The days after Tyson’s first visit settled into a strange, steady groove. He and Carl slid into an easy openness—mornings spent bickering over coffee origins, evenings sprawled on the couch with takeout and weed. Tyson started coming around regularly, two or three nights a week like he'd been released from prison, his loud presence filling the apartment with a mix of chaos and charm. He’d clap Malik on the shoulder, gold teeth flashing, tossing out a “What’s good, nigga?” like they’d been boys forever. Malik found himself grinning back, disarmed by Tyson’s rough-edged friendliness, the three of them falling into late-night smoke sessions during which Malik tried not to be hypnotized by Tyson's careless nakedness.
Carl’s spending ramped up, too, like he’d unlocked a new level of indulgence. He’d come home from class with bags full of new kicks for Malik, a chain necklace, a slick bomber jacket, all things Malik hadn’t asked for but couldn’t refuse. “You look good in this stuff,” Carl would say, shy but firm, brushing off Malik’s half-hearted protests with a wave of cash he never seemed to run out of. The apartment started feeling like Malik’s, too, his old duffel shoved in a corner, replaced by Carl’s gifts piling up.
And then there was the underwear thing. Night after night, Malik would lie under the blanket, hand working himself to thoughts of Carl and Tyson, either based off what he heard in the bedroom or on his own speculation of what they did, coming hard into his boxers. He’d drop them on the floor, deliberate, a silent dare. Carl never said a word about it, but Malik noticed the boxers disappearing, reappearing clean in his stack of clothes. Carl had taken to doing his laundry, picking up Malik's clothes without asking and folding them neat on the couch, and Malik’s mind spun with it. Did Carl touch them? Smell them? Taste the cum staining the fabric? The thought made his pulse race, a secret itch he couldn’t scratch.
They didn’t talk about it, not yet. Carl would just hum some tune, sorting Malik’s socks and tees, while Malik watched from the corner of his eye, wondering how far this could go. Tyson’s visits, Carl’s spending, choosing food, failing to find a job, smoking weed, soiling his boxers—it all wove into their daily life.
Malik’s phone buzzed more than usual lately, texts from Dre and Jamal piling up, “Where you at, bruh?” and “You ghostin us for real now?” Their tone shifted from curious to downright worried. He’d dodged their invites to kick it, brushing off questions about his new digs and the cash flow with vague grunts about “figuring shit out.” The boys weren’t stupid, though; they’d seen the new threads, the way he moved differently, and the sugar mama jokes had turned into pointed jabs. “You hiding something, Malik,” Kev had said last time they’d crossed paths, eyes narrow. “Who’s bankrolling you?” Malik had just laughed it off, but the pressure was creeping in.
One night, over pizza and a joint, Carl caught him frowning at his phone. “Your friends still bugging you?” he asked, tilting his head, that soft concern in his voice Malik couldn’t dodge.
“Yeah, won’t let up about where I’m at, who’s got me set up. Getting pissed I won’t spill.”
Carl chewed his lip, then brightened. “Why don’t they come over? Few beers, some weed, we'll just keep it chill. You can tell them I was a client, which is true. They’d see it’s just us, nothing weird.”
Malik’s stomach dropped, the idea of his boys in this space, Carl’s space, setting his nerves on edge. “Nah, that’s a bad idea.”
But after days of Dre’s annoyed voicemails, Kev's silent treatment and Jamal’s guilt trips, Malik caved. “Fine. One night. But we keep it low-key.”
The day of, Malik paced the living room, antsy as hell. He dug out his old clothes from the duffel, the faded hoodie, scuffed jeans and beat-up sneakers, swapped out the new gear, the leather and chains feeling too loud now. “Yo, Carl,” he called, poking his head into the bedroom where Carl was scrolling on his phone. “Can we stash this stuff? The shoes, clothes, just for tonight? Don’t want em asking questions I can’t answer.”
Carl glanced up, nodding without hesitation. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you need.”
They hauled armfuls of gifts into Carl’s room, tucking them behind the bed and in the closet. Carl shut the door, turning to Malik with a small smile. “I’ll keep it normal, promise. Just beers and smoke, no big deal.”
