Jordan is a Brute - Chapter 3 (Patreon)

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

Chapter 3

The door hit the frame hard enough to make the picture on the hallway wall tilt.

I was on the couch with my phone when the boots crossed the kitchen. Keys slammed the counter. Then the fridge opened and shut without anything being taken out. Jordan’s voice came from the hallway, low and pissed.

“Keith. Beer. Now.”

I got up.

He was already in the living room when I came back with the cold can. Same scuffed boots. Long khaki cargo shorts that hung heavy on his hips. The black Rammstein shirt was stuck to him in dark patches under the arms and down the middle of his chest. The ball cap was still on the right way, brim low over the receding line and spot he never talked about. He smelled like the date and the drive home and the shop underneath it all — that thick, warm musk the last girl had complained about, the same one that had gotten him kicked out again.

He took the beer without saying thanks, cracked it, and drank half of it standing up.

“Another one?” I asked.

“Yeah. Another one.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. “Took her to that Mexican place on 8th. Fine. Conversation was fine. Get back to her apartment, pants come off, and she looks at it like I pulled out a fucking weapon. Said she ‘wasn’t built for that.’ Same shit. Different bitch.”

He dropped onto the couch hard enough that the whole frame shifted. The cargo shorts rode up his thick thighs. The outline of him was already obvious, heavy against the left leg.

“I’m calling Wade,” he said. “Need to talk to someone who isn’t a fucking prude.”

Wade was his best friend from high school. Construction manager now, some big site three states over. They talked every couple of weeks, usually about football, politics, and how every woman they’d ever met was defective in one way or another.

Jordan set the beer on the coffee table, reached behind his head, and dragged the Rammstein shirt off in one pull.

The smell hit the room immediately.

Hot sweat. Hours of whatever deodorant he’d put on before the date, completely defeated. Dark hair under both arms, matted and wet. The thick chest, the stomach, the trail that disappeared into the waistband of the cargos. He tossed the shirt onto the armchair and sat back, bare from the waist up, beer in one hand.

Then he took the ball cap off, turned it around, and settled it on his head backwards.

For a few seconds the thinning spot was right there under the living room light — the short hair on top thin sparse in a wide patch, the sides still dense. The receding line more evident now. He never wore the cap like that. Not in front of me. Not in front of anyone if he could help it.

I looked.

“Your hair’s sexy,” I said. “You should now that… it’s masculine and it means you have tons of testosterone.”

Jordan’s head snapped toward me. The embarrassed flash across his face was almost worse than the anger.

“Fuck off, Keith. Don’t talk about that. Ever. My hair is normal, I just like caps, it’s part of my style.”

He pulled the brim down harder even though it was backwards, like that would hide it. His ears were a little red. He took another long pull of the beer and stared at the dark TV instead of me.

“I mean it,” he muttered. “That subject is closed. You bring it up again and I’m done with this whole arrangement.”

“Okay.”

“Good.”

He set the beer down, lifted his hips, and shoved the cargo shorts and the boxers underneath them down to mid-thigh in one motion. His cock came free already thick, the left curve more pronounced when it was filling, the dark bush above it still damp from the evening. The head was flushed. A clear bead sat at the slit. The smell of him — concentrated, musky, pure crotch after a failed night — filled the space between us.

“Phone’s going on speaker,” he said. “You stay quiet. You do what you gotta do. I gotta talk to my boy Wade. Clear?”

“Clear.”

He unlocked the phone, hit Wade’s contact, and put it on speaker on the coffee table. The ring filled the room twice before a deep, easy voice answered.

“Yo, J. What’s good, brother?”

“Wade. What’s up, man.”

“Shit, you sound pissed already. Date go south again?”

Jordan let out a short, bitter laugh and wrapped his free hand around his cock, giving it one slow stroke while he talked.

“You know it. Chick from the tattoo shop on 5th. Decent rack. Conversation wasn’t terrible. Get the jeans off and she freezes like I pointed a shotgun at her. Said it was too much. Said I smelled like a workday. Kicked me out before I even got a hand on it.”

Wade’s laugh came through the speaker, loud and mean.

“Bro, you gotta stop taking these fragile bitches out. Find one that actually likes dick.”

“I’m trying. Every single one of them talks big until they see it. Then it’s ‘oh my god Jordan I can’t’ and I’m back in the fucking car with blue balls.”

I got on my knees between his spread legs without being told. The cargo shorts were still around his thighs. Up close the musk was stronger — sweat, skin, the leftover heat of a man who’d been rejected and was still hard about it. I leaned in and took the head in my mouth.

