Two In The Morning

This is a true story that happened a few years ago. All parties in this story are 18+

The house had that smell at two in the morning. Stale coffee, baby powder, and the chemical tang of a vaporizer running in a kid's room. I was on the sofa because that was where I slept. The extra room was laundry, toys, and a pack-and-play, so the couch was mine for the visit. A blanket that smelled like someone else's dryer sheets was pulled up to my chin. I stared at the ceiling fan and listened to the floorboards settle.

Then the stairs creaked.

Mark came down in boxers and a t-shirt, hair mashed on one side. He did not see me at first. He went to the kitchen, grabbed a beer, cracked it, turned, and caught me watching.

"Shit. Didn't know you were awake."

"Kid's been coughing for an hour. Hard to miss."

He huffed a laugh and tipped the bottle toward the Xbox.

"You play?"

"You know I don't."

"Yeah. Worth asking."

He dropped into the recliner, controller in hand, and the TV came on. Some shooter. Explosions, gunfire, squad chatter. I stayed on the sofa and watched him play because there was nothing else to do.

"She get him down?" I asked.

"Finally. Took forever. She's out."

He killed somebody on screen and reached for the beer.

"You want one?"

"I'm good."

We sat like that for a while. Him playing. Me half under the blanket. The house making those little night noises houses make when everyone else is supposed to be asleep.

"Can I ask you something?" he said, without looking over.

"Depends."

"What's it like?"

I waited. He still did not look at me.

"What's what like?"

He shrugged, one shoulder, like he could keep it casual if he kept shooting.

"Being with guys. I don't know. You've been out forever. I never actually asked."

"You want the polite version or the real one?"

"I asked, didn't I?"

I watched the screen for a second so it would not feel like a speech.

"It's like being with anybody, except you don't have to translate as much. Guys know how to please other guys. Same equipment. You already know what feels good, so you are not guessing as hard."

He made a face, then laughed under his breath.

"That's... yeah. That makes sense."

"Sometimes it does. Sometimes it is just as dumb as anything else."

He shifted in the recliner. Adjusted the controller. Adjusted his legs.

"So like, what, you just know where to put your mouth?"

"Pretty much. You know what you like. You do that to somebody else. Not complicated."

"And they're better at it than women?"

"Some are. Some aren't. The ones who are into it are usually less shy about being filthy."

He swallowed. I heard it.

"Filthy how?"

"You really want that at two in the morning in your living room?"

He glanced over, quick, then back to the game.

"I'm asking."

"Hands. Mouth. No big production about whether it is nasty. If a guy wants his cock sucked, he wants it sucked. If he wants his balls played with, he says so, or he just puts your head there."

Mark's thumb slipped on the stick. His character walked into a wall and died. He swore, respawned, and kept his eyes on the TV like it could save him.

That was when I saw it. Not much. Just a small chub starting in his boxers, the fabric lifting enough that it was impossible to pretend I had imagined it.

I should have left it there. I did not plan what came next. I just did not look away.

"You get that a lot?" he asked. Still trying to sound like this was just curiosity. "Guys wanting that."

"Enough."

"And you like doing it?"

"When I like the guy."

"What if you don't? Like, not dating him. Just..."

"Just a blowjob?"

He gave a tight little nod.

"Then it is just a blowjob."

The chub was not small anymore. He shifted again, tried to settle the controller on his thigh, which only made it more obvious. He had to know I could see it. He kept asking anyway.

"Is it weird?" he said. "Doing that for another guy."

"No. It's a dick, Mark. It's not a riddle."

He let out a breath that was almost a laugh.

"Yeah. Okay."

"You done with the interview?"

"One more." He paused the game, then unpaused it immediately, like pausing was too honest. "What's the part most guys lose their mind over?"

I looked at him. Then at his lap. Then back at his face.

"Mouth on their cock. Mouth on their balls. Somebody who actually wants to be down there."

He went still. The match kept going without him.

I slid off the sofa.

It did not feel like a decision until my knees hit the carpet between his legs. The TV lit the side of his neck. His boxers were tented now, a damp pinprick starting to show. I put my hands on his knees and he did not close them.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Keeping you company."

His breath caught. I had not come downstairs for this. I had not sat up for this. I was there because he kept asking and his cock kept answering for him.

"You don't have to," he whispered.

"I know."

I tugged the waistband. He lifted his hips. I pulled the boxers down to his thighs and his cock came free, thick, uncut, dark at the head, already wet. His balls sat heavy underneath. He sucked in a breath like the air had changed temperature.

I wrapped my hand around his cock first. Tight skin. Foreskin already pushed back. When I stroked him once, that wetness smeared over my thumb and he made a sound he tried to swallow. I dropped my other hand under him and rolled his nuts in my palm, slow, feeling the weight of them, the way they shifted when he twitched. His eyes went from my mouth to the stairs and back.

"If she..."

"She won't."

I leaned in and licked the head. Salt. His thigh jumped. The controller bumped my shoulder. He did not pause the game. I licked him again, then closed my lips around the head and sucked.

"Jesus."