The knock came sharp at 7 p.m., and Malik opened the door to his boys piling in, their voices loud and familiar, filling the apartment like a sudden storm. Dre led the pack—short and stocky, 20, with a buzz cut and a chipped front tooth from a fight he bragged about too much, his energy restless and brash. Jamal followed, taller, 21, lanky with a fade and a lazy grin, always the smoothest talker, eyes darting like he was casing the place. Kev brought up the rear, 19 like Malik, broad-shouldered and quiet, skin dark as midnight, his stare heavy and skeptical under a flat-brim cap.
Malik clocked it quick as if he'd learned a new language: they were Carl’s type, straight, rough around the edges, the kind of guys he'd want using him and leaving him thanking them. The thought twisted in his gut, sharp and unbidden, though he couldn't quite tell in this whole set-up who was lambs and who was conducting slaughter.
They settled in the living room, sprawling over the couch and floor, Carl cracking open a six-pack of cheap beer and passing around a joint he’d rolled earlier. The vibe was chill but edged with awkwardness, Malik’s boys sizing up Carl, Carl playing host with that shy, eager smile. Malik could see they all saw how Carl moved, and the ideas that were building up in their heads, about how exactly Malik might be insuring his continued stay.
“So, Carl, what’s your deal?” Dre asked, cracking his beer, sitting Indian-style in front of the coffee table.
Carl shrugged, perched on a chair, legs crossed. “Just a senior, English major. Live here cause dorms suck. Not much else.” He kept it light, friendly, dodging the deeper truth—how his folks’ money kept this place afloat, how he’d turned it into Malik’s lifeline. The boys asked questions, Carl explained where he was from, asked the same back, they replied, nodded, sipping, smoking, and the tension eased with totally disappearing.
As the night rolled on, Malik watched his boys clocking Carl’s moves. Carl was diligent, always jumping up to grab another beer when Jamal’s ran dry, lighting Kev’s joint when he fumbled for a lighter, ordering pizza before anyone talked about being hungry and clearing empty cans without a word. “Damn, you quick with it,” Dre said, half-teasing, and Carl just laughed, soft and deflecting. They didn’t miss how everything down to the beer, the weed, the chips, was Carl’s, no sign of Malik pitching in. “You the sugar daddy around here?” Jamal quipped, smirking at Carl, and Malik tensed, but Carl brushed it off with a “Nah, just hosting,” keeping the lie smooth. The boys didn’t push, but their eyes lingered on Carl’s attentiveness, on the way he hovered near Malik, on the unspoken balance tipping the room. Malik smoked harder, the haze dulling his nerves, hoping they wouldn’t dig deeper than the surface Carl let them see.
The night stretched on, the air loosening as the beers dwindled and the joint kept appearing and disappearing in the circle they formed around the coffee table. Reassured that nothing too wild was brewing, Malik’s boys eased up, their edges softening.
Dre sprawled deeper into the couch, tossing Carl a grin when he handed over a fresh can. “You’re alright, man,” he said, and Kev nodded, a rare thaw in his stoic vibe. Jamal flicked ash into an empty bottle, chuckling about some dumb shit from their last bar crawl, and the teasing faded, replaced by a sloppy camaraderie that felt almost normal.
Talk turned to girls, as it always did with them. Dre kicked it off, leaning forward, voice loud with buzzed confidence. “Y’all remember that chick, Lena? We all fucked her back in the day, ” he added for Carl, “me, Jamal, Kev, Malik, we all got a turn. Now she’s texting me again, tryna link up.” He smirked, cracking his knuckles. “This officially means I’m the best in bed, hands down. Probably cause I’m packing the most, too, and size actually matters, niggas.”
Malik snorted, shaking his head. “Nah, bruh, that’s bullshit. Big dick don’t mean you know what to do with it. Correlation ain’t causation,” he said, quoting Carl.
Dre waved him off, laughing, but Jamal perked up, turning to Carl with a lazy grin. “Yo, Carl, you gay, right? Settle this for us. Does a big cock equal a better fuck?”
Carl blinked, caught off guard, then leaned back, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Uh, yeah, I’m gay,” he said, no hesitation, voice steady. “And… big dick doesn’t always mean good in bed. Skill’s more important. Being normal's important, you can seriously damage people with a real big dick. But I ain’t gonna lie, it helps making it good.” He shrugged, casual but sure, and the room paused, the boys processing his answer with a mix of nods and smirks.
