Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica
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Bending Eli, Chapter 19: What are Roommates For?
🕑 Added 2025-08-21 02:16:57 +0000 UTCChapter 19: What are Roommates For?
All acts in this chapter are consensual
© Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica
By the time I got back to the dorm I’d been spinning around campus for hours. I’d been to the rec area, the cafeteria, the campus mall, and even the library. Nothing seemed to unhinge my mind. I was still swept up in the Casper-Mason dilemma that had been plaguing me all week.
What did they want from me? With Mason it seemed like it was he was definitely using me as some kind of side benefit. With Casper? I still wasn’t sure.
But even then, I didn’t understand why Mason needed anything from his gay roomie. He was one of the hottest tickets on campus. He could — and often did — have almost any woman on campus he wanted. What could I possibly offer that some sorority girl couldn’t?
I didn’t know I was about to find out exactly that as I stepped across the threshold into our shared space.
I found Mason sprawled out on his bed wearing a white tank top and a pair of blue jeans, one hand resting behind his head as he attended to an app on his phone dutifully. He looked so… Mason… in that moment. Radiating confidence, sex and college boy charm without even having to look up at me.
When he did acknowledge my presence, it was a simple greeting, “There you are, Roomie,” he practically cheered.
I was surprised by his enthusiastic greeting, but after my day of confusion, it wasn’t unwelcome.
“Hey,” I responded stupidly.
“Where were you all day?” Mason questioned coyly. “Spending time with Coach?”
I blushed at that, but shrugged it off and told him about my adventures wandering aimlessly around campus instead.
Mason pretended to listen, nodding along as I recounted each boring step in my trip. He propped himself up on his bed, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his palms, his face contorted in a smile that made him look pleased with himself.
As I finished speaking the last three words of my story, Mason made a gesture that I would never forget. He pointed at the space between his bare feet, wiggling his toes around for emphasis as he did so and almost cut me off as he said, “On your knees, Roomie.”
There was never any lead up with Mason; he was always straight to the point. I think I was starting to like that about him. Maybe even love it a little.
I dropped to my knees.
Mason undid his jeans and began to shimmy them over his broad thighs. I could barely stop myself from licking my lips in anticipation.
As he undressed himself, Mason couldn’t help but tease.
“Why’d you spend all day walking around campus, when you could have been here, working on this?” He groped himself. As though I didn’t know what ‘this’ meant.
“I’ve been horny for hours. I could have used some good roomie head. You were oafing about instead. Silly, Eli. Wouldn’t you have preferred to be here, choking on your roomie’s big dick?”
I looked up at Mason, his lower half fully exposed now and there was no denying that he was speaking truth from power. I would have rather spent my afternoon sucking Mason’s cock than wearing out my favourite running shoes around campus. It was so beautiful; he was so beautiful… I was already spiralling. It didn’t matter that I’d just been with Casper earlier that day, Mason was here and he wanted me… and I wanted him even more.
If it had been anyone else, I think my response would have humiliated me to the point I’d have never come back from it.
“Oh god yes,” I croaked.
Mason laughed. I loved that laugh now. I wasn’t sure if it was the sound of it, or the sight of him but by the time he stopped I could feel that I was rock hard in my pants.
“Come here and get it then, Roomie,” Mason said, “and I’m gonna be rough, the way you like it.”
I nodded once, and crawled forward, lost under Mason’s spell.
“Don’t you wanna take off your clothes first?” Mason asked.
Always so considerate. I mused to myself, enjoying my internal joke as I got naked for my roommate. I resumed my desperate scuttle towards Mason’s frame.
Mason didn’t hesitate. As soon as I was within reach, his fist was in my hair. I let out a little sigh of contentment.
What was I becoming?
Mason pulled me onto his shaft. It wasn’t fully hard yet, but it was thick and turgid enough to gag me when he drew me all the way down to the base in one go. I could feel his pubes tickling my nose as he held me there, letting out his own—different—moan telling me he was enjoying the feel of my throat.
Mason kept me in that position for a hot second until his cock fully hardened, then pulled me up in a fast motion that sent spit flying through the air back up towards my forehead.
As Mason pulled me in for my second deep dive on his cock, I took in a deep breath and I got a heady whiff of his scent. It was raw and masculine, sweaty and captivating. There was no perfume, just Mason’s bouquet and it drove me wild in ways I would have never expected. He clearly meant it when he said he’d been waiting here for me all day.
This was what having a gay roomie with benefits meant for him. Sex anytime, any way. I could see the appeal. It didn’t repel me though. If anything, the thought of it turned me on even more and I took another deep breath of him, savouring my jock roommates crotch.
I was already on my knees, naked, jaw slack, breath coming quick. Mason stood up. He was close enough that his thigh brushed my cheek when he shifted his stance. His cock was huge in his hand, flushed dark. He tipped my chin up with two fingers.
