Men of the House: A MMF Romance Read online

  “Intelligent, smoking body…the list could go on.” Her blue eyes shine. “You know that he’s got you too.”

  I sigh because I know exactly what she’s talking about. Zach is all that, despite his flaws. And Rachel and Sandra have been my rocks whenever moments of self-doubt creep in, and they’ve been creeping in a lot lately. My mom’s been missing for nearly a year now. Before that she’d spent the last few years in and out of rehab more times than I’ve changed my underwear. I worry that sometimes when I get a little depressed that maybe I’ll turn to drugs like mom did. No one understood why she started to get dependent on them.

  “Only one more year left.”

  Unlike Sandra, I can’t wait for college to be over. I hate being so cloistered from the world and I want to get a job and start acting like a grown-up. I’m twenty-two and the feeling of being out in the real world is something that I’m craving right now.

  “I just want to get a job, an apartment, and to be with Zach. Why does that feel as if it's too much?” I sigh as I think about us going away for the summer and then back to college again. Back to being apart. “College isn’t my thing. Not my world. Everyone talks about going to college as if it's going to be an unforgettable experience. All I know is that college just never seems to end!”

  She smiles as we get to the intersection, where we head in opposite directions. Usually, we would go to the library or even grab something to eat before we’re due to go back to class. Now that the year is over, that is one thing that I’ll miss. Hanging out with my blonde-bombshell girlfriend.

  “That’s because you either spend your time with Zach or studying; you never tried to enjoy being here. That’s why.”

  She has a point; I missed out on all of the parties. I’d either be at Zach’s eating house or struggling with one of my papers. I’ve just found it hard being here and I’m not one for socializing at the best of times. I hate to admit that she’s right, so I give her a hug instead. “Stay in touch.”

  “You’re not trying to get rid of me right?”

  “No, it's just that Zach’s waiting for me."

  I pull away, and then I go back to hug her. Damn, I’m going to miss her, but I need to get back to Zach. So many times I’ve wanted to give up, and she’s been the push that I need to keep studying and not give up.

  I just gotta get her something while I’m on vacation. She’s going to New York to stay with her dad and party too hard. She keeps inviting me to go with her. I did ask Zach, but he wasn’t that keen on it. Without her, I would've quit Harvard a long time ago.

  We start walking in opposite directions and then I stop and shout out, “Love ya!” and blow her a kiss.

  She pretends to catch it, “Don’t be a stranger.”

  I laugh, because she couldn’t keep me away even if she tried. I have a big smile on my face as I walk to the dorm room. Everyone’s running around like mice. Some are getting ready for an all-night party. Others are just dying to go on vacation. Mainly the rich ones, whose parents have handed them pots of money so that they can enjoy themselves. I wish that I had this luxury. But, I don’t. My dad’s dead and my mom’s on drugs. It’s been some time since the state pulled her sizable trust fund and put it in a custodial account. I’m not about to go ask my stepdad Daniel what happened to it just yet. That money had been set up by my grandparents for Mom and any children she might have had. But when she started to take her life off the deep end, her parents had gone to the State of California and ensured that certain restrictions were placed so she couldn’t touch the money without becoming clean. When she left home – searching for drugs and who knew what else – the state merely shrugged and placed the funds in a escrow account. I shake my head as I think about my past and smile as I think about the future with Zach.

  As I reach the dorm, I pull out my phone because I think that someone’s calling it. I realize that no one’s calling, but I’ve got it in my hand as I freeze as I open the door.

  “What the fuck?” I mutter as I open the door to see that Zach’s sitting on my bed. But that’s not all. Between his legs is Rachel. My saving grace. One of my rocks in college. Only she’s not supporting me; she’s on her knees. Her head is bobbing up and down on Zach’s cock she’s giving my man the full service.

  “Oh fuck yeah, Rach, just like that,” Zach moans out loud and for an instant I wonder where this side of my boyfriend is coming from. Sure, he likes getting blowjobs, but I’m a bit surprised that Rachel has the room to bob her head as much as it looks like she’s doing. Zach isn’t super huge. He’s not even huge. He’ barely average.