Dre puffed his chest, still claiming victory, while Malik’s eyes lingered on Carl, a flicker of pride mixing with the buzz in his chest. He thought back to Tyson, how Carl responded to his roughness with thanks and declarations that he himself was keeping Tyson around. Carl could definitely handle the boys.
Dre leaned forward, elbows on his knees, a glint of curiosity in his eyes as he grinned at Carl. “Aight, Carl, real talk—biggest cock you ever took? Gimme the stats, fam.”
Malik cut in quick, voice sharp. “Yo, Dre, chill. You’re a guest here, don’t get too comfortable.”
But Carl waved a hand, his shy smile steady. “It’s cool, Malik, I don’t mind.” He paused, then said, “Eleven inches,” simple as that, like he was stating the weather.
The room went dead quiet for a beat, then erupted. Jamal whistling low, Kev’s eyebrows shooting up, Dre letting out a loud “Goddamn!” Malik stayed silent, his jaw tight. He knew exactly who Carl couldn't mean: Tyson. That massive, shameless dick he’d seen swinging the other night was all girth, but it wasn't longer than Malik's own nine inches. He wondered whether that was the yet unseen Jake or Ryan, or someone else he would one day meet.
The boys recovered fast, leaning in with more questions, the vibe shifting to something lighter, rowdier. “So what kinda cock is the best, Carl?” Jamal asked, seeming genuinely pensive. “Thick? Long? Curved?”
Carl laughed, a rare, full sound, and played along. “Long’s nice, but thick fills you up better. Curved hits the spot if they know the angle.”
Dre cackled, slapping the table. “Man, you a scientist with this shit!”
Carl kept talking to them with an everyday tone. “Well, you get used to some things. But honestly, it all depends on the guy and, again, skills and normalcy.”
Kev smirked, quieter but hooked, and the room filled with dumb, drunk laughter, the awkwardness melting into a sloppy, shared buzz. Carl’s openness turned it into a game, each answer drawing hoots and playful jabs, the tension unraveling, until Carl asked his own questions, demanding the boys explain in return what kind of pussy was the best pussy, to which they had a scholar's trove of answers.
By the end, everyone was laughing, sprawled out. Malik scanned the room, clocking details through the haze. Kev shifted on the floor, one hand casual over his lap, but Malik caught the bulge he was failing to hide. Dre, meanwhile, didn’t bother; his hard-on tented his sweats, bold and unapologetic as he stretched out, still chuckling, clearly arouse by a conversation in which he'd been a brilliant participant.
Malik leaned back, joint in hand, and before he could think about why he was saying it, he tossed out, “Yo, Dre, maybe you should text Lena back. She’s waiting on that ‘best in bed’ dick action.”
Dre’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing with a grin. “What, you tryna get rid of me, Malik?” He laughed, amused, maybe knowing. Malik’s pulse skipped.
The joint made its final rounds, and the empty beer cans littered the coffee table like casualties of a long, sloppy war. Jamal was out cold in the armchair, his lanky frame slumped, mouth half-open, a faint snore rumbling from his chest. Dre sprawled on the couch, still grinning lazily, while Kev sat on the floor, his broad shoulders slouched, eyes half-lidded but sharp. Malik leaned against the armrest, the buzz in his head a dull roar.
Carl stood up, stretching with a yawn, his slight frame swaying just enough to show he’d matched them beer for beer. “Y’all shouldn’t drive,” he said, voice soft but firm, scanning the room. “Too fucked up. Crash here tonight, there's room on the couch when you pull it out, I've got space with me, whatever. I got blankets.” His hazel eyes lingered on Malik for a beat, checking in, before he turned to grab a stack of spare bedding from a closet.
Dre perked up, that glint of mischief back in his eyes as he propped himself on an elbow. “Yo, Carl, lemme crash in your bed, then. Couch ain’t my vibe—need some real comfort, you feel me?”
The room burst into laughter, Jamal stirring just enough to mutter a slurred “Man, what?” before dropping back out. Kev smirked, shaking his head, and Malik rolled his eyes, a flicker of irritation cutting through. Carl just chuckled, unfazed, brushing his sandy hair back. “Yeah, sure, Dre. Bed’s big enough. You don’t snore, do you?”
