I just started publishing a new explicit, serialized story called Room for More.
It follows Mark and Dillon, two new roommates whose attraction builds slowly through awkward encounters, voyeurism, disappearing boundaries and a lot of tension.
Below is the preview of Chapter One: Twenty Minutes Early.
I’ll be posting the complete chapters and continuing story on Patreon, posting new chapters weekly on Fridays. The artwork is AI as it is fiction.
*
MARK
Lately, Mark had begun to worry that he was becoming a chronic masturbator.
It was not that he preferred it to sex. He did not, most of the time. At thirty-six, he knew exactly what he liked in bed and had never had much interest in restricting himself to one role. He was enthusiastic in either direction when the man was right and generally willing to let chemistry determine the rest, picking up hints along the way and getting turned on by his own versatility. He liked muscular bodies and softer ones, older men and, increasingly, younger men. He liked a thick chest with defined nipples, strong legs that grounded a man and the round, high bubble butt of a guy, whether it was something to smother himself with or simply grab.
He particularly liked facials, mostly in porn rather than in real life.
Porn featuring a beautiful facial had become a reliable weakness, especially if the man receiving one looked delighted. Mark liked the surrender of it, the wet mess across a handsome face, cum sticking to gorgeous stubble, the erotic imbalance between humiliation and trust. He could lose half an hour searching for the right video before he even grabbed his cock.
The problem was that he had been masturbating a lot more than before.
The house had pulled him away from the easy rhythm of his old life in the city. He no longer lived within walking distance of gay bars, restaurants, friends and whatever man happened to be awake at midnight. A hookup now required more planning, a car or a long train ride, and enough energy to make conversation with someone after a day spent discussing plumbing and contractor estimates. Most nights, Mark got home from his finance job downtown, ate something in front of the TV and found himself too tired to go anywhere but not remotely too tired to get horny.
So he watched porn.
He watched it in bed, on the sofa and occasionally in the unfinished guest room, where the lack of curtains added a voyeuristic charge he did not entirely trust himself to examine. The whole house was his, after all. Some nights, Mark came twice before falling asleep. On weekends, when the house was quiet and the morning stretched uselessly ahead of him, he could disappear into it for a couple of hours.
That Saturday, he had been at it for nearly that long.
He knew he needed to finish. Dillon Graves, a potential roommate, was coming at ten to see the house. Mark had set an alarm for 9:30, giving himself enough time to shower, pull on clothes and make the place look as though it were occupied by a responsible homeowner rather than a man who had spent most of the morning comparing the cock-sucking skills of strangers.
At 9:38, after silencing the 9:30 alarm twice, he was still lying across his bed in a black jockstrap, his hand slick with lotion and his laptop beside him. His cock was beautiful: straight, proportionate and just above average, enough for long strokes and an occasional “Your dick feels so big inside me” from a hookup.
The jockstrap was not necessary. That was why he liked it. The thick elastic framed his bare ass while the pouch held him firmly, making the weight and girth of his arousal feel more pronounced. He liked the way it looked against his skin and the faint pressure of the straps when his body tightened. He liked the breeze against his slightly hairy taint. Sometimes the sight of himself in it was enough to keep him hard longer than he should have been.
The video on his laptop had reached the part he had been waiting for. A dark-haired man was kneeling between another man’s legs, face lifted, mouth open, eyes wet and begging. Mark’s breath had become shallow. He had begun to stroke faster, concentrating on the head of his cock, knowing that he had two minutes before he had to get up and twenty-two before Dillon was supposed to arrive.
Then there was a knock at the door.
Mark stopped.
For a moment, the sound seemed to belong to the video. Then it came again, followed by two clean notes from the doorbell echoing through the quiet house.
He looked toward the clock.
9:40.
“No.”
His strokes slowed. The man in the video was already slurping what was left from the tip of the cock in front of him. Mark missed the cum shot while trying to find his phone. The doorbell rang a second time.
He snapped the laptop shut. The man on the screen disappeared, leaving Mark flushed, unsatisfied and too flustered to remember the open bottle of lotion on the nightstand, the tissue box beside it and the laptop positioned next to a faint, sweaty dent in the bed that suggested exactly how he had spent the morning.
Dillon had said in one of his emails that he was usually prompt, if not early. Mark had assumed that meant a polite three minutes, not enough time to make a difference. Twenty minutes was enough time to interrupt an entire life.
“Coming!” Mark shouted, and immediately regretted the word.
