The Roommate Situation (21 page)

“Watch it. You’ll create a monster. When they come complaining, I’m gonna send them right to you.”

“Mmm. I’ll tell them what else we get up to in here.”

“That’ll get their minds off the stupid guitar bullshit, at least.” I lean on my elbows, tapping my knee against him. “Then they’ll pull me out of this room, and they’ll pull me out of this school, and—I guess shipping me off to an all-boys school wouldn’t be a good idea. Is homeschool college a thing?”

“I was thinking this weekend…” he says.

“Yeah?”

He stands over me, loosening a glove a finger at a time. I’d complain that he’s not following directions, but damn, that’s hot. He says, “Probably the easiest way to get the leg and wrist cuffs into the same photo is to do one of them hogties.” He grins as he says it.

I grip the blankets. I’m suddenly way more aware of my crotch than I was a moment ago, of his body standing between my knees. “Yeah?”

“Unless you’re all wore out from your long weekend.” He starts to work the other glove off.

“Oh fuck no.”

“Get on the floor,” he says, turning away.

Yes,
sir
. I drop to my knees, sit back on my heels. Grasp my thighs. He digs the cuffs out, tissue paper rustling.

My heart beats a thousand times a second.

He steps up to me in his boots and drops the cuffs on the bed, the locks too. He bends and tilts my chin up with a finger. Kisses me on the mouth.

I grasp his jacket, and it slips from my fingers as he straightens. “Let’s see a wrist,” he says, sifting through the gear. When I hold my arm out, like I’m ready to have my blood pressure checked or get a shot, he grips my wrist and yanks it upward.

I watch him put the cuff on me, lock it up. My other hand pushes along my thigh, my groin hot.

He drops my arm, flicks his fingers for the other one.

I stare at him as I let him put the other cuff on. The lock of hair hangs over his brow. His face is passive, until he glances at me and the corner of his mouth pulls into a smirk.

Damn, we both should have stayed here for the long weekend. Four fucking days of fooling around.

“Get your shirt and shoes off, and lie down.”

While I’m doing that, he reaches under my bed and drags out the iHome. Pulls his phone from his pocket, dials up some music, and pops it in the dock. I’m pulling my second sneaker off when Hendrix comes on, covering Dylan’s “All Along the Watchtower.” I drop my shoe and stretch out on my stomach on the hard floor.

He crouches beside me, a strap hanging from his fist. D-rings tinkle; I look over my shoulder and see he’s not using one of the straps he’s made to go with the wrist cuffs. This one’s shorter, with two rings on each end. “Kept yourself busy while you were home, huh?” I say.

“Yep.” He pulls my wrists behind me, locking one, then the other, to one end of the strap.

The ridge of my cock makes me feel like a seesaw. I lay my cheek on the floor. Stare at the boxes shoved under his bed.

He shuffles down to bring my ankles together. I let him bend my knees. It pushes my hips against the floor. I stretch my fingers out till I can touch the ankle cuffs behind me.

One lock clicks shut, then the other.

He lets go, and I’m bent like a pretzel. I wriggle as he gets to his feet, my arms held behind me, my ankles locked together.

My balls throb, deep and hot and needy.

He nudges me with his toe, and I shift my weight until I manage to tip onto my side. A stretch pulls through my shoulders and down the fronts of my thighs.

God, I like this. Especially the stretch through my arms. The way I can’t pull them apart, get them in front of me. My whole front is exposed. I’m helpless to do anything to stop him, whatever he wants to do.

“Think you’ll be okay if I unpack before I take the photos? Run my laundry downstairs?”

“Yeah,” I manage. I lean my head back. Every breath is a sweet torture.

With the toe of his boot on my hip, he tips me onto my stomach. “Yell if you need me.”

I whisper, “Okay,” and settle my cheek on the floor.

He turns around. I watch his heels as the zipper on his bag rasps down. Clothes plop lightly onto his bed. Toiletries. He heads for his locker, and I close my eyes and squirm.
Jesus.

The floor vibrates a little under my temple as he walks back. His laundry bag’s half-full, and he stuffs the clothes he’s just unpacked into it.

My heart beats against the floor, as does the pulse in my stomach, the need in my cock.

He crouches in front of me, touches my face. “You gonna be okay for a few minutes?”

I nod, biting my lip. Closing my eyes.

