Description Brandon and Eddie enjoy working for their pot-loving boss, Mike, at the pizza place near campus and are bummed they can’t stick around for the summer, too. Mike offers them a possible solution, though he doesn’t let them in on all his plans for the coming summer.
|Part 1 Brandon and Eddie enjoy working for their pot-loving boss, Mike, at the pizza place near campus and are bummed they can’t stick around for the summer, too. Mike offers them a possible solution, though he doesn’t let them in on all his plans for the coming summer.||2019-06-29|
I think the thing I loved most about working at The Pizza Joint was the way Brandon Andros moved. He was so put together, with his chestnut hair styled and shaped just so, and that short, well-groomed beard of his always perfectly trimmed and somehow a complement those dark impeccable eyebrows above bright, ocean-blue eyes. And that smooth, faintly olive skin that was so flawless it could only be the product of routine diligence. His clothes were faultless as well. The forest green shop polo we all had to wear was unfailing tucked neatly into his new jeans, and even his chocolate-brown boots seemed immune to scuffs and scrapes. With all that attention to grooming I was sure he had a personality to match, full of attention to himself and his appearance and no doubt tragically born without the ability to unbend; which was a shame, as I saw it, because he was darn cute in an airbrushed, magazine-perfect kind of way. If I was going to be working next to someone three out of my four scheduled nights a week behind the counter, it seemed like a keen-eyed, fit-bodied square in well-pressed jeans was probably going to be a potential waste of good eye candy and good conversation.
Then I saw him swaying his hips to a beat for the first time, and it was over, done, locked up and put away. I was completely hooked.
We always had music on at the Joint. A few pizza places near here had local rock radio on or something like that, but our funky young boss, Mike, kept us going with a procession of homemade Spotify lists. Prince and Prince-inspired songs one day, Bruno Mars and Adele the next, that kind of thing, pitched just loud enough to add to the feel of the place without getting in the way of conversation.
It was about three weeks after Brandon started. I remember I came in from the back one Saturday afternoon with a new tub of mozzarella and I just stopped in the doorway, mouth slightly open and still as a statue, nothing else in my sight but him.
There was a Sam Smith song on, and as he was methodically spreading some fresh dough out into a large-sized circle Brandon was moving his hips in a slow circle I’d never seen him do or even imagined he was capable of. Every sinuous shift of those hips moved his narrow waist and long lower back in the same sexy way, and his firm, strong legs seemed interested in upping the ante and really starting to move. My attention, though, was caught on the center of it all: that sweet, rolling ass. My blunt tool swelled automatically in my jeans at the sight of those perfectly round, denim-hugged cheeks casually sashaying to the warm, liquid voice and easy beat currently filling the room, and my hands wanted to let go of the bin of shedded goodness I was carrying and grab hold around his hips on either side, with me coming up behind him and joining his slinky, sensual groove. I was hot all over under my clothes, and it had nothing to do with the pizza ovens I was standing next to.
I’m a pretty reactive guy. And for some reason, in that moment, I had to let him know what he was doing to me. Without thinking I slapped down the tub on the nearest counter and let out a long, low wolf whistle. Brandon turned sharply and saw me standing there grinning at him, arms folded over my chest, and even under his dusky Mediterranean complexion I could tell he was blushing.
“Eddie,” he said over the soft music. “I didn’t see you there.”
“Clearly. But don’t stop on my account.”
He frowned slightly and started spiraling tomato sauce over his dough. “Don’t make fun,” he said.
“I’m not. I meant it. You should dance all the time.”
“I’ll second that,” laughed one of our regulars, a platinum blond football hunk who’d been stopping by a lot lately. Neither of us had noticed him suddenly materialize there on the other side of the counter, but when we looked guiltily over at him he was grinning toothily. “Keep dancing like that and I’ll get dinner here more often. And tell my friends.”
Brandon was definitely blushing now. I patted him on the shoulder. “Customer’s always right,” I said cheerily as I moved past him to the counter. “What can I get you today, Jay?” I asked our still-grinning regular. “Apart from Brandon’s ass, that is.”
“Geez,” Brandon muttered. But a few minutes later he’d seemingly forgotten about us as he worked on his pie, and sure enough that ass was groovin’ all over again.
Brandon was the main reason I was bummed about summer. That, and how relaxing it was working at the Joint in the general. College made me nervous. My future was like this brooding storm on the horizon, bearing down on me, and after three semesters of anxiety still don’t even know for sure what my major should be, much less my career. Some days it felt like the only thing I was good at was making pizza. It was a comforting rhythm. Those hours working dough and jockeying slices, and having fun talking with the people that came in looking for food and a friendly face, those were the best parts of my week for almost the whole time I was at college. Longer, actually, ‘cause my senior year part-time job at my uncle’s place back home was what got me the gig at the Joint the week I showed up at uni. Then Brandon came along, and I started looking forward to going to work for a whole new reason.
Summer was coming, though, and we were getting kicked out of the dorms. Without housing hereabouts that pretty much meant I’d be trudging back to Vermont and my four obnoxious younger brothers.
“Are they that bad?” Brandon asked with a half smile. It was late on a Friday, about twelve weeks after Brandon had started back at the beginning of spring semester. The shop was closed and we were in the back cleaning up; I was wiping counters and putting stuff away, and Brandon was up to his wrists in suds washing the trays and bins, his work subtly calling attention to the shifting muscles of his long, sinewy forearms. He wasn’t built by any means, but there was no waste on him, either. Everything you looked at, like now with the cable-like flexor muscles of his slightly hairy forearms, seemed to have been precision engineered to provide the maximum in strength, flexibility, and aesthetic appeal all at once.
