"All American Boy Next Door"
Standard disclaimers: this story describes consensual sexual activities between adult, fictional men; if this sort of material is illegal for you to view or possess, don't. Do, though, donate to the Nifty Archive: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html.
While I've both written lots of erotica before on other platforms (RIP Tumblr) and been a religious Nifty reader for years, this is actually my first story on Nifty, so I'd love to know how it struck you. Please do email me at booksmut@gmail.com if you enjoyed it, hated it, or had any reaction to it at all.
The Chiangs lived across the street and three houses over; from the window of my home office upstairs I could see when their garage door opened at 2:30, like it had done every weekday for the last month, even if I couldn't see into the garage itself. At four the garage door closed. I tried to keep working; it was Monday, and the project needed to be done by Wednesday.
Five minutes later I got a text. I didn't recognize the number--and I wondered how he'd gotten mine--but I knew who it was.
"hey u coming?"
I turned back to my spreadsheet. Two minutes later, I got another text.
"???"
I sighed, and pulled off my button-up and jeans and put on a white T and pair of running shorts. When I left I didn't bother locking the front door; I'd only be gone a couple of minutes, just enough time to be firm, to explain, to make things clear. And besides--it wasn't that sort of neighborhood.
I headed down the street, past the Chiangs' and to the end of the block before taking a left on Elm and then coming back down on Cedar, the next street over. I took it at a jog so it'd look like I was exercising, like I was cutting through the backyards because I was at the end of a long run. I came up along the far side of the Chiangs' house, stopping at the side entrance to their garage. I could hear music coming from inside. The door was ajar, and when I stepped through it my eyes needed a minute to adjust to the sudden darkness, even though I already knew what I was going to see.
There were a couple of camp chairs off to one side, with a small dorm fridge between them acting as a table for the open laptop that the music was coming from. Against the opposite wall was a rack of free weights, and in the middle of the concrete floor was a blue mat, and in the middle of the mat was a workout bench topped with cracking black vinyl. And on the bench--shirtless, drinking a post-workout protein shake, godlike--was Justin Chiang.
"Sup?" he nodded, taking another swig of his shake. Since he'd come back from his sophomore year of college for the summer I'd watched as he'd grown out the hair on the top of his head, even as he kept the sides buzzed short; sometimes he'd have it tied back when he worked out, but today it was loose.
"Have a good weekend?" I asked.
"Nice enough."
"Same. Nice." For a moment it was quiet and still except for the music and the sound of a lawnmower a couple yards over. He shifted his bare feet on the mat, spreading his legs apart in invitation. I sighed. "Look, Justin, I'm not here to--I just came over to say that Friday was the last time."
He didn't say anything, but he didn't really seem surprised, either; he just cocked his head. We stayed like that for a while, him staring at me and me trying not to stare at him, but then he stood up. He was barefoot, and wearing a pair of silky basketball shorts slung low on his hips, navy blue with the Cal logo. He smiled, and his smile, like his whole face, was wide and honest and reassuring, so much so that I didn't stop to consider why a twenty year-old, someone ten years my junior, so unnerved me that I needed reassurance.
"Sure," he shrugged. "Yeah, no, I get it." He tipped the last of his shake back, flashing his pit, a spot of matte and tousled black on his otherwise golden and glistening torso.
I sighed in relief. "Awesome. I was worried you'd--I mean, don't get me wrong, it's been great; I mean you're really--but I'm not just comfortable continuing with it, you know? I'm sure you'll find somebody else to--I mean you must already have, you know, others. It's just I can't look your parents in the eye anymore, not to mention, well--"
He nodded and stepped toward me, like he was listening, and he reached up to brush one of his nipples with the side of his thumb, like he was doing it absentmindedly. He kept at it as I kept going on, but as his nipple hardened under his touch into a tight, dusky point I fell silent. He stepped even closer, right up to me, and I watched helplessly as, still smiling, he moved his thumb from his sweaty chest up to my lips.
"Fuck," I managed to mutter against it before he slipped it into my mouth. He slid it between my teeth and across my tongue, and for a moment nothing else happened. Then, both at the same time, I wrapped my lips around it and he used it to push me downward.
I sucked the sweat off his thumb as I kneeled. My knees hit the concrete--he was standing right on the edge of the mat now--and he pulled it out of my mouth, wiping my spit on my hair and then pulling my face forward against the bulge in his shorts. I could smell his sweat, sweet and sharp and sour. I could feel his cock thick and heavy and hardening against my cheek. I whimpered.
I pulled my face away from the heat of his crotch and looked back up at him, my eyes raking across his body: up the sparse trail of hair under his navel that you could only really see when you were this close to it; up the dimpled plane of his abs, still dotted with beads of his sweat; up past his nipples--both were hard now--to fix on his face as he looked down at me.
And down on me. His smile, the smile of the boy who, his father had told me, had been an Eagle Scout, Valedictorian, and voted both "Friendliest" and "Most Likely to Succeed," was gone; instead his lips were curled into a haughty smirk, the smirk of the man who'd fed me his load each day last week, and twice on Friday.
He hooked his thumb into his waistband and pulled it down so I could see the root of his dick and the black bush that surrounded it. My own cock, already hard, twitched in my shorts.