“Open.”
I did. He fed the head to my tongue and pressed forward until my lips stretched around him. The taste hit first, raw college boy skin. Then the size of him. He didn’t ease in. He pushed, slow only for a second, then firm, like testing depth. The back of my throat touched him and I gagged. My eyes watered. He didn’t pull out.
“Breathe through it,” he said, voice low. His palm settled behind my head and held me there.
I tried to relax. My throat fluttered around him. Air came in thin through my nose, hot and shaky. Spit slid out past the corners of my mouth and ran down my chin. Mason groaned when I swallowed, a quick sound that told me I’d done something right. He rocked his hips and the room narrowed to the wet sound of my mouth and the dull ache in my jaw.
He let me back an inch. I caught a breath, then he drove forward again, harder this time. The gag noise came up raw and embarrassing. He grinned down at me like that was the point. His fingers tightened in my hair. He started using me with a short, quick rhythm that made my eyes blur. My tongue flattened, then cupped, then flattened again as I tried to keep up.
“Yikes,” he said. “Look at all that drool you’re leaving on the floor.”
I didn’t mean to, but when he pulled out far enough to tap the head against my tongue, a string of spit fell from it and hit the carpet with a soft pat. My face burned. My cock twitched against my thigh.
He saw that. “You’re hard from this?”
I nodded because I couldn’t talk. He laughed softly and slid his cock back in, slow for one stroke, burying all the way until my nose pressed to his lower stomach. The hair there scratched my upper lip. He held me down and the urge to cough bounced against his hand. Then he let me up, just enough to suck in a noisy breath, and pushed again. Each thrust found the same spot, the same choke, the same flood of spit.
“Tongue the underside,” he said, like Casper when he was fixing my positions. “Right there.”
I did, and he shuddered. His hips changed angle. He used my mouth deeper, confident now, short breaths leaving him. My scalp tingled where his hand gripped too tight. Tears slid from my eyes and I didn’t wipe them. I was too focused on staying in the moment.
He drew out, slick and wet, and slapped the head against my cheek once, then against my lower lip. “Wider.”
I opened wider. He fed himself back in with a rough sound from his chest. The rhythm stretched out. He would sink in, hold, pull, and I learned to swallow at the right moment so he groaned each time. The floor that sat beneath the carpet was cold under my knees. My thighs trembled. I could feel my pulse in my throat where he filled me.
“Good,” he said, quieter now, pleasure rounding the word. “Keep it.”
I kept it in my throat, gagging, but doing as I was told.
Mason pulled me back far enough to breathe, his cock slipping out with a wet smack. My lips hung open, spit stringing between us. He didn’t ease off, just guided me with a firm tug of my hair.
“Tongue it,” he said. “Not just the tip. All of it.”
I flattened my tongue against the underside of his shaft and dragged it slowly from root to crown. The skin was taut, ridged with a thick vein that twitched when I pressed into it. His cock throbbed against my tongue, and the taste filled my mouth: salty precum, a sign he was enjoying my work.
“That’s better,” Mason muttered. His voice had that rasp it only got when he was on the edge.
I licked again, slower this time, tracing circles around the head before pushing down the other side. My tongue slid along the broad girth of him, every inch hot and slick with my saliva. When I pressed the flat of it up the length and flicked against the ridge at the tip, he let out a low groan that sent shivers through my spine.
“Keep at it,” he ordered.
I obeyed. I let my tongue wander, curling around the head, dipping into the slit to taste the steady leak there. His fluid coated my tongue. His cock twitched when I did it, and the sound that came from his throat told me to do it again.
I traced the long vein once more, pressing harder, then sucked the head into my mouth and swirled my tongue around it. My lips sealed tight, my tongue working every angle, and Mason hissed above me. He pushed forward half an inch, testing, and I held him there, licking furiously until my jaw ached.
When he tugged me back, his cock slipped free with a slick pop. Spit ran from the corner of my mouth down my chin, stringing to my chest before breaking. He slapped the head against my tongue, the skin swollen and wet, and then dragged it across my cheek like I was nothing but his rag.
He tapped his cock back onto my tongue, and I went to work again, licking along the sides now, following every contour, learning the differences in texture—the smooth swell near the head, the firmer stretch toward the base. My tongue kept moving, tasting him, savoring the way his body reacted under it. His balls drew tighter as I traced near them, a sign I was pushing him just enough.
“Now get my sack,” Mason said finally, pulling me lower.
I obeyed, sliding down until my tongue pressed against the curve of his balls. The skin there was looser, softer, still carrying the same scent, the same warmth. I licked across one, then the other, and Mason groaned above me, his hand pushing me closer.
“Under,” he ordered.
