their moaning, and my hand went to the front of my sleeping shorts and I’d start going numb everywhere but the very center of me. I’d see Cliff’s cock thicken and lengthen and my butt would twitch from the fantasy of him preparing himself for me. The legs would open wide, and the little cry and the arching of the receiver’s back as he was being entered and filled would have me swaying and moaning and pulling my dong out into the open. Then my eyes would slit and I’d focus on the contracting and rhythm of Cliff’s butt cheeks as he either possessed or was stroked by his lover of the night.
God, I wanted to palm my hands on those butt cheeks as Cliff worked inside me.
From that point I was lost, wanting to move with the figures on the bed, to become one with them. And as time went on, I learned the signals of approaching release and I was able to time my ejaculations closely with theirs.
Then I would retreat back to my bed, as quietly as I could. I never knew where they would go from there. Sometimes the other man would leave immediately and sometimes they would come out to the living area and would raid the refrigerator. But sometimes, there would be a short period of silence and then the moaning would start again. And I’d then leave my bed again and move to my observation nook beside the TV cabinet and watch and stroke to the renewed mating.
The next day, Cliff would act like nothing at all had happened. I don’t know how many times I wanted to say that I wanted it to be me he brought into his room one of those nights. But I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.
I probably would have remained a pining virgin for months only to finally move out of the apartment in frustration from unrequited need for Cliff, leaving him scratching his head about what had gone wrong in what he thought was a perfect roommate setup, if he hadn’t gotten dead drunk that night after our university football team unexpectedly won the Gator Bowl game.
Cliff was half looped on a combination of Bud and vodka and euphoria over the game win even before he flipped off the TV, dressed and grabbed up his jacket, and headed out into the night. We watched the game together and he seemed to enjoy my company. He even flicked me with his towel off and on during the second half as our team piled touchdown on touchdown in what became a rout. He’d taken a shower during halftime and padded out with just the towel around him. I’d stripped off my T myself, hoping that his euphoria might at last turn into arousal for me. But nadda. I was just his roommate; someone else in the room. Someone who would clean up the empty bottles and cardboard pizza boxes after he’d left. Someone safe.
“Whooeee, gotta get me some,” was all he said as time ran out on the field. And then he padded back to his room and pulled on a pair of jeans and a T and was out the door in a flash. He didn’t put on any briefs, so I knew he was going out on the prowl and would be back with some stud in tow a couple of hours later. I could have cried. He didn’t have to go anywhere to find someone for the night.
So, what did I do after Cliff left? I started picking up empty bottles and pizza boxes, of course, and making the place presentable for whoever Cliff came home with. But all the time I was doing it, I was muttering to myself that one of these days I was going to pull on my jeans without any briefs under them, just like Cliff did, and tug on the tightest T I could find—my body was just as well developed as Cliff’s was—and I’d go out into the night and find someone of my own to bring home too.
Who was I kidding, though? It was Cliff I wanted, not any of those guys he brought home.
That night was different from any of the others. Cliff didn’t slip quietly into the apartment with his one night stand that night. Cliff was drunker than a skunk when he came home, and he was making a whole lot of noise.
I decided he had struck out at the pickup bars and had some sort of homing device inside him that managed to get him back in spite of being plastered. My first thought as I heard him muttering incoherently to himself and stumbling through the living room and to his bedroom was intense relief that he hadn’t had a car wreck. But then, when the sound just abruptly stopped, I held my breath for the longest time. Was he OK? Did he need help?
He’d never come home drunk like this before. Maybe he was choking on his own vomit or something. I had no experience in this. Was it good or bad that he’d just gone silent? I knew I had to check on him. I had no idea what to do if he was seriously in need of help, but I had to at least check to see what was what.