He stood. The front of the jockstrap was still full and damp with lotion, his cock pressing heavily against the fabric. He considered removing it, but there was no time to wrestle himself into underwear while still mostly hard. His navy robe hung on a hook on the back of the door. He shoved his arms into it and tied it quickly at the waist.
The robe was one of his more indulgent purchases: satin, or something close enough that the technical distinction did not matter, dark blue and cut just above mid-thigh. He liked the cool slide of it over his bare skin, particularly across the exposed curves of his ass. Wearing it around his own house made him feel faintly decadent, even when he was only carrying laundry or trying to determine why the downstairs ceiling had developed another stain. It had come with matching boxers, but those had been used as a cum rag the night before.
Mark caught sight of himself in the dresser mirror. His dark hair was flattened at one temple. His face was hot, and handsome stubble shadowed his jaw and upper lip. The robe exposed his hairy chest, the thick dark hair spreading across his pecs and narrowing toward his stomach. The satin covered his upper thighs but not much more. Below it, his long legs and bare feet looked almost deliberately displayed.
The front of the robe did little to disguise the thick pressure beneath it.
He tightened the belt and made the outline worse.
“Perfect.”
He hurried downstairs with one hand holding the robe closed. The old steps announced every footfall. He intended to open the door only far enough to identify whoever was outside, then ask for five minutes if it was Dillon.
Through the narrow glass beside the entrance, he saw a tall blond man standing on the porch with a black duffel bag over one shoulder.
Mark stopped.
Dillon’s application photo had shown a pleasant-looking young man in a baseball cap, smiling beside two friends at what appeared to be a football game. The figure outside the door was broader and considerably more interesting.
Mark opened it.
The first thing he noticed was Dillon’s chest.
Dillon wore a faded black workout tank with narrow straps and low-cut armholes. It clung to the full shape of his pecs and remained slightly damp around the center of his chest, beneath his arms and along the flat plane of his stomach. The fabric had dried unevenly after his shower, leaving faint dark patches that traced the heat of his body. His nipples pressed visibly through it, small and firm beneath the damp cotton.
His hair was blond and buzzed close, darker at the roots where it was still wet. The cut sharpened the shape of his head and made his face look both younger and more masculine. He had round, blushing cheeks, a clean, chiseled jaw and a dewy smile that seemed to gather slowly before taking over his entire face. When it did, his eyes narrowed into warm, charming crescents.
Gray athletic shorts sat low on his hips and ended several inches above his knees. His thighs looked strong and dense beneath them, his calves muscular and lightly covered in blond hair.
He smelled as though he had stepped out of a gym shower minutes earlier. Generic soap, damp skin and deodorant floated above a subtler trace of warm male musk that the shower had softened but not entirely removed.
For one long second, Mark forgot that he was supposed to speak.
Dillon was looking at him too.
His gaze first landed on Mark’s chest. Mark watched him take in the broad pecs, the dark hair and the warm skin framed by the robe. Dillon’s eyes moved lower, following the satin to where it ended high on Mark’s thighs. They paused on his long legs, then quickly returned to his face.
Mark saw Dillon notice the stubble along his jaw. He saw his attention catch briefly on Mark’s lips before moving up to his eyes.
A shy smile escaped Mark before he could restrain it. It felt unusually genuine, almost boyish, and he had the uncomfortable sense that Dillon recognized it as such.
“Mark?” Dillon asked.
“Yeah. Dillon?”
“Yes.”
Dillon shifted the gym bag on his shoulder. His exposed arm flexed, and Mark noticed pale calluses across his fingers where they curled around the strap.
“I’m really sorry,” Dillon said. “I know I’m early.”
“You are. A little bit.”
The reply sounded more abrupt than Mark intended. He softened it with another small smile and glanced down at himself.
“I thought I had twenty more minutes to look like a normal person.”
Dillon looked at the robe again. His cheeks became pinker.
“You look good.”
Mark gave a quiet laugh. “I look like a crazy lady who just woke up.
Dillon’s eyes flickered toward the knot at Mark’s waist.
“I can come back. I’ll wait in my car.”
“No, you’re already here.”
“I should’ve texted my ETA.”
“It’s okay. No worries. Come in.”
Mark stepped aside and opened the door fully.
“I’m going to blame the outfit on you.”
“That’s fair.”
Dillon entered with a cautious turn of his body, trying to keep the bag from touching Mark. It brushed against his bare thigh anyway.
“Sorry.”
“You’re fine.”
They faced one another in the small entryway. Up close, Dillon’s fresh-shower scent was even stronger. There were tiny beads of moisture near his buzzed hairline, and his skin had the smooth, warm sheen of a body that had recently been scrubbed and rinsed. His callused hand rested against the strap of the duffel bag.
