by Daryl Banner
After we’d play and have ourselves declared a winner and a loser, he would seem to grow restless, unsure of what to do, then eventually decide to go. I’d always have to make sure we had our next game planned, just so I’d be assured that I would see Andrew again. Whenever he left, my heart felt heavy and the world grew small and cold. Lying there on the bed, I’d hardly acknowledge my roommate when he’d return at two in the morning and rush to the shower. Good for him, I remember thinking. At least my roommate’s getting some action. I’ve been mindfucked all semester by Andrew and yet haven’t fucked or been fucked at all.
What a cruel concept, to have so much sexless sex with someone. We were so strangely intimate, and yet hadn’t been intimate at all.
That needed to change. And soon.
Even this late in the game, I still couldn’t say with confidence whether Andrew was gay or straight or experimental or something else entirely. He seemed to have little interest in sex. I couldn’t even say whether he found me attractive. I was, by no means, a super sexy guy. Andrew was a super sexy guy. The only thing that seemed to keep his interest at all were these weird, sexually-frustrated, mind-fucky sort of power games. Sure, I found them erotic. I usually had a stiffy from start to end, but there was something emotionally missing for me. Was it missing for him, too?
For one, he never kissed. I’ve wanted to put my lips to his so badly that I’ve dreamt it several nights in a row. Also, he never allowed us to do anything incredibly intimate unless it was within the context of a game. With my somewhat limited psych knowledge, I considered whether this was a form of denial or not. It almost reminded me of the type of guy that would only do gay things if he was super, super drunk or stoned. It’s like he could just blame the drug—or the game—for making him do shit with a guy. It somehow made it … acceptable.
There had to be something else in him. There had to be something more in him than just these fucking games. Where was his soul? Where was his passion and his gallantry and his humor?
I needed to figure it out. I refused to believe it didn’t exist. It’s time to manifest my own power. It’s time to bring the player to a different table.
It was time to play my game.
[ 8 ]
One innocent Tuesday, there was the expected knock at my door, right on cue. I opened it without acknowledging the scrumptious Andrew, then sat myself on the bed and returned to watching TV. Some lame show was on and I gave it all my fake attention. Seeing me all chilled out, the remote balanced on my belly, he lazily threw himself into my roommate’s desk chair, kicked up his feet, and let out a long, obnoxious yawn. For the next ten minutes, neither of us said a thing, allowing the murmur from the TV to do all the talking.
“Bet I could—” he started to say.
“Bet you could too,” I interrupted, letting out a small yawn of my own. “Hey, do you know what we’re watching?”
Andrew squinted at the screen. “No. I don’t really watch TV.”
“Neither do I.”
The TV kept spilling its mud mess of colors over our faces, the sun through the window nearly set for the day. Andrew finally had an instinct to turn on the desk lamp, I guess to save us from the swallowing darkness of the night. We were coming up on the half-hour and one stupid TV sitcom was traded for the next. Every time Andrew glanced over at me, I made sure my eyes were glued to the TV.
My little trick worked, though it took so awful long to know that it had. “Wanna do something?”
“I’d kinda like to just chill,” I answered. “Ever since my workout this afternoon, I’ve had a bad cramp in my calf. Kinda making me miserable.”
“Hmm.” He stared at my leg, uncertain.
“It sucks,” I said, hoping my prompting him isn’t too obvious.
Then, he took the bait. “Which leg?”
“My right. The calf.”
“Lie back,” he said. I lifted a nonchalant brow at him. “Go ahead, lie back. On your stomach.”
I sprawled out on the bed, pressed my face into the pillow and waited. I listened to him rise from the desk chair, then felt the bed compress as he sat on it. His hands embraced my leg, and I felt him slowly begin to rub it. The instant he touched me, I was hard as steel.
“Thirsty?” I asked.
I heard him grunt, then ask, “Why?”
“My roommate has beer in the fridge.”
