The New Guy In My House 02: Night Surprise (Patreon)

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Chapter 2: Night Surprise

I lay in the guest bed in the dark, nowhere near sleep, listening to the water run down the hall. My dick was already thickening under the covers just from waiting, from wondering what he was going to do when he found the underwear I had left on his pillow. The shower shut off. I heard the glass door bump, a towel rack rattle, and after a minute the bathroom door opened. His bare feet padded down the carpet, and I counted off the steps it should have taken him to reach my old room. A minute later, the footsteps returned, slowing just outside my door, and stopped.

My door cracked open and Bran slipped inside, wearing just pajama pants, holding the underwear I had left, balled up in one fist. He shut the door behind himself without a sound and stood there, skinny and pale in the dark, his curls still damp from the shower.

"You put these there," he whispered. He said it like an accusation, except he was the one who had carried them down the hall.

"Yeah," I said. "Did you smell them yet?"

He didn't answer right away. I could hear him breathing from the bed.

"Say it."

"I smelled them," he whispered. "I had them pressed on my face as I walked over here."

"Show me."

He hesitated, standing there with them balled up in his fist. His eyes stayed on mine while he brought them up, pressed the bunched fabric over his nose and mouth, and pulled a long breath through it, deep enough that his narrow shoulders lifted. He let the breath out shakily against the cotton, and in the dark I watched his boner throb in his pajama pants, straining up under the thin red and black flannel like a heartbeat. I stared at it for a second, and the pattern looked familiar.

"Are those my old pajama pants?"

He didn't answer. He just kept breathing into my underwear.

I pulled the covers back and lay on my back in just my boxers, and he understood the invitation. He set the underwear on the nightstand and knelt on the edge of the bed, careful with his weight. His hands came down flat on my stomach, cold, and I flinched and he whispered "sorry" without stopping.

He didn't grab at anything. He pressed his palms into me and slid them down my stomach slowly, a little at a time, and I felt every cold finger warm up against my skin. He leaned in and smelled my chest, my sternum, the center of my ribs, his nose barely grazing me, the damp, wavy tufts of hair on his head dragging across my collarbone. His lips grazed me, barely, just brushing over my skin while he moved, so light I couldn't tell if it counted as a kiss or not. And my hands moved on their own. One drifted down and palmed myself through my boxers, squeezing lightly, and the other came up and touched him, fingertips in his wet hair, the back of his neck, the little knobs at the top of his spine. I didn't guide him anywhere. I just lay there and let him do what he wanted, let him see me up close, smell me, touch everything he had been gawking at around the house and through the foggy glass of the shower. His breath washed over me warmly and goosebumps ran down both my arms.

He worked upward from there. When he hovered near my armpit I lifted my arms over my head for him, the same stretch I did every morning, and he pushed his face into the pit and pulled a long, slow breath, the same one he'd taken through the cotton in the hallway. His narrow shoulders rose with it.

"You're insane," I whispered.

"I know," he said into my skin.

He stayed unhurried. The house was dead quiet around us, just his breathing and mine. He climbed the rest of the way onto the bed, his knee sliding between mine, and settled over my thigh, and I felt his boner press into my leg through the flannel, warm and firm, twitching whenever he shifted. A dude's hard-on against me. Strange, but not bad. I tucked one hand behind my head and lay still while he kept smelling me, nose down one side of my ribs and back up again.

He slid down off my thigh and settled between my knees, nose first, following the line of hair below my navel, his damp curls dragging over my stomach as he moved. When he reached the waistband of my boxers he didn't stop. He pressed his face along the cotton to where I strained against it and breathed me in, and his breath soaked through the fabric, warm and damp. He opened his mouth and licked me through the boxers, one slow drag of his tongue up the whole length over the fabric, and my hips lifted instinctively off the bed to meet it.

"You know what you're doing," I whispered, more of a question than a statement.

"Learning as I go," he whispered back, and put his tongue on me again.

His pajama pants, my old pajama pants, had slipped low on his hips from all the kneeling and shifting, and partway through a lick he let them slide down off his butt. His pale, milky skin was exposed, standing out against the bedding even in the dark, and I could see the lighter skin below the tan line at his waist, the shape of a bare butt from the side, round, cute like the rest of him. 

He shook one leg free, kicking off a pant leg without lifting his face from me, his pale little behind bare and raised behind him while he kept mouthing me through the cotton. One of his hands slid under his own body and I felt the bed shake faintly with the rhythm of him stroking himself.

I reached over and put my hand on him. Just rested my palm on one smooth cheek and felt it, warm, softer than I expected, over the muscle of a male glute. For the first few seconds I pictured a girl under my hand, some soft college girl bent over me, and I throbbed against his mouth. But the picture faded on its own, and it was just Bran, skinny and pale and breathing hard against me, and I throbbed just the same, maybe harder. I squeezed him gently and he pushed back into my palm, and I kept my hand there, feeling him, appreciating him, maybe for the first time, exactly as he was.

An idea came to me. He was clean, fresh out of the shower, and he smelled like the same soap I had used in that bathroom my whole life. I have always loved eating girls out. Half the guys I knew treated it like a chore, which I never understood, because it was my favorite part, a girl squirming on my mouth, losing her inhibitions one lick at a time. And Bran was turning me on in his own skinny, pale way, so I figured, why not.

