The Exhibitionist Gamer Roommate - Part 2

All characters in this story are 18 years of age or older. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Chapter 1

Cam's legs were still buzzing from sprints when he climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. Thursday afternoon conditioning had been a grinder, Coach pushing them through intervals until everyone's lungs burned. He should've been thinking about ice on his calves and the paper due Monday. Instead his brain kept drifting back to the room. To the smell that waited there. To the shape in the chair.

He adjusted his duffel on his shoulder and paused outside Room 412. The hallway was quiet. From inside he heard the faint clack of keys and the low murmur of game audio bleeding around Grant's headset. Normal. He turned the knob.

The door swung open and Cam's chest locked.

Grant was at his desk, legs spread wide in the gaming chair, gray boxer-briefs shoved down around his thighs. His cock stood hard in his fist, flushed dark and curving slightly upward, nine thick inches with the veins raised along the shaft, the head exposed, the slit open and wet, pre-cum pooling at the tip and already running down over Grant's thumb, coating his palm slick. His balls hung heavy below, shaved smooth, shifting with every slow pull. Grant stroked loose and unhurried, his thumb finding the same ridge just under the crown on every upstroke without looking. The wet sounds were unmistakable in the small room: slick, rhythmic, obscene.

Cam froze in the doorway, one hand still on the knob.

Grant's eyes flicked over, hazel behind his glasses. He didn't startle. Didn't yank his hand away like a normal person would. He just gave a lazy half-smile, dimples showing, and kept stroking once more before tucking the massive thing back into his briefs with a wet schlick. The fabric immediately darkened as fresh pre-cum soaked through.

"My bad," Grant said easily, voice warm like they were talking about the weather. He adjusted the headset with his clean hand. "Didn't hear you come in. Long practice?"

Cam's mouth was dry. His cock had twitched hard in his compression shorts the second he saw it. "Yeah. Conditioning." The words came out rough. He forced himself to step inside and close the door, hyper-aware of how small the room felt with Grant's scent already thick in the air, musk, that faint sweet-alkaline edge of pre-cum, and the warm base note that had been living in the walls for weeks.

Grant spun the chair a little, still slouched, the wet spot on his gray briefs now the size of a palm print. The outline of his half-hard cock lay heavy against his thigh, still leaking. "You look wrecked, man. Sit down before you fall over."

Cam dropped his bag by his desk and sat on the edge of his bed. His pulse hadn't settled. The image wouldn't leave: Grant's fist sliding over that thick length, the way the head had flared shiny and wet, the casual way he'd just kept going for a second even after being seen.

"You, uh… always do that?" Cam asked before he could stop himself. He sounded stupid. He felt stupid.

Grant shrugged, dimples again. "When I'm bored between queues. Helps me focus, honestly." He laughed, low and unbothered. "Didn't mean to put on a show. You good?"

Cam nodded too fast. "Yeah. Fine." He turned to his desk, opened his laptop, and stared at the blank document without seeing it. Behind him the chair creaked as Grant shifted, fabric rustling. Another soft wet sound, Grant adjusting himself again, probably. Cam's ears were tuned to it now whether he wanted them to be or not.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of half-finished sentences and the constant awareness of the guy three feet away. Grant went back to gaming, hoodie open, chest hair visible, legs spread like always. Every so often Cam caught the faint rhythmic sound of palm on slick skin, quiet, almost hidden, but not really. Grant wasn't trying that hard.

By the time Cam headed to the dining hall for a quick dinner with a couple teammates, his own cock was half-hard and staying that way. He sat across from Cooke and laughed in the right places, but his mind kept looping back to the doorway. The way Grant's cock had looked in his hand. The casual "my bad." The wet spot still growing on those gray briefs when Cam left.

The next morning's lifting session was brutal. Cam pushed heavier than usual on squats, trying to burn the image out of his head through sheer effort. It didn't work. Every time he set the bar down and caught his breath, he saw Grant's fist sliding up over that glistening head, the string of pre-cum stretching and breaking.

