Chapter 5: Apartment
The gym crush had been brutal. Stu had been a quiet, relentless drill sergeant, pushing me through sets of squats and deadlifts until my legs trembled like violin strings. We’d stumbled back into the apartment, dripping sweat, the silence between us filled with the echoes of clanging weights and strained breaths.
“Hydration,” Stu mumbled, heading straight for the fridge. He emerged with two cold bottles of a local IPA, popping the caps on the counter edge. He handed me one. “And carbs. It’s science.”
I took the bottle, the glass slick with condensation. We didn’t usually drink after workouts. This was new. We leaned against opposite counters in the dim kitchen, the only sound the glug of beer and the hum of the fading city outside.
“So,” he said after a long swallow, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You seeing Ella this weekend?”
“Yeah, probably Saturday.” The beer was crisp, cutting through the protein-shake aftertaste that still seemed to linger.
“Good, good.” He nodded, his eyes focused on the label he was picking at. “She’s great. You guys are... cute.” He said it like he was confirming a minor fact. “You ever talk about stuff? Like, physical stuff?”
I chuckled, uneasy. “What, like with you? Dude, no.”
“No, I mean with her. Do you tell her what you like?” His gaze lifted, sharp and curious. “You mentioned once she gives, uh, really good head. That she’s... enthusiastic.”
I felt a heat rise up my neck that had nothing to do with the workout. I had said that, months ago, after a few too many drinks, bragging in that stupid, basic way guys do. Stu had just nodded at the time. He’d remembered.
“I mean, yeah,” I said, taking another quick drink. “She’s amazing.”
“Right.” He pushed off the counter, taking a slow step into the middle of the kitchen, into the space that felt suddenly smaller. “And it’s great, because she knows what feels good, right? She’s working with the same equipment.” He took another step. His voice was casual, conversational, but his focus was absolute. “But have you ever wondered... I mean, logically, who would know better what feels good on a guy than another guy? Someone who has the same hardware. Who operates on the same... fundamental principles.”
The air left the room. My mouth was dry. The beer bottle was cold and heavy in my hand. He was just a few feet away now, his lean frame blocking the light from the hallway. His eyes were dark, unwavering. They weren’t on my face.
A confusing, undeniable tightness stirred in my sweatpants. A treacherous, physical echo of the morning’s dream. I was half-hard, then more, the fabric tenting noticeably. I couldn’t will it away. The silence stretched, elastic and thin.
Stu’s eyes tracked the transformation. He didn’t smirk this time. His expression was one of pure, focused absorption. The quiet wasn’t awkward; it was dense, expectant.
“Stu,” I managed, the word coming out ragged.
He didn’t answer with words. He just moved. In one fluid, silent motion, he closed the remaining distance and sank to his knees on the worn kitchen tile.
The world telescoped down to the feeling of his hands, steady and warm, sliding onto my hips. To the puff of his breath through the thin fabric. My own breath hitched, caught somewhere in my throat. I should have pushed him away. I should have said something, anything. But a paralyzing, electric curiosity held me rigid.
He looked up at me, his face level with my waist. There was a question in his eyes, but also a profound certainty. He didn’t wait for permission. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of my sweatpants and my boxers, and tugged them down just enough.
The cool air of the kitchen was a shock. Then it was replaced by the overwhelming, wet heat of his mouth.
My head thumped back against the cabinet behind me. A stunned, guttural sound tore from my chest. My hand, still clutching the beer bottle, went white-knuckled. Sensation obliterated thought. It was nothing like I’d imagined, because I’d never allowed myself to imagine it. It was practiced, precise, and devastatingly effective. He did know. He understood pressure, rhythm, the exact point of shivering sensitivity. His technique was a clinical study in pleasure, applied with a terrifying dedication.
One of his hands stayed anchored on my hip, holding me in place. The other moved, fingers wrapping around the base of me, his thumb sliding in a slow, corkscrew motion. A soft, choked moan filtered up from where he knelt. It wasn’t a performance. It sounded like satisfaction. Like a hypothesis being proven correct.
I was losing myself in the sheer physical feedback, a reactor going critical. The edges of my vision blurred. The kitchen—the dusty toaster, the clean blender glass from this morning, the humming fridge—faded into a distant, irrelevant landscape. There was only this point of molten connection, and the quiet, submissive shape of my roommate at my feet, who had orchestrated this entire collision with the patience of a strategist.
I looked down. His eyes were closed in concentration, his brow slightly furrowed. A strand of his hair was stuck to his damp temple. He was utterly absorbed in the task, as focused as he’d been spotting my final rep at the gym.
The realization detonated in my hazy mind: This was his new project. His latest quest. All the protein shakes, the gym invitations, the loaded glances—it had all been foundational work. Prep. This was the first, cataclysmic set.
And I, completely against my own understanding, was letting him complete it.