Jordan is a Brute — Chapter 2 (Patreon)

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

Chapter 2

The days after that night were nerve wracking.

Jordan didn’t talk about it. He didn’t look at me if he could help it. Monday morning I found him already in the kitchen, coffee in one hand, scrolling his phone with the other. When I said hey, he said, “Move,” and reached past me for the sugar. His arm brushed mine. He pulled it back like I’d burned him.

Monday night he ate standing up with his back to the fridge. I sat at the table with leftover rice and waited. He didn’t sit down.

“You can use the couch,” I said. “I’m not gonna bring it up.”

“I know you’re not.” He scraped his plate. “Because there’s nothing to bring up.”

Tuesday he left before I woke up. I heard the boots, the keys, the door, the engine of his old car. He came home after ten, went straight to the shower, then to his room. The porn started twenty minutes later. I lay on my bed and listened to it through the wall and hated how easy it was to remember the weight of his hands in my hair.

Wednesday I tried again in the hallway.

“Jordan.”

He stopped, but he didn’t turn all the way.

“I just wanted to say I’m not gonna make it weird. You don’t have to avoid the apartment.”

He looked at me then. Cap on. Beard. That same annoyed face.

“I ain’t avoiding the apartment. I’m working. Some of us have jobs that ain’t sitting on a phone all day.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I owe you a conversation.” He pointed at my door. “What happened, happened. I was horny. You offered. That’s the whole story. We good?”

“We’re good.”

“Then stop standing in the hall.”

He went into his room and shut the door. A minute later the TV went on. Not porn. Some game. I stood there anyway until it felt stupid.

Thursday he texted at 9:41 p.m.

stuck at the shop doing inventory

I stared at it. Then:

ok

A minute later:

balls are fuckin full. need to dump this load. you coming or not

No greeting. No apology. Just that.

I typed and deleted three different replies.

yeah

back door?

yeah. don’t park out front

I was in the car before I finished reading the last one.

The drive took twelve minutes. I kept both hands on the wheel and tried not to think about how fast I’d said yes. Two years of him treating me like the soft one in the apartment, one night of his cock in my throat, three days of him pretending I didn’t exist, and I still went the second he asked.

The gun shop was dark from the street. Closed sign in the window. I went around back. The alley smelled like dumpsters and hot asphalt. The metal door was cracked. I pulled it open and stepped into the warehouse.

It was hotter in there than outside. Fluorescent lights. Rows of boxes. The smell of cardboard, oil, and metal. And him.

Jordan was in the middle of the aisle with a clipboard under one arm and a case of ammo in the other. Old faded sleeveless Metallica shirt, the print cracked and gray. Jeans. Same scuffed boots. Ball cap pulled low. His arms were shiny. The hair on them was dark and wet. He’d been hauling inventory all day and it showed.

He set the case down when he saw me.

“Lock it.”

I locked the door.

“You make good time,” he said. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

“You asked.”

“I know I asked. Still didn’t think you’d drive down here like a dog.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. “You tell anybody where you were going?”

“Who would I tell?”

“Fair.” He looked me over. “Take your jacket off. It’s hot as shit in here.”

I took it off. He watched me do it, then popped his jeans open like that was the end of the talking. He shoved them down just enough and pulled himself out. Already hard. Thick. That same left curve. The dark bush above it. He stroked once and looked at me like I was late.

“You drove all this way for this cock. Get over here, fag.”

I went to my knees on the concrete, I was already salivating for him.

The floor was cold. He wasn’t. Up close he smelled worse than the night on the couch — hours of lifting, no shower, that cheap Axe that had given up before lunch. Gun oil on his hands. Sweat in the shirt. I opened my mouth and he pushed in like he’d been thinking about it since he sent the text.

“Fuck. That’s it. Don’t play with it. I ain’t got all night.”

He grabbed my hair and started using my throat the same way he had in my bedroom. Short. Hard. Impatient. The curve of him hit the back of my mouth and I gagged. Spit ran down my chin. He didn’t slow down.

“Been walking around this place with a hard-on for two hours,” he muttered. “Every fuckin’ box I lift. Should’ve just jerked it in the bathroom. Then I thought about your mouth and I got stupider.”

I took it. Both hands on his thighs. The jeans were rough under my palms. The sleeveless shirt hung loose except where it stuck to his stomach. Every time he bottomed out my nose crushed into him and I couldn’t breathe.

“You been thinking about this since Sunday or what?”

I couldn’t answer with my mouth so full of his thick shaft.