  “I love your mouth on my cock,” Zach says as his fingers reach down to feel her tits. Fuck, that’s my fucking man. Getting head. On my bed. In my room. From my roommate.

  Let me ask again.

  What the fuck?

  I don’t know why, but with my phone in my hand, I take a damn picture. It’s as if my fingers can’t comprehend what’s going on. In this moment, I hate him, so much. Zach grabs my jersey, which is lying on the bed, and uses it to wipe his cock. He’s so lost in the afterglow of his climax that he doesn’t even realize that I’m standing by the door.

  Snap, another photo!

  And as I take the picture, my hate turns to detachment.

  Zach is fucking dead to me.

  After I take the second photo, he realizes that I’m in the room, “Karen, we thought that you weren’t finishing until two!” He puts his limp dick back into his pants, zips up and gets off my bed.

  “So, I’m early, that makes this okay?” I ask, gesturing around.

  Rachel’s moving slow and confident. I want to scream at her and tell her not to move. Tell her that she’s sunk so low; ask her why she would do that to me. I thought that she was my friend. I want to cry, but the tears don’t leave my eyes.

  “You never want to have sex. I was frustrated in the bathroom, and Rachel said that she could help,” Zach explains, as if that’s justification for what I’ve just seen.

  “On my bed! In my room?”

  “Our room,” Rachel corrects me, and then she just leaves. As if she’s done nothing wrong.

  Zach holds on to me, pleading. “Look, it’s not like you ever want to have sex. You’ve been stressed.” Then his tone turns into a purr as if he’s trying to make out that somehow this is my fault. I know this tone so well. He does it to me all the time. Whenever I don’t want to have sex, his voice changes to this tone. Whenever I want him to come and visit me, his voice changes to the same tone, telling me that it would be easier for me to visit him. Zach has a way of manipulating me to do anything that he wants me to do, which is why I get nervous around him. It starts hitting home that this relationship isn’t what I say it is to other people or even what I tell myself that it is most of the time.

  It’s like mom and her drugs.

  Zach’s an addiction that I really need to get rid of.

  He’s still talking, “I get it. I just needed a…” Then he winks at me as if I’m one of his college buddies.

  “Get out!” I tell him softly. But while my words may be soft, my tone is louder than any yell.

  He looks at me.

  He hesitates for a minute and then blurts out, “I think that you’re overreacting. It’s not like I had sex on your bed or anything. Call me when you come to your senses!” Then he throws my sweater on the floor as if it’s a piece of trash before slamming the door shut behind him.

  My phone’s still in my hand, and I mutter, “Overreacting am I?”

  I start to post his five-inch cock on Facebook with a message about his premature-ejaculation problem. I’ll probably be going to Facebook jail because it’s a cock pic, but whatever.

  It’ll be worth it.

  This is the real reason that we haven’t had sex in forever. By the time I start getting wet, he’s already finished. I’ve tolerated it and thought about his other qualities, and the fact that we’ve been together since high school. The fact that I thought he loved me.
I'm angry: not with myself, but with him. I found him with Rachel and yet I've not shed one tear. It’s as if somehow I feel free, yet humiliated. I don’t deserve to be humiliated; he does. So I post on Facebook, for all his friends to see. As soon as I hit the post, I start getting likes for the picture with the message, “Zach coming before the action starts!”

  I grab the last of my things and look around my room. I’m glad that I shipped most of them home on Tuesday. I only have a couple of thing to pick up before I hop into the car for the long drive. Daniel, my stepdad, said that he wanted me to come home before I went on vacation with Zach. I wasn’t going to do it, especially after I gave Zach the wrong date for the end of term. Now I see no reason not to. After all, I’ve got to plan my summer and I don’t feel like staying here a second longer for Rachel to come back and see me. I plan to avoid her like the plague. Thank God we’re not sharing again next year.

