I was eighteen and so was my roommate Matt when it finally happened. We’d shared a shitty off-campus apartment for six months, both of us pretending the late-night talks and accidental touches meant nothing. That night the air felt thick after we’d split a bottle of cheap whiskey. Matt sat on the edge of his bed in nothing but boxers, legs spread, and I couldn’t stop staring at the outline of his cock pressing against the thin cotton.
“You keep looking,” he said, voice low and rough. “You want to touch it?”
My mouth went dry. I nodded. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband and shoved the boxers down. His dick sprang up, thick and already leaking at the tip. I dropped to my knees between his legs without thinking. The smell of him—sweat and skin and that sharp, clean scent of pre-cum—hit me hard. I wrapped my fingers around the base and gave an experimental stroke. Matt groaned, hips twitching.
“Fuck, yeah.
Put your mouth on it.”
I leaned in and licked the head, tasting salt. He tasted good, so I opened wider and took the first few inches. My tongue slid along the underside while I sucked. Matt’s hand landed on the back of my head, not pushing, just resting there. I bobbed lower, gagging a little when the head bumped my throat, but I didn’t pull off. I wanted all of it.
After a minute he pulled me up and kissed me, messy and hungry. Our tongues slid together while his hands shoved my sweats down. My own cock slapped against my stomach, hard as steel. He wrapped a fist around it and stroked, thumb smearing the wetness at the tip.
“Get on the bed,” he ordered.
I climbed up on all fours, ass in the air. Matt knelt behind me and spread my cheeks with both hands. The first lick over my hole made me jerk and moan. He kept at it, tongue pushing inside, getting me wet and open. When he added a finger, slick with spit, I pushed back against it.
“More,” I begged.
He worked two fingers in, then three, scissoring and twisting until I was shaking. I heard the crinkle of a condom wrapper, then the click of lube. The blunt head of his cock pressed against my hole.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, voice tight.
He pushed in slow. The stretch burned, but it felt good too—full, deep, exactly what I’d been craving. Once he was all the way inside he paused, breathing hard. Then he started moving. Each thrust rocked me forward. Skin slapped skin. He reached under me and jerked my cock in time with his hips.
“Fuck, your ass is so tight,” he growled. “Taking every inch like you were made for it.”
I came first, shooting across the sheets with a broken cry. My hole clenched around him and he followed right after, buried deep, groaning my name. We stayed locked together until he softened and slipped out. He pulled the condom off, tied it, and tossed it, then flopped down beside me.
We lay there breathing hard, sweat cooling on our skin. Matt’s hand found mine and squeezed.
“Been wanting that since the first week,” he admitted.
I turned my head and kissed his shoulder. “Same.”
Neither of us moved for a long time. When we finally got up to clean off, we ended up in the shower together, soaping each other’s bodies, cocks stirring again under the hot water. We didn’t fuck a second time that night, but we stroked each other slow and easy until we both came, watching the mess swirl down the drain.
Afterward we climbed into his bed instead of our own. Matt pulled me against his chest, one arm slung over my waist. I fell asleep listening to his heartbeat, already wondering how soon we could do it again.