I got out of bed, clad only in my droopy sleeping shorts, and padded through the living room and toward the light in his bedroom. I could see Cliff as I approached. He was huddled on the bed, his chest buried in the bedspread, his arms flung out wide, and his knees drawn up so that his bare butt was jutting up at me. My cock gave a lurch at the sight of those rounded orbs that fascinated and aroused me so. His face was turned to me and he was blowing bubbles and snorting and snoring quietly. And he had the most angelic expression on his handsome face.
I ached for him. I didn’t even think of wondering why he was bare-assed. He did have his T-shirt on still. I was drawn to that luscious ass of his. I approached the bed in faulting steps. He certainly didn’t look like he was in any danger. But he also looked liked he was totally oblivious to the world and that nothing short of a four alarm fire would rouse him for hours.
I couldn’t resist. I reached out a hand, ever so tentatively. My fingers were on the flesh of his glutes. The skin felt firm and soft and warm and cool all at the same time. And just the contact made by the pads of my fingers sent little chills up my arms. I heard myself moan, and then, not having any control over myself, I felt my palm stretch out over the curve of his buttock.
At that instant, though, I heard the sound of rustling from the closet corner of the room, and I snatched my hand away and turned and looked there with a little cry of shock and surprise.
He laughed out loud. There was a big, hulking dude in the room with us. A biker type. All tricked out in leather and tattoos. Not fat; heavily muscled. A good face, if a little hard looking; and a great body; the impression of dark curly hair here and about.
He was holding Cliff’s jeans in front of him, and I’d swear he had a hand in one of the back pockets. Taking advantage of the situation.
“Who the hell are you?” he said, as if I was the intruder and this was his room.
“I live here; I’m Cliff’s roommate,” I retorted, rising anger overcoming the surprise. I was in shape, but not in shape like this guy was—and certainly not nearly as big—so I wasn’t thinking too well to go belligerent on him.
“This Cliff?” he asked, pointing to the bubbling angel on the bed.
“Yeah,” I said. “And this is our apartment. What—?”
“They call me Horse,” the biker-type said as he tossed Cliff’s jeans on the floor behind his back, almost daring me to ask him what he was doing with them. “You can guess why they call me that,” he went on. A sneery sort of smile was spreading across his face.
With the jeans out of the way, I got a good look at him. No shirt—none required really; he was clothed in red, blue, and black tattooing in an intricate floral design with flowing vines—black leather vest, tight black leather pants with a big bulge at the crotch, black leather boots, and a black leather baseball cap peeking out of black curly hairlocks. He was darkish; probably at least part Hispanic.
“Well, Horse,” I said, trying, unsuccessfully, to keep a stammer out of my voice. “Thanks for getting Cliff home. Now I guess you’d better be—”
“I don’t think so,” Horse said, that sneery smile of his unfaltering.
“Your roomie here brought me clear across town for a fuck.”
“Well, you can see he’s in no shape to—” I responded, indigence involuntarily creeping into my voice.
“Yes, I see that,” Horse answered in a throaty voice. “Looks like it’s substitute time, then.”
“Oh, no. No,” I said, taking a faltering step away. “I don’t . . . I’m not.”
“I saw you stroke his ass,” Horse said. “Don’t tell me you two aren’t fucking like bunnies.”
“No. I’ve never . . . You need to leave.” My words came out choked, and I turned and fled the room.
But he was faster than I was. And bigger and stronger. I was only half way across the living room when he tackled me to the floor. I don’t know where he got the leather thongs from, but he had me belly down to the carpet, fully covering my body with his, and he held me flat there while he bound my hands together at the wrists above my head. I saw him effortless lift a heavy recliner and bring it back down so that one of the legs came down between my forearms, entrapping my hands under the heavy chair and making sure I couldn’t slither away from him.
I lay there, immobilized by shock, fear, surprise, and his heavy body, whimpering and hyperventilating, too numb from it all to yell out or to demonstrate any form of objection or resistance.