For a moment, I worried he was about to whine that he doesn’t drink. To my surprise, my second bit of bait was taken, and I listened to him reaching for the fridge—which was conveniently at the foot of my bed—and the tiny door opened, a can was fetched, and the tiny door shut with a gentle thump. He cracked open the can, and I heard him chugging. I felt a strange giddiness tickling up my body, listening to him drink my roommate’s illegal beer. If he was ever caught with it …
“I’m getting another,” he said when he was done. “Want one?”
“Nah. Have as many as you like.” As if I needed to give him permission; we both knew Andrew would help himself to as many beers as he damn well pleased.
A whole six-pack of empty and crushed beer cans on my floor later, he was back to running his hands down my “cramped” leg. Yeah, it wasn’t cramped at all, the whole thing was a sneaky, sexy lie, but tonight I was insisting on our playing my game. He didn’t have to be aware he was playing. He was so used to his own form of denials; what’s the harm in introducing him to another?
“You should feel more relaxed now.”
“Yes.” I shut my eyes and breathed into the pillow. His hands climbed and climbed, working my calf muscle into a state of blissful, melted butter. I wanted to bite the pillow. I think I might have, clawing the sheets. I knew he had skillful hands and yet I still wasn’t prepared for the gourmet-caliber massage I was getting.
“It’ll hurt a bit,” he warned me. “In a good way.” His thumbs went deep into my calf, pressing and kneading and pressing and pressing. I moaned a bit, squirming. It definitely hurt, but with his firm grasp on my leg, I surely wasn’t going anywhere. How does he make every gift—even a massage—feel like something I have to earn through suffering or endurance of some kind?
“Thanks,” I choked out, trying not to pull my leg away.
“Don’t thank me yet.”
His hands moved up my leg, began to work my lower thigh. I couldn’t believe how much power lived in just his fingertips, how he could make such an impression on me through the thick material of my jeans. It’s like I’m not even wearing them, I thought—which led me to an even tastier thought.
“Should I take my jeans off?” I asked. “I mean, would it make it … I don’t know … easier?”
“Not really,” he said.
I spun around, got to my feet anyway. He let me, looking up to meet my eyes with his watery ones. He’s buzzed, I realized. Good. Right where I want you. I undid my pants, let them drop to the floor. They landed with an unimpressive thump on the carpet.
Without any shoes or socks to kick off, I simply stepped out of them and hopped back onto my bed, putting my leg in his lap. “Go ahead,” I told him, like an order. “Right where you left off.”
He gripped my leg, but his hands were tender this time … careful and deliberate. He still kneaded my calf muscle firmly, but something about him changed. Is my plan working? I wondered, hopeful. Was I breaking through his walls? Had I found the fissure in his otherwise impenetrable armor?
“The year is almost over,” I pointed out as his fingers worked up my calf again, reaching my lower thigh, massaging and rubbing.
“Finals are on us,” he agreed, his words subtly slurring together. “Might, dunno, need your help in studying or something.”
“I could help. You’ll have to help me too.” I kept shut my eyes, enjoying his hand as it worked up my lower thigh … up, higher, higher. “I was also wondering if, like, y’know, if you’d given any thought to your, uh, your living arrangements or whatever.” It was a bit awful to be the sober one in the room. Too much thought
was happening in my head. Too many fears that beer might have otherwise quieted. Maybe I should’ve downed one or two to make it all a bit less—whatever it was.
“What do you mean?”
“Where you’re planning to live next year,” I clarified. “My roommate might be moving out. And I don’t want them to stick some random other dude in here, y’know. I’d kinda prefer, well …”
“Someone you know,” he finished for me.
Oh my god, was he already considering it? Was he considering it before? He was on my same train of thought; I could tell from the way he ended my sentence. “Yeah?” I prompted him, feeling my heart rate accelerate. Just the thought of having him around all the time made me suffocate with excitement. “You’ve given it some thought, then?”
“Could work out,” he reasoned, his hands still moving up, up, up, creeping like an ambush of ten horny boys, each a fingertip, up the terrain of my leg. Soon, he’d run out of thigh to massage. Where are those wicked hands headed next?