“Nah, I’m a gentleman,” Dre shot back, winking as he hauled himself up, clapping Carl on the shoulder. The others hooted, the absurdity of it landing just right in their drunken stupor.
Malik watched them shuffle toward the bedroom, Dre’s stocky frame towering over Carl’s slighter one, the door clicking shut behind them. His stomach twisted though he couldn't say why, between his general confusion and present inebriation.
Jamal stayed knocked out, oblivious, while Malik welcome Kev on the couch, his flat-brim cap tipped over his eyes. The lights dimmed to a faint glow from the kitchen, and the apartment fell into a thick, stoned silence, broken only by Jamal’s occasional snorts.
Malik lay still, staring at the ceiling, the weed and beer swirling in his system. His mind drifted to Carl in there with Dre, that easy laugh of his, the way he’d probably let Dre take up most of the bed without complaint. The thought gnawed at him, restless, incapable of not imagining his lifelong best friend take the place of Tyson, until his hand slid under the blanket, slow and deliberate. He gripped himself through his boxers, already half-hard, the tension of the night coiling tight until a rustle caught his ear and he remembered Kev, next to him. He was shifting, the quilt slipping down to reveal his hand moving too, subtle but unmistakable.
Their eyes met in the dim light, Kev’s dark gaze steady under the cap, Malik’s breath catching. Neither said a word, but the air thickened, charged. Malik pushed his boxers down just enough, freeing himself, his strokes slow and quiet, matching the rhythm he caught in Kev’s movements. They watched each other, unblinking, Kev’s broad chest rising faster, Malik’s jaw clenching as the heat built.
Malik came first, a sharp, muffled grunt escaping as he spilled over his chest, warm and sticky under the blanket. Kev followed seconds later, his own low groan barely audible, his head tipping back as he quickly lifted his polo shirt and finished across his stomach. They lay there, panting softly, eyes still locked, the fact of their cum like a secret too big to touch yet. Malik reached for the socks he’d kicked off earlier, and wiped himself down with one, giving the other to Kev, taking it back quickly when Kev had finished.
Malik balled up the cum-stained socks and tucked them under the couch cushion, a deliberate stash for later—Carl’s quiet laundry game flashing in his mind. He didn’t know why it mattered, but it did. Kev shifted, pulling the quilt up, his breathing evening out, and Malik closed his eyes.
*
Dre stumbled into the bedroom after Carl, his stocky frame swaying as he kicked off his sneakers with a clumsy thud. He flopped onto the bed face-first, the mattress creaking under his weight, his buzzed laughter muffled by the pillow. “Man, I’m gone,” he slurred, rolling onto his back, arms splayed out like he owned the place. Carl hovered near the edge, setting his phone on the nightstand, his sandy hair falling into his eyes as he glanced at Dre with that shy, attentive smile. “Yo, Carl, help me out, fam,” Dre mumbled, tugging lazily at his hoodie, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. “Can’t get this shit off. Too high.”
Carl stepped closer, hesitating only a second before leaning in, his slender fingers working the hoodie up and over Dre’s head. Dre lifted his arms just enough, grinning as Carl folded it neat and set it aside. Carl unbuttoned Dre's jeans, sliding them down Dre’s legs with quiet efficiency while Dre himself brought himself out his shirt in a way that could only have stretched it forever, leaving him in a pair of faded gray boxers that clung tight to his thick thighs. Dre sprawled back, chest heaving slow, his chipped-tooth grin flashing in the dim light.
“Still hard as fuck,” Dre said, voice low and rough, his hand brushing over the obvious bulge tenting his boxers. “That talk out there, the weed—got me goin’, bruh.” He propped himself up on his elbows, drunk smile but eyes focused as he locked onto Carl. “Bet you wanna see it. Looks big, huh ?”
Carl’s breath hitched, his hazel eyes widening for a split second before he nodded, soft and quick. “Yeah, I do want to see it,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.
Dre chuckled, a deep, satisfied sound, and shifted his hips. “Aight, then. You cool enough to help me out for real? Jack me off ‘til I crash. Need to sleep this off and I just can't….”
