That night I slept like a log.

 

Hit the hay just after midnight and woke up dead on ten in the morning; whatever dreams I’d had already melted away to nothing.

 

Like most Saturday nights, Harry had tried to get me to go out with him. Attempted in his half-cute-half-irritating way to convince me to go clubbing. But no matter how much he’d pulled on my t-shirt or poked my face, whining like a puppy and thinking he was funny, I hadn’t budged.

 

Even when he’d whipped out a bag of coke he’d been “saving” its moreish pull hadn’t been enough to yank me out of a stupor encouraged by an afternoon of smoking weed, streaming movies in bed and relishing the residual tingle between my legs from one of the best Grindr dates I’d had in a long time.

 

Daddy Dick.

 

So, eventually, Harry had left me alone like I’d wanted. Stomped out of my room in a half-huff spouting lame, antagonistic remarks like “more boys for me” and “your loss”.

 

Smirking I’d let him leave, knowing full well he would end up going out with the gaggle of girls he’d befriended from his lectures before drunkenly stumbling home. Alone. And, as he’d pouted and complained, the thought had crossed my mind that if he did end up shagging some other guy, it would make my plan to introduce Daddy Dick and his friends far, far easier.

 

Win-win.

 

But, sadly, as I knocked on his door that morning, the ominous clouds from yesterday gone and replaced by a stunning blue pouring bright white slabs of sunlight into the landing of our student block, my prediction had been accurate.

 

Knock, knock.

 

‘What?’ croaked his voice from behind the door.

 

‘It’s me,’ I said.

 

‘Come in.’

 

He was on his single bed, lying on his side and facing the wall; his blond hair messy and poking out from the top of his duvet like a golden mop head. The rest of his body was covered by the fading white bed cover; his knees curled up to his chest.

 

Turning slowly and begrudgingly, he looked up at me and, even though from the dire state of his feeble body, not to mention the smell of cider and stomach acid hanging in the air, his blue eyes were bright, and his smile was thick and pink.

 

‘Hey you,’ he said.

 

‘Good night?’ I said, filling his travel-size kettle from his sink and flicking on the switch.

 

‘Urgh,’ he said, pulling the duvet up and over his face.

 

‘That good?’ I said, rinsing out two dirty mugs and drying them as a low rumble began to fill the room.

 

‘I got so twatted,’ he said, his cracking voice muffled by down-filled cotton.

 

‘I feel fresh as a daisy,’ I said, two mugs now filled with a tea spoon of instant coffee and sugar each.

 

‘Fuck you,’ he said, turning away from me and groaning again.

 

‘Charming,’ I said, taking a seat at his desk, facing his bed, as the miniature kettle began to gently jostle in its holster.

 

‘You making coffee?’ he said, his cute face reappearing from under the duvet.

 

‘Might be.’

 

‘Oh yeah? What’s the catch?’

 

‘You know what the catch is.’

 

Smiling shyly, he looked to the side. Then, without turning his head, he looked up and locked his stare on mine.

 

‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Breakfast time.’

 

‘Urgh,’ he groaned. ‘I’m not hungry.’

 

‘Bullshit. You’re always hungry, you little slut.’

 

His eyes widened and he giggled. He liked it when I called him names.

 

‘True,’ he said.

 

And like that the advantage was mine to take.

 

Standing, I ran a hand over my groin. My morning wood was now a semi, tucked inside white Aussiebum briefs with a red waistband and hidden by black jeans, but the outline of his slim, toned body, weak and vulnerable and splayed out for the taking was inflating my bulge like a balloon.

 

Without a word, I walked over. Loomed down over his smooth body and slowly undid my zipper. The whir of metal teeth was drowned out by the kettle, now violently shaking on the desk, but as my jeans splayed open and I pulled my undies down it finished boiling.

 

Click went the kettle as his gaze fell. Down from my eyes, over my chest, my t-shirt cladded abs and to my cock, hard and long and mere inches from his mouth.

