it’s 2:14am and marcus is asleep with one arm across my stomach like a seatbelt so i’m typing this one-handed on my phone under the covers. sorry.
his mom calls every sunday at 11am. every sunday. since freshman year. it’s not a thing he decides, it’s weather. she calls from her kitchen in dayton and he can hear the radio behind her and she asks about his classes and whether he’s eating vegetables and whether he’s “seeing anyone,” and for three and a half years he’s said “just studying, mom” and meant it.
we’re seniors now. both twenty-two. patterson hall, third floor, the room with the desk chair everybody on the floor has heard squeak. derek the ra has sent two groupme messages about “furniture noise” this semester and both times marcus went red to the ears and i laughed so hard i had to lie down.
i sleep over most nights. we don’t really have a word for it. the word we have is that since october i don’t have to ask. he said it once, very serious, sitting on the edge of his bed with his elbows on his knees like he was confessing a crime: “you don’t have to ask. like. ever. if you want it you can just.” and then he got embarrassed and went to brush his teeth for eleven minutes.
i’ve used it a lot. i still watch his face every time. that part’s mine.
anyway. this is about last sunday.
10:47am. marcus was in the bathroom doing his pre-call ritual, which is: brush teeth, wet his hair down so it looks like he tried, put on the navy quarter-zip his mom bought him at kohl’s so he feels like “a responsible adult” even though she can’t see him. the phone was face up on his desk. contact name “mom 🌷.”
i was on his bed in his rugby jersey. number 14. it goes to the middle of my thighs. white thigh-highs, the ones with the little pink bow at the top, and nothing under the jersey, which he didn’t know yet.
he came out and stopped.
“no,” he said.
“what.”
“you know what.”
“i genuinely don’t.”
he pointed. at the socks. at the jersey. at me on his bed, legs crossed, scrolling tiktok like a picture of innocence.
“it’s eleven in the morning.”
“ten forty-eight.”
“that’s worse. that means you planned it.”
“you say that like it’s bad.”
he sat down at his desk with his back to me and opened his organic chem book, a book he does not need to open, he’s already into his med school program, and he read the same paragraph for four minutes while i lay behind him and let my foot tap the mattress. tap. tap. tap. i know exactly what that does to him.
at 10:53 he shut the book.
at 10:54 he spun the chair around. eeeeek.
he looked at me. i looked back. he opened his mouth to say something reasonable, something about his mother, and then his eyes went to where the jersey had ridden up my thigh and he just. didn’t.
“seven minutes,” he said. like a warning.
“seven minutes,” i agreed, and got off the bed and onto my knees on his rug.
he always does this thing where he goes still. hands on the armrests. like if he doesn’t move it’s not his fault. i put my hands on his thighs and they were already tight under the gray sweatpants and i could see him, the outline of him, getting hard down his left leg.
“we don’t have to,” he said, very quietly, which is a thing he says that means yes, please, i’m scared of how much.
i didn’t answer. i just pulled the sweats down.
marcus has a big cock. like it’s genuinely unfair. long and a little heavy so it sort of sways before it lifts, uncut, the foreskin pulling back as he gets hard so the head shows pink and then deep red. it has a slight upward curve that i’ve made jokes about and that he does not think is funny. his balls are big and soft and he’s shy about them. he smelled like his body wash, the eucalyptus one, and underneath that just him, warm, skin.
i wrapped my hand around the base and he hissed.
“cold hands.”
“shut up.”
i licked the head. just a lick, slow, collecting the drop at the slit, salty. then i sucked it into my mouth and pushed the foreskin back with my lips and he said “oh fuck” in a voice i never, ever hear from him in public.
the chair squeaked.
i went down on him slow. i like to go slow with him, i like to feel him get bigger on my tongue, i like the exact moment he stops being able to hold still and his hips roll up on their own. i got about halfway before the length hit the back of my throat and i gagged, loud and wet, and he put his hand on my head, not pushing, just there, and i breathed through my nose and went further.
my eyes were already watering. i could feel spit running down my chin and dripping onto the jersey. his jersey. number 14.
at 10:58 his phone lit up on the desk.
mom 🌷
it buzzed against the wood so loud it felt like an alarm.
he froze completely. i felt his whole body lock up. i pulled off him, slow, a string of spit breaking between my lip and his cock, and looked up.
“answer it,” i whispered.
“are you insane.”
“answer it.”
“i can’t talk to my mother right now. i physically cannot.”
it buzzed again.
“you can,” i said. i wrapped my hand back around him and stroked once, slow, all the way up, all the way down. he twitched in my fist. “you’re gonna answer it and sound normal and i’m gonna stay right here.”
he stared at me. i watched him decide. it took him three buzzes. i could see it all happen on his face: the no, the terror, and then this thing underneath it that was so hungry it scared both of us a little.
he nodded. once.
i put my mouth back on him as he picked up.
“hey, mom.”
his voice was perfect. like, perfect. like nothing was happening. meanwhile i had the head of his cock in my mouth and was sucking so gently, just keeping him there, warm and wet, my tongue barely moving, and i could feel his pulse against my lips.
“yeah, no, i’m good. just studying.”
i raised my eyebrows at him. he closed his eyes.
“no, the midterm went fine. i told you it went fine.”
i took him deeper. an inch. two. slow. the chair squeaked.
“no, that’s my chair, it squeaks. yeah. yeah, i know, i should put wd-40 on it.”
i had to stop and press my forehead against his thigh because i was laughing without sound, shaking with it, and his hand came down and gripped my hair, hard, not to push me, to hold on, and his cock throbbed against my cheek so hard i felt it.