His hands were flying all over my body, and he literally ripped my sleeping shorts off me. He had also stripped himself, because I now felt skin on skin. The hardness and power of him was overwhelming. He had his head buried in the back of my neck and he was nipping me there and making little animal noises. His chest was rubbing against my shoulder blades. I could feel cold metal rubbing against me there; I was dumbly thinking he must have body piercings and, my mind racing to defend my senses from the reality that was happening to me, I was musing about how many rings and such he had about his body. I knew of one for sure. His hips were moving against my buttocks, and there was little doubt that he had a penis ring of some thickness.
The Horse lifted his weight from my back, but still encased my sides closely with his knees, and he flipped me over. I barely had time to focus on the determined sneer on and lust in his face before he was straddling my chest, pulling my head up roughly by the hair, and forcing his ring-pierced cock head between my lips.
I gagged as he took possession of me and quickly filled my mouth with his manhood to the edge of choking. My eyes were watering and I whimpering and thrashing about, trying to escape him. But he was too strong for me.
“Take it,” He muttered darkly. He was stabbing down into my mouth with short, quick strokes. “Suck it proper,” he said. “Open. Take it.”
I was doing my best, but I had no idea what to do, and this all was moving just too fast for me. I was still in shock.
The Horse slammed my head back on the carpet in disgust. And then I saw the expression on his face change. He was regaining control. He had been operating out of animal instinct. The hunt.
“You really haven’t done this before, have you?” he asked, his voice full of wonder.
“No, I haven’t,” I stammered. I suddenly was ashamed. I was twenty and I’d wanted to do this for years. I hadn’t done it because I was a lump. A scared lump. I certainly wanted to do it with Cliff.
“Could of fooled me,” the Horse muttered. “You’re hard enough. Your cock tells me you want it.” He was stroking my cock with a hand thrown back behind him. And I couldn’t deny that I was reacting to that like I wanted sex.
“I saw you with that dude in the bedroom. You wanted him, didn’t you?”
It was a struggle to admit it, but I let it out in almost a wail. “Yes. Yes, I want him.”
I had no chance to say more, because he brought his face down to mine and he possessed my lips with his. He was stretched across my body again. His body, his full body tattoo undulating provocatively, was covering mine and moving on mine.
My body was taking over my decision making. He was stroking my cock and moving his body on mine and kissing me deeply. The tension began to drain out of my body to be replaced with a motion that matched his and sighing and moaning that more than matched his. I closed my eyes tight and imagined that this was Cliff who was making love to me.
But that wasn’t working. When I tried to surface the image of Cliff in my mind, the reality of this nut-brown, muscular body, covered with tattoos and piercings and danger and erotic exoticness fought for recognition. And won. I wasn’t writhing in arousal with Cliff. There was no substituting the elusive, aloof—and drunk on his tail in the other room—Cliff for the strong, powerful, arousing man who was making love to me in reality here on the living room carpet.
He waited for the moment when he no longer was kissing me, but when I was kissing him. And then he broke the kiss and lifted his face from mine and gave me a broad smile.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asked simply.
“No.” I managed to say, surprised at myself that the decision had come so easily. “No. No, don’t stop. But—”
“Shhh,” he said, moving the hand from my cock to brush against my lips. “I can be gentle. If I’m the first, I can control myself.”
“Ohhh,” whimpered. The reality of what was about to happen was becoming more and more real for the first time. “Ohhh. Please,” I whimpered.
“Please stop?” he asked.
“No. No. Please. I want it. Just. You know.”
“Do you want me to untie you? Shall we move to your bed.”
I chomped on that for a few seconds. What did I want? If this was going to happen, did I want it half way? What was the thrill of this man for me? The danger. The power he had over my powerlessness. The whole rough, swarthy, tattooed and body-pierced aspect of him aroused me. I had to admit that the rougher the one night stand that Cliff brought home, the more of a thrill it was for me. The surprise. The forceful taking. I wanted it all.
“No, please. Take me here, like this.”
“Right. Good,” he said, the lustful smile returning to his face. “Shall we start from the beginning?”
