Jordan is a Brute - Chapter 1 (Patreon)

Author’s note: All my characters are consenting adults (18+). All sexual acts depicted are consensual between the characters.

Chapter 1

I had been lying on the couch for almost an hour with the TV on mute, not really watching anything.m, just scrolling on Tik Tok.

The apartment always felt different when Jordan wasn’t in it. Quieter. Smaller, somehow. Like the walls remembered the size of him even when he was gone. Two years we’d been splitting rent on this walk-up above the pizza place, and I still hadn’t gotten used to the way the whole space changed the second he walked through the door.

Jordan Hale. Twenty-seven. Six-three, maybe a little more in the work boots he never took off until he hit his bedroom. Broad through the shoulders and chest in that dense, heavy way that made every hallway look too narrow. Not gym-pretty. Not the kind of guy who counted macros. Just thick. Solid. The kind of body you get from hauling cases of ammo and standing behind a counter all day at the gun shop on the other side of town.

He had that beard. Dark, full, the kind that made him look older than he was. It covered most of his jaw and climbed high on his cheeks. Under the cheap hallway light it always looked even heavier. The rest of his face was all hard lines — thick brows, a slightly crooked nose from some old fight he never talked about, that permanently annoyed expression like the world had personally inconvenienced him.

And the caps. Always the same faded ball caps, pulled low. Everyone at the shop thought it was just his look. I knew better. The hair on top was already thinning in a wide patch he refused to admit existed. He kept the sides short and the beard full so nobody would notice unless they really looked. I’d noticed. I’d been noticing for two years.

He lived in the same three or four heavy metal shirts. Iron Maiden. Pantera. Slipknot. All of them stretched tight across his pecs and the heavy muscle of his upper arms. The sleeves were always a little too short, showing the dark hair on his forearms and the veins that stood out after a long shift. His jeans sat low on his hips. His boots were always scuffed. He smelled like the shop — gun oil, metal, cheap Axe deodorant that gave up halfway through the day — and underneath it, this warm, heavy, male sweat he never seemed to fully wash off.

He treated me the way he’d treated me since the day we signed the lease. Like I was the soft one. The one who watched too many movies. The one who never went to the gym. He called me names the way some guys call their dogs names — casual, automatic, like it didn’t even count as being mean. And somehow that same roughness was the exact thing that had me lying on this couch at eleven at night thinking about him instead of anyone else. I couldn’t not care about Grindr because Jordan was not there… but my “love” for him was strictly platonic. He’s straight as a right wing guy can be. Pure straight with strong opinions about gays and women.

I heard the front door slam hard enough to rattle the windows.

Heavy boots crossed the kitchen. Keys hit the counter like he was trying to break it. Then a low string of “fuckin’ bitch” under his breath.

Jordan was home.

He walked into the living room and the whole apartment got smaller.

Same faded black Iron Maiden shirt he’d left in. Jeans hanging low. Ball cap pulled down over that thinning spot and receding hairline. The jacket slung over one shoulder. And that smell — the one the girl had apparently complained about — filled the living room the second he dropped onto the other end of the couch. Gun oil. Metal. Sweat that hadn’t been washed off since morning.

He stared at the blank TV for a few seconds like it had personally insulted him.

“You wouldn’t fuckin’ believe this shit,” he muttered.

I sat up a little. I’d learned a long time ago not to jump in when Jordan was like this.

“Took this chick out,” he said. “Decent looking. Works at the tattoo place on 5th. Dinner was fine. Fucking expensive, but whatever. We get back to her place, I’m ready to go, and she takes one look at my dick and freezes. Straight up tells me she can’t handle it. Says it’s too thick, too long, and I ‘smell like I just worked a double.’ Kicked me out before I even got my jeans all the way off.”

He let out a short, bitter laugh and dragged a big hand down his beard.

“Can you believe that? A grown-ass woman scared of a regular cock and some man scent. Un-fucking-believable.”

I glanced at the heavy outline already visible in his jeans. There was nothing regular about it and we both knew it. That thick, slightly curved shape had been getting him rejected for years. He talked me about that issue several times when he’s a little bit drunk. Girls liked the idea of him until they actually saw it. He just never admitted it out loud.

“That sucks,” I said.

“Yeah. Sucks for me. And all I wanted is to be sucked.” A dry laugh. “I’m sitting here with blue balls because some bitch couldn’t take it. I even showered before I left. Guess I started sweating again on the way over. Whatever. Her loss.”