I took him deeper a little at a time. Tongue on the underside. Lips sliding down the shaft. Then I pulled up tight and did it again. Bobbing. Wet on purpose. He leaked onto my tongue right away and I swallowed it and went back for more. While I sucked him I kept fondling his balls, squeezing just enough to make his knees open, thumb tracing the seam between them.

He tried to keep playing. Trigger clicks. A reload. A muttered "shit" that belonged to both the match and my mouth. His hips made these tiny pushes up into me, then he would lock still.

I pulled off his cock and went lower.

I took one of his nuts into my mouth and suckled it, wet and slow, while I stroked his shaft with a slick hand. He made a noise I had not heard out of him before, punched-out and startled. I let that one go with a wet pop and took the other, rolling it on my tongue, sucking just hard enough that his hand slammed into my hair.

"Fuuuuuck. Easy. That's... fuuuck."

I did not go easy. I licked the whole pouch, then sucked both as much as I could fit, nose pressed against the base of his cock, spit running down over my knuckles. His balls tightened in my mouth. His cock jumped against my cheek, leaving a smear of precum there. When I looked up, his mouth was open and he had forgotten the controller was in his hand.

I went back to his cock with his spit-wet balls still in my palm. I took him until my lips hit my fist, then I moved the hand and forced the rest into my throat. My eyes watered. My nose pressed into the hair at the base of him. I kept a gentle rolling pressure on his nuts the whole time, and every time I swallowed around his cock his balls clenched in my fingers.

He groaned through his teeth. The ring caught in my hair when he forgot himself.

"Your mouth. Don't stop doing that...."

I hummed around him and he jerked so hard the recliner creaked. I grabbed his hip when he pushed up, or I would have gagged. Then I pulled off again just to get my mouth back on his balls, sucking one while I jacked the wet length of him against my face. He watched that and whispered *Jesus Christ* like he was afraid of the sound.

A floorboard creaked upstairs.

We froze. I still had him in my hand. One of his nuts was glistening from my mouth. His fingers tightened in my hair. The kid coughed once. A mattress shifted. Then nothing. No door. No feet on the stairs.

I started again before he said a word. Cock first this time, all the way down, then up, then I ducked and suckled his balls through two of his ragged breaths, then back to bobbing on his dick like I could not decide which part of him I wanted more. That dragged a noise out of him he could not dress up as anything else.

"You're going to make me cum," he whispered. "I can't last if you keep... if you keep on my nuts like that."

I did not ease off. I sucked the head, flicked my tongue under it, dropped my mouth all the way down and held him there, swallowing around the thickness of him, and I cupped his balls and tugged them just enough to pull another broken sound out of his throat. His head fell back. The controller hung useless. On the TV somebody shouted about an objective. Mark was gone from it.

"Look at you," he said, almost to himself. "On your knees. In my house. Sucking your baby brother's dick. Sucking my balls. While they're asleep."

I pulled off, licked a slow stripe from his nuts up the underside of his cock, and looked up.

"Gimmie your load"

His eyes went unfocused. I took him back into my mouth and did not give him a pause. Fast. Noisy. The wet sound of it was ugly in that quiet house. Spit on my chin. His cock hitting the back of my throat on every downstroke. My hand never left his balls. I felt them draw up tight, hard and full against my fingers.

"Don't stop. Don't you stop..." "fuck almost there....ahhhhhhhh"

He came with a grunt he tried to bury in his chest. The first pulse hit my throat, thick and hot, then another, then another and another . I swallowed, choked once, swallowed again, and kept him there while his thighs shook on either side of my head and his nuts pulsed in my palm through every shot. He twitched and tried to ease back when it got too sharp. I followed him for two more sucks, then dropped and gave each ball one last wet kiss before I let him go.

A string of spit and cum hung between my lip and the head of his cock. I wiped it with my thumb and put the thumb in my mouth. Mark watched that and made a sound like the air had been knocked out of him.

I sat back on my heels. My jaw ached. My knees ached. I was still hard and there was no way he missed it. He stared at me, chest going fast, boxers around his thighs, his cock shiny against his stomach, his balls still wet from my mouth, the ring dull in the TV light.

"Fuck," he said, softer. "I can’t believe you just did that"

"Yeah."

He looked at the stairs, then at my mouth, then away. He tucked himself into his boxers with clumsy hands, hissing when the fabric dragged over skin that was still too sensitive. The controller was on the floor. He picked it up, saved the game without watching the screen, and killed the TV. The house went back to the refrigerator and the chance of another cough.

He stood, stopped, and did not say thank you.

"Night."

He went upstairs on the edges of his feet. I stayed on the floor a few seconds, swallowing the last of him, then made it back to the sofa. I pulled the blanket up and stared at the ceiling fan until the windows lightened. I did not sleep. I kept feeling the weight of his cock on my tongue and the way his balls had tightened in my mouth when he lost it.

I had not gone to his house for that. I had not sat up for that. It just went that far.

In the morning his wife made pancakes. The kid was feverish but upright. Mark did not look at me. Not at the table. Not when he passed the syrup. Not when I put my bag by the door two days later.