Late-Night Lessons - Chapter 2

Trapped in a dorm with his dominant jock roommate, straight Alex surrenders to filthy late-night lessons in submission, shame, and aching desire.

So you’ve been asking what the characters look like…

I went ahead and made FREE cast pics for you: https://tylerjboe.carrd.co

I only came out to my parents and friends recently. For a long time I thought I was damaged because I have a hell of a cum fetish - anything cum. I finally feel at peace with myself, and a lot of that is thanks to you readers.

I write these stories and fantasies to share them with you—and to see if I can get you to cum as many times as I have writing them. Especially this one, because it’s been my deepest fantasy forever.

Feel free to share it with me: did I get you to cum? How much poured out? How did it feel—coating your tongue (or landing hot on your skin)? The exact second you gave in… did you taste it? Swallow? Feed it to someone else?

If you’re feeling brave, tell me your favorite line or the moment you lost control.

Thanks to Nifty for giving space to these burning fantasies. Donate to Nifty at: https://donate.nifty.org/

New chapters every week (early week).

TJB

[email protected]

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Chapter 2

A week went by. A silent, tense week. Tyler didn't try anything again. He went on dates, he came back late, he jerked off in the top bunk. It was almost like we'd reverted to the old routine, and a fragile, desperate part of me wanted to believe we had. But the memory of his command—Lick it off—lingered like a stain I couldn't wash out. I was constantly on edge, flinching at sudden noises, hyper-aware of his presence in the room.

Friday night came again. I was in my bunk, reading a novel for my lit class, trying to lose myself in a world that wasn't this tiny, suffocating dorm room. Tyler came in around eleven, smelling of beer and cheap perfume from a party. He was definitely drunk, but not falling-down drunk. That loose, confident drunk that made him even more arrogant than usual.

He shed his clothes with careless grace, landing in a heap on the floor. Boxers. That was it. He stood by my bed for a moment, just looking down at me. I could feel the heat from his body, smell the alcohol mingling with his natural musk. I kept my eyes glued to the page in my book, my heart starting that familiar, frantic rhythm.

"Alex," he said, his voice slurred slightly. "Put the book down."

My fingers tightened on the cover. No. Just pretend you're asleep. Or deaf. Anything.

He sighed, a put-upon sound. Then he grabbed the book. His fingers closed over mine, warm and strong, and he pried the book from my grip. He tossed it onto his desk. It landed with a loud thud that made me jump.

"I said, put the book down," he repeated, his tone flat.

I lay there, frozen, looking up at him. The dim light from the hallway through our door's window cast him in shadow, making him seem larger, more imposing.

"Sit up," he commanded.

My body moved before my brain could catch up, the habit of obedience already taking root. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat up, facing him. He was so close, his knees almost touching mine. He was still hard, flushed and erect, jutting from the opening in his boxers.

He reached out, not for himself, but for me. His hand closed around my wrist. His grip was firm, unyielding. He pulled my hand toward him.

"No," I whispered, the word barely audible. I tried to pull back, but it was like fighting a steel clamp.

"Shut up," he said, not unkindly, but with absolute finality. He guided my hand, positioning it. His other hand wrapped around mine, forcing my fingers to close around the hot, hard length of him.

A jolt went through me, an electric shock of pure wrongness. I could feel everything: the hard shaft beneath the velvety skin, the thick, pulsing vein on the underside, the slickness of the fluid already beading at the tip. My hand was trembling uncontrollably.

"Hold it," he ordered, his voice low. He let go of my hand, but mine remained frozen in place, my fingers locked around him by sheer terror. "Good. Now move."

I didn't. I couldn't. My arm was lead, my joints locked.

He sighed in annoyance. "Do I have to do everything myself?" He wrapped his own larger hand over mine, forcing it into a slow, tight rhythm. Up and down. Up and down. My hand was a puppet, and he was the puppeteer.

"See? Just like that," he grunted, guiding my movements. "Tighten up a little." My fingers obediently clenched. "Yeah. Just like that."

I was dissociating. I wasn't in my body. I was watching this happen to someone else, some poor, pathetic kid in a bottom bunk, being forced to jerk off his drunk, jock roommate. My mind was a blank wall of white noise, but my body obeyed. His hand over mine set the pace, slow and deliberate, then faster, more demanding. The slick sounds filled the room, mingling with the faint hum of the mini-fridge and the distant thud of a bass from another dorm.