He leaned back, spread his legs a little wider. The outline got even more obvious. The apartment felt tighter with him in it. It always did.

I didn’t say anything for a few seconds. I could hear the fridge humming. I could hear my own pulse.

“She really said that?” I asked. “About the size?”

Jordan turned his head and looked at me like I was slow.

“Yeah. She really said that. Looked at it, went quiet, then told me she wasn’t dealing with ‘that.’ Like I was some kind of freak. I’ve heard it before. Just never that fast.”

He rubbed his jaw, the beard making a low scratch against his palm.

“It’s not even that big,” he added, which was a lie and we both knew it. “It’s just thick. And it curves a little. Some girls can’t take it. Whatever. I’m not shrinking it for anybody.”

The way he said it — annoyed, defensive, still half-hard in those jeans — made my mouth go dry.

“You been home long?” he asked, like he suddenly remembered I lived here too.

“Yeah. Since like nine.”

“You eat?”

“Leftover pizza.”

He grunted. That was as close as Jordan got to checking in on me.

Then he went quiet again, staring at the dark TV, one thick thigh bouncing a little. The smell of him was stronger now that he was sitting still. Pungent sweat. Shop. Whatever cheap body wash he’d used that hadn’t survived the date.

I could feel the offer sitting in my throat for a long time before I actually said it.

“I could help. If you want.”

The words hung in the air between us.

Jordan turned his head slowly.

“Help how?”

I swallowed. My pulse was already loud in my ears.

“With my mouth. If you need to get off.”

For a second he just stared. Then his face twisted.

“The fuck did you just say, Keith?”

“I’m serious. You’re home. You’re pissed as fuck. You’re hard. I can take care of it.”

Jordan stood up so fast the couch shifted under him.

“I’m not a fuckin’ faggot, Keith. And you’re not putting your queer mouth anywhere near my dick. I don’t care how blue my balls are. I’d rather jerk off for the rest of my life than let my gay roommate suck me off like some desperate hole.”

He shook his head, disgusted, and started toward the hallway.

“Jesus Christ. Only you would offer some shit like that. Absolutely crazy. Your luck is that I actually like you like a little brother.”

His bedroom door slammed. Seconds later porn started blasting through the wall — loud, wet, aggressive. The kind he always put on when he was too angry, had no luck with chicks and was too horny to be quiet about it.

I sat there on the couch with my heart hammering. That was pure Jordan. Rough. Rude. Calling me names the same way he had since we first moved in together. He said it was affectionate. And somehow that same meanness only made it worse for my crush. I’d been looking at him for two years — those thick arms, that beard, even his balding is sexy for me, like he has too much testosterone, the way he filled a doorway — and tonight was the first time I’d ever said it out loud.

I went to my room. I left the door cracked. I sat on the edge of the bed and listened to the porn through the wall. I could hear him moving around in there. I could hear the wet sounds from the video. I could hear him breathing.

Five minutes later my door opened without a knock.

Jordan stood in the doorway, jeans shoved down just enough, that thick, curved cock already out and in his fist. It looked even bigger up close than the outline had promised — heavy, veiny, with a dark bush, the slight left curve already pointing toward me. He was stroking it slow, eyes locked on mine, ball cap still pulled low.

“Change of plans,” he said, voice low. “You still offering?”

I nodded once.

He stepped inside and kicked the door shut.

“Here’s how this goes. I don’t kiss. I don’t touch your dick. I don’t hold your hand after. You get on your knees, open your mouth, and take it the way I want. Facefuck. Skullfuck. Whatever I feel like. You gag, you spit, you deal with it. You try to pull off before I’m done and I’m walking out and I will never give you another chance. Clear?”

“Clear.”

“Aight. Let’s do this shit and see how it goes. On your knees”

He grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked me off the bed onto the floor. My knees hit the carpet hard. Up close the smell of him was stronger — sweat, metal from the guns, that same musk the girl had complained about. I opened my mouth without being told.

Jordan pushed the thick head past my lips and kept going until the curve forced its way into my throat.

I gagged immediately.

Spit flooded around the shaft and spilled down my chin. He didn’t ease up. Both hands locked on the sides of my head and he started thrusting — short, hard strokes that turned my throat into a sleeve. Every time he bottomed out I made those wet, broken choking sounds. Tears blurred my vision. My nose was pressed into the dark hair at the base. I was trembling with excitement. It was everything I’d ever dreamed of. Was I going to wake up at any moment?

“Fuck yeah,” he muttered. “That’s better than any of those stuck-up bitches. Look at you already drooling all over it. You actually like it.”