Mark extended his hand.
The gesture was automatic. It became excruciating the instant Dillon reached for it.
Mark had been using that hand to masturbate less than three minutes earlier.
He had wiped most of the lotion onto a tissue, but he could still feel the faint slickness around his palm and fingers. Shame and arousal moved through him at once as Dillon’s hand closed around his.
Dillon’s grip was strong without being aggressive. The calluses scraped pleasantly against Mark’s skin, rough from weights and work. His palm was warm. His thumb rested near the base of Mark’s index finger, close to where the last trace of lotion remained.
“Nice to meet you,” Dillon said.
“You too.”
Mark felt absurdly exposed, as though Dillon could somehow detect what his hand had been doing from the heat of it. He withdrew a little too quickly.
Dillon did not appear to notice. He looked around the living room, but his eyes kept returning to Mark’s chest and then to the long, bare line of his legs beneath the robe
“The house is beautiful,” Dillon said. “It’s much nicer than the pictures.”
“Thank you. It’s been a lot of work.”
“You’ve done a great job with it.”
The compliment was sincere and slightly formal. Dillon did not wander farther into the room or touch anything. He stood where Mark had left him, waiting to be shown around.
Mark liked that. The other potential renters he had interviewed had behaved as though they were inspecting a hotel room, opening drawers and commenting on flaws before they had properly introduced themselves.
“Most of it is still unfinished,” Mark said.
“It doesn’t feel unfinished.”
“You haven’t seen the holes yet.”
Dillon smiled, and his cheeks lifted around it. His whole face brightened with warmth
Mark felt his body stir again beneath the robe.
He gestured toward the living room. “This is obviously the main space. You can use everything—the television, the sofa, whatever. I don’t treat the house like a museum.”
The room had finally begun to resemble the place he had imagined when he bought it. A low gray sofa faced a large television on a walnut console. A stylish leather armchair sat beneath a curved black floor lamp. A few books remained stacked on the floor while Mark searched for shelving that did not look generic.
Dillon walked slowly around the edge of the room.
“The chair is really cool.”
“Thanks.”
“And the lamp.
Mark smiled. “You’re very good for my self-esteem.”
“I mean it. You have great taste.”
It follows Mark and Dillon, two new roommates whose attraction builds slowly through awkward encounters, voyeurism, disappearing boundaries and a lot of tension.
Below is the preview of Chapter One: Twenty Minutes Early.
I’ll be posting the complete chapters and continuing story on Patreon, posting new chapters weekly on Fridays. The artwork is AI as it is fiction.
*
MARK
Lately, Mark had begun to worry that he was becoming a chronic masturbator.
It was not that he preferred it to sex. He did not, most of the time. At thirty-six, he knew exactly what he liked in bed and had never had much interest in restricting himself to one role. He was enthusiastic in either direction when the man was right and generally willing to let chemistry determine the rest, picking up hints along the way and getting turned on by his own versatility. He liked muscular bodies and softer ones, older men and, increasingly, younger men. He liked a thick chest with defined nipples, strong legs that grounded a man and the round, high bubble butt of a guy, whether it was something to smother himself with or simply grab.
He particularly liked facials, mostly in porn rather than in real life.
Porn featuring a beautiful facial had become a reliable weakness, especially if the man receiving one looked delighted. Mark liked the surrender of it, the wet mess across a handsome face, cum sticking to gorgeous stubble, the erotic imbalance between humiliation and trust. He could lose half an hour searching for the right video before he even grabbed his cock.
The problem was that he had been masturbating a lot more than before.
The house had pulled him away from the easy rhythm of his old life in the city. He no longer lived within walking distance of gay bars, restaurants, friends and whatever man happened to be awake at midnight. A hookup now required more planning, a car or a long train ride, and enough energy to make conversation with someone after a day spent discussing plumbing and contractor estimates. Most nights, Mark got home from his finance job downtown, ate something in front of the TV and found himself too tired to go anywhere but not remotely too tired to get horny.
So he watched porn.
He watched it in bed, on the sofa and occasionally in the unfinished guest room, where the lack of curtains added a voyeuristic charge he did not entirely trust himself to examine. The whole house was his, after all. Some nights, Mark came twice before falling asleep. On weekends, when the house was quiet and the morning stretched uselessly ahead of him, he could disappear into it for a couple of hours.
That Saturday, he had been at it for nearly that long.
