Jordan is a Brute - Chapter 4 (Patreon)

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

Chapter 4

Jordan’s text came at 12:47.

come get me. drank too much. don’t ask questions

No location. I already knew the place. The only bar he went to when a date didn’t end in a bedroom. Neon. Peanuts on the floor. Metallica on a Tuesday if the bartender felt generous with Jordan blue balls.

I was in the car in four minutes. I told myself I was being a good roommate. I did not believe myself.

The lot behind Miller’s was half full. Pickup trucks. A dented Civic. His old car wasn’t there — he’d walked, or she’d driven. I parked under the dead floodlight at the far end and sat with the engine off until I made myself get out.

Through the window I saw him before he saw me.

Carhartt cap pulled low. Faded black Metallica shirt dark with bar heat. Miller Lite in one fist on the copper rail. Beard shiny. That grin he only used on women. The blonde on the next stool had her whole body turned toward him. Tank top. Jeans. Big tits. She was laughing at something that wasn’t funny. His eyes were on her breasts.

I almost left.

Then he looked past her and found me in the doorway and the grin changed. Not friendlier. Just finished with the bit.

He said something to her. She glanced over her shoulder. I got the roommate look — the one that says oh, you’re the quiet one. Jordan was already off the stool.

“That’s my ride,” he told her. “He’s the responsible one.”

“You sure?” she said. “I can take you.”

“He’s already here.” He set the bottle down without finishing it. “Another time.”

He didn’t wait for her answer. He clapped my shoulder too hard on the way past and the smell hit me in the parking lot air — beer, bar, sweat the Axe had lost to hours ago, the same musk that had gotten him kicked out twice this month.

“You drive,” he said. “Obviously.”

I drove, obviously.

He rode with the seat kicked back and the window cracked and one boot on the dash until I told him to take it down because it was dangerous. He took it down. He didn’t say thank you. Three blocks of quiet. Then:

“She was gonna let me come over.”

“Okay.”

“I said no.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t say okay like that.”

“Like what.”

“Like you’re keeping score.” He dragged a hand down the beard. “I didn’t say no for you. I said no because I already texted you and I don’t like looking like an asshole who texts one person and leaves with another. That’s all. I have respect for you.”

“Thank you, I guess.”

“Keith.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up and take a left. Not the apartment yet.”

I took a left. Industrial park. Closed self-storage. A lot behind a fence that didn’t lock after ten. Gravel. One sodium light the color of old piss. I pulled in and killed the engine because that was what the turn had meant.

Jordan sat there a second with his head against the rest.

“You came pretty fast for a guy who was ‘just watching TV.’”

“You told me to come get you, I’m your rommie after all.”

“I know what I told you.” He popped the door. “Stay in the seat. Window down. Hands on the wheel.”

“Jordan, what are you doing?”

He was already around the hood. The driver’s door opened. Night air. Gravel under his boots. He stood in the V of the open door, one hand on the roof, the other already working his belt. From the seat I was eye-level with his stomach, the Metallica print, the dark hair going into the jeans.

“You wanted to help the other night,” he said, low, mean, not quite drunk enough to slur. “You wanted to help in the warehouse. You wanted to help on the couch while Wade was in my ear. So help. Right here. Nobody’s pulling in. If somebody pulls in you keep your head down and I zip up. Clear?”

“Clear.”

“Seatbelt off. Turn toward me. Mouth open before I get it out. I don’t feel like waiting.”

I clicked the belt. I turned in the seat. The wheel was against my ribs. He shoved the jeans and the boxers down just enough. He was already thick, the left curve sitting heavy in his fist, the head wet from thinking about it on the ride. The smell of him at that height was worse than the living room — beer and crotch and a workday that had never really ended.

He didn’t ask again.

He grabbed a fistful of my hair and fed the head past my teeth and kept going until the curve punched the back of my throat and I gagged around him in the open door of my own car.

“There. That’s what I walked out on her for.” His voice was ugly with it. “A blonde with a nice rack and a ride home and I still picked the gay mouth. Don’t you get a big head about it. I picked the hole that already knows the job and doesn’t complain about the smell.”

I gagged. Spit ran down the shaft and onto the seatbelt buckle. His other hand stayed on the roof. He used my head like a handle and started thrusting — short, hard, the kind that had no interest in my breathing schedule. 

Every time he stuffed all of his shaft my nose crushed into the dark hair and I couldn’t get air. The cap brim knocked the doorframe. The chain of the car keys swung against my knee.

“Look at you. Sitting in the driver’s seat like a chauffeur. Mouth full of the guy who pays half the rent.” He snapped his hips. The wet sound was loud in the empty lot. “She asked if you were my little brother. I said roommate. Should’ve said employee. You work for my cock now boy.”

I grabbed his thighs because I needed something that wasn’t the wheel. Denim. Heat. Muscle jumping every time he drove in.