“Yeah. You have. I know you have. I could see it on your face every time I walked past you in the kitchen. That’s why I stayed out. Didn’t need you looking at me like that. I almost felt important.”

He pulled back enough for me to drag in air.

“Say something.”

“I missed it,” I said, stupid and honest.

Jordan laughed, mean and quiet.

“You missed my dick. That’s what you meant. Don’t dress it up.”

He pushed back in before I could argue. He fucked my mouth for a few minutes like that. No warmup. No kindness. The warehouse was quiet except for the wet sounds and the occasional scrape of his boot. A stack of boxes loomed over us. I could see the Metallica logo upside down when I looked up.

“Look at you. Drove across town like fast and furious to choke on it. You really are a fuckin’ freak, Keith.”

He said it like a compliment and an insult at the same time… and I loved it.

He pulled out sudden. I gasped. He kept a fist in my hair.

“Get up. Over those boxes. The ammo ones. Don’t make me say it twice.”

I stood. My knees were dirty. He pointed at a stack of sealed crates against the wall, waist-high, black print on the sides.

I started to turn.

“Wait.”

The word came out before I could stop it.

Jordan’s eyes narrowed under the cap.

“What.”

“Lift your arm.”

He stared at me.

“The fuck did you just say?”

“Your arm. Please. I want to…”

I didn’t finish. I stepped in close, still shaking, and looked at the dark wet patch under the sleeveless shirt. He’d been carrying cases all day. The hair there was matted. The smell coming off him was thick enough to taste.

Jordan let out a short, ugly laugh.

“You’re serious???”

“Yes.”

“You want to smell my pit. That’s where we’re at.”

“Please, Jordan. I need it.”

He hesitated. Then he lifted his arm.

I leaned in.

It hit me all at once — salt, heat, that cheap deodorant turned sour, hours of work baked into his skin. I breathed it in like an idiot. My mouth opened against the wet hair without me deciding to. He flinched, then didn’t move.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You’re sniffing my fuckin’ pit.”

“The other one.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

He switched arms anyway. I did it again. My head was swimming. Every girlfriend he’d ever complained about had said the same thing. He smelled too much. He sweated too much. He came home from the shop and they wrinkled their noses.

I didn’t.

“They always said that,” I said against his skin. “That you smelled? That’s ridiculous, you smell so good.”

“Yeah. They did. Every one of them. ‘Jordan, shower. Jordan, you stink. I can’t with the sweat.’” His hand landed on the back of my neck. “And you drive down here and bury your face in it. You know what that makes you?”

I didn’t answer.

“A fuckin’ trooper! The one who finally likes it and doesn’t complain about it.” he said, to himself more than me. “Get your pants down. Over the boxes. Now.”

I did. Jeans and shorts to my thighs. I bent over the ammo crates. The cardboard was rough against my stomach. The warehouse light was ugly. I heard his belt. I heard him spit.

Then I heard him talk.

“This is the part I shouldn’t do.” His voice was behind me, close. One thick hand on my hip. 

“A mouth is one thing. A mouth I can explain. I was horny. You offered. I had to do anything , just close my eyes and enjoy it. Whatever. This—” I felt the wet head of him press against me. “This is different. This is me putting it in a dude.”

He didn’t push in yet.

“I ain’t a faggot,” he said, louder, like the boxes needed to hear it. “I like tits. I like wet pussy. I been saying that my whole life. You know that. You’ve heard me say it.”

“I know, I know you’re straight.”

“No girl ever let me in the back. Not one. They all said it was too much. Too thick. Too curved. Same shit as the other night. So now I’m standing in my own shop after hours thinking about putting it in you.”

His hand tightened.

“Tell me to stop and I will. I’m not gonna force this. That’s not what this is.”

“Don’t stop.”

“Say it clearer.”

“I want you to fuck me.”

Jordan let out a breath.

“But a hole’s a hole, right? That’s what I’m telling myself. You got one. It’s right here. You’re begging for it. And I been walking around with this thing for years like it’s a problem.”

He pushed.

The first inch burned. I bit down on my own wrist. He was thicker than I was ready for and he didn’t wait long. He spat again, worked himself in another inch, and swore.

“Fuck. That’s, that’s fucking tight. Tighter than I thought.”

“Don’t stop.” I begged.

“Wasn’t gonna.”

He gave me another inch. Then another. The curve of him made the angle mean. My hands scrabbled on the tape of the crates. He put it all inside with a grunt that sounded angry at both of us.

