[ 6 ]
The second time my roommate went out of town for the weekend, Andrew took the chance and declared my dorm as our study hall. Also, our paper was kinda fucking due the following Monday and we’d written precisely zero percent of it.
“I’m not a good writer,” he complained, seated in the chair at my roommate’s desk.
The laptop was growing hot on my thighs where I typed, seated cross-legged on the bed. “You don’t have to be. I’m typing it out, you just need to help me think.”
“I’m not a good thinker.”
“I have a thesis figured out. Kinda. I have our notes here. I know what we’re going to say, just … I need a little more input from you, Andrew.”
“I’m the inspiration.” He folded his arms, spinning around in my roommate’s swivel chair. I got the pleasure of watching his body in three hundred and sixty degrees as it rotated. He wore a plain white t-shirt with a pair of torn jeans today. “Without me, the paper would be boring. Hey.” He stopped spinning, facing me. “Let’s play.”
“Let’s write.” I typed out the intro paragraph, worked a thesis into it somehow. Of course, my mind kept warring with me. One side hollered at me to pay mind to the deliciously big boy sitting in the chair. The other side panicked for the soon-approaching deadline. Then there’s the issue of how my cock kept throbbing gallingly at me every five seconds. It was like I could still feel Andrew’s cock pressed against my cheek. He looks really good in that shirt, I reasoned, then realized he’d look good in any shirt he wore. What a stupid thing to think.
I bit my lip, frustrated beyond all hell, then finally met Andrew’s hungry eyes with my own. “Before we play again, I want to make a new rule.”
“Fine. New rule is—”
“New rule is,” I took over, not allowing the ever-bossy Andrew to take charge as he always does, “no consequence of any game is you leaving the dorm and not coming back all weekend. That’s just stupid, and if you’re not going to help me with this paper, then we both fail. Got it?”
He stood up from the chair at once and rushed to the bed. I only had time to let out a gasp before my laptop was flung to the side and Andrew Knudson sat on me. His hands pinned mine above my head to the wall and he was straddling my lap, his power-thighs trapping me. His face, stern and iron-cold, stayed a mere two inches from mine. I could feel his every breath on my face.
“The rule,” he said in a voice so low it crept up my spine and tickled the little hairs in my ear, “is that you gotta stay absolutely fucking still.”
“Okay.”
“And no talking.”
I nodded.
My hands were still pinned to the wall behind me. He kept them there with just one of his hands. He’s so strong. The other hand traced down my arm, slowly, like a drop of water or a tiny bug. I flinched a bit when he approached my underarm.
“Stay still,” he said, and his voice carried a lilt of warning. “That’s the only rule. Stay still or you lose.”
“But it—!”
“And no talking. Wasn’t I clear?” His face inches from mine, I felt myself breathing hard and heavy. My cock was so hard, I felt like I was leaking bad. I clenched shut my lips, clamped, tight, clenching and clenching.
His hand began to move again.
When he got to my underarm, it was almost unbearable. I shivered and shivered, trying with all my nerves not to squirm and laugh. Is this the point of the game? I wondered. Is this a tickling game? The slower his hand moved across my armpit, the harder I got. The sensations were driving me wild. I felt a pox of goose bumps all over my body. He had my hands pinned high above me, but he even had my legs pinned too, held firmly beneath the weight of his own body. I was all his to do with as he pleased … and it seemed he pleased to do a lot.
“Doing good,” he said, as if it helped ease the torment of sensations wriggling through my growing-ever-the-more-sensitive body.
“How long’s this last??”
“Until you fuck up,” he answered. “Shut up.”
His hand continued down to my chest. I almost squeaked when his wicked fingers reached my right nipple. Oh my god. He lingered there quite deliberately; he must’ve noticed something in my face, whether it was a flinch or a squirm of an eyebrow. He began to tease my nipple, slowly, gently. Then he pinched it. I shut my eyes and bit my lip. Fuck being tickled, I thought. This feels good.
But then his evil hand slid to my side, and before I knew it he’d entered the next most-sensitive area imaginable: my ribs. I took in a deep and futile breath as his hand played devilishly down my side. It wasn’t so bad until his fingers started to move, like five individual ticklers, each with a mind worse than the next. He knows what he’s doing, I knew. He’s an expert. He was so gentle, so, so gentle. Not to mention, I also still had the problem of a certain throbbing something between my legs that couldn’t be tamed.
“You won my pants,” he announced. I opened my eyes, lifted my brow. Is it safe to talk? “Keep it up longer and you get my shirt.”
No fucking way. The longer I last, the more naked he’ll get? I felt a smile break across my face.
Andrew, notably not smiling, leaned in as his hand began to move again. “Yeah, sounds nice and all. But the game ends when your silence does.”
With that, I felt his fingers go lower. Lower. Lower. Before I realized what he was doing, his mischievous grin had returned and my mouth flung open in a silent gasp. He tugged once, and the button to my pants flew off. He tugged again and a zipper slid down. My eyes grew double.
