Jordan is a brute - Chapter 1 - Jordan’s POV (Patreon)

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

Chapter 1 - Jordan’s POV

The girl from the tattoo shop on 5th had a nice rack and a laugh that made the steak feel cheaper than it was. I spent forty minutes pretending I wasn’t already hard under the table. I even showered before I left the apartment. Axe. The good towel. Cap pulled low so the bathroom light didn’t hit the spot on top I don’t talk about.

The restaurant was one of those places with steak prices and lighting that makes everybody look like they’re in a commercial. She talked about ink. About a sleeve she wanted on her thigh. I nodded and cut meat I couldn’t taste because I was already doing the math I do on every first date.

How long until the jeans come off. How long until the face. Whether I take the cap off if we make it to a shower. I never take the cap off. One girl in a hotel bathroom two years ago reached up to “see my eyes better” and her hand found the thin spot and she laughed like it was cute. It wasn’t cute. I fucked her with the cap back on and didn’t call.

This one didn’t get that far.

In the car after, I caught myself in the rearview and pushed the brim down until the patch disappeared. Sides still thick. Beard still doing the work. Twenty-seven and already playing angles with a ball cap like a guy ten years older. The guys at the shop think it’s a look. It’s a wall. My roommate Keith’s the only one in the apartment who’s seen the wall with the lights on, and he never said a word about it, which is either kindness or embarrassment. I don’t like not knowing which.

Her place smelled like vanilla. Everything in apartment building smelled like vanilla. She got the jeans open, looked down, and her face did the thing I’ve been watching faces do since I was nineteen.

Not impressed. Not hungry. Scared.

“I can’t,” she said. “That’s— Jordan, that’s a lot. And you kind of… you smell like you worked a double.”

I had showered. I said that. She was already pulling her shirt back on.

Kicked me out before I got the jeans to my thighs. Standing in a hallway that still smelled like her candle, dick half out, cap brim in my eyes so I wouldn’t have to see myself in the mirror by the door.

I sat in the car for a minute with the A/C on my throat and my hand on the wheel and the same old math.

Too thick. Too big. Curves left. Girls like the idea of a big guy from the gun shop until the idea is in the room. Then it’s I can’t and you smell and I’m driving home with blue balls and a Metallica shirt that stuck to me the second I hit the stairs.

I checked the mirror at a light. Cap still good. Sides still dense. The patch on top only shows if some asshole stands over me or if I take the thing off. I don’t take the thing off. Not on dates. Not at the shop. Not in the apartment if I can help it. Keith’s seen it. Keith looks at everything. That’s the problem with a smart roommate who doesn’t have anywhere else to put his eyes.

I slammed the front door hard enough to make the windows complain. Keys off the counter. Fuckin’ bitch under my breath because if I said it at volume the old lady downstairs would bang the broom again.

Keith was on the couch. TV on mute. Phone. That look he gets when I’ve been out — like the apartment got smaller and he’s trying not to say it.

I dropped on the other end. The smell of me filled the room. Metal from the gun shop. Sweat the shower didn’t kill. The date I didn’t finish. I stared at the black TV like it had personally wasted my money.

“You wouldn’t fuckin’ believe this shit.”

He sat up a little. Smart. He learned years ago not to jump in when I’m like this.

I told him. Dinner. Her place. The look. Too thick. Too long. Smell like a double. Out the door. I laughed like it was funny. It wasn’t funny. I dragged a hand down the beard because my face needed something to do that wasn’t looking at him.

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

Regular. Even I didn’t believe that one. The outline in my jeans was already back. It never takes long. That’s the other half of the problem. I can get rejected and still be hard about it like my body’s too stupid to take a hint.

Keith said it sucked. I said it sucked for me and all I wanted was to get sucked. Cheap joke. He didn’t laugh. He looked at my lap once and looked away and I felt seen in a way the blonde hadn’t managed.

I asked if he’d been home. If he’d eaten. Leftover pizza. I grunted. That’s the check-in. That’s as much roommate as I know how to be when my dick is still thinking about a girl who looked at it like a weapon.

The offer came out of him slow. I watched it happen in his face before the words.

“I could help. If you want.”

“Help how?”

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

Something in my head went white.

