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"Have you ever masturbated before?"
Your words are the verbal equivalent of a grenade going off in his hands while he’s still holding it. Choso’s ears ring, and his vision spins like he’s about to pass out. The stuffy air of your shared apartment does little to hide the red that creeps up on his cheeks.
Did you really… Did he hear you right?
"Masturbated?" He glances up from his laptop long enough to echo your words. He brings his beer to his lips and swallows hard, but the drink does little to soothe his nerves.
"Don't tell me you've never jacked off before.” You say. “What are you? Twenty?"
Twenty-three. There's a lump in his throat that doesn't seem to go down even as he swallows.
"Of course I have!" Choso says with a tone that's just a bit too defensive.
The giggle you let out sounds to be the furthest thing from innocent, he thinks.
In an instant, like a predator pouncing on its prey, you’re moving from your spot in your chair, and settling down on the couch beside him. He can't help but notice how your legs are nearly touching, your thigh brushing up against his. Choso’s arm slings across the back of the couch, barely touching your shoulders. With your laptop nestled in your lap, angled for him to see it, you open your browser. Immediately he’s met with the sight of an orange and black website.
His first instinct is to turn his gaze away. This is a side of his roommate that he should not see. Yet his curiosity has him glancing right back over your shoulder. You’re not even in an incognito tab.
“So what’s your type?” You ask, eyes glued to the screen. “Blondes? Brunettes? Milfs? Maybe chicks with muscles? Or dudes? I say that with no intention to judge—I'm genuinely curious."
Your nonchalant tone is what strikes him the most about this— like you could be talking about doing laundry, or what you plan to make for dinner.
“I don't know.” Choso says.
“You don't know your type?” You ask.
He nods slowly.
Choso refuses to admit that his type is you. His sweet roommate who— until just now —had paid seemingly little attention to him. Between your classes, friends, and erratic work schedule, you didn't spend much time around him. The work schedules you both had tend to make for little time off together. You never seemed to turn your gaze in his direction, despite how he turned his to you. And though you’ve lived together for nearly a year, Choso was certain you two were hardly more than strangers.
He would watch from a distance. But no guy who wasn't a total creep would ever admit that out loud, he notes. As you’d come home from work in the evening, he’d greet you as you’d soon head to your room for the night. He’s picked up on your habits over time; how you make your coffee in the morning— you used a french press, up until you received a Keurig for Christmas . How your keys are always in the left pocket of your coat. How you always head straight to the shower after work. The soaps you use, and how you tend to favor sweet scents like vanilla. How you leave your laundry just laying around afterwards. He doesn't mind. He was doing a load of laundry anyway. Didn't you need these washed?
Choso just couldn't help it that he liked the smell of your shampoo. How he’d take your spare shirts from the laundry, solely for that scent. How he’d bring it to his nose and his cock would stiffen at the scent. You weren't going to notice the occasional pair of panties missing from your laundry—not if he could sneak them back in your room while you’re at work. You wouldn't notice them gone, would you?
Choso had noticed you, and you had certainly noticed him.
What Choso didn't know was how much of a pervert his roommate really was.
It all came to a head a few weeks ago, as you came home from a night out with friends. Typically when you’d go out drinking, you’d crash over at a friend's apartment. And with your other roommate visiting his parents for the week, Choso had the apartment entirely to himself.
Or so he assumed.
You weren't stupid, and neither was he sneaky. It would take the most oblivious person to miss the way Choso looks at you. Not to mention the various clothes of yours—bras, shirts, and whatnot—had been going missing from your laundry for weeks, only to reappear in the wash later, albeit slightly stiffer.
Once or twice you can chalk up to your own forgetfulness. When it's this frequent, you can only assume foul play is at hand.
“Have you ever watched porn before?” You ask.
“What?!” He sucks in a breath. Is that really something he’s willing to admit? “Of course I have…”
Choso watches the corners of your lips twitch as you click on a video, angling the screen of the laptop so he can see it better.
He can smell you —your shampoo, perfume, and the laundry soap you use. It takes everything within him not to bury his nose in your hair. All those nights he spent with your shirt balled up against his pillow, hand shoved down the front of his boxers, imagining the depraved things he could do to you. How soft your lips would feel—not to mention your hands. How your scent would linger on his sheets long after you’ve left. All the sweet words you would softly coo at him.