  As I walk to the car, my phone’s vibrating like crazy. This is when I see that most of his friends have liked the picture and shared it. I have around forty views, but I’m sure by the time I get home, it will have gone viral, and then Zach will be the one worrying about my actions, rather than me worrying about his.

  2

  Colt

  Home sweet fucking home, I think, as soon as I walk up to the intersection and press the pedestrian walk button. Just a couple more blocks to the house.

  California’s so fucking hot; it's like walking through an oven. Even my balls are sweating. How do people walk through this shit?

  I guess I could've called a cab, but the house isn't far from the Amtrak station, so I took a train, and now I'm walking. I figured I'd take it all in. And for the most part, I've been soaking it all in for the first time in a long time.

  I knew I was getting close when those nuclear tits came into view off the I-5. If you've never seen them, you should. They're nuclear reactors that power the area, sitting right along the coast, and the guy who designed them must've had some fucking sense of humor because they look like a perfect pair of tits.

  I feel a thin line of sweat run down my face, and another bead of sweat trickle down the contours of my abs. I stop and take a drink of water and survey my old neighborhood. If I'm being fucking honest, I wish that I didn’t even have to go home. I could be hitting the beach right now, working on my tan, surfing the T-Street break, and picking up the girls clamoring for a taste of the dudes brave enough to ride San Clemente's most consistent waves..

  “Hey, hottie!” someone shouts.

  I barely hear the voice from the convertible at the intersection. I’m lost in my thoughts about my stepdad Daniel asking me to come home. It's my fucking summer break and I thought I'd chill with the guys before we all hop on a plane to Bali. But those plans got derailed quicker than I can get in a girl's fucking skirt. Poof. Those plans detonated pretty fucking fast.

  But yeah, there’s a girl calling out to me.

  I mean, I’m not surprised she’s impressed enough to call out. If you see me, you know what I’m working with. My fucking 8 pack abs that you can see through my tight shirt. My ripped body. My tattoos.

  My fucking face that’s cut and and deep, soulful eyes.

  But more than anything, my giant fucking cock. She can probably tell what this cock does.

  Hell, she can probably tell my entire body was designed to fuck.

  That’s right, Colt Morgan was built to have sex.

  “How may I be of service?” I ask the dark-haired girl in the convertible next to me at the stoplight. I play it casual. There’s one thing about San Clemente girls. They never fucking fail to surprise me.

  “In more ways than you can think,” she purrs.

  Holy shit!

  Sure, the girl’s got wavy dark tresses. But she’s got a slutty vibe in her face that I’m fucking familiar with. This is a SoCal chick. One of those who’s driving that car on Daddy’s money. She’d probably drive a jalopy if it meant he’d pay more attention to her.

  But he doesn’t. So she’s out. Trolling for guys.

  The girl knows she’s got a limited window of time to impress me if she wants me to fuck her. She doesn’t waste time as she starts to lower her top, flashing her big boobs. No doubt they’re fake. They’re fucking huge—symmetrical and extra perky—just the way I like them. I bet they'd fit nicely in my hands. They look like two big melons squashed into her thin vest. I’m so tempted to follow her home as she lowers her top further, leaving nothing to the imagination.

  I can hardly speak; I feel as if I’ve got one of those big melons stuffed right in my fucking mouth. I'm not kidding when I say that I can practically fucking taste her.

  I blink to bring myself back to reality. “Those,” I point to them, my fingers aching to touch her because I’m getting so fucking hard, “could stop traffic!”

  She laughs, “I think that they’ve already done that. So, big boy? Are you going to follow me home or are you going to sit there and look at them all day long?” She's chewing gum, and I watch as her moist lips open and close seductively. If I'm fucking honest, I can already imagine something else between those lips.

  Like I said, I know these girls and what they’re all about.

  Underneath that perfectly coiffed Neiman Marcus look, she’s a nasty fucking slut ready to spread her legs and let any dude with a dick defile the shit out of her.

  I could do things to her that would make you raise your eyebrows.

  But I’m so over it. It’s not new.