He was breathing heavily now, his hips starting to rock slightly, pushing into my fist. The tip of him brushed against my wrist, hot and slick. I flinched, a full-body shudder of revulsion.

"Stop fuckin' flinching," he growled, his grip on my hand tightening. "It's just a dick. You act like you've never touched one before." He was wrong, but not in the way he meant. I'd touched my own plenty of times, but this was different. This was an alien thing in my hand, hot, alive, and belonging to someone else.

He let go of my hand, a test. I faltered for a second, the rhythm breaking, but he made a low, impatient noise in the back of his throat, and I immediately resumed the motion on my own. Anything to avoid that sound, that look of disappointment. I was doing it. I was jerking him off. My hand, moving of its own accord, pleasuring him.

His breath hitched. "Fuck," he grunted. "Just... like that." His head fell back, exposing the strong line of his throat. I stared at it, at the way his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. I was fascinated, in a horrified, clinical sort of way.

I felt him swell in my grip, a subtle but undeniable pulse. The rhythmic slick sounds of my hand on him were the only thing I could hear, a wet, percussive beat to my own private nightmare. The scent of him was overwhelming, a salty, musky fog that filled my lungs.

Then he was coming. A hot, wet gush spilled over my fingers, down the back of my hand, thick and warm. I cried out, a small, strangled sound, and tried to pull away. He grabbed my wrist, holding me in place.

"Finish it," he ordered through gritted teeth. "All of it."

I was trapped. My hand continued to milk him, long after the spurts had slowed to a trickle, until he was shuddering and softening in my grip. The mess was incredible. It was all over my hand, dripping onto my pajama pants, onto the cheap linoleum floor between my feet.

He finally let go of my wrist. I snatched my hand back as if I'd been burned, staring at the sticky, pearly fluid coating my fingers. My stomach heaved.

Tyler let out a long, satisfied sigh. He looked down at me, at my soiled hand, and a slow, lazy grin spread across his face. "Not bad for a first timer," he said, his voice still rough with satisfaction.

Without another word, he turned and padded to the bathroom, leaving me sitting on the edge of my bed, my right hand a disaster zone of his cum. I heard the shower start, the water hissing against tile.

I scrambled into action, a surge of adrenaline propelling me. I couldn't use the bathroom—he was in there. I looked around wildly, my gaze landing on a dirty t-shirt on my floor. I grabbed it and wiped furiously at my hand, scrubbing until the fabric was soaked and my skin was raw. The smell was even stronger now, a cloying, salty scent that filled the small space. I threw the shirt into the hamper, burying it deep.

I scrubbed my hand with my own sheet until it was almost dry, then just sat there, staring at my fingers. They still felt sticky. They still smelled like him. I touched it. I held it. I made him... The thought was too monstrous to complete. I was straight. I liked girls. I'd had awkward, fumbling dates with girls. This... this was just a violation. A disgusting, degrading thing that was forced on me. It didn't mean anything. It couldn't.

The shower turned off. I tensed, expecting him to come out and say something else, to push further. But he didn't. He came out, dried off, and climbed into his bunk without a glance in my direction. "Night," he grunted.

I didn't answer. I just lay there, under my thin, stained sheet, and stared at the bottom of his mattress until the sun came up.

***

The next few days were a special kind of hell. The memory of my hand wrapped around him was so vivid I could still feel the weight, the heat, the texture. Every time I looked at my right hand, I felt a phantom slickness. I started washing it compulsively, scrubbing it under hot water until my knuckles were cracked and bleeding.

Tyler acted like nothing had happened. He'd toss me a soda from the mini-fridge, he'd ask if I was going to the cafeteria for lunch, he'd complain about his classes. He was just Tyler, my roommate. The disconnect between my internal world of shame and panic and his easy, unaffected normalcy was making me feel like I was going insane.

On Thursday afternoon, I was trying to finish a paper at my desk. Tyler came back from the gym, smelling powerfully of sweat and exertion. He dropped his bag and stripped down to nothing, then flopped onto my bed, behind me. I stiffened, my fingers frozen over the keyboard. I could feel the mattress dip with his weight, feel the heat radiating from his naked body.

"Whatcha workin' on?" he asked, his voice lazy.

"A-a paper," I stammered, not turning around.

"Cool." He was quiet for a moment. I could hear him breathing. "Hey, Alex."

"What?"

"Toss me my phone. It's on my desk."

I risked a glance back. His phone was on the far side of his desk, at least eight feet away. And I was at my desk. "It's closer to you than me," I pointed out, the logic obvious.

