Jake woke up the next morning with a pounding headache and a mouth that tasted like a goddamn ashtray. Sunlight stabbed through the blinds, making him squint as he rolled over on the couch, boxers still tangled around his ankles from last night's messy finish. "Fuck," he groaned, rubbing his face, the memory of Carl's cock and his own cum hitting him like a freight train. He'd hated it--fuck, he'd wanted to kill the bastard--but then he'd jerked off to it, licked his own jizz like some depraved fuck. What the hell was wrong with him?
He stumbled to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face, staring at his reflection--red-eyed, stubble-jawed, a guy who'd sucked off his asshole neighbor and liked it by the end. "You're a sick fuck, Jake," he muttered, spitting into the sink, but his dick twitched at the thought, already half-hard again. He cursed under his breath, yanking on jeans and a t-shirt, trying to shake it off. Coffee. He needed coffee and to forget this shit ever happened.
But the duplex walls were thin as fuck, and Carl was already up, clomping around next door like a goddamn elephant.
Jake heard the prick cough, loud and phlegmy, then the creak of his back door opening. He peeked through the blinds--Carl was out on the shared porch, shirtless, gut hanging over his sweats, lighting a cigarette. The sight made Jake's stomach lurch, but his cock didn't get the memo, stirring again. "Motherfucker," he hissed, slamming the blinds shut, but the image stuck--Carl's smug grin, that rough grip in his hair.
He poured coffee, burning his tongue on the first sip, pacing the cramped kitchen. He should've moved out months ago, gotten away from that piece of shit. But rent was cheap, and now--fuck--now there was this. He couldn't unfeel it: the thrill of being forced, the way he'd turned it around, made Carl groan like a bitch. Jake's hand drifted down, palming himself through his jeans, a low "shit" slipping out. He was fucked up, and he knew it.
Outside, Carl's voice cut through the morning quiet, yelling at some stray cat. "Get the fuck outta here, you mangy cunt!" Jake smirked despite himself--Carl was such a dickhead. But that voice, rough and commanding, yanked him back to last night, and his smirk faded. He downed the rest of his coffee, grabbed his jacket, and before he could talk himself out of it, stormed out the door. He wasn't sure if he wanted to punch Carl or--fuck--something else.
Carl looked up from the porch, blowing smoke, his eyes narrowing as Jake stomped toward him. "Well, fuck me, if it ain't the cocksucker himself," he drawled, grinning like a bastard. "Back for more, huh?" Jake's fists clenched, heat crawling up his neck, but he didn't swing. "Shut your goddamn mouth," he snapped, stopping a foot away, close enough to smell the tobacco and sweat rolling off Carl.