“dad’s good? good. tell him i said hi. yeah. yeah.”
i went back down on him. all the way this time, as far as i could take, till my nose was in his hair and my throat was full and closing around him and i couldn’t breathe and didn’t care. he made a sound. a tiny one. he turned it into a cough.
“sorry. allergies.”
his mom said something. his thigh was shaking under my hand.
“i’m eating vegetables, mom. yes. i had a salad.”
he did not have a salad.
“love you too. talk next sunday.”
he hung up and put the phone face down so hard it cracked against the desk and then his hand was in my hair with both hands and he pulled me off him and looked at me like he’d never seen me before.
“you’re evil,” he said. out of breath.
“you said i didn’t have to ask.”
“i didn’t think you’d use it during my mom.”
“you nodded.”
“i nodded,” he said, like he couldn’t believe it either. then he hauled me up into his lap.
the chair is not built for two people. it’s a $49 target desk chair and it screamed. eeeeeek. he didn’t care. he shoved the jersey up to my waist and found out what i wasn’t wearing under it and said “jesus christ” into my neck.
the lube lives in his top drawer, under the calculator, which is so marcus i can’t even talk about it. he got it out without looking. slicked his fingers and reached under me, and i was already half ready because i’m always half ready on sunday mornings, i’m not stupid. two fingers slid into me and i made a noise and grabbed his shoulders.
“quiet,” he said. “derek.”
“derek can suck it.”
“derek would report it.”
he opened me up with his fingers, slow, curling them, and my cock was hard and sticking out from under the jersey, pink and leaking onto his quarter-zip, his nice kohl’s quarter-zip. i didn’t care. he didn’t either. he pulled his fingers out and slicked his cock with the rest of the lube in his palm and held it up for me and i lowered myself onto it.
god. it’s a lot. every time it’s a lot. the head stretched me open and it burned and i stopped with just the head inside and breathed, and he held my hips and didn’t pull me down, just held, just waited, his forehead against my collarbone. then i sank. inch by inch. the curve of him dragging right across that spot inside me on the way down so i shook. all the way until i was sitting in his lap full of him with my thigh-highs digging into the armrests and i could feel him throbbing inside me like a second heartbeat.
“tell me,” he said. low.
“tell you what.”
“how it feels.”
nobody ever asks me that. he always asks me that.
“full,” i said. “so fucking full. you’re so deep. i can feel you in my stomach.”
he groaned and his hips jerked up and i gasped.
i rode him. slow at first. then the chair started rocking and the squeak became a rhythm, eeek eeek eeek, and i gave up on quiet. i put my hands on his chest and bounced on his cock, his big hands on my ass pulling me down every time, and every stroke dragged over that spot and my cock slapped against his stomach, and he watched me the whole time with his mouth open like i was a car crash he couldn’t stop looking at.
“good,” he kept saying. “so good. look at you. you’re so good.”
“say it again.”
“you’re so fucking good.”
and then his phone buzzed again.
we both stopped.
he turned it over. mom 🌷.
11:09.
“she forgot to ask about thanksgiving,” he said, hollow. “she always forgets and calls back.”
i looked at him. he looked at me. i was sitting on his cock with his jersey around my waist.
“answer it,” i said.
“no.”
“marcus.”
“no no no—”
i rolled my hips once. slow. all the way down on him. his eyes rolled back. his thumb hit accept.
“hi mom.”
i didn’t stop. i just went slow. so slow. lifting up until only the head was in me, then sinking back down, grinding, feeling every inch of him go back inside. his hand on my hip was squeezing so hard i knew there’d be marks.
“thanksgiving? yeah. yeah, i’ll be home wednesday.”
i leaned in and kissed his neck. he swallowed against my mouth.
“actually, mom—” he stopped. his eyes opened and found mine. “actually, can i bring someone?”
i stopped moving.
he held my gaze.
“yeah. someone. yeah, i. yeah. i’ll tell you about it later. i gotta go. i love you. bye.”
he hung up. dropped the phone on the floor.
“did you just—” i started.
and he grabbed my hips and fucked up into me so hard the chair slammed back into the bookshelf.
no more slow. he held me down and drove up into me, fast and deep and rough, that curved cock nailing my spot every time, and i grabbed the back of the chair and just took it. took all of it. my voice was going and i couldn’t stop it, derek could hear, the whole third floor could hear, i didn’t care. his breathing got ragged. his rhythm broke.
“i’m gonna—” he said.
“inside,” i said. “come in me. please. come in me, marcus.”
he pulled me all the way down and held me there, pressed as deep as he could go, and he came. i felt it. his cock jerking inside me, swelling, a hot pulse and then another, filling me up, and he made this long, low, wrecked sound into my shoulder that i’m going to be thinking about in every class for the rest of the semester. his whole body shook under me. his fingers dug into my ass. one more pulse. warm spreading deep.
he got his hand around my cock and it took like three strokes. i came all over his quarter-zip. on the navy. on the little embroidered logo.
we sat there. the chair creaked, sad. my thighs were shaking.
“you okay?” he said into my neck.
“yeah.” i kissed his temple. “you?”
“i just invited you to thanksgiving while inside you.”
“yeah you did.”
he laughed. a real one. then he reached down and got his phone off the floor.
there was already a text from her. 11:14am.
mom 🌷: you sounded happy just now. who is it??? 😊
he showed it to me. then he typed back, one word, while i watched, and hit send before either of us could think.
marcus: mine
the groupme went off an hour later. derek: reminder that sunday quiet hours are 12am-10am but that doesn’t mean anything goes after. thank u.
the quarter-zip is in the laundry basket. i’m keeping the jersey.
thanksgiving is in dayton. i’ve never met anybody’s mom before. i’m wide awake about it. he’s asleep. seatbelt arm.
night.