Not because I didn’t understand. Because I understood too fast. Two years of him being the soft one, the movie one, the one who never went to the gym. Two years of me calling him names the way you name a dog. Two years of knowing he looked at the cap and the beard and the doorway like they were a problem he liked. And now he was sitting on my couch offering the one thing every woman in this zip code had failed at.

I stood up so fast the couch moved.

“I’m not a fuckin’—” I stopped. Swallowed the word I use at the shop when the guys are listening. “I’m not like that, Keith. You’re not putting your mouth anywhere near my dick. I don’t care how blue my balls are. I’d rather jerk off till I die than let my gay roommate treat me like a charity project.”

I said I liked living with him. I said he was lucky I did. I went down the hall because if I stayed I was going to do something I couldn’t put back in my mouth.

Door. Slam. Phone. Porn on the speaker because I needed noise that wasn’t his breathing through the wall.

It was the usual. Loud. Wet. Girls who could take big cocks like mine because they were paid to. I shoved my jeans down and got a hand on myself and the blonde’s face kept showing up anyway. The freeze. The vanilla. 

You smell like a double.

I couldn’t finish. That was the humiliating part. Not the date. The fact that my own hand felt like the same joke after a mouth had just been offered twenty feet away.

I thought about the cap. About taking it off in her bathroom and her seeing the patch and stacking that on top of the dick and the sweat. I thought about Keith on the couch not stacking anything. Keith who’d watched me haul ammo and eat standing up and sweat through Maiden shirts for two years and still said “I could help”.

Five minutes. That’s all it took for the math to get ugly.

I shoved the jeans down just enough and walked out with it in my fist. His door was cracked. Of course it was. I opened it with my boot.

He was on the edge of the bed. He looked at it and I watched his face do the opposite of the blonde. No freeze. Hungry. Like the curve and the smell were the point.

“Change of plans. You still offering?”

He nodded.

I 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. 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 never ask again. Clear?”

“Clear.”

“On your knees, cheap slut.”

I grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked him off the bed. Knees on the carpet. Up close he got the whole tour — shop, metal, the musk she complained about, the heat I can’t wash off because I work for a living and I’m always sweating. It’s my personal biology. He opened without being told.

I pushed the head past his teeth and kept going. The curve found the back of his throat and he gagged and I felt it all the way into my spine.

Jesus Christ.

Warm. Wet. No wait. No adjust. No face like I’d pulled a weapon. Just throat and spit and the sound of somebody who wanted the thing women keep calling a problem.

I locked both hands on his head and used him. Short. Hard. Impatient. The way I’d wanted to use her before she froze. Every time I bottomed out his nose mashed into the hair at my base and his throat fluttered around the thickest part and I had to bite the inside of my cheek not to make a noise the old lady would hear.

“Fuck yeah. That’s better than any of those stuck-up—” I cut myself off. Talked anyway. I always talk when I’m winning. “Look at you already drooling on it. You actually like it.”

He did. That was the part that made my knees ugly. He wasn’t surviving it. He was into the smell. Into the size. Into the cap still on my head like I was still in public. I pulled back enough for him to get air and slammed forward again because air was his problem.

“Wanna quit?”

He shook his head so hard I almost laughed. Mean little sound. The one I use when a guy at the counter argues caliber.

“Didn’t think so.”

I found a rhythm and stayed on it. Jeans half on. Cap low so I didn’t have to think about the patch while a man was on his knees in my apartment. His hands on my thighs. I let them stay. I watched myself disappear into his mouth and the blonde’s hallway got smaller in my head.

“Took her to the expensive steak place and she still couldn’t handle it. Said it was too thick. Said I smelled.” I tilted his head and the curve punched deeper. He convulsed. More spit on the shirt. “You don’t give a fuck how I smell. You’re just happy to get it.”

That was true and it made me meaner. Two years of Axe dying by noon and he was choking on it like it was the feature.

“Stay open. Teeth and we’re done.”

He stayed open.

Longer strokes. Almost out so I could see the wet shine, then to the root until he couldn’t breathe. Hold. Flutter. Out. Again. My stomach tight under the Maiden shirt. Beard dripping. The cap brim cutting the room in half.

It was the best head of my life and I hated that sentence while I was thinking it.

Not because of his mouth. Because of what it meant that a roommate I call names could do in four minutes what a string of women hadn’t done in years. No script. No vanilla. No I can’t. Just a throat built for the exact dick I’d been treating like a defect.