He laughed, a low, rumbling sound. "Yeah, but I'm comfortable." He stretched, an arrogant display of lean muscle and relaxed power. "Come on. Be a good roommate."

The phrase "good roommate" landed like a stone in my gut. He was testing me. Again. I could refuse. I should refuse. But the thought of that cold, disappointed look, of that hard edge in his voice, was too much. I sighed, the sound shaky and pathetic, and pushed my chair back.

I stood up and walked the few steps to his desk, grabbing the phone. As I turned, I saw he'd shifted on my bed. He was lying on his side, propped up on an elbow, the sheet barely covering him. And he was hard again, jutting out from under the thin fabric. My breath caught.

I walked back toward him, holding the phone out like an offering. "Here."

He didn't take it. Instead, he reached up and wrapped his fingers around my wrist. His grip was familiar, terrifying. He pulled, not hard, but with an unshakeable insistence. I lost my balance, stumbling forward and half-falling, half-sitting on the edge of the bed beside him.

"Stay," he said, his voice soft. He took the phone from my other hand and tossed it onto the nightstand. Then he pulled my wrist again, guiding my hand down, under the sheet.

"No," I whispered, the word a useless puff of air. "Tyler, please. I have to finish my paper."

"You'll finish your paper," he said, his tone dismissive. "Right now, you're gonna help me out." He positioned my hand exactly as he had before, my fingers wrapping around the hot, rigid length of him. "See? You remember."

My body did remember. The motion came back too easily, a horrible muscle memory. My hand started to move, up and down, the slick, familiar slide of skin on skin. He was still damp from the shower, clean-smelling now, but underneath was that same core scent of him, salty and male.

"Yeah," he breathed, his head falling back against the pillow. "Just like that." His free hand came to rest on my thigh, a heavy, proprietary weight. I flinched, but didn't dare pull away. His fingers dug in slightly, a silent warning.

I was a machine. My hand pumped, my fingers squeezed, my wrist twisted at the top of the stroke, just as he'd forced me to do that night. I watched his face, the way his eyes were closed, the way his lips were slightly parted. He was lost in it, completely unconcerned with the fact that he was using my hand like a toy. The humiliation was a physical weight in my stomach, but beneath it, a strange, detached part of my brain noted the mechanics of it, the biology.

"Faster," he grunted.

I obeyed. My pace increased, the rhythmic slick sound growing more frantic. His hips began to rock up to meet my hand, a slight, involuntary thrusting motion. The hand on my thigh tightened, holding me in place. I was trapped, tethered to him by my own moving arm.

"Look at it," he commanded, his eyes still closed.

No. I kept my gaze fixed on a point on the wall over his shoulder.

His eyes snapped open, pinning me. "I said, look at it."

Slowly, unwillingly, my gaze dropped to where my hand was working him. I saw the dark, flushed head disappear and reappear in the circle of my fist, saw the single vein standing out on the underside, saw the slickness of the precum that made the motion easier. A wave of nausea rolled through me, but I kept looking. I had to.

"That's it," he murmured, his gaze softening slightly. "Watch what you're doing to me." The phrase was so twisted, so possessive, it made my head spin. I'm not doing anything. This is you. But my hand kept moving, betraying me with its perfect, practiced rhythm.

His breathing grew ragged, his chest heaving. The muscles in his stomach tensed. I knew the signs. My own stomach clenched in anticipation. The hand on my thigh slid up, cupping me through my jeans. I froze, my entire body locking up in a spasm of pure panic. He was touching me.

He squeezed, a firm, knowledgeable pressure that sent a jolt of electricity straight up my spine. I was hard. I hadn't even realized. My own body's treacherous response was more horrifying than anything he could have done. Shame washed over me, hot and suffocating.

"See?" he grunted, a smug satisfaction in his voice. "Told you it wasn't so bad." He didn't move his hand, just held me, a constant, humiliating proof of my own reaction.

He was close. I could feel the pulse in the shaft, the way he seemed to swell in my grip. His hips lifted off the bed, pushing deeper into my fist. The slick, wet sounds were obscenely loud in the quiet room.

"Ah, fuck," he gritted out. Then he was coming, hot spurts coating my fingers, spilling onto my wrist. This time, I didn't try to pull away. I just kept pumping, my movements mechanical, until he was spent and shuddering beneath my hand.

He lay there for a moment, catching his breath. Then he let go of me. The loss of the heat from his hand on my groin was almost as jarring as its initial presence had been. I snatched my hand back, staring at the mess.