“Hands on the wheel,” he said. “I told you hands on the wheel.”

I put them back. He made a pleased sound that wasn’t kind.

“Good. Stay like that. I want you looking like you’re still driving. Like this is a pit stop.” He pulled out far enough for me to drag air and slapped the wet head once against my tongue. “Open. Wider. I just sat next to a woman for two hours pretending I was gonna be nice. I’m done being nice. I want to be and feel like a real man, a true beast.”

He pushed back in to the root and held. My eyes streamed. A string of drool hit the rubber mat of my car. He talked through the hold the way he talked through inventory.

“You seen her? Blonde, huge tits. Smelled like vanilla. Talked about her job. Talked about her dog. I was gonna take her home and be careful and still get told it was too much, my sweat was too intense, blah blah blah. Same script. I’m so fucking tired of the script.” He started moving again, meaner. “You don’t have a script. You just choke and stay. That’s why I texted you instead of getting in her car. You understand that or you need it slower.”

I couldn’t answer and of course I didn’t need it slower. I like how brute Jordan is. He didn’t want an answer. He wanted the throat.

He fucked my face in the open door until my jaw burned and the seatbelt warning dinged once because my weight had shifted. He laughed at the ding.

“I’d choose you over some blonde bimbo with big tits.” He gripped my hair tighter. “Don’t you close your teeth. I feel teeth and I walk back to that bar and I take the blonde up on it. You want that?”

I shook my head on him as much as the angle allowed.

“Didn’t think so.”

The rhythm went brutal. Standing, he had leverage the couch didn’t give him. He could punch down into my throat and use the roof for balance and watch himself disappear. Gravel popped under his boot when he adjusted. A truck went by on the frontage road and he didn’t stop. He just put his palm over the back of my head and kept me down until the engine faded.

“You’re a parking-lot slut now,” he muttered. “That’s new. Warehouse. Bedroom. Couch. Now the Civic. You collecting rooms or what.”

Spit soaked the front of the Metallica shirt. He didn’t care. He wiped his thumb across my cheek and pushed the spit back into my mouth around himself.

“Don’t waste it. I didn’t walk out of a sure thing to be tidy.”

He was getting close. I could feel it in the way the curve swelled, in the way his standing leg locked, in the ugly little sounds he was done hiding because Wade wasn’t on the phone and the blonde wasn’t watching.

“I’m gonna finish in your throat,” he said, not asking. Then he made it a question because even Jordan had one setting left. “You want that? You can choose tonight. Say it. I can paint your face instead.”

He pulled back an inch.

“In my throat,” I got out, wrecked. “Please.”

“Please. Listen to you.” He shoved back in. “That’s the only time you’re a gentleman. When you’ve got a cock in your mouth.”

The last stretch was standing-over-the-car ugly. Both hands in my hair. Hips snapping. The door rocking on its hinge. I gagged and stayed and the wheel cut into my side and I did not take my hands off it because he’d told me not to.

“Take it. Take what she wasn’t gonna take. Fuck—”

He buried himself and came with a sound he bit off against his teeth, pulsing hard and deep, holding my head on him through every spurt so I had to swallow or drown on it. There was a lot. Beer-hot. Bitter. He kept me there until he was done twitching, then pulled out slow and wiped the head on my lower lip like he was signing a ticket.

I sat in the driver’s seat gasping, chin a mess, hands still on the wheel. Jordan tucked himself away, zipped, adjusted the Carhartt cap, and spit into the gravel.

“Drive,” he said.

“I need a second.”

“You can have a second at a red light. I want a shower and I want food and I don’t want to stand in a lot like a creep.” He shut my door from the outside, walked around, got in the passenger seat, and put the boot back on the dash. “You swallow all of it?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Don’t talk about the girl.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“I mean it. She was fine. This wasn’t about her being worse. This was about me already knowing where the good throat was.” He stared out the windshield. “That don’t make it a relationship. That makes it convenient.”

I started the car. My mouth still tasted like him. The lot light made the spit on my shirt look like water.

We didn’t talk on the way home. He had his head against the window. At a light he said, without looking over:

“Wade’s coming Friday.”

My hands tightened on the wheel.

“Okay.”

“There it is again. Okay.” He exhaled through his nose. “He’s staying on the couch. You don’t look at me like you look at me. You don’t say my name like that. You sleep in your room with the door shut. We clear?”

“We’re clear.”

“And if I text you Thursday night, you still come. Before he gets here. I need it out of my system so I don’t do something stupid in front of him.”

The light went green.

“I’ll come,” I said.

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

He went straight to the shower when we hit the apartment. He left the Metallica shirt on the bathroom floor. I picked it up because I am built that way and then I put it in the hamper because Friday was coming and Friday had rules.

My phone stayed dark.

Thursday was already decided.

And the blonde at the bar still thought he had a responsible, friendly roommate, when in fact I was his personal slut, on demand.