You appear completely oblivious to the sins of the flesh on screen. “Personally I don't like the studio made stuff,” you say, “‘cause usually the girls start screaming even though the guy has barely started touching her. And a lot of the men are wayyy too big. Like that can't feel good…”
The feeling of your hand against his half-hard cock is nearly enough to make him leap out of his own skin. Choso has no clue what to do with his hands, let alone any other part of his body. And he’s at your mercy. There's no stopping the moan that leaves him as your fingers trace the outline of his erection.
You have a look in your eyes. It looks like you could eat him. He isn't certain if he should be frightened or not. But the neurons that control fear and arousal often overlap in the human mind. What should be panic in this situation, or maybe just a feeling of wrongness , translates to lust.
“You’ve never had sex before, have you?” You ask.
Choso’s face is red, and his neck is white. He could lie. Though would that be much better? Swallowing his pride, he nods.
“That's fair.” You say. “Although I am surprised, don't get me wrong. You’re a sweet guy—cute too—even if you are a bit shy.”
Choso isn't sure if that's a compliment or an insult. Perhaps both. He just… never got the chance. Or it never showed itself. Choso kept to himself. He always considered himself too busy taking care of his younger brothers to date. Then when they were all old enough to navigate the world on their own, they did so.
“I'm not a fan of one night stands myself. Sometimes they’re nice, don't get me wrong,” you say, “but I much prefer to have known my partner for a while. There's something so intimate about being able to recognize someone by only their touch. Or their smell… or the feeling of their teeth.”
You bring his hand to your lips, gently taking two of his fingers between your teeth. He lets out a quiet gasp as you nip at the digits. Then he’s met with the warm, wet sensation of your tongue, wrapping around his fingers. His cock twitches in response. His eyes widen in a mix of shock, and lust.
Choso tries to memorize the feeling of your teeth, their sharpness against his skin, and the minty smell to your breath.
The realization of it all has finally sunk in: you knew. Of the near two years that you’ve been roommates, you’ve been aware of what he gets up to when you’re not home.
Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, which you swipe away with your thumbs. Choso is trembling. Quite impossibly so. He can't help it, you just feel too nice sitting in his lap like this.
Your hands move to cup his face, thumbs brushing away the tears that form at the corners of his eyes. “Poor baby,” you coo, “this worked up for me?”
He nods as your lips press against his forehead. There's a quiet smack! as you pull away. The faint taste of salt lingers on your lips.
When your lips crash against his, you taste something sweet on them. Choso moans into the kiss, legs widening to allow you room to settle between them. Every movement of yours is dominating. Controlling. You nip at his bottom lip until he relents, allowing your tongue to press into his mouth.
He watches intently as your own hand disappears under the waistband of your shorts. They ride down low on your hips, revealing a small tattoo on your side. The hem of your shirt has ridden up a bit, exposing the lower half of your stomach. His gaze clings to that the longest; the soft skin, the sparse hairs, that tattoo that twitches as you move. He so desperately wants to run his fingers down the curves of your hips. To memorize every inch of your skin.
“All those nights you watched me bring home dates,” you say. “Did you hear us through the walls? Did you imagine that was you? Did you touch yourself while you did it? ”
The feeling of your hand wrapping around his length is nearly enough to make him cum on the spot. Your hand, so soft and small compared to his own, just feels too good wrapped around him. He lets out a grunt, then a whimper, which is followed by him squirming underneath you.
“ What was that? ” You ask. He watches your tongue trace against your glossy lower lip.
“Yes!” He says. You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “ Yes! I thought about you!”
His head rolls back as your hand strokes along the length of his cock. Slowly at first, before picking up in pace. Your name falls past his lips like a prayer, or more perhaps a curse.
Choso inhales sharply. “M’ gonna-”
“Oh but I didn't say you could cum yet,” you say.
His hips buck upwards at the sudden halt to your touch. The sudden stop to the tension that was building in his stomach is almost enough to make him cry out in frustration, but something tells him that wouldn't end too well for him.
You drag your thumb across the head of his cock, smearing precum along with it. He’s practically throbbing, and dripping across your hand. Choso stands on that edge between release, tetering, but never falling down the other side. He wants to cry out; to beg for that release that won't come.
