This is a work of fiction. All characters are eighteen years or older.
If you don't want to read about gay/bisexual interplay, dominant/submissive sexual relationships, unbalanced relationships (age or power), reluctance, or intentional breeding stories that result in pregnancy and children, this might not be the story for you. If you do read it, don't complain about it; you were warned.
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Jordan
"I hate leaving her there," I grumbled as we pulled away from the street where Kyra walked toward the beautifully restored mansion-turned-women's-shelter.
Marq made a grunt of agreement from the passenger seat, where he moved to after helping Kyra out of the car. "She should be in our bed tonight, not in some homeless shelter cubbyhole. I don't even care if we fuck or not. I just want her close."
Our house wasn't that far away, a century-old four-bedroom Craftsman home tucked into a hillside property on the edge of the Capitol Hill neighborhood of Seattle. The house was gorgeously restored and updated by a previous owner, with enough mature trees on the property it felt like we were in a forest. The house was built at the top of the slope, while the three-car garage of the same era was at street level, partly dug into the hillside. It was a unique layout, with winding stone stairs that led from the garage to the door.
Once we were inside, I pushed Marq against the wall and kissed him deeply. He was surprised but more than willing. Often that kind of move resulted in a sexy wrestling match but tonight, for both of us, it was about comfort, not sex.
Marq pushed back into me, just enough to show he was wholly involved, and when we broke the kiss, I dropped my head to his shoulder. "Are we going to the club tonight?"
His deep breath told me he was as emotionally affected by the last twenty-four hours as I was. "No. They've got it under control. I want a quiet night in. We've been busy. Too busy. I've missed just being with you."
He pushed me back, gently, and led me to the sprawling master bedroom, where we both changed into our favorite lounge clothes -- him in custom-made silk pajamas, and me in joggers and a tank. I settled on the California king bed, piled the pillows against the headboard to lean on, and turned on the big-screen TV on the opposite wall. Friday Night NCAA Football was on, Nebraska vs Clemson. I turned the sound down to be just enough to hear if we paid attention, but not loud enough to kill a conversation.
Marq took his time in the bathroom. His braids were a lot of work, but they were his pride and joy. He started growing them after the "trauma" of his NFL "rookie haircut," and they had become the center of his signature look. I just didn't want to deal with it, so I kept mine short.
When he finally emerged from the bathroom, he flopped down on the bed and rolled until he lay against my side, head on a pillow that was sticking out from behind my back and threw his arm over my waist. My cock jumped at the contact, but our "fuck every time we touch" days were behind us. After our two rounds with Kyra, it would be a while before I was overly easily aroused. Not that Marq couldn't get me going at any moment, with very little effort.
"What are we doing?" he asked.
"Watching football?" Yeah. I knew what he meant, and he grumbled at me for my teasing words.
"What if she doesn't choose us? I mean, do you feel it? That connection? I haven't felt anything like it since I met you."
I chuckled. "We didn't move quite so fast ten years ago."
"Ten years ago we both thought we were straight, and even so, once we figured it out it was pretty damn fast, from roommates to lovers in zero point six seconds," he argued.
My mind went back to the day we finally "got it." We were barely eighteen ourselves, and away from the direct influences of our families for the first time.
- Ten years ago -
We arrived at school for our freshman orientation and rookie session at football conditioning camp in early June and were assigned as roommates in the athletic dorms. Immediately we became joined at the hip, the best of friends, or so we thought. We just clicked. We were both defensive linemen, with nearly identical body types and height, about six-six, 280, and from the day we met we did everything together -- eating, working out, we watched film together, and before long we weren't finishing each other sentences, so much as knew what the other would say, so we didn't bother saying it.
Our teammates started calling us Thing 1 and Thing 2. We played along with the joke and chose jersey numbers 71 and 72.
During the first two weeks of rookie conditioning, we spent what little time we had off searching for two things -- girls and junk food. Sure, the stuff they fed us in the athletic dining room was plentiful and high quality, both in flavor and nutrition, but sometimes a guy has to have pizza or a hamburger. However, it was summer, and the girls were difficult to find. Even the jersey chasers -- who knew we were mostly locked away, so they were elsewhere, probably on a beach in Barbados or something.
Training camp was ending, classes were right around the corner, and we had a rare full day off before starting the regular season. It was a Sunday, and the majority of students wouldn't arrive for another week, so the parties hadn't started, and the temperature was punishing -- a sweltering 98 degrees nearly every day. Summer in Southern California sucked beans.
Both of us had sweated off several pounds of fat and needed a lot more food to put on the muscle we'd need. We didn't have washboard abs. We had fucking razorboard abs, and for the first time I discovered my Adonis belt -- that elusive V shape of muscle that only happens when you get to very low body fat percentages.
However, football isn't a body-building contest. We needed to bulk up to compete at the NCAA level, so by the time training camp was coming to a close, if we had time off we did two things; eat and rest.
We gave up on the girls. It took too much energy and too many calories. Parties took energy and calories. Even eating had lost its appeal. It was a chore, not a pleasure, to consume 7,000 healthy calories a day, and we both needed to add a thousand or more to put on the weight we needed to be taken seriously as defensive tackles. Having low body fat was great for wide receivers and cornerbacks, not linemen. We both needed more muscle and at least a small layer of bulk, aka fat, to move into the first string.
We were watching a preseason NFL game on the pitiful 24-inch flat-screen TV on our wall, and both of us were laid out in just our underwear on our respective beds. The weak air conditioning system barely stayed ahead of the baking heat wave.
A TV ad with particularly sexy bikini-clad women caught my attention -- both my eyes and my cock. It didn't help that I hadn't had the time or energy to find a regular girl on campus, and I hadn't had a girlfriend since just after prom. Which meant I kept getting unplanned erections at the smallest provocation like a damn middle-schooler.
"Are you planning on going camping or what?" Marq complained and threw a pillow at my hips.
I threw it back and shoved one of my own pillows over the affected area. "You know it's not exactly my choice. It happens, and it's like a girl desert around here. Poor Rosy is getting worn out."