Carl paused, chewing his lip, then gave a small shrug. “Sure, Dre. You shouldn't have to do it when I can.” His tone was casual, but there was an eager edge to it.
Dre squinted at him, head tilted. “You do this for Malik, too? That why he’s all cozy up in here?”
“No,” Carl said, meeting Dre’s gaze straight on, his voice firm for once. “I don’t. Never have.” The truth hung there, plain and unguarded, and Dre caught the dip in Carl’s expression: disappointment, quiet and real.
Dre smirked, reading it clear as day, and sprawled back further. “Aight, then. Take these off,” he said, nodding at his boxers. “Let’s see what you can do.”
Carl’s hands moved quick, practiced, sliding the boxers down Dre’s legs and tossing them to the floor. Dre’s dick sprang free, nine and a half inches of thick, heavy girth, the kind that demanded attention. Carl gasped and Dre’s grin widened, proud and lazy.
“Yeah, I know,” he said, voice dripping with swagger. “Fat as hell, baby. You can play with it, baby, that's grade-A black cock...” as his head fell into the pillows.
Carl settled beside him, kneeling on the bed between his outstretched legs, his slight frame leaning in close. His hand wrapped around Dre’s cock, tentative at first, then firmer as he felt the weight of it, the girth stretching his grip. It was of the same thickness from tip to base, emerging from a never scaped mess of pubes. Carl bent over and let out a stream of spit, constant, for half a minute, slowly spreading it over Dre's cock in a constant movement of both his hands, finally lowering his left hand to the balls and concentrating the right on the cock.
Dre groaned low, head tipping back even further into the pillows. “Fuck, yeah, like that,” he muttered, eyes half-closed.
Carl worked him steady, rhythm smooth and sure, but unrelenting. Dre’s breathing hitched, his stocky body tensing as the high and the touch pushed him closer to the edge. “Jesus you're a good fuckin’ host,” he laughed, a sloppy grin breaking through, and Carl just hummed, keeping the pace, looking Dre right in the eyes every time the met opened them long enough.
“Fuck, you’re good at this,” he whispered, his chipped-tooth grin flashing in the dim light. He was watching Carl’s focused movements. “Never had a boy take care of me like this, swear to God. First time. But you, shit, you’re more like a girl anyway, you know? That’s a compliment, fam. Take it.”
Carl’s hand didn’t falter, but a faint smile tugged at his lips, his hazel eyes flickering up to meet Dre’s. “Thanks,” he said softly, voice barely carrying, accepting the words with that quiet, eager edge, “I'm happy you enjoy it.”
Dre shifted his hips, chasing the rhythm, then tilted his head. “Fuck yeah, what about you, you into this, Carl? Enjoying yourself?”
Carl leaned in closer, his breath warm against Dre’s skin, his voice dropping to a whisper like he was sharing a secret just for them. “Yeah, I am,” he murmured, words spilling out in a hushed rush. “God, I love your cock, Dre. It’s so thick, it feels so heavy in my hand. Can’t believe how good it is. Thanks for letting me do this for you, seriously. Means a lot.” His tone was reverent, almost worshipful, each syllable laced with gratitude and a raw, unfiltered thrill.
Dre chuckled, a deep, lazy sound, his head lolling back as the tension coiled tight. “Yeah, keep talking like that,” he slurred, his hands gripping the sheets. Carl’s whispers pushed him over the edge, his body stiffened, a sharp grunt escaping as he came, thick spurts landing across his chest, glistening in the faint light. He panted, dazed, then smirked down at Carl. “Go on, clean it up. Lick it if you want. I’m good.”
Carl didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward, his tongue darting out to lap at the mess on Dre’s chest, careful and deliberate, savoring the taste and the heat of Dre’s skin. Dre sighed, a satisfied hum vibrating through him as his eyes fluttered shut, no longer awake enough to really take in either what he said or what Carl was doing. “Fuckin’ wild,” he mumbled, voice fading as sleep took him, his breathing slowing to a deep, steady rhythm.