It was getting so that Brandon was becoming a walking distraction for me, and I wasn’t sure whether to fight or go with it. Brandon was no help—he seemed completely clueless to my problem, despite the fact that my problem was him.
I willed myself not to stare and made eye contact instead. It didn’t help—his eyes were pretty distracting, too. With an effort I remembered the subject of our conversation—I was explaining about my annoying brothers. “They are absolutely that bad,” I assured him. “Every single one of them is eight years old.” At his confused look I explained, “Oh, they’re all teenagers now. Evenly spaced two years apart, like Mom pumped them out on an assembly line. But somehow they all ended up with the maturity of a toddler played by Jim Carrey.”
Brandon laughed. “I hear you,” he said, rinsing off one of the metal trays and setting aside. “I’m not keen on going home either,” he admitted. He took on another dirty tray. “My mother has this new boyfriend, and…” He shuddered.
“Say no more,” I said. “No one needs that.” I could empathize. Watching my brothers making out with their girlfriends queased me out just as bad. My oldest younger brother, Max, opens his jaw so wide when he’s kissing it looks like he’s trying to swallow the poor girl’s face. I mean, who does that?
I sighed as I sealed up the big flour bin. “Man, the dorms closing sucks all around. I’d totally rather stay here for the summer.”
“Why don’t you?” said Mike. We whipped around, and Mike was there in the doorway, noodling on the iPad he used for keeping track of sales and finances. He wasn’t looking at either of us, but he must have heard at least some of our conversation.
“Can’t,” Brandon said. “Dorms are closed.”
Mike looked up at us. “I’ve got rooms at my house,” he said slowly, as if bunking at Mike’s house was the obvious solution and we were a bit behind not having already thought of it. When we gaped at him he went on, “It’s a win-win, right? I’ve got a big place standing practically empty. You both get to stay in town, I get to keep my favorite employees, and you make some bank on top of it. What do you say?”
The thing about Mike was, he was kind of impossible to say no to. He was just so nice and laid back, especially since he discovered pot a year or so back. He was already pretty chill when I first started working for him, but evidently he had a crazy brother in Colorado who bred all sorts of special strains of high-quality weed; and once Thad (I think his name was Thad) started turning him on to his best shit Mike got even nicer and even more chill. He didn’t smoke at work that I’d seen, but it was mixed into his smell like it was a part of him—baked in, so to speak. His demeanor was mellow enough, Brandon and I joked you could get a tiny contact high just off his smile. Even his voice was relaxing. It was low and smooth, like he could do voice-overs if he wanted, or hypnosis tapes for self-help addicts.
His body kind of intrigued me, too. Mike was seriously tall—taller than Brandon, and a lot taller than me, and he was naturally lanky. His body was just barely defined in terms of his physique, but the way he was proportioned you could tell by looking at him that if he just worked out a bit and put some effort in he would bloom with muscle. He’d be like a hot tennis star, or a taller version of one of those World Cup guys that are nice enough to look at that even Americans will watch soccer if they’re at all into guys. Brawn potential—that was Mike. Even without muscles he looked pretty good in that dark green Pizza Joint polo and the navy cargo pants he always wore. He kept his hair buzzed short and a bit of scruff, which made an interesting contrast from the coiffed and just-so Brandon. The two men in my life, I thought fondly, not that I’d so much as touched either of them outside of my dreams.
It did sound ideal. Work would be lower key during the summer, though seeing as how we had a good rep outside the school as well as in we’d still have plenty of business from townies and summer schoolers, so I’d still have the rhythm and the bullshitting with customers I liked. As a refuge from the unfocused stress of college, the Joint had been an oasis in my life: it was the one place I was the most at peace. Keeping that and ditching my stupid, smelly brothers to spend the summer with Brandon and Mike sounded like a dream.
Though I hadn’t been in it I’d seen Mike’s house just out of town, too, and it was big—bigger for sure than the cookie-cutter suburban ranch my family somehow crammed two parents and five boys into for the last twelve years. Just thinking about that sealed it for me. “I’m in,” I told Mike without hesitation. I turned a pleading gaze on my colleague. “Brandon?”
Brandon hesitated, looking between us. “What about rent?” he hedged.
Mike was back to fingering away on his tablet, probably finalizing the day’s take. “I’ll charge you a token amount,” he said as he moved his pixels around. “How does a couple hundred a month sound?”
Brandon snorted. “That depends,” he joked. “Can I live there forever?”
Mike looked up and aimed a wink at us. “Absolutely,” he said with a disarming grin, before turning around and heading back into the restaurant.
We went over to Mike’s house the next day before work, and the three of us went ahead and agreed that Eddie and I might as well move ourselves in on our next day off, just after finals, even though we still had another two weeks in the dorms before they closed. Wouldn’t you? I mean, his house was killer. It was this rambling two-story farmhouse with wrap-around porch on two sides and a sun-room added on and a deck looking out on a good acre or so of idyllic, lightly wooded property. Did Mike’s family rake it in this well from five decades of the best pizza in town, or was there more to it than that? I didn’t know.
The place was a blast inside as well as out. The kitchen was immense and mostly up to date, and the wiring had all been redone, too, so I could have my tablet, laptop, phone, and mp3 player all plugged in at once without worrying about torching the place to the ground. There was so much unused space upstairs Eddie and I had ended up with two rooms each, all pre-equipped with thick rugs and mismatched, leftover old furniture that still looked sound and durable—armoires, tallboys, wide walnut desks, stuff like that—and with a shared dual-access bathroom easily twice as big as the one I’d grown up in, complete with a cedar closet and a clawfoot tub big enough for President Taft. All the rooms needed were the beds, which Mike promised he was having delivered the day before we were set to move in.