I hear his boots going away, the door opening and closing.

My belt buckle digs into my belly. I squirm, but there isn’t much to be done about it. I lift my head and turn it the other way. The numbers of the clock glow from under my bed. Jimi sings about the wind crying Mary. I pull my feet closer, grasping my ankles with my fingertips. Then I start struggling, rolling onto my side, dropping back on my stomach—slamming my eyes shut at what that does to me. Breathing hard. I turn my head again. My breath kicks up a little dust. I rub my face on the floor, push my knees against it. Try to get up, even though I know that’s not going to happen. I can’t get on the bed, can’t sit in a chair, can’t walk out of the room.

No one knows I’m here like this.
No one.

I squirm, and a sound escapes my throat, almost desperate with pleasure.

I relax into the restraints, let them hold me.

It starts to become a strange sort of feeling: relaxing yet arousing. Exciting but peaceful.

My hip gets uncomfortable, and I move a little, and a fresh sparkle of pleasure shimmers through me. It intensifies when I pull my ankles, making the cuffs on my wrists clamp down tighter. I pant. I groan. I twist onto my side and lie there trying not to fall onto my back, my chest heaving, my cock aching.

When I hear the door, I’m both relieved and disappointed. I wanted this to go on and on—but I want him here too, touching me, teasing me, bringing me off. I can already tell I’m going to get off like I’ve never done before. I grip my hands into fists and tighten all my muscles, warding it off.

His laundry bag slumps softly when he drops it on his bed.

“Doing okay?” he asks.

“Great,” I manage through a dry mouth. I close my eyes and swallow.

“Good to see they’re holding up.” He tips me back onto my stomach, and I rub against the floor, sparks shooting behind my eyelids. He steps over me, heading for his desk.

I’m not even paying attention; I just have a vague sense of him moving around, arranging lamps, shifting me over, snapping photos. His boot comes into sight. I stretch my neck toward it, reaching out with my tongue. I think he takes a picture of my face. I don’t even fucking care. I keep reaching, and he shuffles his boot closer. And I lick it, just the edge of the toe. Dust and dirt and exhaust. I reach harder, straining the muscles in my shoulders and chest, but he pulls his foot away. I drop my face on the floor. The camera snaps off a few more shots.

He sets it on my bed before crouching in front of me. I shiver at his touch on my face. When he puts his fingers against my lips, I lick them. Take one in and suck it, the way I’ll suck his cock later if he lets me.

“Up you go.” He turns me onto my side, leaning me against the frame of my bed. I clench my fists and try to straighten my legs. The strap between them pulls taut.

He rubs his palm over my crotch.

I try not to move, breathing hard, watching him—watching him study the bulge of denim held in the V of his fingers.

“I guess we could test how long you can last being trussed up like this.” The squeeze on my crotch says he isn’t talking about how long my limbs can put up with the restraints.

Looking into my eyes, he says, “I’m not releasing you till you come.”

I laugh. “Yeah, I oughta be out of here in thirty seconds, then.”

He slides his hand up my stomach, my chest, stops with his fingers loosely curled around my throat. “Maybe I should come first, then. Jack off while you watch me come all over you.”

I swallow. My Adam’s apple bobs under his palm. “Yeah.” My voice croaks like he’s choking me, though he’s hardly touching me.

He sits up on his knees and unzips his fly, pulls out his cock while I stare, entranced. Helpless. Its head shines with precum already; clearly I’m not the only one affected by the hogtie thing.

Shuffling closer, leading with his cock, he says, “Now, don’t move. Wouldn’t want to get you in the eye or anything.” I love watching his mouth when he smiles.

As he strokes himself, my hips make helpless little motions in the same rhythm. I’m focused on his dick: the way he holds it, the way he works it—two fingers circling it, a lot of action just around where the head starts, the pad of his thumb sliding over the head itself. Info to stash away for future use. The tendon in his wrist stands out. His bicep is hard. I hadn’t considered how hot it would be to watch another guy jerk off. Now I’m staring openmouthed, my tongue drying with each breath I drag in. He shuffles closer, pointing the head of his cock at my stomach, which is heaving at the thought of him jerking off on me while I can’t do anything about it—like reach out and grab that cock myself, or put it in my mouth and lick the salty fluid that’s tracing a line down the side of his finger. And oh God, I want to be touched myself, but my cock still’s zipped in my jeans. I slide my hands toward my hip, trying to reach around and undo my fly, but he just grabs my hip and pushes me over more, jamming my arms against the bed frame.