He knew he needed to finish. Dillon Graves, a potential roommate, was coming at ten to see the house. Mark had set an alarm for 9:30, giving himself enough time to shower, pull on clothes and make the place look as though it were occupied by a responsible homeowner rather than a man who had spent most of the morning comparing the cock-sucking skills of strangers.
At 9:38, after silencing the 9:30 alarm twice, he was still lying across his bed in a black jockstrap, his hand slick with lotion and his laptop beside him. His cock was beautiful: straight, proportionate and just above average, enough for long strokes and an occasional “Your dick feels so big inside me” from a hookup.
The jockstrap was not necessary. That was why he liked it. The thick elastic framed his bare ass while the pouch held him firmly, making the weight and girth of his arousal feel more pronounced. He liked the way it looked against his skin and the faint pressure of the straps when his body tightened. He liked the breeze against his slightly hairy taint. Sometimes the sight of himself in it was enough to keep him hard longer than he should have been.
The video on his laptop had reached the part he had been waiting for. A dark-haired man was kneeling between another man’s legs, face lifted, mouth open, eyes wet and begging. Mark’s breath had become shallow. He had begun to stroke faster, concentrating on the head of his cock, knowing that he had two minutes before he had to get up and twenty-two before Dillon was supposed to arrive.
Then there was a knock at the door.
Mark stopped.
For a moment, the sound seemed to belong to the video. Then it came again, followed by two clean notes from the doorbell echoing through the quiet house.
He looked toward the clock.
9:40.
“No.”
His strokes slowed. The man in the video was already slurping what was left from the tip of the cock in front of him. Mark missed the cum shot while trying to find his phone. The doorbell rang a second time.
He snapped the laptop shut. The man on the screen disappeared, leaving Mark flushed, unsatisfied and too flustered to remember the open bottle of lotion on the nightstand, the tissue box beside it and the laptop positioned next to a faint, sweaty dent in the bed that suggested exactly how he had spent the morning.
Dillon had said in one of his emails that he was usually prompt, if not early. Mark had assumed that meant a polite three minutes, not enough time to make a difference. Twenty minutes was enough time to interrupt an entire life.
“Coming!” Mark shouted, and immediately regretted the word.
He stood. The front of the jockstrap was still full and damp with lotion, his cock pressing heavily against the fabric. He considered removing it, but there was no time to wrestle himself into underwear while still mostly hard. His navy robe hung on a hook on the back of the door. He shoved his arms into it and tied it quickly at the waist.
The robe was one of his more indulgent purchases: satin, or something close enough that the technical distinction did not matter, dark blue and cut just above mid-thigh. He liked the cool slide of it over his bare skin, particularly across the exposed curves of his ass. Wearing it around his own house made him feel faintly decadent, even when he was only carrying laundry or trying to determine why the downstairs ceiling had developed another stain. It had come with matching boxers, but those had been used as a cum rag the night before.
Mark caught sight of himself in the dresser mirror. His dark hair was flattened at one temple. His face was hot, and handsome stubble shadowed his jaw and upper lip. The robe exposed his hairy chest, the thick dark hair spreading across his pecs and narrowing toward his stomach. The satin covered his upper thighs but not much more. Below it, his long legs and bare feet looked almost deliberately displayed.
The front of the robe did little to disguise the thick pressure beneath it.
He tightened the belt and made the outline worse.
“Perfect.”
He hurried downstairs with one hand holding the robe closed. The old steps announced every footfall. He intended to open the door only far enough to identify whoever was outside, then ask for five minutes if it was Dillon.
Through the narrow glass beside the entrance, he saw a tall blond man standing on the porch with a black duffel bag over one shoulder.
Mark stopped.
Dillon’s application photo had shown a pleasant-looking young man in a baseball cap, smiling beside two friends at what appeared to be a football game. The figure outside the door was broader and considerably more interesting.
Mark opened it.
The first thing he noticed was Dillon’s chest.
Dillon wore a faded black workout tank with narrow straps and low-cut armholes. It clung to the full shape of his pecs and remained slightly damp around the center of his chest, beneath his arms and along the flat plane of his stomach. The fabric had dried unevenly after his shower, leaving faint dark patches that traced the heat of his body. His nipples pressed visibly through it, small and firm beneath the damp cotton.
His hair was blond and buzzed close, darker at the roots where it was still wet. The cut sharpened the shape of his head and made his face look both younger and more masculine. He had round, blushing cheeks, a clean, chiseled jaw and a dewy smile that seemed to gather slowly before taking over his entire face. When it did, his eyes narrowed into warm, charming crescents.
