The Colossus of Callum 02: Mouth Worship (Patreon)

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Chapter 2: Mouth Worship

We didn't talk about it the next day. He made biscuits, and we argued about whose turn it was to buy house supplies. But his ruined shirt stayed balled up on the living room floor, and I stepped over it twice, thinking about the night before, without commenting. He had moaned at my voice, not at the porn, and some part of me flexed about that in my head at work, in a strictly no homo way, obviously.

When I got home that night, he was already on the couch. His sweats were on, and he was half chubbed at the crotch, apparently forgoing underwear this time. His phone was face up on his knee, ritualistically waiting on a text from Samantha that we both knew wasn't coming. I dropped my bag and sat down at the other end.

"Hey," he rasped before clearing his throat and repeating it, "Hey."

"How was your day?"

"Chill."

"How many times did you wank?"

"Zero."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

I chewed on my lips for a second.

"You wanna do that again?" I asked.

He kept his eyes on the TV. "Do what?"

"The thing. From last night."

"I don't know."

Silence for a few seconds.

"Don't you think..." I started, trying to remember the words that did it for him. "that giant piece of meat deserves some attention?"

His eyebrow twitched. He exhaled slowly.

"You want to, right?"

He swallowed.

"Do you want my permission?"

"It might help."

"You sure?"

"Yeah," he said, fast. "Yes."

I put porn on, one of my saved favorites, and we settled in facing the screen, him on the left cushion, me on the right, a full empty cushion between us. He pushed his sweats down to his thighs, and this time he pulled his shirt off over his head and tossed it toward his bedroom, which made me laugh.

"Learned your lesson, huh."

"That shirt still smells like shame," he said.

He was hard before he got a hand on it, that huge thing standing up off his stomach, and I was hard watching him get there, so I pulled my shorts down my thighs and stroked along with him.

"That's a weapon, dude. Your crush wouldn't last. It's a gut buster."

He groaned and his knees drifted wider apart, letting his big balls drop onto the couch cushion.

"You haven't cum all day?" I said, speeding up on myself.

"No," he said through a breath, speeding up as well.

"Cum now," I said.

He whimpered helplessly and his hips bucked up off the cushion, heels braced against the rug. That thick rod swelled in his fist and pulsed from the base upward, and the first rope streaked his bare stomach clear up to his ribs. Two more followed, heavy and white, pooling in the dip of his abs while his thighs trembled and he moaned loudly at nobody. Watching his body obey a two-word command from me got me over the edge, and I squirted my own load into the wad of paper towels I had ready this time, right behind him, grunting through my teeth, staring at his large meat as it began to rest.

We both sat still for a minute, catching our breath. He slumped into the cushions with his sweats around his thighs, chest rising and falling, and he had a glow on him, loose and dopey, happier than I had ever seen him after any party or any night out. I liked knowing I had something to do with that. He wiped himself down, pulled his sweats back up, and we ordered Thai.

We ate it straight out of the containers on the couch, and I let him put on some video game competition highlights from youtube, which I usually vetoed on sight. He brought up one competition that he was in, and I watched him win the match, making those funny faces he does when he's concentrating hard on something, his mouth hanging open, half smiling, eyes laser-focused. He seemed proud of that win. I was proud of him too. 

And even though there were a bunch of new things happening between us, we didn't really talk about it, and it didn't feel weird.

····[]····

The next night I came sort of prepared. I had spent my whole commute building a playlist, clips queued up on the TV app, sorted in an order I had reasons for. He saw the queue when I cast the first one and his eyebrows jumped.

"You made a lineup?"

"I made a list," I said. "Sit down and lose the pants."

He did what I said quickly, as usual, shoving his sweats down and kicking one leg free, his big monster cock joining the party with us.

The first round was quick. We were both horned up from texting about it all day, and he blew his load in just a couple minutes, up his stomach again, groaning at the ceiling while I talked him through it, and I finished right behind him. But it was quick, and I had more in store for him.

"Round two soon," I said, still catching my breath, and his eyebrows rose.

He turned his head against the back cushion and stared at me, his monster dong lying spent against his thigh. "I don't know if I can."

"Your cock is a king, man. You can do it."

For round two I moved to the middle cushion, close enough to watch him properly, both of us still facing the TV, his bare thigh a hand's width from mine. I fed him clips one at a time and watched what worked, which was allowed, since I was running the program. Regular hookup stuff got a medium response. But one clip had the girl kneeling the whole scene, praising the guy, telling him it was perfect, thanking him for it, and Callum stopped stroking entirely and just gripped himself and stared hard, confirming my theory.

"That's the stuff," I said.

"Shut up."

"She's basically describing you, dude. That cock deserves every word of that."

