Page 3
Adam hummed - a delighted sort of triumph - as he slipped my swollen tip between his lips.
Movement caught my attention, dragged it away from Adam’s slow descent. Clay setting his sketchpad aside, the pencil placed with care atop it on the desk. Stepping over to my bed, then, the opposite side of my outstretched legs. Bending - with no more than a glance at my face, as if my presence here was purely incidental - to come close to Adam’s measured handiwork.
Some unspoken negotiation between them, a dialog I apparently didn’t need to hear or be involved in.
And then Adam was releasing me, the air momentarily cool on my spit-slicked length, but only for scant seconds before Clay took his place. Licking and sucking down me; the sensations different, only I lacked the words and the focus to describe how that was the case. Thoughts monopolized by the way they passed my dick between them, and the riot of pleasure that was radiating through me as a result.
I could lower my arms, I knew. Unlock my body from the position Clay had guided me to: his touch deft, each adjustment minute but considered. Could grab their heads and pull them to me, bury myself in one throat or the other. Would be met, I was sure of it, with little in the way of resistance or protest. From what I knew of my roommate, certainly, Adam would probably find my seizing control only more of a turn-on.
I didn’t, though. Forced myself to merely observe as they shared my cock; at the way that blowjob by turns slowly transitioned into making out with each other, my fat tip sandwiched between their lips. Looking up - to where Clay had been sitting only minutes before, and picturing an artist there now, sketching the three of us - was a delaying tactic as much as anything, the need to get off building in my depths like a head of steam.
Tight fingers around the base of my dick left me throbbing, like my erection was fit to burst. Magnifying their efforts, the sound of two mouths slobbering on me louder, more eager, more lewd. Tips of tongues needling around the hyper-sensitive flare of my crown, enough to set my toes clenching.
“W-wait...”
My warning unheeded; if anything, encouraging them on. Hungry and relentless as I squirmed and panted. My fingers knotted together, arms still outstretched above me as if clinging to something safe and grounding. As if there was any hope at all, of resisting the combined efforts of Adam and Clay and their shared goal of making me lose all control.
“Fuck, I’m so... f-fuck, I’m close... so...”
And then it was all too much, a foregone conclusion.
The first spray arching high over me, as their mouths worked each side of my shaft. Splashing against my chest - I’d swear I could hear it, even over my lungs’ ragged panting - as I fought the urge to yelp out loud. The next volley equally messy, until Adam pushed his lips around my cockhead and what I’d thought was intolerable torment before was shown to be only a fraction of what my body could suffer.
I cried out - the tongue rasping across my flinching tip feeling close to sandpaper in its intensity - until Clay’s hand pressed against my face. Stoppering my squeals and pleas for mercy, as the two of them made out around my dick again. Swapping the gooey dregs of my orgasm while I moaned and gurgled into Clay’s palm.
Too much, too much. Like a man emerging from deep water I shoved frantically at them. Pushing them away, as my belly clenched painfully like I’d been doing a thousand ab crunches.
They looked smug, as they sat up and stared at me. Despite their wet lips and the bright blush across Clay’s cheeks. Adam, meanwhile, just seemed unrepentant.
“You doing okay, roomie?”
I did my best to roll my eyes at his attempt at an innocent tone. “I hate you.”
He tapped my sticky cock, setting it bobbing. Desperate I twisted away, trying my best to pull my briefs back into place.
Clay was watching us, clearly entertained.
“You don’t hate me,” Adam countered, still grinning. “Who else would give you such helpful reminders, like aren’t you meant to have practice right now?”
Heart lurching in my chest, I pushed myself up to check the clock on my nightstand. It was already five minutes past the hour.
“Fuck!”
I could hear them laughing as I ran down the hallway, still trying to pull my t-shirt on.
Chapter Two
Coach was not a man who entertained excuses. Not for lateness, not for giving it anything but your absolute best regardless of whether it was practice or in a competition. And certainly not for letting personal matters get in the way of your focus and dedication as an athlete, generally, or as an occupant of a coveted position on the college wrestling team specifically.
There was little point - and nothing to achieve - by explaining that a couple of demon twinks had distracted me and left me late for practice, then. A state of affairs I had plenty of time to consider as I cycled through the five hundred pushups, each set of one hundred interspersed with ten laps of the gymnasium, that was deemed suitable punishment for my tardiness.
Periodically I’d catch a glimpse of one of my teammates watching my progress. Subtly, of course - Coach had zero qualms about sharing out repercussions for wrestlers who dared let themselves get distracted - but almost certainly with some degree of amusement.
We were brothers, after all, and as much as I knew my fellow wrestlers had my back, I also knew that - like biological brothers - they weren’t above laughing when someone screwed up.
I grit my teeth and tried to ignore the slightly nauseous feeling that came from racing across campus and slap bang into a gigawatt scolding.
“Brayden, Carlos, you’re up!” Coach’s voice was louder than his whistle, it felt like, though that didn’t stop him blowing the latter at eardrum-threatening volume.