  I’m just about to answer her but from the look on my face I know she can tell she’s going to be shot down. That’s why when the light turns green and she drives off without a word. For a minute I think about following her—maybe jotting down her license plate, getting in a car and finding her, but then my phone rings and I see it's Daniel calling. I guess I need to take a rain check. I can’t get distracted; I’m only here for a couple of days. Besides, there'll be plenty of girls like her in Bali.

  I love being back home. Yes, the weather’s fucking hot, but the girls are even hotter.

  I take a right down to the house, wondering what the big drama is. It's not every day that I get called back home. Daniel, my stepdad, was married to my mom when I was little. I used to call him Dad until my mom died and he married Clara, my new stepmom. I never liked her, wild and unpredictable, and of course I didn't fucking like the fact that my mom was being replaced so soon. Besides, Clara was a drug addict, and after only one year she bailed out on him.

  As soon as I walk up to the house, I take a deep breath and call out, “home sweet home.” I drop my bag from my shoulder and can feel a trickle of sweat running down the middle of my back

  I look around the driveway before walking into the house. Daniel’s car isn’t here, which I find strange, seeing as he was calling me only a few minutes ago. I suppose I should call him back, but I just want to dump my things inside first and get out of this heat.

  My stepsister Karen’s car is in the drive. Strange; I didn’t know that she would be here too. I thought that it would be only Daniel and I. My stepsister is crazy about her boyfriend Zach, even though everyone knows that he can’t keep his dick in his pants. I tried warning her once and she nearly bit my head off. Lesson learned. Now I keep my fucking mouth shut. Then again, I did see on her Facebook profile recently that she had posted a photo of him getting a BJ from some other chick. Sucks to be him right now … or her I guess.

  But she can't say I didn't warn her.

  I'm sure Karen will forgive him. She's always fucking covering for Zach. It's a crazy kind of denial. She seems to turn a blind eye to everything else that he does. But maybe I've been wrong. Maybe she never knew about any of this until now. Or maybe love really is blind.

  I wouldn’t know, because falling in love is the last thing I’ll ever do. Fuck that. I saw the way Daniel fell apart when Mom died, and he wasn’t much better when Clara kept running off. There's one thing I know for sure: love is a losing game. You can fucking quote
me on that too.

  I take my time entering the house. I’m just about to go to my room, when I decide to head to the kitchen. Fuck, I’m dying for a drink, so I dump my bag by the stairs. It was a longer walk that I remembered it being, and I hate sitting in a car sometimes because I feel as if I’m driving in a cage or something; I prefer to move around, take in the natural breeze and surroundings when I can. But today, with these California temperatures, I'm thinking that was a mistake. I should've drove. There was nothing but hot air and oppressive sun beating down on me

  I’m in the kitchen just about ready to grab a cold beer from the fridge when I see Karen. She's sunbathing by the pool. I wonder if she came here because she caught Zach with another girl. After seeing her Facebook post, I'm fucking dying to hear what happened. But the temptation to stand here and admire her body while sipping on a beer is strong, even though we’re officially family. Fuck, has she filled out or something? I don't ever remember her looking this fucking hot. She's wearing a bikini, lying in a reclined patio chair, a mixture of sweat and sunshine bouncing off the tops of her tits. I turn away thinking that I shouldn't be watching her sunbathe; she's my fucking stepsister!

  I close my eyes and move closer to the porch door like a moth to a light bulb. I don’t even realize that I’m staring, but suddenly she is standing up and looking directly at me.

  She waves to me, “Hey!”

  Fuck. I need to adjust my cock; it’s on full alert as I look at Karen.

  I open the door. “What are you doing here?”

  I don’t know why I said that. This is her home too. She’s nothing but a sweet temptation. It’s as if her boobs are screaming fucking “squeeze me” and somehow her waist is more pronounced. Then again, I’ve never seen her in a swimsuit before, let alone a bikini that leaves nothing to the imagination.

  “I live here silly! I could say the same thing about you.” She smiles, her hands on her hips. “Why don’t you come and join me?”