“Moaning counts,” he muttered. And then his hand gripped my swollen cock. My jaw dropped further to emit a yelp of surprise, a gasp, a groan, something, but nothing emerged but silence and nothing and nothing. His fingers, now the five little masters of my cock, began stroking.
This was no tickle torment anymore. Shit just got serious.
He neither moved nor spoke for a while. My legs were trapped and useless beneath his body, and my hands were still pinned to the wall. I had nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, nowhere to look but right into his delicious, horrible face. His own lips parted. He was excited; this was his thing. I could see the hunger in his eyes, the yearning, the longing … but perhaps it was more the hunger for winning that I was seeing, not something else.
His jerking of my cock quickened. “Don’t even think about moaning,” he threatened. I felt my toes curling; at least he couldn’t see them. I’d let all my excitement out through the expressive wringing and wriggling and curling and uncurling of my toes, but never in my body. I have to win, I realized. I have to get his shirt off again. Ever since that cruel Friday, I’d hungered so bad to see him shirtless. I wanted his body and I would pay almost any price.
I was getting close. He’s an expert jerker of the male member. My breathing was quick, but even that had to be quieted in order to win. I couldn’t make a sound, not even the rasping of breath. It was a silence nearly impossible to maintain.
But all the restraint of physical expression only made me that much more aware of my sense of touch. The way he worked my cock, if only I had the freedom of voice, I’d be squealing and yelping and moaning and clawing at him.
I felt my cock pulsing, pulsing, reaching the point of no return. My eyes began to rock back.
“Oh god,” I blurted out.
And just as he let go, my cock erupted. Don’t stop, I wanted to scream, agonized, frustrated, but it was too late, and with my eyes clamped shut, I felt wave after wave of cum thrusting out of me. I cried out, moaned, and my wrists fought against his powerful hand, squirming, my legs and thighs wrestling under the weight of his body.
My eyes shot open and I kept yanking on my hands, desperate to continue jerking myself. “Why’d you fucking stop??” I exclaimed, out of breath, my cock dribbling now, bobbing up and down, as desperate as the jagged breath I’m trying to catch.
“You made a sound,” he said simply. “You lost.”
I inhaled three times, filling my lungs, trying so feebly to calm myself. Then finally I shouted, “Is that what this is about?? You won’t—” I took a breath, let it out, “—do anything sexual with another dude unless the rules of some game—” I took a breath, let it out, “—allow you to?”
He didn’t address my question. He only glanced down at his chest, then frowned. “You got jizz on my shirt.”
“Maybe that’s what our paper should’ve been about,” I breathed, feeling my pulse in my throat. “Denial. Got a whole chapter on that, I’m pretty sure. Maybe its own textbook, even.”
“No one’s denying anything,” he said finally, meeting my eyes. “I like games. It’s what gets me off. And also, I’m a man of my word.”
Finally he let go, slid off the bed, and began to unbuckle his pants. I brought down my arms to nurse two sore, tingling wrists and watched as Andrew threw aside his belt like a bothersome thing and popped his own pants open. With a thrust, he dropped them to his ankles and stood proud. Today, he wore a loose pair of blue and green plaid boxers. They did not hide his own cock well.
“So you’ve made a mess of me all over my bed,” I point out. “Is this my reward? Getting to see your legs?”
He shrugged. “I’ll pull them back up if you’re not interested.” Even as he said it, he bent down to retrieve his fallen pants.
“No,” I blurted out. He stopped, lifting a brow at me. “Don’t you dare. The sight of your legs is my … my prize and … I want it.”
“More than finishing a psychology paper?”
“We’ll get to that later. Right now, I want to enjoy what a bunch of unnecessary tickling and a nipple-pinching and half an interrupted cum just earned me.”
“Either this or the paper.” He crossed his arms, looking like some muscle beast, waiting.
“Huh?” I pulled myself to the edge of the bed, minding the cum that was turning cold on my still-exposed and softening cock. “How’s that a fair choice? We have to do the paper. It’s due Monday. We’ve had four weeks now.”
“Paper or me.”
“That’s bullshit.” I couldn’t believe he was making me choose. It just wasn’t reasonable at all. Like picking whether to eat or breathe for a day and only being able to choose one.
“What’s your answer?”
“Don’t you care about your own grade? If we don’t do the paper—”
“Either we work on the paper,” he spoke, obnoxiously slow, as if I was the dumb kid in the back of the class with the drool hanging from my slack mouth, “or I keep my pants off. One or the other. You can’t have both.”
“What is this?” I asked, challenging him. “Another fucking game?”
“Make your choice, boy.”
Boy.
Boy …
This was the first time he ever called me boy. With that one word, he put me in my place, from then on. That one word branded me, collared me. I didn’t quite realize it then, but from that point until now, I would be his boy … his toy … his glad and willing game-thing.
And what kind of boy, exactly, did that make me? What kind of boy did that make him?
“Fuck the paper,” I breathed.