"Kiss it," he said, and I did, pressing my lips against the exposed part of his shaft. "And apologize to it for being such a fucking tease."
"I'm sorry," I whispered into his pubes.
His other hand was still gripping my hair; he let go for a moment so he could smack the side of my head. "Louder."
"I'm sorry," I said again, and I was.
He pushed his shorts down further, tucking the waistband under his balls. His cock sprang out and hit me in the face, casting a line of precum across my cheek to my ear. His dick was a good three shades darker than the rest of his body, and just under seven inches--although it was hard to tell exactly, given the way it curved so sharply upward. It was undoubtedly thick, though, fat and cut and with a weeping, flared head that was almost the color of the fuchsias his mother had growing outside the garage. He wrapped his fingers around the shaft and slapped it against my cheek, again and again, using his other hand's grip on my hair to twist my head to the best angle.
"You want it? You want this cock?"
"Yes," I said, and I had no idea why I sounded so desperate.
"Say it."
"I want your cock."
"Damn right you fucking want it," he said, and he pushed it into my mouth.
He'd been rough before--especially on Thursday--but most of last week hadn't been like this. After Monday's tentative-then-frantic first coupling I'd thought of myself as the one really taking the lead. I'd see the garage door close, signaling the end of his workout and that I could come over, and then I'd make the choice to. And even though it might have looked like I was servicing him, blowing him slowly as he lay back on the weight bench or lounged in one of the camp chairs and drank one of the beers he kept stashed in the minifridge, I assumed he knew that I was getting something I wanted, too, knew that I was the one--given the circumstances, given the consequences--making the decisions, making the choices. Lord knows the guilt I'd felt over the past week was a result of that, of knowing that I was the one who knew better.
But I realized, as he gripped my hair in both his hands and pulled my mouth down over his shaft, that maybe that wasn't how Justin saw it. Maybe he had been thinking all along that he was really the one who knew better, the one who knew best.
He started facefucking me like someone who thinks he knows best, at any rate. Because of the curve of his dick he was hard for me to deepthroat at this angle, but he didn't seem to mind that everytime he snapped his hips and shoved his dick as far in as it would go the blunt tip of his cockhead would slam into the back of my throat and I'd gag. He seemed to like it, even: when that happened he'd hold me down on him, his fingers tight in my hair, churning his hips slowly to get every last little choking noise out of me that he could, until he'd pull back and I'd be able to wrench myself off of his cock, coughing and sputtering and gasping for air before he speared me on himself again. I put my hands up against the front of his thighs, the base of my palms on the cool satin of his shorts and my fingers pressing into the heat of his skin as he pistoned his dick, now slick with the same spit and precum that were running down my chin, into my mouth over and over again. I kept trying to push against him, trying to push myself up for air, but he just grabbed me tighter, bending down over me, fixing my head between his forearms as he fucked it, only letting up when he decided I needed to breathe.
When I'd blown him a week ago, that first Monday, he'd made all kinds of little noises, soft whimpers and gasps and little catches of breath that had made me wonder--but this couldn't possibly be true--whether or not I was his first. On the days after that, even on Thursday, he'd been quieter, almost silent, and I'd chalked it up to the awkwardness of the situation; now, looking back, I wondered if it had just been apathy. But today there was a different quality to his silence, something that certainly wasn't awkwardness, and certainly wasn't apathy. He was aggressively silent, determinedly silent, silent like a man who's doing a job he's skilled at, a job he's done countless times before, a job he's not particularly enthused about but that he knows has to be done. After that last "Damn right you fucking want it" Justin didn't make another sound. Unless you counted the wet squelching of his cock trying and failing to breach my throat, together with my intermittent sputtering, as sounds he was making happen.
Each time he'd let me up to breathe I'd look up at him through my watering eyes in the few seconds before he pulled me back down. His expression was blank, as quiet as he was--not smiling or frowning, just biting his lower lip, but out of concentration rather than pleasure. As he edged himself with me, as he brought himself closer and closer to orgasm, the time between moments when he'd pull me off his dick got shorter and shorter. Not that it brought me relief, really, because each time he then pulled me back onto his cock he only fucked my face harder and harder. Just when I thought I could take it anymore, his hips sped and suddenly stilled as he laced his fingers behind my head and held me down on his spasming cock. His first few shots flooded my mouth, and then he pulled back and the rest of his load, thick and hot and milky, arced across my face.
He let go of me and I rocked back on my heels, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand and gathering his seed off of my face. I looked down at it, tacky and already cooling between my fingers, and wondered what to do with it. I considered wiping it on my shorts, but I knew I couldn't. My dick, still hard, lurched.
I licked it off.
"Don't make me text you tomorrow," he said, already bent over his laptop to change the Spotify channel, already turned away from me. I watched his muscled back, waiting to see if he'd turn around, but he didn't.
I went back home the way I'd come, and when I walked in the front door I slipped off my running shoes and put them next to Matt's dress shoes and his briefcase, but before I could head up to shower and jerk off there he was, coming down the stairs, having already changed out of his suit.
"Oh, hey honey! I just got home." He kissed me on the cheek, and wrinkled his nose. "Oof. Stinky boy. Good run, though?" He didn't really wait for my answer, and went on through to the kitchen. It was his night to cook dinner.
"Yeah," I called after him, even as my heart sank, and my gut twisted. "It was great."