 

‘Do I have to?’ he said, his hand rubbing the side of his head but his stare wide; his tongue absentmindedly licking his lower lip.

 

‘Do you want a coffee or not?’ I said.

 

He frowned and nodded, like a naughty school kid: big, drooping lips and a bunched forehead. Said, ‘Can’t I do it later?’

 

‘No.’

 

‘But I’m hungover.’

 

‘You’re always hungover.’

 

He said nothing, his comically large frown still plastered across his jaw.

 

‘Open,’ I said.

 

He said nothing. Did nothing.

 

‘I said open your mouth.’

 

‘No,’ he said, turning his head away.

 

‘I said open your fucking mouth you whore.’

 

Grabbing a tuft of his hair, I pulled his squirming head toward me. Slowly but firmly onto my cock until his lips had no choice but to open around my swollen head and close.

 

‘Fuck yeah,’ I moaned. ‘Take it all.’

 

My whole body shuddered, electrified by the heat and texture of his tongue and the hard, hot walls at the back of his throat. Then my legs jolted and my balls convulsed: I’d forced my way down to the base.

 

Pulling half out and finding my rhythm I looked behind at my reflection in his wall mirror. My jeans and bright white briefs were by my ankles and my smooth, naked arse was clenching as I pushed myself back down his throat; his fingers grasping each cheek.

 

For fifteen minutes I fucked his mouth, watching my arse and hips thrust and pump: an inverse V of smooth skin and defined chest, streaked with gleaming saliva trails, showing between my legs. His head hidden by my body; the occasional glimpse of his thick blond hair bobbing back and forth.

 

‘I’m going to cum soon,’ I said.

 

Moaning he wrapped his fingers around my shaft and tilted his head back. Hot turned to cool with a slurp as he looked up at me; my cock now resting on his lower lip.

 

‘Want me to swallow?’

 

‘You know I do,’ I said, stroking his flawless, hairless, teenage cheek with the back of my hand.

 

‘I don’t think my stomach can handle it,’ he said, running a hand over his fatless abdomen, now on full show: the duvet now waist high.

 

‘So where?’ I said.

 

‘Anywhere else.’

 

‘Sure.’

 

Which was a lie. I knew he could handle it. He was being lazy.

 

Lazy and selfish.

 

Thankfully for my swollen balls, Harry liked to be dominated. He’d made that clear as crystal the second time we’d fucked, begging me to “use” him like a “piece of meat”. A few backhands later, his face turning redder and redder as my fingers had tightened around his throat, I’d known then and there just how subby this seemingly innocent twink could get.

 

So, as my hips thrusted faster, and my climax began to grow, I wrapped my hands around his head. Tight and firm and linked at the back. Then I felt the pulls: the squirming of his neck as he realised I wasn’t going to let go.

 

Moaning he tried to pull back harder, but I shook my head, tightening my grip like a vice.

 

‘No. You’re going to swallow every drop like the pig you are.’

 

He moaned again, pretending to turn his head, but his jaw stayed locked open, as wide as possible, taking every inch with a stare revealing his true feelings.

 

Loving it.

 

Then came the hands, right on cue: two palms flat against my thighs weakly attempting to push me away. But that wasn’t going to work. My load was already rumbling like an F1 racecar ready to burst from the starting line. As red to turned to amber, I wrapped my fingers around his skull tighter, pushing myself down his throat as far as I could go.

 

‘That’s is. That’s it. Take it you whore. Take it you fucking whore!’

 

I blew.

 

Straight into his stomach as he squirmed and convulsed, utterly dominated and stuck on me like a hose to a tap; my cock pulsing between his lips and sending bolt after bolt of tangy, white through his teeth and gums and down.

 

Fifteen seconds later my jeans were back up and I was sat by the kettle again, reboiling the water. Five seconds after that he’d finally finished spluttering.

 

‘I don’t know why you make such a song and dance. I know you love it,’ I said.