Carl finished, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then settled into the sliver of space left on the bed. Dre’s bulk took up most of it, his arm slung carelessly over the edge, but Carl didn’t mind. He curled up tight, his slight frame fitting into the curve of Dre’s presence, the warmth of a big, straight guy who’d used him radiating against his skin. He lay there, eyes half-open, soaking in the quiet thrill of it, the way Dre’s casual dominance filled the room even in sleep as the smell of his body, sweat and weed and alcohol and cum, slowly took over. It was exactly what he craved, and for now, it was enough. The night pressed in soft and heavy, and Carl let it carry him into a contented drift, the sound of Dre’s snores a strange, grounding lullaby.
*
The afternoon light filtered through the blinds in lazy streaks, casting soft shadows across the bedroom as Carl stirred awake, Dre’s weight beside him, the stocky guy still sprawled out, one arm flung over his face. The distant clatter of dishes and low voices drifted in from the living room : Malik, Kev, and Jamal up and moving, probably raiding the fridge and half-assing a cleanup. Carl rubbed his eyes, the haze of sleep lingering, his body warm from Dre’s proximity. He glanced over, catching the slow rise and fall of Dre’s chest, the memory of last night sparking a quiet thrill in his gut.
Dre groaned, shifting as he came to, his arm dropping as he squinted against the light. “Fuck, what time is it?” he mumbled, voice rough, then froze as his gaze landed on Carl. His eyes widened, the fog of sleep clearing fast as last night slammed back. Carl’s hands, his whispers, the way he’d licked him clean. “Oh, shit,” he breathed, sitting up quick, running a hand over his buzz cut. “Man, what the fuck did I let happen?” Then, after a thought, “Bro, what the fuck did I make happen?”
Carl sat up too, legs crossed under the sheet, his sandy hair a mess. “It’s okay, Dre,” he said soft, trying to soothe the panic creeping into Dre’s voice. “It was just us. No big deal.”
“No big deal?” Dre’s laugh was sharp, edged with nerves. He swung his legs off the bed, planting his feet on the floor like he needed an anchor. “Bruh, I ain’t gay. I don’t, shit, I let you jack me off. I asked for it. And I liked it. What the fuck’s wrong with me?” He rubbed his face hard, his chipped-tooth grin gone, replaced by a tight grimace. “That was a one-time thing, Carl. For real. Just the weed and the vibe, that’s it.”
Carl’s hazel eyes softened, but he scooted closer, voice dropping to that pleading whisper Dre already knew too well. “Please, Dre. It doesn’t have to be just once. I'd never say what we did to the boys out there, even Malik. And I’d do it again and anytime you want. It was good, right?” His hands fidgeted in his lap, shy but desperate. “I loved it. I loved your cock.”
Dre stared at him, caught off guard, his thick brows knitting. “It’s just a handjob, man. What’s it even do for you? You’re sitting there begging like it’s some big thing, but you ain’t getting off.”
Carl shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I just wanna be useful. I like it, taking care of you, making you feel good. Think of me like… I dunno, a Fleshlight or something. Just there for you to use.”
The word hit Dre like a jolt, his breath catching as his mind spun. A Fleshlight. Something simple, no strings, just a tool. It freaked him out, the way Carl offered himself up, so easy, no shame, no hesitation. But under the panic, something else stirred—his dick twitched in his boxers, half-hard already at the thought. Carl’s wide eyes, that soft submissiveness, the idea of having him like that again, no questions asked. It was fucked up, wrong somehow, but the arousal crept in anyway, hot and insistent.
Dre’s jaw tightened, his hands balling into fists on his knees as he wrestled with it. “Man, you’re wild,” he muttered, voice low, torn between bolting and giving in. His heart thudded, loud in the quiet room, the sounds of the guys keeping him aware of their judgement. He wanted to shove it down, call it a fluke, but Carl’s quiet begging gnawed at him, and the memory of last night and how good it felt wouldn’t let go. He hesitated, stuck between the freakout screaming in his head and the pull of his growing cock trying to hijack his brain.
Dre sat there, still perched on the edge of the bed, his broad shoulders tense as he stared at Carl. The war in his head churned on, but his curiosity sharpened, cutting through the haze. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping low. “You beg Malik like this too? And he hasn't given in?”
