The first cock I sucked was an accident. Or maybe not. Maybe it had been circling me for months—longer, even—waiting for its moment. Either way, it caught me off guard.

Troy was the captain of the football team at my college. Not the usual jock stereotype. He was smart—not straight A’s, but smart enough that football wasn’t his whole identity. And yet, somehow, football was everything to him. Six foot three, Black as sin, muscles so tight they made his skin look too small. A smile for everyone. Always willing to help. Not just me—everyone.

Troy Byron was considered a saint.

He usually didn’t party hard, not like the others. But some Fridays—when there were no weekend games, no looming tests, nothing to do but be young and stupid—he’d let himself go. Drink too much. Stay out too late.

Sometimes, he’d ask me to come along. I always said no. His crowd wasn’t mine. Or rather, he had a crowd. I didn’t.

I was scrawny. Small-built. The kind of boy people called pretty instead of handsome. I’d been laid, technically. But most of the time, I bailed before it got that far. Froze up. Lost the thread. Chickened out.

I’d fucked twice in high school—Anita Smith and Jocelyn Baker. Both were cute, both were supposed to be tutoring sessions, and neither cared much for homework. Boys, though—pretty or handsome—were their subject of choice.

To say I’d fucked is generous. But I’d been fucked, at least.

So, yeah. Troy eventually came back when Friday night had turned into Saturday morning—wasted, slurring, and on legs that barely remembered how to carry him.

“Aaron!” he garbled. “That was epic!”

His eyes rolled in his skull, but somehow he tried to focus on my face.

“You should’ve been there, my friend.”

“I’m sure I’ll survive,” I muttered, yawning. I’d been dozing on the couch, half-reading some book that tried to explain the deeper meaning of a poem I didn’t even like.

Troy swayed, heavy and loose, and for a second I thought he’d crash to the floor. At 220 pounds and tall enough to fill the doorway, he wouldn’t be getting up again if he did. And if he went down, I’d go down with him.

So I stood, reached out, tried to steady him—enough to get him to bed.

“You coming on to me, Aaron?” he asked, grinning like it was a joke he didn’t fully understand.

“Easy, boy,” I said. “Let’s get you to bed. You’re gonna hurt enough as is come morning.”

It was like dragging a stubborn—stubborn but friendly—bull into a pen, still half flexing for an invisible crowd. But I got him there, eventually. To the bed. Mostly upright.

He reeked of booze. Booze and sweat. Booze, sweat, and that cologne I’d come to recognize as homely, somehow—like him.

He fumbled with his shirt like the buttons were smaller than they had any right to be, his thick fingers clumsy from drink. I helped. Just the top three, and the cuffs. Enough for him to yank it over his head.

And get stuck.

His pecs—why did I stare at his pecs?

Troy’s torso was… ridiculous. Solid in the way statues try to be but never quite get right. His pecs were thick and rounded, like they’d been designed. Muscle wrapped around a forged skeleton, sealed beneath skin so smooth and tight I could see the pulse in his veins. Abs visible even in the bad light—eight, maybe more. Muscle stacked on muscle, as if it had grown out of necessity, bred, not sculpted. Not a trace of softness on him, not even now, drunk and drooping and half out of breath.

There was a line, too—that deep ridge that cut from his ribs to his hips, disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. I didn’t mean to look. But I looked.

He wasn’t beautiful, exactly.

He was—no. He was beautiful. Gorgeous. Like someone had taken the blueprint of man and run it through the perfect AI engine and let it print him, whole.

And there I was, standing in front of him, pulse somewhere stupid—like my throat.

He was still struggling with the fabric caught at his shoulders before he finally managed to shrug it off. Bare-chested. Swaying slightly, like the room had tilted to keep him upright.

He caught me staring.

Troy always smiled with gentle eyes—and perfect, white teeth. The kind of smile that made you feel like you were the reason for it. Like you were safe. Like nothing you could say or do would ever make him pull it back.

I swallowed.

“All right,” I said, throat too tight. “I’ll let you—”

“This button’s stubborn too,” he cut in, tugging at his jeans.

