That night, a persistent sound wakes me. Half awake, half asleep I drift in and out of consciousness, rubbing my face against my pillow. Suddenly, I tense up when I hear the sound again and pause to listen for a moment.
Soft panting breaths, and skin on skin.
I whip around and freeze. Arkin is by my bedside in the dark. It takes me a moment to realize what the fuck is happening, but then I push onto my elbows, and the quilt pools around my waist as I drop my eyes to his hand on his cock.
Arkin fucks himself with abandon, jerking his long length in rough strokes that have my heart pounding in the silence. I don’t know what the fuck to say or do. My shocked brain is slow to catch up, but my cock sure as fuck likes the view. Arkin huffs a breath, and his eyes bore into me as my stomach swoops low.
I’ve never watched a guy masturbate before. Still, there’s something excruciatingly erotic about the eagerness behind his harsh strokes, not to mention the dark look in his eyes.
It almost feels like a claiming. And I’m the object of all that pent-up desire, and now he can’t help himself.
When he makes a gravelly sound in his chest, my dick tents the thin quilt like an excited puppy eager for a bone, and I wish he’d say something because now I’m craving his voice and the husky, unused notes of his tenor. I bet his voice is deep and raspy, like the rumble in his throat, which reminds me of summer storms and Impalas.
“What are you doing?” I ask breathily, feeling each stroke like it’s my own dick he’s touching. “You can’t masturbate in front of me like this.”
Arkin picks up pace, tugging on his cock while filling the room with his harsh breaths.
My own dick has a throbbing pulse, and I crease the sheet to stop from reaching for Arkin. “Fuck,” I whisper, my hips jerking involuntarily because I’m so turned on that it’s almost embarrassing.
Arkin braces his knees on the edge of the bed and then groans when he comes, strings of cum spurting over my chest as he keeps milking his cock. Two more squirts land on me, and I flinch as one hits me on the chin. It’s warm and sticky and surprisingly arousing to be marked like this.
Arkin’s labored breaths break the tense silence as he calms down. He doesn’t move, and neither do I.
His cum is gliding down my throat, but I don’t dare break eye contact. Because if I do, he might grab me, or worse, I might reach for him.
Arkin roams his eyes all over me in the dark, as though he wants to memorize his sticky release on my chest and chin—his branding. I’ve come all over Amy’s tits in the past and treated her to facials, which she was always very enthusiastic about. But this is different. It’s more than living out some porn flick fantasy. I don’t know what the fuck it is, but it’s something primal.
Arkin’s burning eyes connect with mine, and my heart jackhammers before he turns and walks back to his bed.
I blink at him as he lies down with his back to the room and pulls the quilt to his neck. Is that it? What the hell is he doing?
I’m wide awake and aroused. I’m also trembling. Like I did the time I lost my virginity, which was arousing but also scary as hell. Naturally, I didn’t want to be some saddo who came in his underwear or shot my load after three pumps. That’s the kind of reputation a guy never recovers from. Twenty years later, at some drunken reunion, someone will undoubtedly bring it up and guffaw at your expense. Everyone else will join in, clinking their beers and spilling that shit everywhere. Do you remember it, Zach? Three pumps and squirt. Guffaw. Guffaw.
No, thank you.
Leaning over the side of my bed, I swipe my T-shirt off the floor and use it to wipe clean. Arkin soon falls asleep, and I listen to his steady breathing, still hard and aching, questioning what we let into our home.
Should I fear him? Is he dangerous?
Fuck…
A heavy breath whooshes out of me as I drag my hands down my face. What he did now isn’t normal behavior, but that doesn’t change anything because I’m still turned on beyond belief, my cock rock hard. In truth, if he changed his mind and walked back over to finish what he started—whatever that may be—I might let him.
Nah. Who am I kidding? There’s no ‘might.’ I have zero fucking self-control when he’s around. That much is clear.
Sliding my hand beneath my boxer briefs, I wrap my fingers around my aching length and jerk myself from root to tip while listening to Arkin’s deep breaths across the room. What would he do if he woke up now and saw me fucking myself? Would he get hard again?
Forcing down a moan, I shudder, about to come after only a few strokes. But then Arkin rolls over and I watch him in the darkness, careful not to wake him.
Minutes later, my cock swells as I slow my strokes, trailing my thumb through the slit and smearing the cum gathered there. Arkin likes it rough, judging by how he touched himself. Does that mean he fucks rough too? The head of my cock aches at the thought, so I squeeze it, needing to ram it deep inside something warm and tight, like his throat.
The filthy thought has me sinking my teeth into my bottom lip. Because damn you, Arkin, for making me this horny. It’s not fucking fair that a punk ass kid that my parents brought home to make themselves feel righteous turns me on like this. But he does, and I’m slowly going insane.
For long minutes, I work my hard dick, chasing my climax until the pleasure becomes too much.
God. It feels so fucking good. Like I’m spinning out of control.
A gruff groan slips out, and I clamp a hand over my mouth to muffle it. Cum coats my fingers, soaking through the front of my briefs.