This was my game. He didn’t know it, but he was playing my game now and I was in control.
Quite suddenly, I flipped over onto my back, placing my leg into his lap again, this time facing up and watching his eyes carefully. He squinted quizzically at me, his blue-grey irises shining.
“Front side now,” I said. “The cramp’s moved up my thigh.”
“Alright.” He started massaging it, his watery eyes not leaving my face, full of skepticism and suspicion. But his gaze was also clouded by the alcohol, making his suspicion appear more like confusion. I couldn’t have planned this better …
In my underwear, face-up, I couldn’t hide the erection his steadily-kneading palms and fingertips gave me. He knew it. I knew it. The both of us were obviously aware of the big tent in my loose plaid boxers. Still, he struggled to keep his intense, watery stare on me, blinking away the buzz of the beer that threatened to loosen him too far. I kept my innocent eyes on his, studying him almost curiously as he smoothly worked my leg with the concentration of a steelworker.
He reached the upper part of my thigh now … and I felt his fingertips grazing the rim of my underwear. If he kept moving up my leg, his hands would slip effortlessly under my boxers. Just the thought made my cock bob. His fingers kept tickling my underwear, barely disrupting the fabric just enough for my cock to become agonizingly aware of it.
And then my hard-as-fuck cock slipped through the fly, poking out in all its bareness, greeting the world. Andrew’s eyes went to it right away, almost as though he were startled. My cock pointed to the sky, bobbing in sync with the thrashing heart in my chest, with the pumping of my excited veins and the pulse of my life.
Our eyes didn’t meet again. He was transfixed on the new attendee of our massage party. His hands had become distracted then, hardly paying attention to the massage, losing all their drive. Wow, I wondered. I didn’t realize my cock demanded such attention.
He parted his lips suddenly, brought his mouth upon my cock, and it was gone, swallowed whole by Andrew Knudson on my dorm room bed.
I threw my head back with a rasp of surprise. My hands instinctively went to his soft head of hair. My throat formed a howl that I never released and I couldn’t close my mouth, jagged of breath and stiff as stone.
His mouth moved up and down my cock, up and down and up. His hands suddenly found a purpose, gripping my hips at either side. My fingers still played in his hair, feeling his head as it went up and down and up again.
When finally I felt his tongue begin to join the party, a groan wrested its way out of my chest.
My legs had nowhere to go, once again trapped under Andrew’s muscled weight. All this time, I was certain I’d be the first one to taste his cock, and not the other way around.
He didn’t seem to have a desire to stop, either. The sucking went on and on. It drove me so crazy I had a sudden fear that I’d erupt in his mouth. I wondered if he’d like that or if it’d destroy the moment—whatever the fuck this moment was that we were having.
His hands rushed up my body suddenly, slipping under my shirt and making a dance across my bare belly and chest. As if finding home, his fingers arrived at each of my nipples, and my left nipple made a friend with his evil left hand, my right nipple with his evil right.
“Oh god,” I blurted out as he pinched my nipples too hard—that is, exactly hard enough. I squirmed underneath him, but he didn’t budge an inch, still working his hoover of a mouth on my throbbing cock. “Ooh god, ooh god,” I started saying over and over. It was like I had no choice; I had to exclaim what his fingers and his mouth were doing to me.
And this was no game anymore. This was two normal boys messing around in a dorm room. This was the culmination of something real, yes … that’s what this was. Something natural that came about totally … organically.
Yes, something that I didn’t need to coax him for months to do, something that I didn’t need the aid of six cans of beer and a teasing massage to get him to do. Right.
Fuck it. I didn’t care. I had my fingers in Andrew Knudson’s hair and my cock between his plush, dexterous lips and his tongue working miracles. In my game, there were no losers.
Suddenly he came up from my cock, his mouth wetted by his efforts, and he started undoing his own pants. Oh my god, is this about to happen? That’s what I thought as I sat up to watch Andrew struggle with his belt, nearly tear it off, then kick his pants off. Climbing back onto the bed, he pulled out his own cock from over the waistband of his sexy tight boxer-briefs and began to jerk off in front of me. I stared, gawking.