No. That wasn’t right. That couldn’t possibly—

But my fingers were already moving. Tugging at the tight fabric, finding the resistant button.

And all the while, my face hovered dangerously close to his skin. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough to smell the mix of sweat and cologne, sharp and warm and thick in my nose.

The stretch of fabric made an almost leathery sound, taut and creaking. And when the button gave, it sounded like a knuckle cracking.

“Ouff,” Troy muttered.

“You should be good now,” I whispered, my throat dry, lips almost brushing his skin.

But he just stood there, swaying. Fumbling at his zipper. His abs shifting with each breath like they were trying to speak for him.

I hesitated—but only briefly. Not nearly long enough.

My hands didn’t shake. Not really. Not the way my heartbeat did, anyway. And when I felt him underneath the denim—

That was the moment my heart skipped.

It was a swell.

Swell.

That was the word.

And still, I pulled the zipper. My fingers felt small. Feminine.

I don’t know why. I just—don’t know.

Somehow, I ended up on my knees, tugging at his jeans. And still, he didn’t speak. He only swayed. Big. Black. Towering.

I could talk about his thighs—tense with muscle, like a bull on steroids. I don’t know if the human body is supposed to look like that. I like girls with toned legs, sure, but these lumps? They felt like steel under my fingers as I pulled.

I could talk about his calves. They were enormous. Cut like they belonged to a sprinter, but thick—so thick it looked like the muscle had curled in on itself. Veins like cords, skin stretched smooth. They didn’t just flex—they heaved. Even relaxed, they looked like they could break something. My hands, if I touched too long. The floorboards, if he stomped. Just pure, dumb strength, right there below the knee.

But no.

His black thong did nothing to hide the curve of a cock that throbbed too hard—eight inches from my face. Four.

And the smell hit me.

Not cologne. Not sweat. Musk. Rich and animal, damp and thick, like something meant to be tasted before it was named. It curled inside my nose and didn’t leave. Not entirely. Not even when I swallowed, hard.

I pulled back. Stood.

“Okay,” I said, barely above a whisper. “You’re good. Just…”

He put a hand on my shoulder. Big. Heavy. It covered the whole thing, like it had been made to anchor.

“Hey, man,” he said. “Thanks.”

There’s something about the voice of a six-foot-three Black man. It doesn’t come from the mouth or the throat. It comes from somewhere deeper. Troy’s didn’t just sound like it came from his chest—it sounded like it started in the soles of his feet, traveled up through his calves and thighs, tenderized itself against muscle, churned through eight layers of abs, and only then decided to speak. It was low enough to make my sternum hum.

“Sure,” I muttered.

I backed away. Too slowly. Still watching. Trying to find the corner of the room that meant safety, or sleep, or something not this.

And still he stood there, tugging at the waistband of his underwear.

It felt like slow motion. Like I was watching a clip played back on repeat from slightly different angles, none of them safe.

I’m slightly above average—five and three-quarters. Respectable. Proportioned. Anita and Jocelyn hadn’t gasped, but they hadn’t complained either.

Troy?

Even against those massive quads—those bulging monstrosities he called thighs—it looked obscene. Like something you’d flinch from on instinct. A one-eyed black mamba, coiled and ready. Veins like corded ropes, pulsing. The fuck sausage to end all metaphors.

What?

Twisting. Pulsating. Halfway to his thigh. Slanting left, no—right. No, it was Troy who swayed. The cock hung still. Heavy. Dense. What did pussies say when he fucked them?

Ouch?

I’ve never had a gay thought in my life. Still haven’t. Still don’t.

But that cock—

My feet moved forward, my mind backward, and my pulse climbed straight through the roof. I touched his shoulder.

“Here,” I said, trying to ease him onto the bed.

He fell back heavy, and the mattress moaned beneath the weight.

I reached to brace him, to keep him steady, and his cock brushed the low of my arm. My left.

It felt like lukewarm beef. A sirloin left too long in the sun. Hot. Heavy. Throbbing.

He wasn’t hard—just something in between. But me?

I shifted. Uncomfortable. Made space somehow. For breath. For thought.

For cock.

He fell back—a mountain of muscle and skin—but his cock kept growing. Maybe from the touch of my arm. Maybe from some half-formed fantasy he was having. Some girl from the bar.

