My New Roommate - Part 8

The next night, Damien acted like nothing had happened. No smirk, no comment, no sly brush of his hand against me during the day.

The next night, Damien acted like nothing had happened. No smirk, no comment, no sly brush of his hand against me during the day. Just normal small talk, studying, dinner, then both of us climbing into the same cramped bed like we always did.

Only this time, Damien slid under the covers with just his boxers on, shirtless, his skin practically glowing under the faint light that slipped through the curtains. His chest rose and fell steadily, that careless way he always breathed when he was relaxed. Meanwhile, I was stiff as a board, my whole body on edge.

I couldn’t take my eyes off him. His torso was right there, his shoulders broad, the light tracing the faint lines of his abs. I kept swallowing hard, shifting against the mattress, telling myself I should just sleep. But I couldn’t. My dick was rock hard, straining in my shorts, and every little twitch of his body made it worse.

Then I heard it.

Soft, rhythmic.

Schhh… schhh…

My heart skipped. I knew that sound.

I turned my head slowly, trying not to spook him, but the moment my eyes landed on him, Damien’s hand jerked away, sliding to his side like nothing happened. He was turned slightly toward me, his face blank, almost too blank, like he was pretending to be deep asleep.

I clenched my jaw. “No way,” I whispered to myself.

I rolled back onto my back, my cock throbbing harder. My whole body was buzzing. I tried to think of anything else—class, assignments, my mom—but the sound came again.

Schhh… schhh…

God. He was doing it again.

I bit my lip, pulse hammering, and turned faster this time. And just like before—his hand snapped back, body perfectly still.

The little fucker.

I could feel sweat beading on my forehead. My dick twitched against my shorts, aching for some relief. He was playing with me, I knew it.

Minutes passed. I forced my eyes shut. Maybe if I ignored it, maybe if I…

Schhh… schhh… Louder now. More desperate.

I bolted, rolling over. My eyes locked on him. And still—still—he pulled back, pretending sleep, lips barely parted, chest rising slowly like he hadn’t just been stroking himself inches from me.

“STOP IT!” I snapped, my voice raw. “I know what you’re doing.”

For a second, silence. Then—Damien laughed. Low, cocky, deep in his chest.

“But you’re enjoying it, aren’t you?” His voice was a whisper, sharp in the dark.

My throat went dry. I opened my mouth but nothing came out.

He rolled onto his back, sliding his hand under the waistband of his boxers again, eyes half-lidded, staring at me now. He didn’t stop this time when I watched. He didn’t even pretend.

Slow, deliberate strokes. His knuckles rising under the thin fabric, his chest heaving slightly. His boxers tented so hard I could see the outline of his cock pressing against the material.

I couldn’t breathe. My hand started to move, inching toward him, desperate to feel, to join in.

And then—smack.

His hand slapped mine away, sharp. “You’re not doing anything until I say so. Understood?”

My breath hitched. He was staring straight into me, his eyes blazing in the dim light. I nodded without thinking, my whole body trembling.

“Good boy.”

And then he pushed his boxers down, slow, deliberate, until they slipped past his thighs. His cock sprang free—thick, hard, dripping already at the tip. He didn’t hesitate. His fist wrapped around himself, and he started stroking.

The sound was obscene. The slick slide of skin on skin, the wetness glistening. His head tilted back, lips parting as he moaned—long, guttural sounds that sent a spike straight through my cock. He was putting on a show, and I was his only audience.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Every pump of his hand, every hitch in his breath, every obscene little noise pushed me closer to the edge even without touching myself.

He was beautiful.

He was unbearable.

And I was shaking with the need to reach out, to grab him, to feel it myself.

But I didn’t dare.

His strokes sped up, his chest rising faster, his body tense, his moans spilling louder until finally his fist tightened—and with a deep, shuddering groan, he came. Hot, thick ropes spilled across his stomach, his chest, even dripping over his fingers as he kept stroking through it, milking every last drop out of himself while I sat there, aching and helpless.

I nearly came in my shorts just watching.

And then—like it was nothing—he sat up, wiping his hand with a little smirk. His cock still hung heavy, spent but proud. He walked past me, not even covering himself, and headed to the bathroom.

At the door, he yanked his damp boxers off the floor and tossed them straight at my chest.

“Just a little gift for following my orders,” he muttered with a grin.

And then the door clicked shut, the shower running a second later.

I sat there, frozen, my cock throbbing harder than it ever had. In my lap were his boxers, still damp, still smelling like him, his cum smeared inside.

And I realized—I was fucked. Completely fucked.

Because Damien owned me now.