I shifted, tongue flattening beneath them, lapping at the seam. The musk was stronger here: masculine, raw. My nose brushed the wiry hair at his base while I worked, and the smell stuck in my head even as I dragged my tongue back up to his shaft.
I kept my tongue busy, tracing slow circles around the sack. The skin shifted under the pressure, softer than anywhere else, as I coated it with my spit. Mason’s hand never left my hair, tugging when I slowed, guiding when I pressed too gently.
“More,” he said.
I cupped both balls with my mouth, sucking them in together as best I could. They pressed against my tongue, filling my mouth in a way that made my jaw strain. Mason groaned when I held them there, his cock twitching against my forehead. I let them slip free, wet and gleaming, then sucked one at a time, rolling my tongue around the smooth curve, pulling back just far enough to make them bounce against my lips.
“Sloppier,” Mason muttered.
I let spit spill, licking it back up, smearing it across his sac. The taste clung to my tongue—a trace of sweat sharp at the edges, but not unpleasant. It was the kind of flavor that made sense this close, like I’d finally gotten what his body really was.
“Good boy,” he said, voice rough. “Now get lower.”
He pulled on my hair, angling me beneath his balls. I followed, licking the seam, pushing my tongue against the spot where his sac met the base of his cock. His groan dropped deep, chesty, almost a growl.
“Keep going,” he ordered. “Get my ass.”
The words made my stomach twist, not with dread but with a raw nerves-and-need mix I didn’t have time to untangle. He pushed me down farther, guiding me under him, and I pressed my face close.
The smell hit first—sweat mixed with something earthier. Not overpowering, but real, heavy with the proof of his body. My nose brushed the line of his crack, hair damp there, the warmth rising off him thick against my face.
I pushed my tongue out and licked. The taste spread across it: bitter edge of sweat that made me twitch but didn’t stop me from going back in. Mason’s hand shoved me closer, and I flattened my tongue, dragging it slow from his hole up toward his sac.
“Fuck, yeah,” he groaned. “Do it again.”
I did, tongue pressing into the center this time, working in circles around his hole. The taste stuck harder here, unmistakeable, the smell filling my nose with every push forward. My tongue worked deeper, lapping, teasing, while Mason rolled his hips back into my face.
“That’s it,” he said, voice ragged. “Eat it.”
I dug in, spit slicking him as I rimmed him in rough strokes, the taste coating my mouth, sweat clinging thick to my lips. My cock throbbed between my legs, hard and aching, as his groans filled the room.
Mason widened his stance, one hand still pressing me forward so my face stayed buried between his cheeks. The position was humiliating, my mouth open against him, but the sound he made every time my tongue dragged across his hole pushed me past that.
“Harder,” he said.
I flattened my tongue and pressed in circles, spit running down to the base of his crack. The taste was something else but I kept licking. The smell clung to my nose, raw, intimate, Mason, and it drove me wild in a way it probably shouldn’t have. Every inhale filled me with it, grounding me deeper in the act.
“Get it wet,” Mason ordered.
I spat once, let it slide down over his hole, then shoved my tongue in. The tight ring pushed back, then gave way, the taste stronger now, sweat mixed with the earthy tang of skin that had been sitting all day. Mason groaned loud, grinding back into my face, smearing my nose against him.
“Fuck, Eli. You’re good at this. Casper trained you good.”
I lapped and pressed, my tongue darting inside as far as it could, circling, teasing. Mason’s hand gripped my hair tighter, pulling me in, forcing my mouth to stay sealed around him. Spit dripped down my chin, soaking into the carpet beneath.
He rolled his hips forward and back, using me, dragging my tongue along the length of his crack. My lips smeared wet across his skin, every pass painting him slicker. The taste coated my mouth. I felt dirty, but the act was addictive in a way that made me keep pushing further.
“Don’t stop,” he muttered. “Stay in it.”
I shoved my tongue deeper, curling it, pressing into the ring while my nose pressed into his sack. My lungs burned from breathing against him, but I didn’t pull back. I swallowed the taste, let it flood me. Mason’s groan cut through the air, rough and satisfied, and it made my cock throb harder than ever.
After a long moment, he yanked my head back. His cock slapped against my cheek, wet and slick from earlier. My lips parted instinctively, but he didn’t give it to me yet. He smirked down, thumb dragging a line of spit off my jaw.
“Good fucking mouth,” he said. “Now let’s see if you can choke on it again.”
He pulled me up from beneath him, cock aimed straight at my lips. My tongue still tasted of his ass, but I opened wide. He shoved back in, rough, burying himself down my throat in one sharp thrust. My gag echoed in the room, wet and loud, and Mason laughed softly above me.
“Back where you belong.”
Mason didn’t waste time once he had me back on his cock. His hips snapped forward in a relentless rhythm, driving straight into my throat. I gagged hard, eyes watering, but he didn’t back off. His hand in my hair kept me locked in, forcing my face down to meet every thrust.