Troy never went home empty-handed. If he laid eyes on someone, that was it.

Savannah Binnington—cheer captain. Tight ass. Perky tits. Everyone thought Troy was her boyfriend. He treated her like one when it counted—movie nights, arm around her waist, soft voice when she was near. But like the rest of the team, he was a dog. Or so I heard.

I don’t know how my hand landed on his thigh. Maybe when I tried to brace him. Maybe later.

The pulse under my palm was steady. Slow. Like it didn’t care I was there.

His balls were smooth. Hairless. But short black hairs curled upward from the base of his cock to the low of his abs. It didn’t matter. He could’ve been wild and overgrown and I’d still have done what I did.

A cock like that had to be felt. If only to compare.

It felt… heavy. That was the first thing. Not like weight in the air, but weight in the hand—dense, substantial, like it had its own gravity.

The skin was soft. Softer than I expected, pulled tight in places, looser in others. Warm, too. Warmer than the rest of him. Like it held heat. Like it remembered it.

And underneath? Steel. Not bone—no, not rigid—but something solid, straining just below the surface. A pressure that pulsed, slow and patient. Not asking and not offering. Just there.

The ridge beneath the head flared against my palm. The shaft curved just slightly, as if leaning into the touch—or maybe just dragging the rest of him along.

It didn’t twitch. It throbbed. A steady beat. A quiet reminder.

This was real.

And I held it. Supported it. Stroked it.

“Yeah, baby,” he moaned. “That’s it.”

Baby?

Was he lost in Savannah’s touch?

Baby.

The word coiled inside me like something warm and filthy. Slid down my spine, wrapped around my guts, and pulsed. Each throb funneled straight into my cock—hot, twitching, like I was being fucked from the inside. Hard. Stupidly hard.

I stroked faster. Not much. Just enough to chase the rush without naming it.

His balls—too much to fit in one hand—heaved low, grinding against those obscene, thick-cut thighs. And his shaft—Jesus—his shaft was impossible. Impossibly long, impossibly thick, throbbing so hard it felt like it was all he was. All he ever had been.

The veins bulged, alive with pulse, as if his heartbeat had relocated to his cock. A beautiful, brutal black cock. Crowned by a gleaming, perfect head, already beading with a slick pearl of pre-cum, so stupidly inviting it felt like temptation made flesh.

I rubbed my palm over the slick, slow and reverent.

“Yeah, baby,” he moaned again, voice deeper than breath. “Get down on your knees. Suck that cock.”

Impossible.

He lay flat, head tipped back against the wall, legs still hanging off the side of the bed—but all I could see was cock. All I could feel was cock. All I could smell was cock.

And I couldn’t stop jerking it.

It wasn’t just want. It wasn’t just need. It was survival. Like if I let go, if I unclenched for even a second, everything inside me would vanish—collapse into shame, regret, something worse.

Still, I slid off the bed—hand never leaving him—like it was my anchor, my lifeline. I landed between his legs. One hand on that impossible cock, the other braced against his thigh, thick and warm and flexing under my palm.

And that smell.

That scent.

It filled my nose, my lungs, coated my tongue like sweat and salt and something deeper. Something male. Something feral.

Nine inches of flesh rested against my face. I nuzzled into it, rubbed myself along the shaft like it was something holy. Pressed my nose into his balls—open mouth, breath hot, leaking.

My hand left his thigh. Found my own zipper. I let myself out.

Hanging.

Throbbing.

I felt small in my own hand. Too soft, too thin. Nothing like him. Not even close.

Maybe that’s why I licked his balls.

“Yeah, you’re a good little bitch,” he said, his hand on my head, fingers tangled in my hair, pulling.

He guided me up along his shaft, tongue out, tasting it—nine inches—ten? Eighteen? I didn’t know anymore. Just sweat. Skin. Veins. Heat.

No, it wasn’t just a cock.

It was a muscle of its own. A living thing.

His slick tasted—

Slick? Is slick even a taste? Like the texture of Jello left out of the fridge too long, but without the sweetness, the fruity flavor—

Salty? Like bacon without the smoke. Dry-salted, maybe. Boutique. Not grocery store. Not bulk—but cured.