He moves his hand to my chest, caresses my nipple with his thumb. It’s a light sensation; I have to focus to feel it, but once I do, I feel it like a thread connected to something desperate in my balls.

My cock aches.

He slaps his against me, then goes back to stroking, his lips parted, his eyes half-closed.

I jerk at my wrists, wanting to reach up and brush away the lock of hair that’s caught in his eyebrow. Wanting to grab him around his neck and pull him down to kiss me.

I have no idea how long this will go on—with Derek in control, he could make it last for ten, twenty, who knows how many minutes. Words collect in my throat. I could speed this up, I bet. I could take control, even from where I am.

I whisper, “Come on me.”

His lips close.

“Come all over me. Shoot your cum all over me.”

His arm speeds up. His upper lip pulls back, almost in a sneer, almost like he’s in pain.

“Fuck. Come all over me. Do it.” I jerk my hips toward him. “Now.
Now
.” And with a sharp, cut-off groan, he does. His seed splatters my side and slides down my belly, leaving warm trails.

I huff out a laugh, grinning.

“Asshole,” he says.

I laugh again and struggle to push myself over to my stomach. I land with a plop against the floor, Derek’s cum slick underneath me, my cock throbbing at the impact.

He grasps my wrists and yanks them aside to give me a hard smack on my ass. I jump and smile.

“For that, you’re going to have to sit through the photo downloads before I get you off. Or maybe I’ll just unlock one wrist and let you do it yourself while I deal with the photos.”

With a happy sigh, I say, “Whatever you want.”

While he putzes with his computer, I close my eyes and concentrate on the things I can feel: my heartbeat against the floor, the insistent beat of my cock, the hardness of the floor under my cheekbone. The fact that I cannot get up and walk around.

I’m sweaty. My chest slides as I squirm. I move a little to readjust myself. It doesn’t do me a lot of good. I can taste the floor on my lips, its dust and dirt and whatever the school had used to buff it over the summer.

“I’m gonna put the listing up too,” he says from across the room.

“Mm-hm.” My shoulders ache. I twist my wrists in the cuffs. The edges of the leather dig into my skin.

Derek’s mouse starts clicking. I listen to him tap at the keyboard. I clench my teeth and try to relieve some pull from my arms. I could just ask him to let me out, but fuck, I don’t want to get out. I squirm, turning my head, clenching my teeth. Wanting to come but not wanting to come yet.

It takes forever to get the listing done and up. Forever before he finally says, “There. Let’s see how that does.” Then his feet are in front of my face again, finally. “Over you go.” He pushes his hands under me to lift me over, up against the bed.

“Finally,” I say as he pops the buttons on my fly. His knuckles nudge denim, and it feels
way
too fucking good.

He forces my jeans down until my cock pops free, cool air from the room rushing against it. On his side, he slides downward so he can close his mouth around it.

Warm. Soft. Amazing, his tongue rubbing my skin, his lips closing around me.

Come for me
, says a voice in my head, and that’s it—it’s all over. I don’t even have time—again—to warn Derek, who’s just taken half my cock into his mouth when it starts spurting. He grasps my shaft, tight. His lips tighten around it, and he sucks…and swallows…and sucks, until I’m twitching and gasping and begging with “Okay, okay, okay. Oh my fucking God.”

He kisses my belly.

“Damn you,” I say. “I’m never going to last with you around.”

His lips move over my skin. “You want me to hide around the corner next time you get off?”

“Fuck you.”

“Fucking me? Is that what’s going to do it?”

My face heats. God, I hadn’t even thought about that. I’m not sure I’m ready to think about that. I lean my weight forward, canting a knee out to prop myself up. “I don’t know what’s gonna do it, but I’m all for keeping on trying till we figure it out.”

He laughs and gives my thigh a slap. “All right. All the way over. Let’s get you free.”

“No argument here.” I let my knee slip forward, and drop onto my stomach. Having come, I’m very much ready to get free. My arms and legs are screaming for freedom of movement. When the weight of my ankles drops away from my wrists and I can straighten my legs for the first time in more than an hour, it feels like sweet heaven. Not as good as coming—but close.