 

Scowling, his eyes red and a single tear building in the corner of his right one, he said, ‘I told you not to do that.’

 

‘Please,’ I said pouring hot water into his coffee mug. ‘You always say that. No, Oscar, don’t cum in me. No, please don’t use four fingers. No, please, it hurts ... We both know you’re full of shit.’

 

‘I’m serious,’ he said walking to his sink and taking a gulp of water from the tap. ‘I thought I was going to puke.’

 

‘But you didn’t.’

 

‘That’s not the point,’ he said, still turned away.

 

‘Oh, come on, Harry,’ I said, picking up his coffee and holding it up for him. ‘Don’t be a pussy.’

 

‘Don’t be a prick,’ he said, ignoring the coffee and sitting back on his bed. ‘I’m hungover and I said no.’

 

‘But you always say shit like that. Always.’

 

‘I meant it this time.’

 

‘Well forgive me, your royal highness, for lacking the ability to read your fucking mind,’ I said, still holding the coffee up for him. ‘And besides, it’s your fault you got hungover. Here, take your stupid coffee.’

 

Taking it without a word he had a sip, still not looking at me.

 

Great. Way to go, Oscar. So much for bringing up the idea of Richard today … I need to fix this.

 

‘Who did you go out with last night then?’ I said, brightening my voice and smiling wide and kind.

 

If I want him to be the piggy in the middle of a big bad bunch of daddy wolves, this is a painful necessity.

 

‘Mandy, Jess, Tam and Sophia,’ he mumbled.

 

‘Thought you might. Did you pull?’

 

Rolling his eyes, he took a slurp of his coffee and said, ‘Of course I didn’t.’

 

‘Ok, ok. Just checking,’ I said, sipping my coffee. ‘Gross.’

 

It was disgusting. Nothing like the cup I’d had the day before with Richard.

 

‘What did you expect?’ he said. ‘This isn’t the fucking Ritz.’

 

‘Alright, alright, calm down, I get the picture. Come on, don’t be like this.’

 

He said nothing, sipping his coffee. Still in a mood, which made me impatient.

 

Why am I even here? It’s still the weekend. Richard said he would be around. I should sack this loser off right now and spend some time with a real man.

 

‘Hello, earth to Harry, are you there?’

 

Nothing. Not even a glance. All he did was continue to sulk on his bed, rubbing his stomach and ignoring his coffee now steaming next to him on his bedside table.

 

‘Fine. If you’re going to be like this, I’ll leave.’

 

‘I just don’t understand why you can’t be nice to me.’

 

‘What are you talking about? I bought you a fucking Ted Baker t-shirt yesterday.’

 

Opening his mouth to speak, he left his jaw hanging. Then he closed it.

 

‘You don’t understand,’ he said. ‘You don’t make me feel special.’

 

Special? He wants to feel special? No one is special!

 

‘Are you being serious?’ I said.

 

‘Yeah. Deadly.’

 

‘Then I’m out of here. See you later.’

 

Then his mouth hung. Wide and silent, like he’d been shot or stabbed, but he said nothing. Turning his head he stared at the wall to his left, now ignoring me completely. Even as his bedroom door slammed behind me he didn’t make a peep.

 

Not that I was bothered, of course. I didn’t care about his feelings. No one had ever cared about mine. And besides:

 

I’ve done nothing wrong.                    

 

To be continued …

 

Want more?

 

The first in my Australian series of erotic tales, Oscar Down Under: Part One, is out now. Find it on Amazon US here, Amazon UK here and Amazon Australia here. Or simply search for ‘Jack Ladd’ on the Amazon homepage. Also available on iBooks, Barnes & Noble and more.

 

Want a FREE book? Download my prequel novel, Oscar, from Smashwords for absolutely nothing here.

 

Or head over to my website to learn more, including exclusive content on my series, Oscar Down Under.

 

Copyright Jack Ladd 2017

 

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