After four semesters of loud music, louder assholes, and regular, truly heinous encounters with foul-smelling jock-vomit, I was ready.
It wasn’t quite that simple, of course, not for someone with my kind of messed up gray matter. I could totally hear my mother’s voice—she’d be thrilled to know how well I’d managed to internalize that strident, board-room bark of hers—warning me about how this man was someone I hardly knew, and how living in his home at a provocatively low rent put me at his mercy, yada yada yada. I’d secretly hoped dating this Wally character would distract her and tone her bitchiness down a notch, but if anything having a decade-younger climbing-instructor boy toy had given my mother an extra dose of obnoxious confidence.
It didn’t matter. I was already used to boxing up everything that voice said to me (about the corporate-finance career I was supposed to be building—I was, as she’d reminded me a hundred times, her only heir; about the courses I was supposed to be excelling at; and so on) and shoving that shit up on a high shelf in my brain to deal with later. This wasn’t much different. I considered myself a good judge of character, and Mike was solid. Plus Eddie had worked for him for years, and I could tell he would vouch for Mike without any reservations. Mike, I wasn’t worried about.
If I was going to be honest with myself, my only real qualms about the deal had to do with Eddie himself. The thing with Eddie was, I could tell he was into me. He was always teasing me about the nervous butt-dancing thing I do. I have all this extra energy, and where some guys fidget or tap their fingers or whatever I just can’t keep my butt still. If it wasn’t snark about my dancing, he’d be giving me that hungry look with the big smile. Or egging on that gay football hottie, Jay Johanssen, and his cute-nerd boyfriend whenever they came into the shop pretending they were only there to ogle my behind. Eddie was like that sometimes, up to 11 and no filter, like a yellow lab that couldn’t get enough of you.
It’s not like I minded, really. Honestly, I couldn’t avoid noticing I kind of had a thing for Eddie myself. He was shorter than I was and a little stockier—not muscled but not fat either, and like me not very hairy but just, like, a hundred percent guy, all made up of strong bones and hard thews and tough skin. He smelled masculine, too, not that I could explain what I meant by that. He had this jumbly pile of strawberry blond hair that I so wanted to push my fingers through sometimes. Especially if I had flour on my hands, or even a little tomato sauce. I kind of want to mess him up a little.
True, he was tidy enough when it came to his appearance, though he clearly drew the line at any kind of product. He tucked in his work polo, I think because I did and he didn’t want me to think he was a slob, but… well, was he a slob? At work he cleaned diligently and put stuff away whenever he was done using it, which was a good sign; but I had a sneaking suspicion he was secretly a tee-shirt-thrown-over-the-lampshade type whenever he was in his own space. Though I do admit, I kind of wanted to see what he looked like under there, once that pesky tee had been tossed aside. His shoulders were naturally broad but his waist was pretty trim, and I’d found myself lying in my bed in the dorm some nights wondering about things like treasure trails, and the places they might lead to. Whenever I was alone my mind tended to drift in his direction, even on the nights I hadn’t just spent eight hours shoulder to shoulder with him. I thought about his smile, his eyes, his body… and I’d be hard before you could say “pizza boy”. Which only made it worse, of course, because then I’d inevitably be imagining his secret tool all stiff and red and ready for anything I’d give him. I was pretty certain what he looked like down there, all thick and fat where I was long and slightly bent. Uncut, too, I was willing to bet. Probably with a hefty foreskin that you just couldn’t ignore. My mouth watered just thinking about it, and my nuts ached like I was deliberately screwing myself over by not making a move on him, or even flirting back. I was screwing myself over, and not in a good way.
And therein lay in the problem, because—truth, here—I’d never done anything with a guy. Or a girl, either, but lately it’d been guys filling up my head and swelling my wang and roiling my very impatient balls. In fact for the last couple of months it had been this one guy—this eager, smiling, irrepressible fireplug who’d be more than willing do give my tight sack the tongue-lathing it’d been craving if only I said the word.
Mike was an honorable mention, a guest star in the two-man show I had going in my head. He snuck in there sometimes, into the agonized sex fantasies I was too nervous to do anything about. Well, sure, why wouldn’t he. He was this relaxed-hot, like it was just a part of him. Maybe eight years older than us, but he looked younger, with a good head for problem-solving apparently inherited from his dad along with the Joint. He was what you call rangy. Taller even than I am, and not ripped at all but very trim, like he was constitutionally incapable of not being supremely fit. The stoner thing was mixed in, too, as a sort of undercurrent. You could smell the pot on him like it was all seeped under his skin, but it worked for him, sort of the way its calming, centering effects seemed to complement his personality. His strong physical presence usually set me at ease, and at the same time it turned me on as well. I had this feeling he’d be very… bendy, and the contemplation of that was something yet more persecution for my poor, lick-deprived ‘nads. And now I’d just agreed to move into his house and actually live with the guy, which would definitely up the ante—especially as I’d have laid good money Mike wasn’t too fussed about wearing clothes when he wasn’t out in public.
As I lay in my bed that night, one of my last nights in the dorms, I thought about all of this. The inevitable result followed, and with I sigh I reached down and began jerking my long, crooked cock with what could only be described as aroused trepidation.
