Roomies in Arms - Part 20

Everyone in this story is 18+

I woke up hard, Again.

Brilliant….

Another dream — Lex the main fixture, obviously. Less pure chaos than usual, more… intensity. Hands pinning mine, breath in my ear, muttering things I’d never admit out loud unless bribed with state secrets or a very strong gin and tonic.

The flat was silent. Everyone else had early lectures. Which meant it was just me, my rather inconvenient titanium-like erection, and the faint knowledge that tomorrow Hunter Maddox — walking human Rolex and social media menace was arriving.

I still couldn’t quite believe he’d said yes. Hunter rarely said yes to anything that didn’t involve yachts or bottle service. Yet there he’d been on the phone, sounding genuinely impressed — stoked, even — about Astra. Which was either promising or terrifying. Probably both.

But that was a problem for future me.

Present me had… a package. Or two, if you counted the one currently lodged in my pyjama trousers — still ironed, of course. I wasn’t a complete hooligan, after all.

The other literal package, I spotted it immediately by the door. Brown cardboard, discreet enough if you didn’t know what was inside — though I suspected the way I snatched it up like contraband and bolted for my room probably gave the game away.

Heart thumping, I shut the door, sat on the bed, and opened it.

Bubble wrap. More bubble wrap. A receipt I definitely didn’t want anyone finding. And then, the toys.

Polished, intimidatingly smooth, lined up like military ranks. A bottle of lube with a disturbingly cheerful label, as if chirping Good morning, champ! Ready to ruin yourself?

My ears burned. My stomach flipped. My pecker twitched.

I was doing this. Apparently. But first — a shower. One ought to be clean before sodomising oneself, after all.

◆◆◆

The shower hissed to life. Steam fogged the mirror. I stripped and stepped under the spray, tried and failed not to narrate my own life in horror.

Right. This is fine. Absolutely fine. Entirely normal to wash one’s arse and prepare to… practice.

I lathered carefully, thinking about how rarely I’d even touched myself there — an occasional curious poke during washing, nothing like this. Thinking about Lex’s fingers and how they’d felt like electricity and sin rolled into one. Thinking about how, if I ever wanted to stop panicking at the idea of sex, maybe this was step one.

I braced my hands against the tiles, water running down my back.

“Well,” I muttered to myself. “God save the King… or me.”

◆◆◆

Back on my bed, I sat gingerly against the headboard. Towel gone, skin damp, lube bottle trembling in my hand.

Smallest first. Always start small.

I slicked it generously — perhaps too generously — then exhaled and guided it back.

The first push made me tense instinctively, every muscle bracing like I’d been caught doing something illicit (which, arguably, I had). I breathed through it. In, out. The stretch was strange — not painful, just… unfamiliar. Pressure blooming into something sharper, warmer.

Halfway in, my breath caught. Fullness. A low ache tipping into pleasure.

“Oh,” I whispered, startled at my own voice.

Another push, and it seated fully. My body clenched around it involuntarily, a jolt shooting straight through me. My willy twitched against my stomach, hard enough to ache. I wrapped a hand around myself and almost groaned at how sensitive I felt.

Curiosity shifted to hunger.

I reached for the next size up.

This one demanded patience — stretching me wider, deeper, slow burn blooming into heat. I bit my lip, careful and cautious until that spot lit up and I gasped, hips jerking. My hand moved faster, stroking slick and frantic, matching the pulse deep inside me.

The orgasm hit like a wave.

I arched off the bed, muscles tight, spilling across my stomach and chest in thick, messy ropes that actually shot up to the headboard.

“Oh bloody hell,” I panted, staring at the streak. “That’s… right. Definitely cleaning that later.”

But then I looked down. Still half-hard. Still greedy.

Round two.

The third toy was ambitious. Reckless. Probably a terrible idea. I reached for it anyway.

More lube. Deeper stretch. A borderline gasp as it slid in inch by inch, my toes curling against the sheets. When it finally hit home — there — I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. My hand flew to my cock and stroked once, twice—

The second orgasm ripped through me harder than the first, no warning, no build-up — just pure white heat and more ropes painting my stomach and thighs. My whole body shook, sweat cooling on my skin, but my brain whispered: again.

Because why stop now?

By the third, I wasn’t even stroking myself. Just rocking against the toy, moaning softly into my pillow as it pushed perfectly against that spot over and over. My thighs trembled. My whole body went taut — and then I found a button and it started vibrating, that was all it took. I came again, weaker but somehow deeper, my body clenching hard around the toy as pleasure burned through me in aftershocks.

I lay there boneless, panting, slick with sweat and spunk and entirely undone.

“Okay,” I murmured to the ceiling, voice wrecked. “Right. That’s… definitely progress.”

And somewhere under the haze: relief. A strange, quiet sense that maybe — just maybe — I was ready.

Eventually.

After I cleaned the bloody headboard, I’m not a complete savage.