“There. That’s all of it. That’s what those girls wouldn’t take no even on their pussy.” He stayed there, breathing hard, both hands on my hips. “You feel that? That’s a real straight cock, Keith. Not some queer bullshit. That’s me, a true American man.”

“I feel it, it’s the best cock ever.” I was in gay heaven.

“Yeah. I bet you do.”

He started moving.

It wasn’t slow for long. A few careful strokes, then he decided he didn’t care. He fucked me the way he’d fucked my throat — hard, deep, like he was working something out. The crates jumped. A box on the top row slid an inch. His jeans slapped the back of my thighs. The sleeveless shirt was stuck to his big body with sweat. I could still smell him, his smell was like a drug for me. I was a junkie for Jordan masculinity.

“Jesus. Look at this. I’m in my own workplace. After fucking long hours. Fucking my queer roommate over a stack of nine-mil.” He laughed, breathless. “If one of my buddies walked in right now they would never believed I am railing a queer’s ass.”

He went harder.

“This don’t make me gay. You hear me? This is just a hole. A wet hole available for me that happens to be attached to you. I need to come. You said you’d help. So take it.”

“I hear you, Jordan. You’re not gay for this, don’t worry, man.”

“Good. Then shut up and take it.”

Every thrust knocked the air out of me. He was verbal the whole time, the way he got when he was winning and when he was pissed, which for Jordan was the same thing.

“Fucking take it. That’s it. Push back. Don’t just lay there. You wanted this bad enough to smell my pits, you can work for it. Fuck my cock with that tight pussy.” He demanded.

I pushed back.

“Good. Fuck. That’s better.” His hand came down on my ass, open, not playful. “You like that smell that much? All day I been hauling this shit. Sweating through this shirt. And you get on your knees for it.”

“Those girls don’t know what they are missing.” Was my reply in the middle of my moaning.

He leaned over me. The Metallica shirt brushed my back. His beard scraped my shoulder. The cap brim hit the back of my head.

“I’m gonna fill this thing,” he said, right against my ear. “Gonna pump it into your little pussy till it leaks down your legs. Then you’re gonna pull your pants up and walk out of here like nothing happened. Clear?”

“Clear, man.”

“Say it.”

“You’re gonna fill my pussy.”

“That’s right. And tomorrow you’re gonna look at me in the kitchen and you’re not gonna say a fuckin’ word about it. Same as this week. We got that?”

“We got it.” I promised.

He straightened up and really started fucking me. No more talking himself into it. The debate was over. A hole was a hole. His rhythm went ugly and deep. The warehouse filled with the sound of skin and his breathing and the creak of the crates. My arms shook. I could feel him getting closer in the way his fingers dug into my hips hard enough to bruise.

“Don’t you tighten up on me. Stay open. I ain’t pulling out. I didn’t pull out of your throat and I’m not pulling out of this pussy.”

He slammed in and stayed there, grinding, and I felt him go over.

It was a long, erratic sound. Like a bear who’s being hunted. He pulsed inside me, thick, hot, holding my hips so I couldn’t go anywhere. He kept saying it while he came, like he needed the words.

“That’s it. Take that load. Take it, Keith. Fuck!!!”

He stayed buried until he was done. Then he pulled out slow, and I felt it immediately, warm jizz, running down.

Jordan slapped my ass once, not hard, like he was done with a job.

“Pants up. Don’t drip on my inventory.”

I pulled my jeans on. My legs didn’t want to work. He was already tucked away, already picking the clipboard back up, already looking at the next stack of boxes like he’d just taken a break.

He glanced at me.

“Go home.”

I blinked.

“I still got two hours of this shit. I’m starving. You go back to the apartment and make dinner. Something with meat, something consistent for a man like me. I’m not eating leftover pizza again.” He pointed the clipboard at me. “And don’t text me about this. Don’t wait up like some girlfriend. I’ll eat when I get there.”

“What do you want.”

“I don’t care. XL Burgers. Pasta with meat. Whatever. Just have it ready.”

“Okay.”

He turned back to the boxes, then looked over his shoulder one more time.

“Keith.”

“Yeah.”

“This still don’t mean nothing. You know that, right?”

“I know, don’t worry. I have a boyfriend…” I lied out of the blue.

He grunted. That was as close as he got to thank you.

I went out the back door into the alley, locked it behind me the way he’d want, and sat in my car until my hands stopped shaking.

Then I drove home to make him dinner.

Because he’d told me to and because I like him more than I admit it to myself.

And because as rough and rude and fucked-up as he was, I was already waiting for the next text.