When Brendon leaves for a Monday afternoon lecture, I jump at the opportunity of having the room to myself. There are certain things you can't do with someone else constantly present, like, just to throw in an example, masturbate. Monday afternoon and my dick needs attention. I lock the door and sigh in relief before snaking out of my jeans and getting on my bed.
Jerking off is a necessity more than anything else. It's not something I do daily but only every once in a while. It relaxes me and makes me less on edge, so I do it a few times a week. It's not a big deal. But since I've been living in the frat house, it's been on hold, and the more time that passes, the more I am in need of sexual release.
Because it's been a while, I feel like taking my time. I tug my boxers to mid-thigh and run my fingers over my erection. I sigh in pleasure, filled with anticipation of how good this is going to be. I get out some lube from my nightstand, because it simply feels better with something helping me with my movements. It's good, the firm, fast strokes, it's fucking good. My eyes slide shut, and I bite on my lip slightly as I move up to fuck my fist. My t-shirt rides up on my skin as I let my mind fill with explicit images.
I never think of anything specific when I do this, just sex, fucking or being fucked, it depends. A few times I've thought of Brendon, but that was before I knew him. Now I obviously can't think of him, because he has ruined my dreams of him. Although one of those fantasies I had was particularly hot, the one where he took me from behind, and - no, no. Let's think of something else...
I focus on nameless bodies, faces, moans. My breathing gets heavier and heavier as I keep working on my cock. I move my hand to my leaking tip, brushing the swollen head as I hold the base with the other one. So, so good, god, I -
The door opens.
My eyes snap open, and Brendon is standing there, looking at me with wide eyes as my hand is still wrapped around my cock.
"Oh shit," I manage to breathe before I'm up on my feet, furiously tugging my boxers back up to cover my crotch.
"Jesus," Brendon says slowly, "it's like two o'clock, and you're jerking off. That's fucking sad." He kicks the door closed after him, seemingly unaffected and unimpressed.
"Shit, fuck, shit," I curse as I hastily get my jeans back on, trying to cover up my still defiant erection. "You're supposed to be at a lecture!" I shoot at him angrily, trying to justify jerking off in the middle of the day. I am blushing furiously, and god, I want to die right now.
"It got cancelled," Brendon replies casually, now by his desk, getting out a book and flipping it open.
"Could you give me a moment here?" I snap at him, now zipping my jeans.
"I'm not bothered. Finish off here or in the bathroom, I really don't care," Brendon sighs, tugging a pen behind his ear the way he always does.
"You're - you're fucking intolerable!"
"Yeah, well, you're a wanker," he replies.
I do not storm out of the room; I walk out, calmly, so very calmly. My erection has died, no fucking wonder. I sulk to the common room to watch some TV and try not to give Brendon excuses to humiliate me further.
* * *
Of course, Brendon doesn't let our incident slide. That evening, when he comes back from dinner, he shields his eyes and asks if there are any unclothed penises in the room. I flip him off and blush, turning into a stammering idiot. He just smirks, makes ten jokes about my right hand being my best friend, but as far as I can tell, he hasn't told the whole house about it. That's more than I expected of him.
