Chapter 9: Forbidden Viewing
The change in the dorm was subtle but profound. For two days, Gus hadn’t put on a shirt once inside their room. He padded from his bed to the mini-fridge to the bathroom in nothing but a simple black thong, his magnificent belly leading the way, the thick blonde hair on his chest and stomach gleaming in the afternoon light. Harrison watched him, a constant, warm hum of appreciation buzzing under his own skin. He’d compliment him casually—“Your cage looks really good with that tan line, dude,” or “God, your belly looks so soft today”—and Gus would blush, but he’d smile, a real, unguarded grin that made Harrison’s pussy, nestled behind his own thong strap, give a soft, wet pulse.
They’d eaten together every night since the ice cream incident. It was their ritual. They’d order a grotesque amount of food, spread it across their beds, and feed each other. It wasn’t explicitly sexual, but it was deeply intimate. Harrison felt it in the way his body prepared itself, the slow, slick gathering that started as soon as the takeout bags crinkled. He knew Gus felt it too, saw the way his breathing shallowed, the way his own thick thighs would press together.
On the third morning, Harrison headed to his 10 a.m. literature class, his mind more on Gus’s laughter from the night before than on 18th-century poetry. He found the classroom dark, a hastily scrawled note on the door: Class Canceled. Prof. Ill. See syllabus.
A jolt of unexpected freedom shot through him. He could go to the gym. He could study. Instead, his feet carried him back toward the dorm, his thoughts a pleasant, musky blur of his roommate’s bare skin. He pushed the door open, the familiar scent of their room—old pizza, masculine deodorant, the underlying, clean scent of their bodies—washing over him.
The sight stopped him cold.
Gus was at his desk, but his chair was pushed back. He was on his knees, bent forward over the seat, his enormous, hairy ass raised in the air. The laptop on the desk was angled down, the screen filled with a close-up, glistening, desperate image. A big, fat, hairy bottom was bent over, his slick, pink pussy utterly exposed and being lavishly devoured by another equally massive, hairy bottom, whose face was buried deep between his cheeks. The sounds were filthy, wet, and sloppy, smothering Gus’s own ragged breaths.
Gus’s right hand was a blur between his own raised cheeks, driving a modest, flesh-colored dildo in and out of his hole with a rhythmic, wet squelch. His pussy was dripping, a clear, viscous string of lubricant connecting the toy to his stretched rim. From the front of his simple metal cock cage, a bead of precum had welled and fallen onto the carpet below. He was lost in it, his eyes glued to the screen, his body trembling with each thrust.
Harrison’s bag hit the floor with a thud.
Gus froze. His head whipped around, eyes wide with pure, unadulterated horror. He scrambled back, yanking the dildo from his pussy with a sick, wet pop, trying to cover himself with his hands, a futile gesture. The porn played on, the sounds of ecstatically slurping bottoms now obscenely loud in the silent room.
“Harrison, I— I didn’t—,” Gus stammered, his face a mask of shame.
For a second, Harrison just watched him. The panicked blue eyes. The heaving, hairy chest. The beautiful, wet mess between his legs. A strange, possessive calm settled over him. He kicked the door shut behind him.
“Don’t stop,” Harrison said, his voice a low rasp. He unzipped his jeans, pushing them down his thighs along with his thong. “Don’t you dare stop. I’ve been dreaming about this.”
Gus stared, trembling. “You… what?”
“We’re both bottoms, Gus. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” Harrison took a step closer, his own cocklet, uncaged and soft, bobbing gently. He gestured to the laptop. “That’s hot. Why would you be embarrassed by that?”
Gus’s eyes filled with terrified tears. “Because it’s… it’s for lesbians.”
The word hung in the air, heavy and real. Harrison reached the desk. He gently took the dildo from Gus’s limp hand. It was warm and slick. He looked Gus directly in the eye. “Are you a lesbian, Gus?”
A long, shuddering breath. Then, a whisper. “Yes.”
Harrison smiled, a genuine, warm smile. “I figured. I don’t care at all.” He leaned closer, his breath ghosting over Gus’s lips. “In fact, I really, really want to see you masturbate. Please.”
He handed the dildo back. Gus looked from the toy to Harrison’s face, searching for mockery, finding only hungry sincerity. Slowly, shakily, Gus turned back toward the chair, presenting his ass again. He guided the tip of the dildo back to his dripping entrance, his eyes flicking to the screen where the two bottoms had switched, the one who’d been eating now on his back, being scissored, their fat bellies and wet cunts rubbing together.