By this point Eddie and I had the same schedule. Mike liked how we worked together and had put us on the busiest days three to ten. The Joint got a lot of its traffic doling out slices between afternoon classes, then the dinner rush was a steady mix of slices and whole pies, with late-evening pizza cravings at the dorms and the greeks rounding out the night. Larissa and some guy named guy named Marco I’d barely met covered the nights we weren’t on, and Mike himself and an older part-timer from Mike’s dad’s day, Sal, covered lunches. We had delivery guys too for the second shifts. Mike was there pretty much every day, and I was invested enough in him after a whole semester working there I would’ve been worried about him putting in so many hours, if stress didn’t just slide off him like eggs off a perfectly greased pan.
So we moved in together late one evening on our next day off, our meager possessions stuffed in the back of Eddie’s hand-me-down Toyota, and got in with the keys Mike had already had made for us. We were both wearing tee shirts and shorts (me in army-style cargos, him in cutoffs), and I was trying not to think about the fact that Eddie’s sturdy, slightly hairy legs were kinda nicer than I’d imagined they’d be.
We slowed our step in the wide foyer, taking in the feel of the place. The first thing I noticed was that the house had this reassuring quiet and open feel with just us there, like it was this new realm to explore. The second thing I noticed was, not too surprisingly, the lightly pervasive background scent of weed. It was subtle rather than acrid, unlike more than a few dorm rooms I’d been in, but it was also everywhere, insinuating into the house as it had the man.
“I shoulda guessed,” Eddie laughed from behind a stack of milk crates full of desk junk and electronics.
“It’s totally Mike,” I agreed, repositioning my grip on the heavy duffels that contained pretty much all my clothes as we started moving again.
“I like it, though,” Eddie said. “It’s kinda making me horny,” he added, still sounding amused. I noticed he was falling behind me as we approached the stairs. The little fucker never missed a chance to scope my ass.
“Imagine,” I drawled. I was kind of glad he said it, though, because the truth was that my dick was loosening and chubbing a bit in my shorts just from being inside the place and breathing in its cannabis-tinted air. Something about this place was turning me on, and it wasn’t Eddie’s heated stare burning a hole in my cargos. Well, not only that.
We got our stuff moved in in short order—meager possessions, remember—and we were soon squared away except, as it turned out, for one small problem. I was in our shared bathroom, arranging my hair and skin products on what I’d decided to claim as my side of the ridiculously wide marble-topped vanity, when Eddie appeared at my side with an adorable crease between his brows. My dick flexed just at the proximity combined with the knowledge that we were alone, so I deliberately went back to unpacking my bottles and tubes and aligning them by size and function, and tried not to feel his body heat warming my forearms from barely an inch away.
“Dude,” he said, “have you seen my bed?”
“Nope,” I said, frowning at the tall bottle of mousse that had lost its cap and dribbled a little on itself in transit. I rinsed it off in the sink and teased, “Why, is it awesome? A thing of beauty?”
Eddie huffed. “No, I mean, have you seen it? Because I can’t find it.”
I frowned at him. How did you lose a bed?
“It’s not there?” I asked him. He shook his head. I followed him to his side of the floor, feeling slightly uneasy. The living room on his side was furnished with a worn but solid-looking desk, a chest of drawers, a wall-mounted TV a few years out of date, and big old plaid sofa and matching love-seat that looked very comfortable and only slightly used, with a dark, blocky coffee table positioned directly in front of the sofa that was just crying out for heaps of sodas and snacks. Eddie’s other room, which was at the back of the house with big windows like mine overlooking the sprawling back yard, was obviously meant to be the bedroom: there was a huge armoire and dresser, lots of heavy woven rugs, a small night stand with a nondescript lamp… and a big, empty spot where a bed should have been.
We crossed back through the bathroom to my side. My rooms were pretty much the same, though the furniture was different because none of the stuff up here matched. Plus there was a vintage stereo system (complete with a phonograph!) instead of the TV. The main difference, though, was that I had a bed. A king, in fact. Mike had said something about ordering a couple of fulls, which had seemed generous but reasonable at the time, and I’d bought a basic set of full-size sheets under that expectation. I now saw that a neat stack of linens clearly consisting of two new-looking sets of sheets, one navy and one rust-red and both no doubt sized for a king mattress, was sitting pertly on my heavy cherrywood dresser. Next to these was what appeared to be a thin, sky-blue comforter that looked perfect for the cool spring night ahead.
We stood there staring at my bed, which was the only bed we had between us. As we did so I suddenly had this uncanny sense of déj�-vu come over me, though it was a good minute before I could put my finger on what it was. Then I realized. This was exactly like one of those scenes from a frothy romantic comedy where the couple that isn’t supposed to be into each other is traveling somewhere and they go to a hotel and order a double room; only when they get up to the room they see that instead of two regular beds there’s one big one, and of course that’s the only room left. I snorted a laugh. Was Mike trying to do a “now kiss!” with us? Because that was pretty funny. And kind of sweet. A little scary for my virgin ass, but sweet.
“You… could always sleep on your couch,” I offered, still amused, though I could hear my heart thumping hard in my chest and wondered if Eddie could, too. “Until the other bed comes in, that is,” I added. In my head, the phrase “other bed” already had air quotes around it. To an outsider it might seem like Mike had had a stoner mind-slip; but I was becoming pretty sure Mike had never meant to order more than one bed.
“No way,” Eddie objected. “I’ve had bad experiences with sleeping on sofas. And I am not going to spend the summer with my back trying to kill me.”
I nodded. Sounded like, if he was already talking about the whole summer, at some level Eddie might also be cognizant of the not-so-innocent nature of Mike’s mistake.
