Jake and I had been roommates for two years, both of us pushing thirty and still single. I always figured I was straight—dated women, watched straight porn, never thought twice about it. One Friday night we split a bottle of whiskey after work. The TV was on mute. Jake started talking about how he liked cock sometimes, how it felt different. I laughed it off at first, but the more he described it the harder my dick got in my jeans.
He noticed. “You’re packing right now, aren’t you?” he said, voice low and rough. I didn’t answer. He reached over and squeezed my bulge through the denim. “Fuck, you’re thick.” I should have pushed his hand away. Instead I spread my legs a little.
“Show me,” he said. I unzipped and pulled my cock out. It was already leaking. Jake wrapped his fist around it and stroked once, slow and tight. “You want to know what it’s like, don’t you?”
I nodded. He dropped to his knees between my legs and swallowed me in one go. Hot, wet, no hesitation. His tongue worked the underside while he sucked hard. I grabbed the back of his head and started fucking his mouth. The sounds were filthy—wet slurps, my heavy breathing, his hand jerking what he couldn’t fit. I came fast, shooting down his throat while he swallowed every drop.
We didn’t talk about it the next day. But two nights later he walked into my room naked, hard cock swinging. “Your turn,” he said. I got on my knees. His dick was shorter than mine but thicker, veins standing out. I licked the head first, tasting salt. Then I opened up and took him in. It felt strange at first, the weight on my tongue, but I liked it. I liked the way he groaned when I sucked harder. He held my head and thrust shallow, teaching me how deep he wanted it. I gagged once and he laughed, then fucked my throat until he flooded my mouth. I swallowed because he told me to.
After that we stopped pretending. A week later he bent me over the kitchen counter. He spit on my hole, worked two fingers in, then three, stretching me open while I grunted and pushed back. When he lined his cock up and pushed inside I thought it would hurt more. It burned, but the burn turned into something hot and full. He fucked me slow at first, then harder, skin slapping, my cock dripping on the floor. Every thrust knocked a grunt out of me. He reached around and jerked me off while he pounded my ass. I came all over the cabinet, and he followed right after, pumping his load deep inside me.
We kept going. Some nights he made me ride him on the couch, my ass stretched around his thick shaft while he played with my nipples and told me what a cock-hungry slut I was turning into. Other nights he fucked my face until tears ran down my cheeks, then flipped me over and bred me again. I stopped thinking about women.
All I wanted was his dick— in my mouth, in my ass, down my throat while I jerked off.
One night he had me on all fours on his bed, face in the pillow, ass up. He ate me out first, tongue pushing inside, getting me sloppy and open. Then he slid in balls-deep in one thrust. I moaned like a whore. He grabbed my hips and railed me, long strokes that pulled almost all the way out before slamming back in. My cock swung heavy and untouched, leaking onto the sheets. He reached under and squeezed my balls while he fucked me, telling me I was his now. I came without touching myself, shooting onto the mattress while my ass clenched around him. He kept going until he filled me up again, hot cum leaking out around his cock when he finally pulled out.
We never labeled it. I still called myself straight to anyone who asked. But every night I ended up in his bed, legs spread, taking whatever he gave me. Raw, direct, no romance—just two guys using each other until we were spent and sticky. And every time he pushed inside me I knew I’d be back for more.