“Eight inches,” I decided, staring as he jerked off while straddling my legs, the tips of our cocks so close they could kiss. “Definitely eight.”
“Seven.” He squinted down at me. “Objects in mirror are bigger than they appear.” We both bust out laughing for a split-second, then went right back to our ever-serious staring at one another.
“Can I jerk off with you?” I asked quietly.
It felt stupid to ask, as if I needed to request permission to touch myself, but something told me that’s exactly what Andrew would like to hear.
At my question, he suddenly grabbed my cock with his other hand and began to stroke. I gasped, taken anew by the wild sensations he made chase through my body. Both our cocks in his control, he jerked and jerked and jerked.
“Here’s the deal,” he said, his voice still bent a touch to the left with his slurring. “Whoever cums first loses.”
No. No games. “How about we just jerk off and cum together like normal fucking people?”
“Because that’s boring.” His words thundered down upon me. There was something so incredibly sexy and equally as maddening about the power he had over me. “You cum first, you lose. Got it?”
“What the hell does the loser lose, anyway?”
Jerking us harder, faster, he leaned in and said, “If you cum first, I don’t move in. You lose me as your roommate.”
That’s not fucking fair! He’d been sucking my cock for the last—however long. I already had a huge head start. I could cum any second, and he only just then started jerking. “Not happening, no.”
“Better hold off, then,” he teased, staring down at me, pressing his power onto me. His fist was making quick work of my edged, sensitive, wet and slick-as-fuck cock. There was no way I’d be able to hold back when I reached the brink. My loss and his “victory” was certain.
“I have better stakes for you,” I retorted. I would do everything in my power to focus on our words and, with every fiber of my weak, vulnerable body, ignore the pulsing pleasure downstairs. “Far, far better, far higher stakes.”
“Too late.”
“Not too late. I haven’t accepted your terms.” I propped myself up with my elbows so as to get into his face more, my own eyes squinting with conviction. “If you cum first, you gotta kiss me.”
His jerking stopped, his eyes went queer, then he resumed again. “Kiss?” he said, as if he actually didn’t hear
me right.
“Yeah, the mouth, full on. Like we’re nasty, clothes-off, don’t-give-a-fuck lovers. You gotta put your lips all over mine.”
“No fucking way.”
“Yes. That’s what’s at stake. You want my stakes to be my losing you as a roommate? Fine. Sounds a bit like your loss too, but if you insist so badly, then there’s my stakes. Roommate, or kiss? Kiss, or roommate?”
He swallowed. I watched his throat, watched as he swallowed hard. I have him, I thought. I have him right where I want him.
He kept jerking and jerking and jerking, and I said, “Thinking about it, now?” I smiled, watching the emotions battle across his face. “Oh, fuck. Can you imagine? If you actually … lost? Think about what you’d have to do. Think about … think about what you’d be forced to do, if you cum first. Putting your lips all over mine. Kissing me like a boyfriend. How fucking horrible that’d be, huh? How humiliating. How degrading.”
His breath became audible. Is this turning him on? Andrew Knudson, half-moaning as he jerked the both of us. His legs began to shake; I could feel the muscles in them as they tremored through my own. His eyebrows screwed upward, the folds of his forehead showing. He parted his mouth, his head thrown back as his breathing became less air and more voice … a whimper, a cry …
“Better hold off,” I whispered at him.
And then he came. The jerking on my cock stopped and a rope of his cum landed across my chest, white and heavy. Another followed, less powerful. Then a third and a fourth, and he kept pulling and pulling on his cock, but gentler now, and his eyes were closed in a quiet, blissful agony.
Winner.
Then he laid down—or rather, fell—onto the bed beside me. His hand still gripped his cock, but his other one let go of mine as his arm folded into my body like an eagle’s wing. One might almost say he were cuddling into me.