I decided to mentally slide this up on that high shelf for the time being. Without another word I just turned and went back to setting up my toiletries.
Before long we were as moved in as we could get, so we retired to Eddie’s side to watch TV. We even ordered a couple of pizzas from the Joint. (Two pizzas? Sure. C’mon, leftover pizza is killer. Plus Eddie liked olives on his—yecch!) Mike delivered the order himself, something he usually didn’t do, just to say hi and check in with us. He was kitted out in the company windbreaker and everything. We got out our cash and tried to pay him, but he wasn’t taking our money.
Once the pizzas were unsleeved onto the hall table and he’d folded up the hot-pack he hovered a moment by the door. “So, you liking the place?” he asked, watching us curiously.
“Absolutely,” I said honestly. “It’s great. Say, Mike, when do you think the other bed’s coming in?”
I tried to ask it innocently, but he was on to me, and I swear I saw a glint in his eye. Eddie said, “Yeah, there’s a whole Persian rug where my bed ought to be! And I’m not sleeping on that, either,” he added to me, as if I’d suggested it.
Mike licked his lips and smiled; and the smile honestly seemed genuine, like he was thinking about how great this was turning out for all of us. “I’ll call them about it tomorrow,” he told us, still smiling. “Meanwhile, I better let you enjoy these,” he added, patting the pizza boxes. “Larissa’s are almost as good as yours, Brandon!” Then he turned, went out the door, and was trotting down the steps before Eddie had a chance to say “Hey!”
“Yours are good too, Eddie!” Mike called back without turning around. I laughed as I closed the door. Then we went upstairs and ate pizza and watched movies on Eddie’s couch and didn’t think about the bed situation until we were too tired to care. We stripped to our skivvies, made the bed together, and climbed under the sheets. There wasn’t even time for any awkward to brew between us before we happily conked out—me before him, as it turned out, which was kind of a shame as I was very curious to find out if Eddie snored as loudly as I suspected he did.
We slept in the next morning. I sleep in all the time; it’s why I work nights, and why I have only afternoon classes. But I was a little surprised to find Brandon was still asleep when I finally clawed my way up to consciousness. Brandon’s open and airy bedroom was already basking in the canary-yellow brightness of the high late-morning sun (we’d forgotten to draw the curtains the night before, evidently); but the real shocker wasn’t that Mr. Neat and Tidy was still slovenly snoozing at this late hour—it was the way my reserved, everything-just-so coworker and impromptu housemate was snuggling right up on me like I was one of those darn full-body cuddle pillows. I was flabbergasted and very, very happy at this development. My only explanation was that the calming and somehow liberating vibe of this place had done a number of him like it had me.
Seriously, he had his arms and his legs wrapped around me, his lips were resting against the side of my neck, and his full-blown erection was nestling casually against my butt, nearly in my crack. Only two layers of thin cotton kept the damp, warm tip of his hard tool from sliding right in between my cheeks.
I lay there in the middle of the big bed trying to drink in what I was feeling and store it away, in case Brandon retracted into himself again after he woke up and realized what had happened in the night, and made sure it never happened again. His arms felt limber and strong around me. His legs too. I bet he ran, just for fun. The way he was taller than me made it feel like I was securely enveloped inside his own personal space. He was warm, too, radiating a low, persistent heat, and my body was happy to take in everything he was putting out. And speaking of his cock! I loved the way it pressed easily against me, all hot and hard as iron. It felt big, too, and… not quite straight? That made me smile. Just like its owner, I thought.
I hadn’t fathomed how much I’d been truly craving this. The feel of him against me, his arousal from being with me. Not until this moment. For all the flirting I’d done I’d never actually made a move on him, and he’d given me only the merest hint that he was doing anything more that tolerating my affections. I’d been almost aggressively attracted to him, and I knew he knew it, but he was the opposite, not aggressive at all. If I’d jumped him he might have just gone with it, and that wouldn’t have been good for either of us. I had to know it was mutual. I had to know he wanted it, too; and with our situation this morning, with me folded up in every limb he had and his mouth nuzzling my sensitive nape and his power-stiffie rubbing close enough to my ass to make my hole twitch, I was hopeful I had my first solid clue.
Classes were over, but it was a Friday, which meant we had be at work for our regular three o’clock shift that afternoon. We silently, if red-facedly, pretended to ignore our respective boners as we climbed out of bed, then took turns in the shower (I had to whizz with a hard-on, which isn’t always fun) and got dressed in our separate rooms. By the time we managed to stumble downstairs was saw that Mike had already left for the Joint. He had, however, left a note for us in the kitchen—and a big plate of thick, delicious-smelling, obviously homemade chocolate-chip cookies, sitting there on the island like a present we’d gotten just for existing. They were still slightly warm—Mike must have only baked them that morning, while we were still unknowingly playing sleepy cuddlemonsters.
“Morning, roomies!” the note said. Mike’s handwriting pretty much looked like he wrote with his feet, but I was used to it after all this time and I didn’t have much trouble deciphering the note’s contents. “There’s plenty of food in the fridge and the cupboards, so make yourself at home, ha ha. Meanwhile, here’s a housewarming gift fro me. Does it count as ‘housewarming’ if it comes from your landlord, who already lives in the house and has been warming it already? Yes. I’ll say yes. Anyway, enjoy these, and I’ll see you at work. Mike.” He drew a little smiley face next to his name with its tongue sticking out, like he always did.