Gray athletic shorts sat low on his hips and ended several inches above his knees. His thighs looked strong and dense beneath them, his calves muscular and lightly covered in blond hair.
He smelled as though he had stepped out of a gym shower minutes earlier. Generic soap, damp skin and deodorant floated above a subtler trace of warm male musk that the shower had softened but not entirely removed.
For one long second, Mark forgot that he was supposed to speak.
Dillon was looking at him too.
His gaze first landed on Mark’s chest. Mark watched him take in the broad pecs, the dark hair and the warm skin framed by the robe. Dillon’s eyes moved lower, following the satin to where it ended high on Mark’s thighs. They paused on his long legs, then quickly returned to his face.
Mark saw Dillon notice the stubble along his jaw. He saw his attention catch briefly on Mark’s lips before moving up to his eyes.
A shy smile escaped Mark before he could restrain it. It felt unusually genuine, almost boyish, and he had the uncomfortable sense that Dillon recognized it as such.
“Mark?” Dillon asked.
“Yeah. Dillon?”
“Yes.”
Dillon shifted the gym bag on his shoulder. His exposed arm flexed, and Mark noticed pale calluses across his fingers where they curled around the strap.
“I’m really sorry,” Dillon said. “I know I’m early.”
“You are. A little bit.”
The reply sounded more abrupt than Mark intended. He softened it with another small smile and glanced down at himself.
“I thought I had twenty more minutes to look like a normal person.”
Dillon looked at the robe again. His cheeks became pinker.
“You look good.”
Mark gave a quiet laugh. “I look like a crazy lady who just woke up.
Dillon’s eyes flickered toward the knot at Mark’s waist.
“I can come back. I’ll wait in my car.”
“No, you’re already here.”
“I should’ve texted my ETA.”
“It’s okay. No worries. Come in.”
Mark stepped aside and opened the door fully.
“I’m going to blame the outfit on you.”
“That’s fair.”
Dillon entered with a cautious turn of his body, trying to keep the bag from touching Mark. It brushed against his bare thigh anyway.
“Sorry.”
“You’re fine.”
They faced one another in the small entryway. Up close, Dillon’s fresh-shower scent was even stronger. There were tiny beads of moisture near his buzzed hairline, and his skin had the smooth, warm sheen of a body that had recently been scrubbed and rinsed. His callused hand rested against the strap of the duffel bag.
Mark extended his hand.
The gesture was automatic. It became excruciating the instant Dillon reached for it.
Mark had been using that hand to masturbate less than three minutes earlier.
He had wiped most of the lotion onto a tissue, but he could still feel the faint slickness around his palm and fingers. Shame and arousal moved through him at once as Dillon’s hand closed around his.
Dillon’s grip was strong without being aggressive. The calluses scraped pleasantly against Mark’s skin, rough from weights and work. His palm was warm. His thumb rested near the base of Mark’s index finger, close to where the last trace of lotion remained.
“Nice to meet you,” Dillon said.
“You too.”
Mark felt absurdly exposed, as though Dillon could somehow detect what his hand had been doing from the heat of it. He withdrew a little too quickly.
Dillon did not appear to notice. He looked around the living room, but his eyes kept returning to Mark’s chest and then to the long, bare line of his legs beneath the robe
“The house is beautiful,” Dillon said. “It’s much nicer than the pictures.”
“Thank you. It’s been a lot of work.”
“You’ve done a great job with it.”
The compliment was sincere and slightly formal. Dillon did not wander farther into the room or touch anything. He stood where Mark had left him, waiting to be shown around.
Mark liked that. The other potential renters he had interviewed had behaved as though they were inspecting a hotel room, opening drawers and commenting on flaws before they had properly introduced themselves.
“Most of it is still unfinished,” Mark said.
“It doesn’t feel unfinished.”
“You haven’t seen the holes yet.”
Dillon smiled, and his cheeks lifted around it. His whole face brightened with warmth
Mark felt his body stir again beneath the robe.
He gestured toward the living room. “This is obviously the main space. You can use everything—the television, the sofa, whatever. I don’t treat the house like a museum.”
The room had finally begun to resemble the place he had imagined when he bought it. A low gray sofa faced a large television on a walnut console. A stylish leather armchair sat beneath a curved black floor lamp. A few books remained stacked on the floor while Mark searched for shelving that did not look generic.
Dillon walked slowly around the edge of the room.
“The chair is really cool.”
“Thanks.”
“And the lamp.
Mark smiled. “You’re very good for my self-esteem.”
“I mean it. You have great taste.”