Jordan’s stomach tensed. His hand landed on the back of my head, heavy, not pushing yet, just resting there while he kept talking.

“NFL this weekend was a disaster,” he said, voice only a little tighter. “Chiefs looked like shit in the second half. That offensive line couldn’t block a fucking toddler.”

“Tell me about it. I had money on the over. Lost my ass. You see that interception in the third?”

“Yeah. Ugly. Mahomes forcing it into triple coverage like a rookie. I almost threw the remote.”

I took him deeper. The curve made it easy to feed into my throat. I kept it wet and slow at first, just enough pressure, just enough suction. Jordan’s fingers flexed in my hair. He took another drink of the beer with his other hand and set it down harder than he needed to.

“Speaking of losing,” Wade said. “You still striking out every weekend or what?”

“Every fucking weekend. I’m starting to think the women in this town are broken. All of them. Frigid as hell. Can’t take a regular cock. Act like you’ve asked them to deepthroat a baseball bat.”

I hollowed my cheeks and went down to the base. Jordan’s breath caught. The hand in my hair tightened.

“—and they all smell like vanilla body spray and complain when a man smells like he actually worked a day,” he finished, voice a fraction rougher. “I’m over it.”

Wade laughed again.

“Remember Sarah from the bar on Miller? Big ass, talked all that shit about loving rough sex. You hit that once and she cried.”

“She didn’t cry. She just laid there like a fish and then said I was ‘too intense.’ Bitch had a shelf full of romance novels about being railed and couldn’t handle the real thing.”

“What about that blonde from the gym? The one with the fake tits.”

“Melissa. Yeah. Great rack. Absolute dead lay. Wanted me to stop every two minutes so she could ‘adjust.’ I almost fell asleep on top of her.”

I pulled off long enough to lick a slow stripe from his balls to the head, then took him back in. Jordan’s hips shifted. His voice stayed in the conversation but the edges were starting to fray.

“There’s this new girl at the coffee place by the shop,” he said. “Brunette. Nice legs. I was thinking about asking her out but after tonight I might just save the money and the disappointment.”

“Bro, you need to lower the standards or find one that’s already broken in. These good-girl types ain’t built for guys like us.”

“No shit.”

I started moving faster. Wet. Messy on purpose. Spit ran down the shaft and over his balls. The sound was soft but constant under their voices. Jordan’s grip on my hair became a real hold. He guided me in a short rhythm while he kept talking, the way a man might adjust a pillow while on the phone.

“You remember Jessica from senior year?” Wade asked. “The one with the ass that wouldn’t quit.”

“Jessica Price. Yeah. That ass was criminal. I hit that in the back of my truck after the homecoming game. She took it better than half the women I’ve met since.”

“She still in town?”

“Married. Two kids. Saw her at the grocery store last month. Still got the body. Husband looks like he couldn’t bench a bag of dog food.”

Wade snorted.

“Waste. What about her friend — the redhead with the big tits. Ashley or some shit.”

“Ashley Moore. Tits were unreal. Couldn’t ride for shit though. Just bounced around and expected me to do all the work. I came in like four minutes out of pure boredom.”

Jordan’s voice cracked slightly on the last word. I had taken him all the way down and swallowed around the head. His thigh jumped under my hand. He cleared his throat hard and forced the next sentence out.

“Anyway. Enough about the ghosts. How’s the site treating you?”

“Busy as fuck. We’re pouring foundations next week. Heat’s a bitch. Crew’s half useless. Same old shit. You still stacking ammo and scaring soccer moms at the counter?”

“Every day. Had a guy come in yesterday asking if we sold ‘those little pink guns for the wife.’ I almost told him to get the fuck out.”

I focused on the head, tongue working the underside, hand stroking what I couldn’t keep in my mouth. Jordan’s breathing had gone shallow. He was trying to keep the conversation even and failing in small ways — a pause too long, a word that came out thicker than it should have.

“You sound off, bro,” Wade said. “You getting sick or just that mad about the date?”

Jordan’s fingers dug into my scalp.

“Just mad. And hot. Apartment’s a fucking oven. I’m sitting here half-naked drinking a beer trying not to put a hole in the wall.”

“Do what you gotta do. I’d be beating it already if I was you.”

“Yeah. Working on it.”

I looked up. Jordan was staring down at me, jaw tight, eyes dark under the backwards cap. The receding line was still visible. He looked pissed and desperate and determined not to let either thing show on the call. I took him deep again and held it. His free hand gripped the edge of the couch cushion so hard the knuckles went white.

“So what’s the play this weekend?” Wade asked. “You gonna try again or take the L?”