I turned from the note to grin up at Brandon. “What do you think? Cookies for breakfast?” I was hungry as fuck, like pretty much always, and right then I was dying to know if Brandon was a big-breakfast guy or an “I’ll have two egg whites and a tiny wedge of cantaloupe” guy. I was pretty sure he wasn’t a “What the hell, let’s have cookies for breakfast” guy, though.
Sure enough, Brandon just cocked an eyebrow at me before heading around to the big steel refrigerator and perusing its contents thoughtfully. After a lightning inventory of the cupboards and pantry, he started collecting various containers and packages and set about making us flapjacks with blueberry compote and bacon on the side. I sat at one of the stools on the far side of the island from where he was working and watched. What seemed like mere moments later he slapped a loaded plate down in front of me, and as I contentedly drew in the smells I fell for him just that little bit harder.
The cookies were not forgotten, though. We brought them upstairs with us with a couple glasses of milk, and after I finished hooking up my gaming system we scarfed them down ravenously like we hadn’t both just eaten a child’s weight in pancakes while having a blast shooting down hordes of slavering ogres and super-serumed orcs. We laughed uproariously as we finished wiping up the battlefield, partly because that last orc had collapsed and died in this really funny way and partly because we each leaned forward and reached for the plate at the same time, only for us both to realize it was empty. We’d actually managed to bolt down every last cookie from the huge stash of Toll House goodness Mike had left for us.
“You took the last one!” we both said in mock outrage, more or less in unison. Then we both laughed even harder. Brandon climbed nimbly on top of me—the couch was so deep I was almost horizontal—and started trying to tickle me. “I’ll get you for that!” he said. He looked a little wild, and not just in the eyes. He’d done his hair like usual after his shower, but now it looked weirdly mussed and tousled, like it was stretching to escape its product-imposed confines. He’d trimmed his beard, too—I’d heard the trimmer—but now he looked like he hadn’t. There was something funny about his torso, too. The raspberry-red tee shirt he was wearing seemed to be straining very slightly at his delts and it kind of looked like he had a hint of traps budding across the breadth of his shoulders. Speaking of straining, my dick was huge and rock hard—maybe it had been before—and despite his cargos and my cutoffs I could feel his was too as he moved his crotch against mine. I was incredibly turned on, not least from the deft fingers reaching up under my shirt and relentlessly exploring my obliques and intercostals, trying to find my tickle points.
Two could play at that game—I didn’t have four brothers for nothing. I reached up under that raspberry tee and found his vulnerable spots in seconds. He shrieked and laughingly grabbed my arms, hauling us around so I was on top of him, both of us longways now on the big sofa. It was a strange move on his part—or maybe not, because I instantly forgot all about how I had him at my mercy once I was on top of him.
My entire being was now suffused in a level of arousal I didn’t think I, or any human, could possible have yet experienced. Brandon was right there with me, too—I could tell from the burning lust in his fiery eyes as he stared up at me. My dick felt massive, like a barely controlled animal, and it was taking all I had not to rut savagely against the equally feral beast pressed unbearably against mine, through layers of clothing that so absolutely did not belong there their existence was like an affront against our equally lust-drenched dicks.
I stared hard into his eyes. “Bran,” I panted, bridling wildly at my own self-constraints.
“Yeah?” he rasped up at me, his eyes never leaving mine, either. I’d never called him “Bran” before, but he answered to it immediately, like it had been my secret name for him all along.
I gritted my teeth. I felt so flooded with horniness I thought I was literally in danger of drowning, unless I, we, did something about it, and five fucking minutes ago. “You better kiss me in the next ten seconds,” I warned him roughly, “or you won’t have the—”
Before I could finish he grabbed the back of my neck and pulled my mouth onto his, and we sank into the fiercest, most necessary kiss in all of creation. My body pressed hard onto his, our dicks writhing together, and it was so hot, so thrilling, that our tongues hadn’t been sliding against each other for five minutes before a climax welled up in me like a tidal wave and I spent a giant load of hot, messy seed right there in my cutoffs, loving the way it felt like I was mashing my jizz straight into his raging erection. He bust his nut almost the instant he felt me cumming, and the squeezes of his shooting cock as it shoved against mine nearly drove me to another damn climax piled right on top of the first one. Our mouths never disengaged during the whole ordeal, the two of us snatching breaths desperately through our nostrils as we tried to kiss each other as deeply and as completely as we possibly could. We broke free at last, gasping and wide-eyed.
“Bed,” Bran huffed. “Naked. Now.” His pupils were so expanded the dark blue of his irises were almost completely lost. I nodded. We clambered out of the couch in mirrored motions and shucked our shirts and soiled shorts, casting them aside instantly forgotten as if they were vanished into the nothingness of nonexistence. I was unable to rip my eyes away from his body, and Bran was the same, staring hard at me like he had to have me. We were both still impossibly hard, completely unslaked by the primal orgasm we’d just had, despite the evidence of gobs of cum slathered over our dicks, our sacks, and beyond. In fact my balls, far from aching and calling up for me to take it easy as they should have been after such a release, were surging with what felt like bottomless reserves of cum and demanding I take action to ensure an even more colossal eruption at the earliest possible juncture.
Happy to oblige, I took Bran’s hand and pulled him into his bedroom; but once we got to the big bed he gripped my wrists and essentially threw me onto the mattress, climbing up after me and looming over me like a smiling panther about to devour its prey. It was all wonderfully unconnected to the reality we’d lost all consciousness of. It felt like we were floating, the bed was barely there; we were in the sky, and it was just us, and the moment we’d both always needed to happen had finally arrived.