"Go get a washcloth," he said, his voice lazy, post-coital. "Clean me up."

My head snapped up. "What?"

He opened one eye, a sliver of piercing blue. "You heard me. You made the mess, you clean it up."

My mind scrambled. I can't. I can't touch him with a washcloth. That's... that's too intimate. That's too much. "I... I have paper towels," I offered weakly.

He sighed, a sound of profound disappointment. "Paper towels are rough. Get a washcloth. Warm water. Now."

The command was undeniable. The alternative—facing that cold anger—was unthinkable. My body moved on its own, standing up on legs that felt like rubber. I walked to the bathroom, my footsteps silent on the linoleum. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My face was pale, my eyes wide and shocked. My right hand was still sticky.

I ran the water, as hot as I could stand it, and grabbed a washcloth from the stack on the shelf. I wrung it out, my hands trembling. This was it. This was the new line. Washing him after he'd used my hand. A wave of dizziness washed over me. I braced myself against the sink, breathing deeply. Just do it. Get it over with. Then it's done.

I walked back into the room. He hadn't moved. He was watching me, a faint smirk on his lips. I knelt beside the bed, the position itself an act of submission. I reached out with the washcloth, my hand shaking so badly the water dripped onto the sheet.

I started wiping him down, the cloth moving over the still-warm, sensitive skin. I tried to be quick, clinical, to think of it as cleaning up any other mess. But it wasn't any other mess. I could feel the texture of him through the thin, wet fabric, the slight give of flesh. The intimacy of the act was a crushing weight on my chest. I focused on the patterns on the bedspread, on the loose thread on my pillowcase, on anything but what my hands were doing.

"Thorough," he grunted approvingly. "Good boy."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Good boy. I wasn't a dog. I was a person. But the shame that flooded me was mixed with something else, a strange, twisted flicker of... something. Relief? At having done a good job? I pushed the thought away, horrified.

I finished, my face burning, and stood up. I backed away toward the bathroom, holding the soiled washcloth like a weapon.

"Toss it," he said, nodding toward my laundry hamper.

I did. I opened the lid and threw it in, on top of the shirt, the blanket, all the little artifacts of my degradation. I closed the lid, as if that could contain it.

When I turned back, he was sitting up, the sheet pooling around his waist. He was watching me, his expression unreadable. "Get back to your paper," he said. "I'm gonna take a nap."

I fled. I sat at my desk, my back ramrod straight, and stared at the blinking cursor on my screen. The words wouldn't come. My mind was a blank slate of shame and confusion. The phantom feeling of the washcloth in my hand, the weight of him, the scent of him—it was all still there. The worst part, the part that made me want to crawl out of my own skin, was the memory of my own traitorous erection, the humiliating proof that some dark, hidden part of me had responded.

I told myself it was just fear. An adrenaline response. A purely physical reaction to a stressful situation. It had nothing to do with desire. It couldn't. I liked girls. I had posters of bikini models on my wall, for god's sake. This was... this was an aberration. A temporary sickness.

From then on, it became a routine. Not every day, but often enough. Sometimes he'd be drunk, sometimes he'd just be bored or frustrated. A look, a quiet command, and my body would move to obey. He never touched me again like that night, never put his hand on my groin. He didn't have to. The memory was enough. The threat was enough.

It would always start the same way. I'd be at my desk, or lying in my bunk, trying to create a bubble of normalcy in the small room. Then the shift in the air, the weight of his attention. My stomach would clench. He'd call my name. And I'd go.

He trained me. Like a dog. At first, he'd just position my hand. Then he started just pointing. I learned what he wanted without being told. I learned the rhythm he liked, the pressure, the way to twist my wrist at the top of the stroke. I became good at it. Efficient. I would stare at the wall, at the ceiling, at the poster of some sports car on his wall, anywhere but at him, and I would make him come. Then I would get the warm washcloth. Then I would go back to my life, as if I hadn't just spent ten minutes being a human sex toy.

My denial became a fortress. I built the walls high and thick. This isn't happening to me. It's happening to my body, not to me*. My mind is separate. My mind is still straight. My mind is still Alex. But the walls were starting to crack. The nights I spent awake, the image of him, the feel of him, replaying in my head. The way I started noticing things—the way the muscles in his back shifted when he stretched, the exact shade of blue of his eyes, the little mole on his left shoulder blade. I noticed, and I hated myself for noticing.