Harrison pulled his desk chair over, sitting naked just to Gus’s side, watching. He watched the porn, entranced. He’d never seen two bottoms together like this. There was no pounding, no domination. It was all worship—of softness, of wetness, of hair and sweat and mess. They kissed deeply as they grinded, they squeezed each other’s rolls, they drank from each other’s soaked pussies. It was tender and filthy and it made Harrison’s own hole clench with want.
But mostly, he watched Gus. The tension slowly bled from his shoulders. His strokes became more confident, the schlick-schlick-schlick of the dildo plunging into his slick channel settling into a desperate rhythm. His breaths turned to whimpers. Harrison could see everything—the way his pussy greedily swallowed the toy, the way his asshole glistened, the way his balls tightened in their cage.
“That’s it,” Harrison murmured. “Get it real wet. Soak it. Like they are.” On screen, the bottoms were kissing, their faces slick with each other’s juices.
Gus moaned, a broken, beautiful sound. His hips bucked back against his own hand.
Harrison couldn’t take it anymore. He stood, fumbled in his nightstand drawer, and pulled out his own favorite dildo, a deep blue one with a gentle curve. He didn’t bother with the chair. He dropped to his knees on the floor beside Gus, facing the same direction, and without a word, began to fuck himself.
For a minute, there was only the sound of four lungs gasping and the wet, syncopated symphony of two pussies being filled. Gus glanced over, saw Harrison’s face contorted in pleasure, saw the toy buried in his roommate’s hairy ass, and a new, choked sound escaped him. It wasn’t shame. It was hunger.
“Fuck, Harrison,” Gus breathed.
“You too,” Harrison gritted out, driving his toy deeper. “C’mon, Gus. Make a mess. Show me.”
Encouraged, lost in the mutual permission, Gus began to fuck himself harder, faster. The sounds grew obscenely loud, squelching and slapping. Pre-cum dripped in a steady stream from both their cages onto the carpet. The room smelled intensely of sex, of musk, of their shared, indulgent arousal.
Harrison’s eyes were locked on Gus’s profile—the clenched jaw, the fluttering eyelids, the sweat beading on his temple. The tension was a live wire between them, buzzing, unsustainable. His own climax was a rising tide, but it wasn’t enough.
He pulled the dildo from his cunt with a gasp. Gus, sensing the movement, slowed, his own toy stilling halfway inside him.
They turned to look at each other. Their faces were inches apart. Gus’s lips were parted, his breath hot and sweet with the soda they’d drunk at breakfast. Harrison saw no hesitation left, only a mirrored, sloppy, perverted need.
Harrison closed the distance.
The kiss was a revelation. It was wet and messy, all tongue and heat and shared breath. It tasted like salt and need. Gus groaned into his mouth, the last of his restraint dissolving. He kissed back with a frantic, hungry passion, one hand coming up to tangle in Harrison’s beard. Harrison’s hands found Gus’s hips, his fingers digging into the soft, hairy flesh.
They kissed like that, kneeling on the floor, their bodies aching and wet, for a long, desperate minute. It was more intimate than anything Harrison had ever done with a top.
“Touch yourself,” Harrison whispered against his lips, pulling back just enough to speak. “I want to see you come.”
Gus nodded, dazed. He pulled the dildo free and tossed it aside, then shoved two thick fingers into his own dripping pussy, fucking himself with them. Harrison did the same, mirroring him, two fingers sliding easily into his own soaked hole.
They watched each other’s hands work, watched each other’s faces unravel. The porn was forgotten.
“I’m gonna… Harrison, I’m…” Gus stammered, his body bowing.
“Me too. Now. Do it.”
Gus’s body seized. A low, guttural cry tore from his throat as his pussy clenched rhythmically around his fingers, a flood of slick lubricant gushing out over his hand and onto the floor. The sight, the sound, the smell—it was too much. Harrison’s own orgasm ripped through him, a deep, internal convulsion that milked his fingers, his body shaking as he added his own wetness to the puddle between them.
They slumped together, foreheads touching, breathing in ragged unison. The afterglow was a thick, heavy blanket, smothering and sweet.
After a long time, Gus spoke, his voice rough. “So… that happened.”
Harrison laughed, a tired, happy sound. “Yeah. It did.” He pulled his fingers from his cunt and, without thinking, brought them to his mouth, licking them clean. He saw Gus watching, his eyes dark. Harrison offered his wet fingers to Gus. Gus, after a heartbeat, leaned in and sucked them into his own mouth, cleaning them with a soft, exploring tongue.
They both knew nothing would be the same. The thought didn’t scare Harrison. It filled him with a giddy, terrifying hope.
ALL CHARACTERS DEPICTED ARE AGED 18 YEARS OR OLDER, WITHOUT EXCEPTION.