“Please,” I begged him. “Fuck me. You gotta fuck me with that big tool of yours, Bran. I mean it.”
He looked down at his jumbo cock. It was long and cut, thick and slightly bent like I’d thought, a truly big and mighty dick. I might have had him beat in the girth department, especially the way my raging hard-on seemed to be straining at my very skin like it was trying to get bigger, but his was the largest cock I’d ever seen and I wanted it in me. I raked my gaze back up his surprisingly nicely muscled body and dwelled on his handsome, bearded face. His expression seemed slightly confused, like he didn’t quite recognize his own tool, but the second he lifted his gaze and met mine again the thought seemed to fall away and drop into the abyss.
“I’ve never done this before,” he admitted, his breathing still a little ragged. Funny, his dick seemed to know the way—it was rubbing at the base of mine like a stallion champing at the bit. “We… we need lube, right?” he said doggedly, like he was having trouble working through his usual process of planning, assessing possible outcomes, and executing only when sure. Yeah, dude, forget that, it’s out the window when you’ve got a boner that hard.
I grinned. I had enough brain cells working to remember there was a fresh tube in my dresser drawer, but no way was I going to even suggest moving from where we were at right now. I’d go get it between sessions so we’d have it in here for next time, which I suspected would be be very, very shortly after this time. As in immediately. It would be simultaneously if that were physically possible.
“Use our cum, dude,” I said. “There’s enough if it, and you look like you won’t last any longer inside my tight ass than I will with you giving it to me.”
Bran groaned, like I’d gotten him close again just by mentioning my hole to him. “Don’t say things like—” he started to say. I cut him off with a kiss, more sensual this time. While we made out he used one hand to gather up the cum from our crotches, but instead of using it on his own cock he slathered it on mine instead.
I cried out into the kiss, then broke free. “Stop,” I said, and he halted in mid-stroke, gazing down at me like someone consumed with need. “You’re going to make be cum, and I want you in me when I blow.”
A smile spread across his kiss-swollen lips, like I’d surprised him with a compliment. “C’mon, Bran,” I said over the thundering on me heart, my dick trapped in his squeezing hand. “You know I’ve wanted you for ages.”
“I thought you just wanted my ass,” he said, his smile widening.
“Next time,” I gasped, and I could tell the idea excited him. “Now get it in me!”
He nodded, accepting the task. “I—I have to prep you, right? With my fingers?”
Damn it, more delays. I almost said no, but… that was one extra-huge dick he was about to shove into me. I nodded. “Make it fast,” I urged him.
He let go of my dick, much to its annoyance, and I spread my legs for him, feeling like I was pushing aside warm wisps of cloud with my feet. He found my hole and gingerly pushed a finger in. “Go,” I growled. He pushed in deeper, and I moaned. Fuck, I was ready for him. Maybe I hadn’t needed the prep—my ass was made for him. I barely contained myself as I felt two fingers, then three. “Enough,” I said. “Do it!” I stared into his eyes and, making my face utterly serious, I commanded him huskily: “Dance for me!”
Bran barked out a laugh before diving down and kissing me with urgency and passion. Then… then, as he pulled his face away, I felt his tip, pushing in rudely past my tight ring like it couldn’t hold itself back. He was looming over me balancing on one hand, the other resting low at my side; and strangely the fact that he was touching me on my bare hip unaccountably made me feel giddily naked, as if he weren’t pressing his prick against my hole. He was watching me, nervous and fervid all at once. Then head nudged a little further in, as cautious as its master, and my need to feel its full, hard length took up all of my attention.”Yes!” I told it in a low, growly voice, and him. “Yes!” It was all the reassurance he needed. That jumbo cock of his slid into me long, slow, and steady, like a freight train that was just starting up and would soon be rising to a dangerous speed and momentum. He pushed all the way in, down to the hilt, and… my god, that bend in his long, fat, very hard dick right nosed that head of his right up against my prostate.
I seized his heated cheeks in both hands like a spasm. I was having trouble finding words, or thoughts, but there was something I needed to tell him. “I’m not going to last,” I managed to get out, staring up into his sex-darkened eyes.
He nodded, a short jerk. “Me neither,” he whispered. He slowly drew back, then shoved in hard and deep. We both cried out. “Stroke yourself,” he demanded, pulling back for another go. I fisted my uncut dick and stroked myself hard in tandem with his thrust, and we yelled again in pleasure. If I’d been at all cognizant of the world in that moment I’d have expressed gratitude for the distance Mike’s house stood from the neighbors on either side—a far cry from trying to fuck in the crowded dorms—but my brain was toast. We were the world in that moment, me and my hands and my girthy hardon and Bran with his deliciously humpy body and his handsome face and hairy chest and his wonderfully crooked jumbo-sized cock. That was everything… that, and the universe-obliterating orgasm were were both building toward at light speed.
We didn’t last more than two more thrusts. I had both hands around my dick but I was barely stroking—I was so close to the edge I wasn’t sure I could stick out for Bran, but once again he was right there with me, cresting just as I was. Then with a final thrust we both cried out again and released monumental loads, the longed-for sensation of his hot jizz pulsing against my insides making me cum even harder in a euphoric full-body explosion of unending cum. I almost blacked out, and I definitely sort of lost focus for a while because the next thing I knew Bran was collapsed onto me, my sweaty arms wrapped tight and fast around his long, equally sweaty torso. He was still inside me, both of us still spurting the last dregs of our indomitable climax. We lay there for a while listening to each other’s heaving breaths until we were both spent, soaring on the edges of our shared release, alone together. It was like being incandescent and made of happy, all at once.
