Page 55 of Wrath

I hold my balls for a while, letting my dick ache like it deserves. I could probably come without touching the thing. Coming off those meds has taken my dick back to seventh grade; today I got a semi from pissing—in the school bathroom.

I start to bounce my palm under my balls, breathing deeper as that makes my junk vibrate with good feels. Then I grip the base of my cock and squeeze as I watch DG. He’s so big and tall and solid that it’s sort of funny how young he looks curled up in his bed.

He shifts onto his side, and I swear I can see a bulge in his boxer briefs. I think of pulling those briefs down, running my fingers down his crack, parting his cheeks and feeling for his little soft, tight, puckered hole. I’m sure no one’s ever sought it out. He doesn’t seem like the type to push things into himself—although of course, I could be wrong. I’m gonna bet he’s never taken one of his big fingers, never felt the jolt of being filled with something. The need to move around that thing, to clench and shift, as your balls harden and your dick juts and—

Oh God. I shut my eyes and let go of my cock before I come too fast. My heart rate slows and my dick aches as I remember Miller up against me, warm and sweaty, panting as I work him.

If I played with his hole, I’d give him two fingers, not one. I’d get them both lubed good and push them in and draw right out, and get more lube. I’d do that a few times, try to slick him up. Then, when he’s ready, I would give him three fingers. I’d stretch him out and push in deep. I’d push in deep enough to find his prostate. When I did, I bet he’d really start to fucking leak—all over the place.

I’m gripping my cockhead as DG’s hand goes to his dick and covers it.

Oh Jesus.

I imagine that I'm pumping his cock, hearing his hoarse, throaty noises. I imagine that he’s full of lube, his freckled cheeks all red from being fingered till his cock is aching. Till his balls are sensitive and sore. I imagine that he’s got his ass up in the air for me, and I’m rubbing some lube onto my cock. I’d rub my dickhead all around his hole. I’d kinda press down so he felt the pressure, so he’d start to want it more.

I’d make him beg.

And when he did, that’s how I’d know that he was ready. He’d be wanting me to push it into him and rub around, and push in more until his prostate got kissed by my cockhead. He’d be sagging on his shaking arms. Maybe he would rub his cock against the duvet. He would want it. He would want it.

Oh, Christ.

I catch the cum in my boxers, moaning as I step into the bathroom and just stand there for a second. Feeling deviant. Oh God, I am such a deviant fuck.

I clean up and stuff my cum-drenched boxers down into the hamper I share with him. I’ll have to do a load of laundry—only mine—tomorrow. As I’m hiding the evidence of my perversion, I come across a white T-shirt with “Miller” written on the tag in Sharpie. I bring it to my nose and inhale.

So good. I stuff the thing under my arm as I clean myself up. Then I grab a roll of TP, turn on the lamp in my room, and sink into the armchair. I give his shirt another sniff then stuff it in between the chair’s back and its cushion. I tuck the football pillow in the crook of my arm, and my eyelids drop shut. I touch my balls again, give them a few tugs. It feels okay. I can smell him, still—the kind of shampoo he uses.

Miller's dick. My hand around it. And I'm getting hard again.

I move onto the bed. I know I shouldn't—almost always,getting horizontal is something I really regret—but I want to get under the covers and jerk off one more time. It's been so long. I'm surprised by how my whole body feels good when it happens.

I fall asleep holding a wad of toilet paper, and I wake to Miller's face, his wide eyes inches from mine. His hands are on my shoulders like they always seem to be.

He looks concerned. "Are you okay?"

I wipe my eyes. "Only if you've got one of your gay boy boners for me."

I hate how shaky my voice sounds. But I love what his face does in response to my words.I chuckle. "Ohhh, you've got one. Sit back on your knees and let me see it."

He doesn't move, which means he's still partway on top of me. I cup his jaw with my hand.

"Miller, Miller." My other hand is roving down the front of him. His chest is bare and warm and ridged with heavy muscle. I want to kiss his throat, reach lower till my hand is petting that dark line of hair that leads into his boxer briefs. I can't kiss him, so I reach down and find the waistline of his briefs.

"I didn't know you gays were like this,” I say. “Boners all the time, for everything. If I reach lower, will I feel you poking through these briefs? Does that dick want a mouth?"

"Stop it," he grits, but he doesn't move as I walk two fingers slowly—slow enough to give him time to move—toward the bulge in his briefs.

"Seems like you're always hard when you're around me. What do you do in physics?"

"I'm not," he says, but it's a soft whine.

I close my hand over him, cupping his thick shaft.

"Is it just at nighttime?" I rasp. "You get hard and it won't go down?"

"It's because I'm waking up,” he manages. “Because of you."

"How do you get back to sleep? Do you have to come first?"

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