He pulled back just enough for me to drag in a wet breath, then slammed forward again.

The first few minutes were just him finding a rhythm. He wasn’t careful. He wasn’t trying to make it good for me. He was using my mouth the way he’d wanted to use that girl — hard, deep, impatient. And I fucking loved it. The curve of him made it worse. Every time he pushed in, the angle hit the back of my throat differently. I gagged again. More spit ran down my chin and soaked the lower part of his shirt.

“Wanna quit?” he asked, arrogant.

I shook my head vigorously, afraid he would leave. I couldn’t speak.

He laughed under his breath, that same mean little sound he used when he was winning an argument.

“Didn’t think so.”

The rhythm stayed brutal. My hands rested on his thick thighs, feeling the muscle jump every time he drove in. His jeans were still half on, the open fly framing everything. The ball cap never came off. I could see the underside of his beard when he looked down at me. I could see the way his stomach tensed under the old Iron Maiden shirt.

Jordan kept talking the whole time, voice mean and low.

“Took that bitch out for that pricey steaks place and she still couldn’t handle it. Said it was too thick. Said I smelled. You don’t give a fuck how I smell, do you? You’re just happy to get a real man’s cock in your mouth for once.”

He switched angles, tilting my head back farther so the curve could punch even deeper. My throat convulsed around him. More spit poured out, dripping onto the carpet. I was a complete mess — eyes streaming, nose running, chin shiny — and he only went harder for it.

“That’s it. Stay open. Don’t you close your teeth. I feel teeth and we’re done.”

I stayed open.

He started using longer strokes then, pulling almost all the way out so I could see the wet shine on the shaft before he shoved back in to the root. Every time he bottomed out, my nose crushed into his thick dark bush. I couldn’t breathe. He’d hold it there for a second or two, just long enough for my throat to flutter around him, then pull back and do it again.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Your throat game is way better than hers would’ve been anyway.”

He said it like he was still pissed at the girl. Like I was just the replacement hole that happened to be home.

He sped up. The wet choking sounds filled the room. My jaw ached. My knees ached. I could feel drool running down my neck and into my shirt. Jordan’s grip in my hair tightened until it burned. He wasn’t looking at my face anymore. He was looking at where he disappeared into my mouth, watching himself use it.

“Take it. Fucking take it. This is what you wanted when you offered, right? To be my personal throat for the night? You said you would help me, so this is what I need.”

I couldn’t answer. All I could do was stay open and let him use me.

His breathing got heavier. The thrusts turned shorter, deeper, more brutal. He was chasing it now, chasing the orgasm the girl had denied him. Every time that thick head battered the back of my throat I made those broken, wet sounds that only made him groan louder.

“Don’t you pull off,” he growled. “I swear to God, Keith. You pull off and I’m done with this shit.”

I didn’t.

He fucked my throat like he was trying to finish an argument. Hard. Mean. The ball cap stayed pulled low the whole time. The beard wet with sweat. The smell of him was everywhere — sweat, gun shop, strong Axe, the heat of his body.

“Gonna fill this throat,” he said, voice going rough. “Gonna pump it so deep you’ll taste it when you burp tomorrow.”

The last stretch was the worst and the best at the same time. He stopped talking. He just used me. Short, deep, ugly thrusts that made my eyes water so hard I could barely see. My hands stayed on his thighs because I didn’t know where else to put them. I could feel him getting closer in the way his hips started to stutter.

When he came it was with a loud, animal grunt and three final hard thrusts that buried him to the root. Thick pulses shot straight down my throat. I swallowed everything. He held me there through every spurt, hips twitching, one hand fisted in my hair like he was afraid I’d move.

Only then did he pull free.

I stayed on my knees, gasping, face covered in the mess he’d left. Jordan stood over me and stroked the last few drops onto my tongue like it was nothing, like he was just finishing up at a urinal. He’s cum was bitter like some battery juice.

He tucked himself back into his jeans without a word, adjusted the ball cap, and looked down at me one more time.

“Don’t get used to this shit. I live for tits and wet pussy. This was just a desperate man’s move.”

Then he walked out, leaving my door open and the sound of his porn still playing down the hall.

I stayed on the floor a long time. Throat raw. Lips swollen. The taste of him still thick on my mouth. My whole body was still buzzing. I didn’t move yet. I just sat there in the dark, breathing hard, already knowing I’d let him do it again and again the second he asked.

Because as rough and rude and fucked-up as he was… he was still the most masculine thing I’d ever wanted.