He groaned as his hips squirmed up off the cushion, chasing his own fist, and I slowed him with nothing but my voice, telling him to ease off, telling him to make it last, and he obeyed every instruction while his legs trembled and his glasses slid down his nose. When I finally talked him over the edge he came harder than the first round, three heavy ropes up his chest, one reaching his collarbone, and he shouted something garbled at the ceiling.

"I came so much," he grumbled as his energy sank. "It's like I was pissing cum."

Round three took forever and neither of us would call it off. His dick was red and over-sensitive and he kept flinching off his own grip, squirming around on the cushion, whining about it, and still refusing to stop, because I kept talking and he kept responding like a dog to a whistle. I barely produced anything on my own third. His was a dribble and a full-body shudder and a sound I had never heard a guy make before. He slumped against the armrest with his sweats around one ankle, wrecked, grinning at the ceiling.

"We're disgusting," he said.

"Yeah."

So that was it. We had crossed from being buddies who were also degenerate gooners, to gooner buddies, jerkoff bros, some sort of quasi-sexual encouragement friends. It became a ritual. I would get home, drop my bag, and he would already be on his cushion with his sweats loose and his glasses pushed up, ready for instructions. 

I curated the clips, he obeyed the pacing, and some nights we stretched it out for hours, both of us leaking and stupid and laughing at the dumbest stuff. My voice did more for him than anything I put on the screen, and I fed him praise constantly, because watching him melt for it never got old. Over the following weeks we devolved into complete gooner freaks. Our coffee table collected lube and used paper towels.

We still hit the bars like usual, but the bars lost their importance over a few weeks. I would catch him checking his phone before we finished the first round, and I was checking mine too, and we would drain our drinks and head home without saying what for. Every night ended back at the apartment with each other. We drank less, partly because being drunk made him cum too fast and made my dirty talk sloppy. After a while we stopped drinking altogether, nursing sodas at happy hour and saving ourselves for the goon. And it hit me that I had stopped hitting on girls too. Chatting one up felt like a chore compared to what was waiting at home, and I don't think Callum ever tried that hard to begin with.

····[]····

One dead night at a bar in the East Village we complained that New York is supposed to be good for dating, and watched two guys who had just met make out by the bathroom.

"The gay guys have all the fun," Callum said.

"I wish I was gay."

"Me too."

Neither of us laughed, and we went home and gooned.

One night we were just getting started, chatting on the couch, when he brought it up out of nowhere.

“I think I’m submissive,” he said. “With girls. Like, I want them to take charge.”

“Dude, I know.”

“Seriously?”

"Yeah, it's like, the most obvious thing about you."

He smiled.

“I am a little bit too," I said, "With girls. I wait for them to make the first move. And the second one.”

He thought about that for a second. “That explains your dating record.”

I rolled my eyes. “It explains both of ours.”

····[]····

The old game was seeing how long we could go without cumming. The new game was me telling him when he was allowed to touch himself. It was bizarre, and it was hot, and I had to admit I was starting to get a lot out of it too, besides just seeing my buddy happy. I watched him more than I watched the screen.

Then one night things were different. He was waiting for me to start the dirty talk, itching around his thighs, not touching himself, just staring at the TV. I enjoyed his squirming, the impatience of it, whatever it meant. He really was addicted to whatever I provided in these late night sessions. And I let him stew in it for a bit longer this time.

"Can I tell you something weird?" he finally said.

"Sure."

He kept his eyes on the screen. "I've never had sex. At all. And I don't even want it really. Not the normal way."

I stared at him. "Really?" 

"Yeah," he grumbled, before clearing his throat. "I want somebody to just like... worship me. Worship my cock. To tell me it's perfect, choke on it, thank me after. Oral is all I really want. I read erotic stories online about it. That's basically all my porn now. Except when I'm with you."

"Are the stories good?"

"Some are really good. The straight guys going gay always gets me, though. Hung guys... like me."

I sensed a bit of pride in his voice.

"What about Samantha?"

"She doesn't seem like she would do it," he said. "Not right, anyway."

"You want a guy to suck your dick then?" 

"I mean, no. Not just a random guy."

He didn't seem to have the words to say it, or else he just lacked the willpower. And I understood then that I was the only one who could do anything close to that for him. Maybe the only one who understood it at all.

"She's never going to," I said. "But I will."

He turned and looked at me for the first time that night. I slid off the couch and knelt on the floor between his feet, and he lifted his hips so I could drag his sweats down to his ankles. He was already hard, pointing up his stomach. I was hard too, tenting my own shorts.

I watched his face as I put my hand on his thigh, just above the knee, and he flinched, a jolt that ran up through his stomach and made that huge thing bounce against his abs. I slid my palm up his bare thigh slowly, feeling the muscle twitch under it, and he held his breath the entire climb. When my fingers finally closed around the shaft it throbbed, and the surreal part of it hit me all at once, that I was holding a dude's hard dick, that I could feel the pulse in it, that it was swelling even harder in my grip. 

