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My Cool College Roommate Sucked My Dick

Chapter 2: Butt Stuff

Jaxon turned out to be a really cool guy.

We talked a bunch more that day. He seemed to know everything. He knew which dining hall stayed open past nine, which was information worth knowing, since I was eating about five thousand calories a day. He had one of those power strips that mounts on the wall and he gave me the good outlet by my bed and took the one behind the desk for himself.

The radiator in that building ran all the time, even in August, apparently, because it was about ninety degrees in there with the window open, so he was moving around in a fresh pair of gym shorts and nothing else. At one point he put both hands on the doorframe above his head and hung off it to stretch his lats out, and his shorts dropped down low enough on him to show the ridge of his obliques running down.

"Swimmer backs are unfair, man," I said.

He looked around at his core. "That's kinda the only muscle we're allowed to have."

I stood up out of my bag and put both hands into my own lower back and arched, and it cramped, all the way across above the waistband and down into my glute, and I grunted loud enough that he turned around.

"Ugh. My back is so fucked up."

"From the futon?"

"From the box squats, and then the futon. And this bed is like a piece of plywood, dude." I was standing in the middle of the room digging my thumb into the muscle above my waistband with my elbow cranked all the way up behind me, which does not work, you cannot get the angle on yourself. "I just can't get in there."

"Want a massage?"

"Do you know what you're doing?"

"I'm basically certified," he said. "I've done it on other guys, like a hundred times."

The trainers at the athletic center were booked out until Thursday. My back hurt.

I plopped down onto my stomach on the bed. "Yeah, do it."

He was already moving over to me.

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I pulled the cut-off over my head and dropped my shorts and got face-down on the bare bed in my boxers, arms folded up under my head. No hesitation, because that's just what athletes do. I've been naked in front of more guys than I could count. The trainers work on me in my underwear twice a week and stand there having a conversation with each other over my body while they do it. We ice-bathe in compression shorts, if that. 

I had my head turned toward the wall with my cheek on the bed and my feet hanging off the end into the air, which they were going to do all year, and my boxers had ridden up on one side.

Jaxon stood at the side of the bed up by my hip without touching me for a second, and I heard him breathe out.

"You good?" I said into my arm.

"Yeah."

Then he rubbed his palms together fast to warm them up, which I thought was a nice professional touch.

He started with the heels of his hands low, right above the waistband of my boxers, thumbs running up either side of my spine, pushing upward and outward at the same time. He found the spot quickly. There was a hard little ball of something sitting off the side of my spine above my hip that he leaned onto with the whole weight of his upper body, and it hurt in the good way for a few seconds and then it let go all at once, and I grunted into my forearm and my entire body sank about an inch further into the bed.

"Oh my God."

"You're tight all through here," he said, and pushed the flat of his hand up under my ribs on one side. "Your left QL is way worse than your right. That's why it's pulling on you when you stand up. Breathe out when I push."

I breathed out when he pushed. It went in another half inch.

"You're actually really good at this," I said.

"Told you."

He worked up and down like that for a while, thumbs walking along either side of my spine, then the heels of his hands sweeping outward across the flat of my back over the top of my hips, and every pass took a little more out of me. At some point he needed better leverage to get downward onto the low part, so he climbed up onto the bed and knelt straddling one of my thighs, and I could feel his knee pressed into the bed along the outside of my leg and his weight coming straight down through his arms instead of sideways.

"How's that."

"Don't stop doing that. Feels too good, bro."

His hands came down off my lower back onto my glutes over the boxers, pressing in with the heels of both palms.

"Hey," I said.

"It's all connected. Your glutes feed the whole chain, if they're locked up your lower back's doing their job for them."

"Oh, yeah, no, that's true," I said, because I read exactly that in a recovery article in the spring. "That's a real thing."

Even though no other masseur had ever done that before, he pushed the boxers up out of the way, up over the top of each of my butt cheeks, and he got in there properly with his thumbs, digging in from the outside and working inward toward the middle, and it hurt worse than my back had. Then he shifted back and straddled the backs of both my thighs so he could get straight down onto them with his full body weight through both hands, kneading, thumbs going in deep and dragging. It felt so good, I was seeing stars.

Then he moved lower, down onto my hamstrings, squeezing them out from the knee upward, and then he went inward, thumbs pushing up into the inside of my thighs, higher each pass, until his knuckles brushed the bottom of my balls.

"Spread your legs a little, I can't get the angle."

I spread them, because a guy who knows what he's doing told me to.

I got hard. My hips were still flat and my whole weight was on it, and opening my legs only pulled it tighter down against the bed, so it stayed pinned there pointing at my feet instead of coming up where it wanted to, which is a special kind of uncomfortable when you're my size.

"Fair warning, this happens to me sometimes," I said. "When the massage is actually good, so take it as a compliment. Masseurs on the club team in high school literally had a nickname for me, 'Tripod'."

"It's cool," Jaxon said quickly. "It happens."

He didn't slow down either. If anything he put more into it after that, the heels of his hands driving up the inside of my thighs with his full weight behind them, longer strokes that rocked me forward on the bed. I shifted my hips once to get it unpinned and that made it worse.

But his hand on the back of my hamstring started shaking. And in my peripheral vision his own shorts were pushed out in front in his own tent, and I didn't think anything about it, because I was lying there with mine grinding down into a bare bed, so I guess it was just a bro bonding moment.