After a while Bran started to chuckle. “What the fuck happened to us?” he rasped into my neck. “I’m still hard for you.”
“Me too,” I said. Somehow, us moving in together had turned our bodies into sex machines and cranked our libidos up a notch or five. I held Bran close, and as my still-rigid erection flexed against his cummy abs, and his responded with an answering twitch where it lay still buried in my hot, tight ass, I realized with certainty that if this was to be my new reality I did not mind at all.
The boys were a few minutes late for work the day after they moved in, and that sped a pulse up a notch. Jerry, the cute, skinny TA with the glasses who unfailingly came in at 3:05 every day and ordered two slices of white before his late afternoon labs, was already here, and no sign of the boys. Nice.
The music was on, low but present as always. It was a White Stripes kind of day, and I hoped I’d get a chance to see how Brandon moved to a backing track of that sort now that things had started to change—if they had. Jerry was watching me from the other side of the counter as I slid his slices into the oven and shut the door. “What’s got you smiling?” he asked conversationally.
“Just a little project I’m working on,” I told him. “You want your Coke Zero with that?”
He nodded, and as I went over the refrigerated case he asked, “What kind of project?”
As if in answer, the boys suddenly stumbled in together at that very moment, having rushed in through the back. They looked flushed and slightly winded, almost like they’d run here, though I knew they’d probably taken in Eddie’s beater Toyota. They gave me comically identical apologetic looks. “Sorry, Mike,” they said, and Brandon added, “We got—” (and here they both gave each other an aside glance, which caused them both to grin while reddening a bit further) “—caught up.”
I had to laugh. “No apology needed,” I told them, while giving them both a quick, critical once-over. They were just a bit disheveled, a condition that was especially noticeable on Brandon: not only were their store polos rumbled and untucked, but Brandon’s rich chestnut hair was a messy nest, like he’d combed it with his hands instead of a brush and hadn’t bothered with product after he’d gotten out of the shower. Their mussed states made my insides tingle a tad. It might have been the rush to get here after all the playtime they’d had, but then again… there might have been more to it than that. Certainly the other intended effects of the two special strains of weed I’d tried out on the boys were patently starting to manifest.
Though a stranger might not have noticed I could tell that their shirts were both nicely snug across their perceptibly swollen shoulders and around their firm, minutely rounded upper arms, and their gently improved pecs were starting to show a little where the soft green fabric draped over them. Their hair was not only tousled but seemed a scoche longer and looser, like a well-kept garden was turning wild by slow degrees; and Brandon’s always meticulously groomed beard looked like it hadn’t been trimmed in a couple days. A bit of dark, new chest hair was sprouting in the vee of Brandon’s polo, too, and there were even a few lighter hairs in evidence on the sliver of Eddie’s paler chest where his shirt made it visible as well. The usual sense I had of being well taller than Brandon, not to mention Eddie, seemed subtly muted, like things wouldn’t be that way for long.
Most telling of all, though, was their behavior. They were just a little stoned, I was pretty sure, but it was more than that. Both of my boys had low-level but persistent anxieties: Eddie’s was about at school, Brandon’s with his family, and most obviously they had been not-so-subtly sharing a mutual hesitation about each other. Now, though, my gut was telling me that their preoccupations were receding and their inhibitions were aggressively eroding away. From the way they were sneaking glances at each other, and the leveled-up bulges in their pants—were they both chubbed for each other? Or just bigger? Maybe both?—I knew one thing for certain: if these two weren’t standing here, right now, waiting me for me to get them started on the day’s work, they would be home fucking each other’s brains out.
I decided to needle them a little first. “You guys look great today,” I said. “You been working out?”
They blushed again and exchanged another grinning glance. They’d been working out, all right, but not at the gym.
I wanted to giggle. I was pretty sure that the reason Thad had been breeding these special strains of weed lately, with all these calculated interactions from various mixtures that he kept detailing in the notes and instructions he sent with all his packages, was that he wanted me to be a big mountain of a man like him… but this was way more fun. I’d stick with the regular, unenhanced stuff for my own tokes, thank you kindly; but the boys were another kettle of pot altogether.
“Jerry’s whites should be ready,” I told Eddie, letting him off the hook, and he tore his eyes away from his new housemate long enough to turn his grin on me a second before going about his work. I had Brandon check the prep containers and open up a new sack of mozzarella before starting in on a delivery order we’d just gotten. He shared his grin with me as well, then started getting busy. I moved back to a corner where I could watch them both while retrieving my tablet and pretending to work on invoices. Both of them were moving around the place in utter contentment, like having hot butt sex and working in a pizza place was all a young guy could possibly need.
I was kind of turned on just seeing them like this… and imagining the summer ahead. I was, in that moment, pretty contented myself.
“You guys do look good,” Jerry observed as Eddie handed him his slices on a tray with the bottle of soda I’d been interrupted from getting.
“Thanks,” Eddie said with another blush and a smile, taking his money—and a larger than usual tip. It was nice to watch from behind. From where I stood Eddie’s back looked broad and tapered—he was going to have lats. Brandon was staring too, but when he noticed me looking at him he ducked his head, keeping a secret smile for himself. I had to giggle again, and my dick shifted as I made a note on my tablet to buy some larger-sized uniform shirts. My guys were going to need them.
Description Brandon and Eddie enjoy working for their pot-loving boss, Mike, at the pizza place near campus and are bummed they can’t stick around for the summer, too. Mike offers them a possible solution, though he doesn’t let them in on all his plans for the coming summer.
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