There was heat. Musk. The sour hum of sweat caught deep in skin. The sharpness of salt, but darker—thicker. Like something left behind, not washed away. Like the taste of breath after moaning into someone’s neck.

There was something metallic, too. Not blood. Not quite. Just the edge of it. The taste of pressure. Of skin stretched tight with want.

It tasted like something I shouldn’t be allowed to want. Like a secret kept under blankets. Like my own masturbation.

And beneath all that—coating my tongue, soaking into me—

The taste of my own need.

My mouth stretched, lips thin and dry—like Lycra pulled tight over a perfect ass, straining to finish a mission already marked impossible.

The head filled my mouth. All of it. So warm. So salty. So there.

I grabbed the shaft with my left hand, stroked him slow, felt the steady pulse throb against my tongue. My right hand dropped to my own cock—rigid, aching, so close to the edge I could barely wrap my fingers around it without wanting to spill.

His hand never left my head.

And now he pushed—Not hard.

Just certain.

Pressed me down, deeper, until he kissed the back of my throat.

“Fuck, bitch. That’s so tight,” he moaned.

It came from somewhere distant. Above me. Outside me.

No—inside me.

Both his hands were on my head now, and his hips began to move. Slow. Impossibly slow. Pressing up into me, fucking my mouth with the kind of patience that felt like cruelty.

I braced myself. Gripped the steel of his thighs, anchored myself in their unyielding mass.

And tried to remember what air tasted like.

And barely without touch, my cock just gave in.

Exploded onto the floor as my hips fucked thin air, the orgasm curling up my spine and ripping out through my throat—half moan, half sob, choked around too much cock.

“Fuck,” he moaned. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

He swelled inside my mouth, thickening, my jaw stretched too far, too sore.

Too hungry.

And still my hips were fucking nothing.

Snot dripped from my nose. Sweat clung to my skin. Drool spilled from the corners of my mouth and ran down his shaft. I was soaked. Drenched. My face, my throat, my chest.

My mouth tasted like a pussy teased too long—sloppy, aching, desperate.

Wet.

Wet.
Wet.
Wet.

And I’ve never eaten pussy.

“Fuck,” he moaned one final time before—

It was an explosion of taste, first of all. Not just salt. Salt, yes—but deeper. Hot, thick, animal.

Like brine and breath. Like the inside of someone. Like the taste in your mouth when you slice raw meat.

It hit the back of my tongue, coated it, filled the roof of my mouth, and spilled beneath it. My jaw ached. My throat clenched. I tried to pull back—reflex, not choice—but his hands held me there, gentle and unrelenting. His hips pushed as far up as his cock inside me allowed.

I swallowed. I didn’t mean to. I just did. The rest spilled from me—through the corners of my lips, up my nose.

His cum smelled like smoked chili stuffed with some French cheese I’d read about in poetry class.

It was all instinct. Like my mouth had become a too-tight pussy stretched over too much cock. Like every fiber in my body wanted to swallow his sperm and become a container—a vessel—to keep his spill like archive.

My eyes watered. My spine twitched. My whole body flinched once, then went still.

And for a moment, everything inside me went quiet.

His hands stayed on my head, but his hips relaxed, sinking down just enough to let me breathe.

His cock throbbed twice more—slower now—releasing the last of him in lazy, leftover pulses. Like it had slept through the alarm and came late to the party.

I swallowed around his softening cock.

Both times.

And when he finally slid out of my mouth, I didn’t move. I just fell forward onto his meaty shaft and breathed him in.

“Fuck, baby,” he muttered.

Then he sat up, cupped my head in both of those massive hands, and looked down at me like he was proud of something.

“Who knew you’d be such a great little bitch, Aaron?”

Yeah. The first cock I sucked was a not-so-accidental accident.

I slumped to the floor, still on my knees, and watched him swing his legs onto the bed, stretching lazily, arms folded behind his head.

He still wore that gentle smile. Still had those friendly eyes.

But I understood now.

He owned me.

And the next time I sucked his cock—it wouldn’t be an accident.