“But I can't-”
“That sounds like a you problem, my dear,” you say.
For a moment, Choso is nearly too stunned to speak. Your eyes never leave his as you move to straddle his lap. The look in them is nothing short of predatory. He’s never felt so small before. He’s not a small person by any means; neither has he ever considered himself shy. He doesn't worry about the space he takes up, or the attention he draws. Until it comes to you.
Though his noises are rather small, his breathing is growing more erratic. A whimper escapes him as you grab a lock of his hair and tug gently. This draws a moan, low and sweet, the noise of which makes you clench your thighs together.
He can't bear it anymore. An icy feeling runs up his spine. That burning sensation is what snaps him out of his trance. It's as if his muscles are refusing to work.
“ Please ,” he says, “please can I-”
“No,” you coo, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear, “you’re going to have to beg harder than that.”
“Please, please, please, ” his head falls against your chest, and that bit of contact is what tips you off to how much he truly is trembling. “ I'll fucking die if you don't touch me .”
“Much better,” you say.
Without another word, you’re sliding your shorts down your hips. Choso does little to resist as you shove him backwards on the couch, moving to hover over his face. His eyes only meet yours briefly before he understands what you’re doing.
“ Suck ,” you say.
And with a certain, charming clumsiness, he does.
Much as if your body has betrayed you, your release creeps up on you far sooner than expected. Tension builds in your stomach like a coil being wound taut. Each clumsy movement of his tongue sends you closer to your own orgasm. Your fingers bury in his hair, using it as leverage to grind down against his mouth. He moans low as you do, hands moving to squeeze your hips. Choso seems content to let you use him, reciprocating eagerly as you do so.
His name spills past your lips as you cum, your grip on his hair tightening. Choso grunts at the mix of pain, and pleasure, and the feeling of his cock twitching from neglect.
Another moment passes before you climb off of him. A mix of your own cum, and his saliva leaves your inner thighs slick.
Still sensitive from your own release, you sheathe him within you in one single motion. Your fingers trace the harsh V formed by the muscles of his pelvis. The hairs at the base of his cock are soft, and unruly. Untrimmed . Not that you mind.
Choso looks as if he’ll cum on the spot. As his hips buck up once again, you clench around him, making his vision blur with pleasure. His teeth dig into his lower lips hard enough to draw blood.
“Good boy,” you coo, “so good for me.”
With your fingers, you brush a lock of hair out of his face. It sticks to his forehead with sweat. Such a tender action makes him shudder, and lean into your touch.
The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the otherwise silent room. Choso has seemingly come undone, whimpering as your hips grind against his. Despite your shallow thrusts, your movements are unforgiving. He can't seem to tear his eyes away from the way your tits bounce as you ride him. Choso’s precum mixes with your own arousal, leaving a thin white line around the base of his cock.
“ Please ,” Choso can barely get the word out between his own heavy breaths. Your eyes trail a bead of sweat as it rolls down his temple.
“Use your words…”
His cock twitches as you stop moving for a moment, resting with him fully inside of you. The angle of your hips allows him to hit far deeper than before.
“ Please can I cum?”
If he could be on his knees, begging, he would be. Your poor, sweet roommate, so stoic and quiet, lies before you in near hysterics. He pleads to you like a worshiper pleads to his benevolent god. His hands find your hips, following along as you bounce on his cock.
“Go ahead,” you say, “cum for me.”
With one final shudder, hot ropes of his cum spill into you. You ride him until long after he’s gone soft, and overstimulation has set in. Cum—if it’s yours or his, you’re uncertain—runs down your inner thighs in streams. You pull off of him slowly, so as to minimize the mess, but it hardly helps. A mix of your fluids, and his, now stains your apartment’s shared couch. Not that you pay it much mind—it belonged to a previous roommate, who left it behind when they moved.
You lay on your side beside him, his arm wrapped tightly around your waist. Choso looks as if he’s in a state of shock. Soon, his shock is replaced with fatigue. The warmth of your body against his does little to help him stay awake.
You feel around the floor blindly, before finding your shorts, tugging them back on. You figure it best to get cleaned up—at least before your other roommate comes home.
“Where are you going?” He asks meekly.
“Gonna take a shower,” you say, sitting on the edge of the couch. “Are you coming with me?”