“What do you mean. I don’t—”
But the Horse had already started showing me what he meant. He moved to astride my chest again, with his knees encasing my side and he has pushing the head of his ring-pierced cock head at my lips again. this time I opened wide to him, and he slowly stroked against my inner cheeks, moving my head up and down on his rod with hands buried in the hair at the back of my head. He was murmuring instructions. Taking it slow, but filling me to capacity again. Pulling back when I gagged and choked, but relentlessly arousing himself, bringing his cock to gigantic proportions in the warmth of my mouth.
I could feel him trembling above me, but he didn’t take this the full way. He withdrew from me and moved his pelvis down to mine. He was rhythmically moving his hips against mine, and I returned the favor, in coordinating rhythm. Our cocks were rubbing against each other and up and down on each other’s bellies. We were both writhing and trembling now. His chest was rocking up and down just inches above my face, and he brought my lips to a ring-tipped nipple with his hands. I needed no encourage, but started licking and kissing from one hard nipple to the other and then I was tonguing father afield, following the curls of his chest hair and the vining of the floral tattooing across his torso with my tongue. He raised his arms, one after the other, and I buried my face in his pits, tonguing the profusion of black, curly hair there and drinking in the lusty man scent of him hungrily.
His hard, horse-hung cock was slapping against my belly, and I could tell from the increasing rapid rate of the movement of his hips that his needs were becoming more and more insistent.
Well, so were mine.
He was on the move. His face came down to my chest and he was tonguing and nipping at my nipples. Slowly moving down my torso with exploring lips and tongue and wandering hands. I arched my back and gave a little cry as his mouth opened over the head of my throbbing cock and he took me in. And in and in and in.
I ejaculated almost immediately within the close warmth of his mouth, and he swallowed me down with a low guttural humming sound.
He pulled away from me and his knees no longer were encasing my thighs.
“Open to me,” he said in an insistent throaty voice. “Your legs. Open them.”
I opened my legs wide as he pulled a cushion off the nearby sofa. He lifted my pelvis with one hand and pushed the cushion under my hips with the other. My butt was elevated over my head. But he wanted me elevated even farther. He was on his knees below me and between my legs. He gripped the backs of my thighs in strong hands and pushed my torso up so that my weight was borne on my shoulder blades. The sofa cushion was pushing against the small of my back.
I gave a little cry and arched up again as I felt his tongue run between my butt cheeks and brush across my asshole. He continued on up my perineum and was swallowing and working my balls. I was starting to go hard again and I was barely able to control the trembling of my body. The tongue worked its way back to my hole and he was rimming and then tongue-fucking me. I sighed and moaned while he spent several minutes working me with his tongue, making me open to him. The first opening of those gates to the possession of man.
“Rubber. I need a rubber . . . and some lube. God, you are tight. A rubber.”
“I don’t. I don’t know . . . I . . . Cliff’s nightstand. He’s sure to have them there.”
I was left alone, ass over head, hands trapped under a recliner, beginning to have doubts and to hyperventilate again. But, thankfully, only briefly. The Horse had found what he needed and was back.
He stood over me, between my spread thighs, letting me watch him open the condom packet and roll the thin latex on that monster of a cock he had. God, his body was beautiful. Dark, swarthy, covered with a profusion of tattoos. Black, curly hair. A lusty smile. And at the very center of him. Demanding my full attention. Making me fearful and anxious at the same time. That magnificent cock. Soon to be inside me. Could I take it? Surely I couldn’t take it all in.
But I could. And I did.
He went slowly and was as gentle as he could be—at least at first. It seemed like hours ticked slowly away as he took his time entering me, fucking down into my hole from a crouched stance below and above me, with my butt high above my head.
And I watched every inch disappear into me. And I screamed, first in pain, but eventually in ecstasy. And I sweated and strained and cursed and cried out against it and cried for more of it.