“Your throat’s better than hers would’ve been anyway.”

I said it like I was still mad at her. I was mad at everybody. I sped up. The wet sounds filled his room. His jaw had to be killing him. I didn’t care. I looked at where I went in, not at his eyes, because eyes make it a person and I needed a hole that didn’t flinch.

“This is what you wanted when you offered. Help. So help. Take it.”

He took it. I chased the finish she’d denied me. Short. Deep. Ugly. The cap never came off. The smell was everywhere and for once nobody was leaving because of it.

“Don’t pull off. You pull off and I’m done with this.”

He didn’t.

I stopped talking. I used him. Hands in his hair, hips stuttering, that thick head battering the spot that made him break into those wet noises I was going to hear through the wall for a week. Close. Closer. The blonde gone. The vanilla gone. Just heat and spit and a mouth that wanted my big straight cock.

I came with a sound I didn’t recognize, three hard thrusts buried to the root, pulsing down his throat while I held him there so he had to swallow or drown on it. A lot. It always is. He took it. I felt him swallow around me and my brain went stupid-blank in a way my hand never manages.

I held him through the last twitch. Then I pulled out and stroked the rest onto his tongue like I was finishing at a urinal. Practical. That’s the word I needed.

I tucked in. Adjusted the cap. Looked down at the mess I’d made of my roommate’s face and felt the first cold lick of what the fuck did you just do.

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

I walked out. Left the door open. The porn was still going in my room like a cover story.

I stood in the bathroom with the water running and the cap finally off and the patch looking back at me in the mirror like it had been waiting. Sweat in the beard. Maiden shirt ruined. My dick still wet with him.

Straight math tried to start.

I didn’t kiss him. I didn’t touch him. I didn’t stay. That was the line. A mouth is a mouth. A hole that doesn’t complain about size or smell is a miracle, not a sexuality. Tomorrow I go to the shop. Tomorrow I talk shit with the guys. Tomorrow this is a thing that happened because a date went bad.

I got in the shower and washed him off my skin and could still feel his throat when I swallowed water.

I washed the beard twice. I washed my dick like it had been somewhere that needed explaining. The water was too hot. I stood under it with my hands on the tile and ran the argument again, slower.

I like tits. I like wet shaved pussy. I have liked those things since forever and I am not going to stop liking them because a gay roommate can deepthroat a problem I have been dragging around this city like a defect. A mouth doesn’t get a vote on what I am. A good mouth especially. That’s how you get confused. You start calling skill a feeling.

I thought about Wade, my bro, my best friend since high school. About telling him. The sentence died before it formed. Wade would laugh until he heard the part where I didn’t pull out of a dude’s throat, and then there wouldn’t be a laugh. There would be a silence I am not built for.

I thought about the blonde. Vanilla. I can’t. I thought about Keith’s face when he saw it — the opposite of I can’t — and my stomach went hot and ugly at the same time. His hunger for my big cock.

Not gay.

A real man who works all day, sweats through cheap AXE, hides a thinning spot under a cap, and finally found a place to put a dick that keeps getting treated like a threat. That’s desperation. That’s logistics. That’s Friday night going bad and a door that was already cracked.

I said it out loud once, under the water, just to hear it.

“I’m not gay, I’m straight.”

The tile didn’t argue. My dick was still interested. That was the argument I couldn’t win in a shower.

I got out. I put the cap back on before the mirror could start. Towel around the waist. The patch gone again. Presentable. Straight. A guy who had a date and came home and handled it.

Through the wall, Keith moved on the bed.

I stood in the hall one second too long with my hand on my own doorknob and then I went in and shut it and did not go back down that hall.

Not tonight.

The sentence I didn’t say was not never.

That was the part I didn’t have a sentence for.

I lay in bed with the cap on the nightstand for once and the porn off and the apartment too quiet. Through the wall I could hear him move. I stared at the ceiling and waited for the regret to get loud enough to make me swear I’d never walk down that hall again.

It came.

It didn’t get loud enough.

I already knew the next time a girl froze, or the shop left me wired, or my own hand felt like a joke, I was going to stand in that doorway again. Cap on. Jeans down. Same rules.

Desperate. That’s the word.

Not gay. A straight guy with needs.

Just a man who found a throat that could take what the chicks keeps calling too much — and hated how good it felt, and already wanted it again. Fuck I was hard again!