Cliff took me for granted. For some reason he thought I was safe. Once I overheard him tell one of those guys he brought home that he wanted only straight roommates, guys who wouldn't hit on him, because he only wanted to fuck when he was in the mood. Well, he had been in the mood a lot these past several weeks. And he also didn't know me worth spit. I only stayed around here and waited on him and cleaned up after him like I did because I wanted him.
I wanted him so bad.
I'd stay awake nights waiting to hear the scrape of the key in the lock. Then I'd hold my breath and close my eyes tight in case he checked on me before he took his pick of the night to his room. I'd wait until I started to hear the moaning and then I'd quietly leave my bed and steal across to the dark living room, right there in the darker shadow of the TV cabinet, where I could get a good view of the bed in his room. He never shut the door. It was almost as if he expected me to watch—but I'm sure he didn't, because he sure didn't show any interest in me when we were alone.
Sometimes Cliff was the top and sometimes he was the bottom. I only really got into the scene when he was the top, though. I wanted him to top me. I'd never done it with a guy before, but I knew from the first time I saw him fucking one of those guys he'd brought home late at night that I wanted him to fuck me. I'd watch them sucking each other off, building up to grappling on the bed, building up their moaning, and my hand went to the front of my sleeping shorts and I'd start going numb everywhere but the very center of me. I'd see Cliff's cock thicken and lengthen and my butt would twitch from the fantasy of him preparing himself for me. The legs would open wide, and the little cry and the arching of the receiver's back as he was being entered and filled would have me swaying and moaning and pulling my dong out into the open. Then my eyes would slit and I'd focus on the contracting and rhythm of Cliff's butt cheeks as he either possessed or was stroked by his lover of the night.
God, I wanted to palm my hands on those butt cheeks as Cliff worked inside me.
From that point I was lost, wanting to move with the figures on the bed, to become one with them. And as time went on, I learned the signals of approaching release and I was able to time my ejaculations closely with theirs.
Then I would retreat back to my bed, as quietly as I could. I never knew where they would go from there. Sometimes the other man would leave immediately and sometimes they would come out to the living area and would raid the refrigerator. But sometimes, there would be a short period of silence and then the moaning would start again. And I'd then leave my bed again and move to my observation nook beside the TV cabinet and watch and stroke to the renewed mating.
The next day, Cliff would act like nothing at all had happened. I don't know how many times I wanted to say that I wanted it to be me he brought into his room one of those nights. But I just couldn't bring myself to do it.
I probably would have remained a pining virgin for months only to finally move out of the apartment in frustration from unrequited need for Cliff, leaving him scratching his head about what had gone wrong in what he thought was a perfect roommate setup, if he hadn't gotten dead drunk that night after our university football team unexpectedly won the Gator Bowl game.
Cliff was half looped on a combination of Bud and vodka and euphoria over the game win even before he flipped off the TV, dressed and grabbed up his jacket, and headed out into the night. We watched the game together and he seemed to enjoy my company. He even flicked me with his towel off and on during the second half as our team piled touchdown on touchdown in what became a rout. He'd taken a shower during halftime and padded out with just the towel around him. I'd stripped off my T myself, hoping that his euphoria might at last turn into arousal for me. But nadda. I was just his roommate; someone else in the room. Someone who would clean up the empty bottles and cardboard pizza boxes after he'd left. Someone safe.
"Whooeee, gotta get me some," was all he said as time ran out on the field. And then he padded back to his room and pulled on a pair of jeans and a T and was out the door in a flash. He didn't put on any briefs, so I knew he was going out on the prowl and would be back with some stud in tow a couple of hours later. I could have cried. He didn't have to go anywhere to find someone for the night.
So, what did I do after Cliff left? I started picking up empty bottles and pizza boxes, of course, and making the place presentable for whoever Cliff came home with. But all the time I was doing it, I was muttering to myself that one of these days I was going to pull on my jeans without any briefs under them, just like Cliff did, and tug on the tightest T I could find—my body was just as well developed as Cliff's was—and I'd go out into the night and find someone of my own to bring home too.
Who was I kidding, though? It was Cliff I wanted, not any of those guys he brought home.
That night was different from any of the others. Cliff didn't slip quietly into the apartment with his one night stand that night. Cliff was drunker than a skunk when he came home, and he was making a whole lot of noise.
I decided he had struck out at the pickup bars and had some sort of homing device inside him that managed to get him back in spite of being plastered. My first thought as I heard him muttering incoherently to himself and stumbling through the living room and to his bedroom was intense relief that he hadn't had a car wreck. But then, when the sound just abruptly stopped, I held my breath for the longest time. Was he OK? Did he need help?
He'd never come home drunk like this before. Maybe he was choking on his own vomit or something. I had no experience in this. Was it good or bad that he'd just gone silent? I knew I had to check on him. I had no idea what to do if he was seriously in need of help, but I had to at least check to see what was what.
I got out of bed, clad only in my droopy sleeping shorts, and padded through the living room and toward the light in his bedroom. I could see Cliff as I approached. He was huddled on the bed, his chest buried in the bedspread, his arms flung out wide, and his knees drawn up so that his bare butt was jutting up at me. My cock gave a lurch at the sight of those rounded orbs that fascinated and aroused me so. His face was turned to me and he was blowing bubbles and snorting and snoring quietly. And he had the most angelic expression on his handsome face.
I ached for him. I didn't even think of wondering why he was bare-assed. He did have his T-shirt on still. I was drawn to that luscious ass of his. I approached the bed in faulting steps. He certainly didn't look like he was in any danger. But he also looked liked he was totally oblivious to the world and that nothing short of a four alarm fire would rouse him for hours.
I couldn't resist. I reached out a hand, ever so tentatively. My fingers were on the flesh of his glutes. The skin felt firm and soft and warm and cool all at the same time. And just the contact made by the pads of my fingers sent little chills up my arms. I heard myself moan, and then, not having any control over myself, I felt my palm stretch out over the curve of his buttock.
At that instant, though, I heard the sound of rustling from the closet corner of the room, and I snatched my hand away and turned and looked there with a little cry of shock and surprise.
He laughed out loud. There was a big, hulking dude in the room with us. A biker type. All tricked out in leather and tattoos. Not fat; heavily muscled. A good face, if a little hard looking; and a great body; the impression of dark curly hair here and about.
He was holding Cliff's jeans in front of him, and I'd swear he had a hand in one of the back pockets. Taking advantage of the situation.
"Who the hell are you?" he said, as if I was the intruder and this was his room.
"I live here; I'm Cliff's roommate," I retorted, rising anger overcoming the surprise. I was in shape, but not in shape like this guy was—and certainly not nearly as big—so I wasn't thinking too well to go belligerent on him.
"This Cliff?" he asked, pointing to the bubbling angel on the bed.
"Yeah," I said. "And this is our apartment. What—?"
"They call me Horse," the biker-type said as he tossed Cliff's jeans on the floor behind his back, almost daring me to ask him what he was doing with them. "You can guess why they call me that," he went on. A sneery sort of smile was spreading across his face.