When it was all buried inside me and his pubic hair was brushing against my tender inner thighs and I was still gulping and groaning and moaning, he at last lost control and started pumping me long and hard and deep. My body thrashed about involuntarily, but he kept a firm grip in my upper thighs with those strong hands of his, holding my pelvis firmly against his while he fucked me in rapid strokes and to completion.
I ejaculated against up his belly as he went rigid for a brief second, stroked hard three more times, and then went rigid again, gave a deep, animal sound in his throat and collapsed onto my body.
He remained inside me, as he lay on top of me, his sweat slick and musky-sweet to the senses. And I felt him soften, contracting in my canal, and I almost felt a pang of loss as he did so. I was sore and at the edge of exhaustion from the exertion and release of the pent up emotions. The awe of the memory of the straining, flexing muscles of his body as he worked inside me, the undulating garden tattooing. All of that to possess me. Me bringing out that need and lust in him.
It was done. And it was more than I had imagined it would be. Could Cliff had done better? I would never know. The first time could not be repeated.
But the act itself could be repeated.
After only a few moments, the Horse rose up off me and stood over me, a look of satisfaction and possession in his face. A slight return of the sneer. He’d had me. And he’d been the first one to have me. That was something I couldn’t give any other man. Another notch on his belt, but probably a special notch for him. I doubted that he got to fuck too many virgins.
I watched him roll the spent condom, its bulbous head ballooned with his prodigious semen, off his reawakening cock. And then he gave me a wicked smile and I watched him open another condom packet, roll it onto his cock, and stroke himself bigger while he dribbled more lube along his shaft.
“Roll over.” It wasn’t a request.
This time he took me more roughly, my hips on the sofa pillow again, and him on his knees behind me and stroking hard and long into me. He had his hands buried in the hair on my head and had my torso arched back and taunt as he gave me what was probably his usual long, hard, rough fuck.
After this time, I just lay there on the floor, exhausted and moaning and whimpering. Loving it, but hoping to hell he wasn’t going to do it again—at least for a while.
And he didn’t.
I watched his lithe figure move around the apartment with authority and familiarity, just like he owned the place. Just like he owned my body now. He moved like a cat, completely comfortable with his beautiful nakedness.
He raided the refrigerator. He quickly drank off a beer. He burped and then he farted.
And then he moved to Cliff’s room and I watched, stretched out on the floor, while he fucked the passed-out Cliff quickly and brutally from the rear, a repeat of how he had just fucked me. I watched every stroke, remembering and reliving it as he had done it to me. Savoring it. Loving it. Almost wanting it again. Almost.
After the Horse was finished with Cliff, he went in and took a shower, leaving the door to the bathroom open so that I could watch the entire process. Then he dried himself in the doorway and gave me a full shot of stretching his leathers back on his beautiful body.
He leaned down and whispered something in my ear as he untied my hands. Then he sauntered slowly over to the door and was gone into the night.
* * *
“Wow, look at you,” Cliff was saying the next evening as he leaned on the frame of my bedroom door and watched me pull a pair of tight jeans over my naked hips. “Lookin’ good, man.”
Cliff had just showered and a towel was fighting very hard to hold place around his hips and was about to lose the fight. I could tell from the bulge in front that he was interested in something. I couldn’t remember that he’d shown any interest like this around me ever before.
He’d been eyeing me all through dinner and even had made some comments about me being different somehow. And I could swear that he seemed to be flirting with me.
“Goin’ out?” He asked.
“Yeah, I think so,” I answered, pulling a tight T-shirt down over my torso.
“‘Cause, ya know, I thought we might stay in tonight and watch a movie, or somethin’ . . . or somethin’,” Cliff said. And he was giving me “that” look. I couldn’t remember him giving me that look before.
“Sorry, can’t,” I said. “Got a date.” At least I hoped I had. I hoped I’d remembered the name of the bar the Horse had whispered in my ear before he left.
I was humming when I walked out the door to the apartment and shut it behind me, leaving Cliff standing alone in the middle of the living room—right on the spot where I had learned I liked danger and a little rough.