Page 41 of Man On

Fucking whimpers.

The sound does something to me.

I've watched him enough times now to know he's close, but now I can feel it in the way his thighs tense below me. My cock throbs painfully.

Fuck it.

Before he can react, I'm looming over him. Holding myself up with one arm propped next to his head, I push my pants down enough to free my aching cock. I've barely taken myself in my hand and started pumping in time with Lane's thrusts into his own fist, when he lets out a choked groan. Spurts of cum erupt and shoot directly onto my cock and balls, coating me in his slick release.

He sucks in a shaky breath, eyes widening in fear at what I might do next. But I'm overcome with the strongest wave of arousal I've ever felt in my life. I sweep my hand through the mess and use it as lube to stroke myself, harder and faster, until my climax washes over me and I shoot cum all over Lane's taut abs, chest, and neck.

Lane watches me with a mixture of abject horror, shock, and intense heat. His chest heaves against mine with each heavy breath, the sweet scent of his breath floating up and making my post-orgasm brain heavier.

"D-don't," he whispers. It's a soft plea, and way too close for comfort.

I open my eyes and realize that I'm hovering mere inches above him, my mouth close enough to taste the cool mint flavor of his gum. I breathe it in for a few moments before hardening my features into a careless sneer. Mask back in place, I flick my gaze up to his and smirk indifferently.

"Your mouth opened so prettily for me when I took my cock out, I thought you might want a taste."

Lane’s face flushes with indignation, and he bucks me off him. I tumble off the bed, my hip hitting the ground hard enough to bruise. Despite the jolt of pain, I'm laughing. He stands up and makes a beeline for the door, dragging his towel with him. My cock twitches at the sight of his round, muscular, bare ass. It short circuits my brain for a moment, cutting my maniacal laughter off abruptly. I've never seen so much of his body, and although I was expecting him to look like he was carved from marble, seeing it in the flesh is a different matter entirely.

Lane has some cake on him, and I’ll be damned if I don’t want to take a bite out of it.

I'm still gaping at the empty space near his door when the bathroom door slams, jarring me back to reality. A chill runs through me, a metaphorical splash of cold water jolting me from the trance Lane’s ass put me on. The levity of my emotions crashes to the floor with me, aching as much as my bruised hip.

What the fuck just happened? What am I doing?

How did I go from tormenting Lane Blakely to thinking about his ass?

He wanted it. Not only did he put up no fight at all, but the look of pure hunger on his face when my mouth lowered near his junk was palpable.

What would he have done if I'd put it in my mouth? If I'd run my tongue from root to tip, tasted the liquid beading from his slit. I can just imagine the way he would have reacted if I'd pulled his foreskin down and sucked on his angry, red tip...

And now I'm fucking hard again.

I can only imagine that Lane is sitting on the floor of the shower, rocking himself and crying because he got off in the most glorious fashion. But I'm not much better off, sitting in the middle of his floor with my pants pulled down, rocking a massive boner because I can't stop thinking of all the ways I want to wreck my stepbrother.

Is it because I'm coming to terms with a part of myself that I haven’t given much thought to? Or am I just that fucked in the brain?

Is it the idea of sucking a dick that is getting me hard, or the idea of just how tortured Lane would be? Could it be both? I try to flip places in my imagination and consider Lane down on his knees for me, taking my cock deep in his throat, tears streaming down his face. My cock twitches visibly, and I just stare at it for a while, until I shake the cobwebs from my brain and look around at my surroundings.

He's been gone for a while. Maybe I should leave.

I've never been in Lane's room for more than a brief second, and certainly never alone. His room is similar to mine, minus the window and with a lot more books. His bed, with our matching comforters, was neatly made before I pushed him down and messed up the sheets. That makes me grin. I like messing up Lane's neat and orderly life. I still move his shoes and put the dishes away incorrectly just to fuck with him. He stopped leaving his toothbrush in the bathroom within a couple days of moving in. I think he was afraid I was doing something gross to it, which I wouldn't actually do, but I did like wetting it with water and laying it on its side so he’d thinkI'd done something to it. I didn’t realize until just now that I’ve stopped all of that since the last time I got my rocks off telling him how to get his rocks off.

I stand and tuck my dick back into my pants, looking around the room but not touching anything. I'd like to say I have boundaries, but I suppose I fumbled my way right through those when I barged into his room.

There are very few personal effects in Lane's room. There are no pictures of friends or family, no posters of sports teams like there are on my walls. It's nothing but books and school supplies, aside from the hooks with his sports bag that, like mine, has his name and number embroidered on the side. It’s sparsely decorated; a few shelves filled with books. There’s a mixture of classics and historical biographies, plus some different scientific theory books that look like they have interesting stuff in them but would be boring as hell to read. Those are the books that Cliff's Notes were made for. Does he actually enjoy these books, or are they for studying? What even is his major? I'm probably an even bigger piece of shit for not knowing.

Another shelf has what looks like multiple different versions of the Bible, and some other religious texts. The bibles don't surprise me too much, but the other religious books are interesting. When I really think about it, it’s actually pretty impressive how he’s been able to overcome much of the indoctrination of his childhood, simply through reading and learning.

Lane's phone chimes, and it directs my gaze back to the bed and his end table. Just like mine, it has a single drawer with a shelf beneath it. Mine is stacked with sports magazines—mostly swimsuit editions, because, hello, I'm a nineteen-year-old red-blooded dude. Lane has a record player and a handful of actual vinyl records.

All the records are Beatles albums. I have no idea if any of these are rare, but considering they all look pretty brand new and aren't framed or anything, I'm assuming they wouldn't be. I don't touch anything, only stoop down to read the spines, but when Lane charges back into the room, I startle so hard I fall back on my ass again.

CHAPTER 14

LANE

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