His hands started working again on the backs of my thighs, and then he grabbed my shaft through my underwear, from behind, and held it firmly in his grip. I stayed still.

"What're you doing?" 

"I think you always get hard because they're not doing their job. Olympic athletes finish off every massage with a nut."

"They do?"

"Yeah," he said. "Otherwise the massage doesn't take effect. It's science."

I shrugged into the bed. "Cool. You know your stuff."

He got a hand under my hip and rolled me onto my back, and he pulled the boxers down off me and dropped them on the floor. He was kneeling on the bed between my legs, up on his knees, one hand still braced on my thigh.

He took hold of it, his hand wrapping around it, and his fingertips came up short of his thumb by a good gap, and he stared down at his own hand for a second.

"Two hands," he said, and stacked them, one fist on top of the other, and there was still head showing above the top one. He looked at that for a second too.

He spat into his palm first, and stroked upward slowly with both fists together, squeezing at the top of every pull, and then he dropped to one hand and twisted it on the upstroke, and then he stacked them again and pulled harder. I put my head back on my arm and let him figure out his own technique.

It felt good. Way better than my own hand, which shouldn't make sense, since it's the same motion.

His own tented underwear kept brushing against the inside of my calf where he was kneeling between my legs, every time he leaned into a stroke, and I ignored it, because I'd spent the last half hour with mine grinding into a bare, unmade bed, so we were basically even on that front.

He kept at it for a couple of minutes, two hands, one, two again, breathing loudly.

"Sorry bro, I'm not gonna finish that easy," I said. "Maybe with some porn or something."

"I think I can get you there," Jaxon said. "I got a good idea earlier."

"What idea?"

He leaned down over me, and instead of answering, he put his mouth on it.

"Oh, shit," I said as my head fell back.

He got about half of it, maybe a little past, and stayed there working the front end with his tongue flattened up underneath while his fist covered everything his mouth couldn't. Then he tried for more. He pushed himself down on it until it hit the back of his throat and he gagged, his back arching up as his body tensed, and he pulled off coughing with a string of spit hanging off his chin, and then he went right back down and did it again. And again.

He was down there gagging himself on it for the second time today, on purpose.

I got a hand into his hair at some point, and when I did he moaned around it, and I felt that all the way up into my stomach.

"I'm close," I said. "Again. That's so fast, that's embarrassing."

He didn't come off. He got his fist working tight at the base and his mouth clamped down on the head and sucked, and I squirted into his mouth in four long pulses with my whole body locked and my feet kicked out off the end of the bed, and he swallowed all of it. He stayed on it after, soft, not doing anything, just holding it in his mouth until it stopped twitching.

"You're insanely good at that," I said to the ceiling.

"Roll back over," he said.

I got back face-down with my chest and my face pressed into the bare bed and my arms folded up under my head, feet hanging off the short end. He stayed kneeling behind me and between my legs. His boxers were gone entirely by then, I heard them hit the floor.

"There's one more part," he said. "The last piece of the protocol is internal."

"The last piece of the what."

"Your... pelvic floor or something. Just relax." 

He put both hands flat on my lower back again. I heard a cap snap open over by his desk.

His thumbs spread my ass open and then something cold landed on me, and then I felt a finger, slowly, pushing in with a little pressure and then a little more, and my whole body clamped down hard, my glutes and my thighs and everything, and he stopped and waited and said breathe out, and I breathed out, and it all let go at once and he slid the rest of the way in.

"Oh," I said.

It felt full, and it burned a little right at the start and then stopped burning, and there was a pressure in my lower stomach that felt like it was connected to something, which is exactly what he'd said it would be. He worked it slowly, in and out a little, turning his wrist, and then he crooked his finger forward toward my front, from the inside, and pressed.

My hips came right up off the bed.

"What the hell is that," I said, way too loud.

"That's the spot."

He pressed on it again, and again, rhythmically, and I ground myself down into the bed and got hard again, which I would not have believed was possible just a minute after my last intense orgasm.

"Okay, that's insane," I said. "Do that again."

He did it again. Behind me his breathing had gotten loud and uneven, and his knees kept bumping the outsides of my thighs where he was up on them, and every so often something warm and stiff would drag against the back of my leg when he leaned in for the angle. Guys get hard. It happens. I didn't care as long as this "massage" kept going the way it was going.

"Hey, do you know any gay guys?" I asked.

Jaxon didn't answer right away.

"Yeah," he said. "Why?"

"It just hit me. They must love stuff like this."

"Yeah," he said slowly, "I bet they do."

His finger started moving again.

Then his other hand slid under me, between my legs, and wrapped around my hard dick again where it was pinned pointing at my feet, and my hips thrust on their own, pushing forward into the bed.

"Shit, I'm sorry, I'm gonna cum again," I said.

He kept the finger pressing that spot from the inside and his fist tight under me, and he made me finish again, and I literally groaned this time, out loud, and squirted my second load all over the bare bed underneath my own stomach, which I would be dealing with later. Right about the time I finished, a warm spritz splashed onto my ass. I didn't think about it much. Maybe some of my own load got up on my ass somehow.

I melted into the bed, completely boneless, face-down, arms dead under my head. He didn't say anything. He just put both hands back on my lower back and started working again, softer now, long slow sweeps up the spine, and then his thumbs at the base of my neck, which is right about when I felt his dick touch my ass. Oh well, that happens sometimes, I guess. I didn't care at that point.