It was bigger than mine. I knew that visually, but it was a completely different sensation to feel it directly. I had never once in my life touched another dick, let alone a big, heavy, hard one. And this was like holding the girth of a beer can, except twice as long, maybe more. And my buddy was attached to it. 

I slid my fist up toward the tip, slowly, and his body flinched again, his knees knocking in against my body. I squeezed it and felt the blood rush in, pushing back against my fingers. Then I held it loosely, letting it throb in the loose hold of my hand. I looked up at his face again. He looked shy. His face was dark red, clear down to his neck. His mouth was open, looking at me, half smiling, waiting for whatever was next.

I was getting a thrill from it and I finally stopped pretending this was all just for him. I jerked him and listened to his whimpers. They were sort of pathetic, but in a good way. He wasn't hiding anything. He wasn't ashamed. It was cute, in a way. 

I stroked harder, his dick inches from my face, and I noticed he was already getting fiercely worked up. He got really animated close to the edge, hips thrusting up off the couch on their own. I recognized it, and the first time it happened I stopped stroking. He groaned like I had hit him in the chest. I started up again, and his whimpering sharpened. It sounded something like pain. I stopped again when he was right at the edge, and a big glob of clear pre-cum escaped the tip and ran down over my fist. I licked it off my knuckles and he gasped. He didn't say anything. I got the sense that he was incapable of speech.

I kissed the tip of it first, just my lips on the fat head, and his stomach jumped. I did it again, longer, and tasted pre-cum, salty but somehow clean. His breathing turned ragged above me.

"A cock like this," I said, "and nobody has ever kissed it. That's a crime, dude."

He whimpered.

I dragged my tongue up the underside, from the base to the ridge, slowly, feeling the whole thing throb against it, and his knees clamped in against my shoulders. I licked him like that for a full minute, long laps up the shaft with my fist holding the base steady, and whenever his hips started bucking up I backed off and squeezed until he settled back onto the cushion.

"Not yet," I said. "You've waited your whole life for this. We're not rushing it."

I opened my mouth and took the head in. Just the head was a mouthful. My jaw stretched wider than I thought it could, and my lips barely closed around it. I sucked gently and worked my tongue over the ridge, and he trembled, thighs shaking on either side of me, little grunts slipping out of him with every breath. His balls tightened up fast and I popped off and jerked him loosely instead, letting him drift back down from the edge, and he groaned like I had punched him.

"I know," I said. "This is a beautiful dick, man. It's a gift to the world. Anyone would love it."

I bent back down and took him deeper this time, bobbing slowly, swallowing a little more of him on every pass until the head bumped the back of my throat and I gagged, eyes watering. I had never had a dick in my mouth in my life, and here I was on our living room rug, choking myself down onto the biggest one I had ever seen, enjoying it more than I had enjoyed anything with a girl in months. I pushed down again and got him past the back of my mouth for a second before I came up coughing, a string of spit connecting my lip to his cock.

He started shaking all over, red down to his chest, glasses crooked and fogged at the edges, his mouth hanging open the same as when he's concentrating on a match point. I felt him swelling in my fist and eased off again, barely moving my hand, and he thrashed his head against the back cushion and whined.

"You deserve the pleasure," I said, looking up at him. "You know that, right? You deserve to get worshiped like this. Every single night."

He finally found actual words to say. 

"I love this," he whimpered, his voice cracking.

"Everyone loves your cock," I said, stroking him fast now, my mouth right at the head. "You're a king."

And he exploded. The first rope hit me across the cheek, hot, and another caught my nose before I dropped my mouth down over him and pushed until he was in my throat. He groaned harder than I had ever heard him groan, and both of his hands grabbed my head, not pushing, just gripping hard, pulling my hair while he pumped the rest of his load straight down my throat. I felt myself choking on it and stayed down anyway, bracing through it, determined to do this for him as good as I could. 

I pulled up a little, rubbing the ample underside of the head of it with my tongue as he released the last pulses in my mouth, with a long whimpering moan. I pulled off and caught my breath, setting his dick down on his stomach, the heavy thing wet and satisfied. My throat was feeling sore already, stretched and burning. I knew I was going to feel it in the morning, and I didn't care.

I cleaned him up with a towel and plopped my butt down next to him. He pulled his sweats back on, curled his legs up onto the couch underneath him, and settled into the corner across from me. 

"Come over here," I said, and he did. I put my arm around him, and he put his head on my chest.

"Are you gay?" I asked.

"Sometimes."

"Do you wanna suck me back?"

"Not really."

We cuddled like that, sort of, for a long time, barely saying anything. He fell asleep on my chest, and I played on my phone for a while, feeling my own eyelids get heavy. 

When he stirred, I rubbed his shoulder. "Did you have a good night?"

"I think it was the best night of my life."

"Me too," I said.