“Might stay in. Watch the games. Blow some money on DraftKings. I don’t know if I can listen to another woman tell me my dick is a problem or that I smell.”

“Their loss, man. Some chick out there is gonna appreciate the equipment. Until then use your hand.”

Jordan’s hips lifted off the couch. A low sound escaped him before he could kill it. He turned it into a cough.

“Until then I guess I’m stuck handling it myself,” he finished, voice strained.

I sped up. Both hands. Mouth tight. The wet noise was louder now. Jordan’s stomach was rigid. A drop of sweat ran from his armpit down the side of his ribs. The backwards cap sat crooked from how hard he was gripping my head.

“You got the volume up or something?” Wade asked. “Sounded like you just got punched.”

“Beer went down wrong. I’m good.”

“Alright. Well, if you change your mind about that coffee girl, take her somewhere cheap first. Don’t waste the steak money until you know she can take a dick.”

Jordan laughed, and the laugh came out broken.

“Yeah. Solid advice. I’ll— fuck — I’ll keep that in mind.”

The curse slipped out sharp. His hand shoved me down and held me there. I couldn’t breathe. I stayed until my eyes watered and then he let me up just enough to drag air through my nose before pushing me back onto it.

“You sure you’re good? You’re acting weird bro.” Wade said, suspicious now.

“I’m fine. Just stretched wrong. Back’s been tight from the shop.”

“Old man already. Twenty-seven and falling apart.”

“Fuck you.”

Wade laughed loud.

“There’s the Jordan I know. Listen, I gotta run. Foreman’s blowing up my phone about the concrete pour. You sort your shit out. And next time a bitch says she can’t handle it, tell her to go find a smaller guy. Plenty of those walking around.”

Jordan was close. I could feel it in the way his cock swelled, the way his thighs locked, the tiny involuntary thrusts he couldn’t fully stop. His voice when he answered was wrecked under the attempt to sound normal.

“Yeah. I’ll tell her. Talk later, man.”

“Later, J-Man. Don’t break your dick.”

“No promises.”

The call ended. Jordan didn’t move the phone. He stared at the dark screen for half a second, breathing hard, then both hands were in my hair and he was fucking my face in earnest — short, brutal strokes, no more conversation to hide behind. The cargo shorts were still around his thighs. The Rammstein shirt was a black heap on the chair. The backwards cap stayed on.

“Open. Fucking open. You heard all that. You heard how hard it is out there. So you take it. You take what they won’t.”

I took it. Gagging. Spit everywhere. Tears. The full mean rhythm he only used when he was past pretending this was casual. He talked through it, low and ugly.

“Wade’s right. Their loss. Every single one of them. And you’re right here with your mouth open like it’s your job. That’s what you are. My after-date cleanup. Say it.”

I couldn’t say anything. He didn’t care.

He pulled out suddenly, fist tight around the base, and stroked hard and fast right in front of my face. I stayed on my knees, mouth open, eyes on him. The first thick rope hit my cheek. The second landed across my nose and lips. He kept stroking, grunting through it, painting my face in heavy pulses while a leftover laugh from Wade’s last joke still sat in his chest.

“Fuck — take it — fucking take it, lil fag.”

He didn’t stop until every drop was on my skin. Then he sat back, chest heaving, cock still twitching in his hand, and looked at the mess he’d made of me.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, almost laughing. “Look at you, you like a wax doll melting in the sun.”

He tucked himself back into the cargo shorts, stood, and picked up the empty beer can.

“I’m showering. Don’t follow me. And wipe your fucking face before you get up.”

He walked out of the living room without looking back. The bathroom door shut. The water started.

I stayed on my knees until I heard the shower curtain move.

Then I got up, face still wet with him, and went to the bathroom down the hall — the small one, not the one he was using. I locked the door, turned on the sink, and stared at myself in the mirror. Thick white streaks across my cheek, my mouth, the bridge of my nose. The taste of him already on my tongue when I licked my lower lip.

I shoved my shorts down, took myself in hand, and stroked hard and fast over the sink, eyes on the mirror, tasting every bit of the load he’d left on my face. I came quick, biting the inside of my cheek to stay quiet, spilling into the basin while the shower ran on the other side of the wall.

I cleaned the sink.

I cleaned my face.

I went back to my room and lay in the dark listening to the water shut off, to his boots in the hallway, to his bedroom door close.

My phone stayed dark.

I didn’t text him.

I already knew the next time he had a bad date, or a long shift, or a conversation with Wade that left him restless, the message would come.

And I already knew I would answer.