Back in the room after lunch he caught himself hesitating outside the door. Hand on the knob, ear tilted. Listening. The room was quiet. He opened the door.

Grant was at the desk, fully dressed for once, well, as dressed as he got. Black basketball shorts and the open hoodie. Coding, not gaming. He glanced up with that easy grin. "Hey. You eat yet?"

"Just came from the dining hall." Cam set his bag down. "You?"

"Ramen." Grant nodded at an empty cup near the monitor. "I meant to go down but a queue popped." He stretched his arms overhead, the hoodie falling open. "How was it?"

"Fine. Pasta."

"Yeah, the pasta's always fine." Grant turned back to his screen like that was the whole conversation.

Cam dropped onto his bed. Nothing was happening. Grant's lap looked normal under the desk. His chest went tight. A cold, specific flush low in his gut that had no business being there. What the fuck is wrong with you?

He pulled out his textbook. For twenty minutes he pretended to read while Grant typed. Then the chair creaked. Grant reached down casually, palmed himself through the shorts, and gave a slow squeeze. The fabric tented. A small dark spot bloomed near the tip.

Cam's eyes flicked over before he could stop them. Grant didn't look at him. Just kept working, one hand on the mouse, the other resting on his thickening cock like they were still talking about dining hall pasta.

Cam's own dick filled out against his thigh. The scent was stronger today, Grant had been sitting there for hours, the room holding all of it. Musk, fresh pre-cum, the warm base note he'd stopped being able to separate. He shifted and didn't leave. A page and a half left in the chapter. That was why.

That night the pattern repeated, only quieter.

Cam came back from the library around ten. The room was dark except for the dual monitors. Grant had the headset on, one ear uncovered. He was stroking again, slow this time, almost lazy, fist gliding over the full hard length while a cut scene played on the left screen. Pre-cum ran freely down the shaft, making every stroke audibly slick.

He paused just inside the door, bag still on his shoulder. Grant's eyes met his for a second. No panic. Just that small smirk and a tiny nod, like yeah, this is happening again. Then he looked back at the game, hand never stopping.

Cam closed the door softly. Sat on his bed. Kicked off his shoes. The wet sounds continued, slow and deliberate, filling the small space between their beds. Cam's cock was aching. He pressed the heel of his hand against it once through his shorts, then forced himself to stop.

He lay back against his pillow, eyes on the ceiling, but his head stayed turned just enough. The blue-white glow lit up the motion: Grant's thick fist, the shiny head disappearing and reappearing, the way his heavy balls shifted with each stroke.

Grant exhaled through his nose, a little rougher than usual. The sound hit Cam below the breastbone.

Neither of them said anything. The game audio kept playing. Keys clicked between strokes. Cam's pulse lived in his ear, his throat, the back of his knee.

Eventually Grant tucked himself away again with a quiet grunt, wiped his hand on his hoodie, and kept gaming like nothing had happened. The wet spot on his shorts was massive now, fabric clinging transparently to the fat head.

Cam rolled over facing the wall. His cock throbbed against his stomach. He didn't touch it. He lay there listening to Grant breathe, to the occasional shift of fabric, to the room's thick, living smell, and tried to convince himself this was still just proximity.

It was getting harder to believe.

When Grant finally killed the monitors around two and climbed into his lofted bed, he murmured, "Night, Cam."

Cam didn't answer. His throat was too tight.

He stayed awake a long time after the room went dark, the image of Grant's leaking cock burned behind his eyelids. Tomorrow he'd open the door faster. Or slower. He wasn't sure which yet.

And that uncertainty felt more dangerous than anything else.

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Room 412 is getting harder to leave, and Grant hasn't said a word about it. Chapter 3 coming soon. Next 4 Chapters live on Patreon. Thanks for reading, comments and upvotes keep this going.