Carl shook his head quick. “No,” he said, voice soft but sure. “It’s not like that with Malik. I just wanna help him, give him a place to stay, make shit easier. He was my dealer for two years and a half before that, I didn't know him that well but he wasn't a stranger, you know? I don’t want him thinking he owes me anything, especially not… that. He’s different. It wouldn't be cool to ask him, yeah? Sounds like he has to fuck me under duress or find himself another couch.”
Dre nodded slow, piecing it together. Carl wasn’t playing some game, he was just built this way, giving and submissive to a fault. Whether it was a couch to crash on or a hand to get you off, he offered it up like it was nothing, like it was his job to smooth out the rough edges for whoever stumbled into his orbit. Dre exhaled, a short, shaky breath, and rubbed the back of his neck. The freaked-out part of him still screamed, but the other part won out. “Aight,” he muttered, almost too quiet to hear. He pointed to the space on the floor at his feet, then to his boxers. “Take ‘em off, then. Get to work.”
Carl’s face lit up. He slid off the bed, kneeling exactly where he'd been shown to, his slender fingers hooking into the waistband of Dre’s boxers. He tugged them down slow, careful, like he was unwrapping something precious. Dre’s dick sprang free again, already half-hard from the tension, the memory and the begging. Carl’s breath caught, his hazel eyes wide as he took it in, that same reverence from last night washing over him.
“God, Dre,” he whispered, voice trembling with gratitude. “It’s so fucking perfect. Thanks for letting me see it again and do this again.” His hands hovered for a second, like he couldn’t believe his luck, before resting light on Dre’s thick thighs, squeezing them between his fingers to test out the meat and muscle with delight. He looked up, earnest and unguarded. “I mean it. This means a lot.”
Dre swallowed hard, the awe in Carl’s voice hitting him square in the chest. It was weird as hell, being looked at like he was doing Carl a favor instead of the other way around. But the arousal was back, stronger now, pulsing through him as Carl’s hands brushed closer. He shifted, spreading his legs a little wider, giving in without saying it out loud. “Yeah, well,” he grunted, voice rough, “go on, then. You wanted to be useful, right?”
Carl nodded, eager, his fingers wrapping around Dre’s cock with that same careful grip, like he was handling something sacred. He tipped his head above the tip and let out some spit, spreading it as he started moving up and down. Dre’s head tipped back, a low groan slipping out as the tension started to unravel, Carl’s devotion pulling him under once more. The apartment’s distant noises faded, and for now, it was just them. Carl giving, Dre taking.
Carl’s hand moved steady and slow, drawing it out, his grip firm but deliberate as he worked Dre’s thick cock. They kept it quiet, Carl biting his lip, Dre’s breaths coming shallow and ragged through his nose, both hyper-aware of the voices filtering in from the living room. The silence stretched the moment, made it heavier, and Dre’s skin glistened as the effort built, beads of sweat rolling down his temples, his chest, pooling in the dip of his collarbone. His buzz cut gleamed faintly in the afternoon light, and his jaw clenched tight, holding back the sounds threatening to spill.
Out in the living room, the clatter of life went on: plates stacking, a fridge door slamming, the low hum of Malik and Kev bantering over something dumb. The flick of a lighter snapped through the quiet, once, twice, then Jamal’s voice cut in, lazy but loud enough to carry through to the bedroom. “Yo, guys, y’all think Dre smashed Carl in there? Been gone all damn morning and that nigga went in there cock first last night.” A pause, then Kev’s deep chuckle, Malik’s noncommittal grunt. The words hung in the air, sharp and unfiltered, and Dre’s eyes widened, his body tensing under Carl’s hand.
They couldn't help think about it, either of them. Dre looking into Carl's eyes directly, could see as well as Carl that each was thinking about the other. About all the other things that could have happened the night before. And Dre thought back to the fact that boy, who had begged to kneel for him and jack him off, hadn't just jacked him off but also eaten his cum off his body.
It hit him like a bomb and he came hard, a choked gasp breaking the silence as he spilled over his chest, thick and messy, splattering from belly to neck. His head dropped back, panting soft, the sweat-slick heat of his skin catching the light. Carl froze for a second, then leaned in close, voice a desperate whisper. “Please, Dre, let me clean you up again. Please.”