“Stay open,” he said, voice sharp with focus.
I tried. My throat clenched around him, each push leaving me sputtering, spit flooding past my lips. Drool ran down my chest, strings of it swinging along my pecs with the force of his thrusts before breaking and splattering onto the floor.
He groaned when I choked, the sound almost pleased. “That’s it.”
My nose pressed into the base of his stomach with each deep shove, the coarse hair scratching my skin. His balls slapped wetly against my chin, coated with spit from the rimming, smearing every time he bottomed out. I barely got a breath before he buried himself again, faster, harder, his groans rising.
The room filled with the raw noise of it: my gagging, the slick slide of spittle, the sharp smack of his hips hitting my face. My eyes blurred from the tears, my throat sore and raw, but my cock only got harder.
Mason looked down at me, watching every second. “Bitch,” he muttered, thrusting harder, deeper. “Look at you—crying for it.”
His pace didn’t falter. If anything, he pushed faster, rutting into my mouth with the kind of focus that told me he was close. My scalp burned under his grip. My jaw ached. Drool foamed at the corners of my lips, but I didn’t pull away.
I let him use me, choking, swallowing, gagging again as he shoved down to the base. My throat convulsed around him, and he groaned, hips stuttering for a second before slamming forward again.
“Almost there,” he said through gritted teeth.
He pulled out suddenly, cock wet and shining, slapping it against my cheek, my lips, my nose. Precum smeared across my skin, hot and sticky. My chest heaved as I gasped for air, only for him to shove back in, fucking my throat harder than before.
I felt the change in him—hips losing rhythm, grip in my hair tightening, breath coming short and ragged. He forced himself to the root and held me there, his cock throbbing against the back of my throat. Then he yanked free, stroking fast over my face.
“Here’s your reward,” he growled.
The first spurt hit my cheek, hot and sharp, then another across my lips, thick and heavy. He painted my face with it, streak after streak, his groan deep and satisfied. His cock twitched as he squeezed the last drops onto my chin, mixing with the spit already dripping there.
I knelt still, gasping, cum sliding down my cheek toward my jaw. Mason grinned down at me, chest heaving, his cock wet and glistening in his hand.
“Awww, Roomie,” he said, laughing softly. “Perfect little cumrag.”
Cum streaked down my face, dripping warm over my lips and chin. My chest rose and fell like I’d just run somewhere. Mason looked down at me with that smirk I knew too well, the one that told me he’d enjoyed every second of what I’d just gone through.
“Cute,” he said, dragging his thumb over my cheek to smear the mess even more. “Bet you’ll be tasting that all night.”
I blinked through the blur of spit and tears, throat sore, jaw tight. My cock was still hard, straining, but Mason didn’t even glance at it. He tapped his cock against my face one last time before letting go of my hair.
“Clean yourself up,” he muttered, half laughing. “Or don’t. I think you look good that way.”
I stayed there for a beat, on my knees, sticky and wrecked. Something twisted inside me—half humiliation, half something else I didn’t want to name. Mason turned away, already reaching for his jeans, already on to the next thing.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, smearing spit and cum across my skin. My body buzzed, nerves lit up, but underneath it sat that familiar tug. The same questions looped through me: why I let him, why I liked it, whether I should feel more ashamed than I did. My throat ached every time I swallowed, a reminder I couldn’t shake even if I wanted to.
But the truth sat heavy in my gut: I wanted more.
I pushed myself up, legs shaky, and headed for the bathroom. Mason didn’t stop me. He just laughed under his breath like he knew exactly why I needed to leave.
Inside, I locked the door and leaned over the sink. My reflection looked wrecked: red eyes, flushed cheeks, streaks of cum drying across my face. My lips were swollen, spit still clinging to the corner of my mouth. I stared at myself for a long second, my cock throbbing hard against my thigh.
I turned the faucet on, splashed water over my face, but didn’t scrub all of it off. The faint taste lingered at the back of my throat, salt and sweat mixed together, and my stomach knotted with need.
My hand went to my cock before I even thought about it. The skin was hot, slick at the tip already. I stroked hard, fast, my mind replaying every second—Mason’s groans, the weight of his balls on my tongue, the way his hole had tasted when I licked it raw. Shame curled low in me, but it only made me jerk faster.
My breath steamed against the mirror, forehead pressed to the glass, cock sliding through my fist. I bit my lip, eyes shut tight, hips rocking forward. The ache in my throat matched the ache between my legs, both proof of what he’d done to me.
When I finally came, it hit hard, streaking across the sink. My knees buckled, and I grabbed the edge of the counter to stay upright.
I stood there panting, staring at the mess I’d made, my heart pounding with something I couldn’t name.
And then I smiled, small and shaky, because I knew it was going to happen again.