His attention was still buried in my bulge, which made it easy. I slid my hands up, one around his hip and one flat against his ribs, and lifted him. He weighed nothing, and from that angle it was like bench pressing an unweighted bar. He gasped as I swung him around over me, his knees settling on either side of my head, facing my feet, his hands catching on my thighs. A sixty-nine, basically, except he didn't know yet what I was about to do.

His butt sat in front of my face, close enough that I felt the warmth coming off his skin. Up close he smelled like soap and clean boy, nothing else. I took a cheek in each hand and spread him apart with my thumbs, and he stiffened above me, his breath catching, almost a hiccup, somewhere near my waistband. Smooth, soft skin, and a tight little center that flexed when the air hit it.

I leaned up with my tongue out and let my college-boy instincts do the rest. I pressed in and dragged upward through him in one long, flat stroke, the same opener I had used on every girl who ever sat on my face, and he tasted like warm skin and a recent shower.

He groaned immediately, "Ohhhh."

His whole body shuddered over me, a quick ripple that ran from his thighs up to his narrow shoulders, and I felt it everywhere we touched, his knees tightening against my ears, his stomach jumping where it pressed over my chest. I knew that shudder. The freshman girls back at school did the exact same one, the first time anybody ate their ass, that jolt of disbelief crashing straight into wanting more. And I knew exactly how to make them love it. I stayed slow, and kept my tongue flat and warm and barely moving against him until the shock wore off, and above me his breathing turned ragged against my stomach.

He pushed back shyly at first, barely an inch, testing, and when I didn't stop he sank onto my mouth with his whole skinny weight, and the sound he let out this time was higher, muffled against the cotton of my boxers.

His dick tapped against my chest, hard and warm, leaving a little wet spot where it landed, and it kept tapping, an eager drumbeat every time my tongue moved. That was new. I had spent years down there, reading hip movements against my head, and the grip of a girl's fingers in my hair, guessing at how well I was doing, and here was this kid with a barometer between his legs telling me exactly how much he liked it, the message throbbing against my sternum like Morse code. I pulled him down harder by the hips and the tapping sped up, and I grinned into him, honestly proud of myself.

"Oh my god," he whispered into my thigh, grinding himself instinctively against my face. "Oh my god." 

I felt his fingers pick at the front of my boxers. He fumbled the fly open one-handed, still rocking back against my tongue, and worked me out through the opening, and the cool air of the room reached me a half second before his now warm fingers closed around me.

He stroked me in the dark, badly. His grip squeezed too tight and in the wrong places, the angle bent too much toward my stomach, and every few strokes he lost the rhythm completely because of what my tongue was doing to him. But I liked it like that. I didn't correct him. He handled me carefully, both hands sometimes, adjusting his fingers around the girth of me, trying over and over, and that was better than anything.

"It's so big," he muttered into my exposed balls, his breath warm against them. 

I kept one ear on the hallway the whole time, over his breathing and mine, listening for a door click from down where Mom and Ken slept. The house stayed silent around us. One of my hands kept him spread open for my tongue, and the other reached down his back until my fingers pushed into his damp curls, and I held on there, a loose fistful of him.

It built fast after that, his weight rocking on my face, his hand on me, moving sporadically but with motivation, that clean smell of him on every breath I pulled in.

He suddenly moved quicker than I expected, his hand landing on the exact right spot on me. I pulsed in his fist just as his mouth dropped down and swallowed me in, warm and wet, his tongue pressing firmly. I had planned on enjoying this for a while, but I was done.

My first shot caught him with no warning at all. He coughed around me, wet and startled, and he pulled off, and his fist came loose too, and I squirted into the open air with nothing touching me, pulses of juice falling in random trajectories, my stomach, his knuckles, his face, the cotton bunched under my nuts. With no grip to finish against, the last of it just sputtered and leaked out of me while my hips stayed on my face, my tongue buried deep and tasting the raw boy meat. It was basically a "ruined orgasm", but it didn't bother me at all.

"Sorry," he whispered, hovering over the mess.

A girl had done that exact move to me once by accident once in high school, and I had sulked about the wasted load until we banged again like two minutes later. This time I lay there with my chest jumping and laughed into the butt in my face, quietly, stupidly happy about it. My fingers stayed buried in his curls. His heart beat fast as a bird's against my stomach where he had collapsed onto me, and he was still hard against my chest, hot and twitching.

"That was the best bad one I've ever had," I whispered.

He turned his head and I felt him grin against my hip.

He climbed off me and stood beside the bed, right next to my face, still breathing hard, one leg of my old pajama pants hanging off his ankle. He wrapped his hand around himself.

"Do it," I whispered.

He stroked himself quickly, staring down at me, his eyes jumping between my face and my big wet dick lying spent against my stomach, back and forth, like he couldn't pick one. He rubbed his fingers over the wet puddle on my stomach, and my juicy dick.

"It's so big," he said again.

I grabbed my underwear off the nightstand and held them up for him. He understood instantly. His breath came faster, high in his throat, and he aimed himself at the cotton bunched in my fist and let out a squeak he caught behind his teeth, emptying his balls into them in long pulses that made his skinny knees shake. One pulse missed and caught me across the cheek, warm.

"Oops," he whispered.

He took the underwear from my hand and cleaned me up with them, my cheek, my stomach, dabbing carefully. When he was done he didn't set them down. He pulled my old flannel pants back up over his pale hips and carried them out of the room, back down the hall to my old bed.