Dre nodded, still catching his breath, his voice dropping to a rough murmur. “Yeah, go ahead, Carly.” The nickname slipped out as if he already knew it, and Carl’s eyes lit up, a shiver running through him at the sound of it. He bent forward, tongue darting out to lap at the cum streaked across Dre’s chest, careful and thorough, savoring the salt and the warmth. Dre watched through half-lidded eyes, a mix of exhaustion and something softer settling in, finally putting his hand in Carl's hair and guiding him slowly, for long minutes after the boy had finished licking up his cum, from neck to nipple to navel, and again, finally letting go when his cock had faded back to softness and his bladder was calling for its turn in the morning routine.
The living room chatter faded to a dull buzz again, the boys none the wiser, and Carl finished, wiping his mouth with a shaky hand. He stayed close, perched on the edge of the bed, his slight frame humming with quiet satisfaction. Dre lay back, chest still heaving, sweat cooling on his skin as the moment sank in.
Carl eased off the bed, grabbed his shirt from the floor, slipping it over his head, his sandy hair sticking up in soft tufts. Dre sat up, wiping a hand across his chest one last time, checking for any stray traces of cum but there truly was nothing left, all cleaned off by Carl’s eager tongue. He grunted, oddly satisfied, and reached for his own clothes, pulling the hoodie over his buzz cut and stepping into his jeans with a practiced shuffle. They didn’t speak, didn’t need to—just shared a quick glance, Carl’s hazel eyes flickering with that shy gratitude, Dre’s dark ones steady but guarded. The boxers were dealt with last, Dre handing them to Carl silently. Carl slipped them under his pillow.
When they were dressed, Carl cracked the bedroom door open, the sounds of the living room spilling in louder now, Kev’s low laugh, Jamal’s half-hearted grumbling about the mess. Dre brushed past him, muttering, “Gotta piss,” and headed for the bathroom, his stocky frame moving with a forced casualness. Carl stepped out, blinking against the brighter light, and joined the boys in the living room. Malik was slouched on the couch, a joint dangling from his fingers, while Kev stacked empty cans into a shaky tower. Jamal lounged in the armchair, still bleary-eyed, kicking at a stray sock on the floor.
Malik’s eyes flicked up, catching Carl’s as he walked in. There was a question there, unspoken but heavy, and Carl gave him a small nod, a silent everything’s fine. Malik held his gaze a beat longer, then looked away, exhaling smoke, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. Carl perched on the armrest, folding into the scene like he’d never left, his presence quiet but steady.
Dre swaggered back in, zipping his jeans, his chipped-tooth grin flashing as he clapped his hands together. “Y’all still sitting around? Thought you’d be halfway out the door by now.” His voice was loud, easy. He caught Jamal’s smirk, Kev’s raised brow, and waved them off. “What? You clowns think I was in there looking for something? Man, I just needed a real mattress. Carl’s got the good shit, that’s it. I ain't sharing no couch with your two skinny asses with your fat ass snoring on the chair when there's a harmless gay guy with a king size, no offense.” He laughed, sharp and deflecting, and the boys bought it, or at least let it slide, Jamal snorting, Kev shaking his head with a grin, saying, “And here I though you were the one with the king size, nigga.”
“Whatever, bruh,” Jamal said, hauling himself up, stretching his lanky frame. “Good night, in any case. Food, weed, beer, and even rescuing our boy from the streets, Carl, you’re solid.”
Kev nodded, grabbing his cap from the floor, and Malik stubbed out the joint, standing slow, his lean figure unfolding with a quiet grace. They shuffled toward the door, a messy chorus of “Later, man” and “Thanks, Carl,” their voices fading as they piled out into the hall. Dre lingered last, tossing Carl a quick, “Appreciate it, fam,” with a nod, casual, but his eyes held Carl’s for a split second longer, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them.
The door clicked shut, and the apartment fell quiet, the hum of their exit settling into the walls. Carl stood there, hands in his pockets. Malik lingered by the couch, watching him, but didn’t ask. Not yet. The night had been great and now it was just them again, the air thick with everything they weren’t saying. Carl smiled to himself, small and private, and started picking up the stray cans, ready to let the day fade.
Next : we meet Carl's second of three regular partners, Jake the quarterback, my actual favorite and the dark horse character of these ten first episodes
