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Sabotaging No Nut November - Chapter 4
🕑 Added 2025-11-13 22:00:02 +0000 UTCThe stale, comforting scent of microwaved pizza and dust hit me as I nudged Tyler’s door open. No lock, typical Ty. Inside, it was a cave illuminated by the flickering blues and reds of his massive gaming monitor and the soft, warm glow of a cheap desk lamp. The air hummed with the frantic click-clack of his mechanical keyboard and the muffled explosions from his oversized headphones. Posters of fantastical warriors and sleek spaceships covered the walls, punctuated by a few empty energy drink cans strategically placed like modern art installations. And there he was. Tyler.
Shirtless, hunched forward in his battered gaming chair, pale skin glowing in the monitor’s light. Slim, yes, but with a lean definition that surprised people. Dark hair messy, falling into his eyes as he concentrated fiercely, tongue caught slightly between his teeth. Sweatpants hung low on his hips, loose. Vulnerable. Perfect. My next target. Mason had been a sweaty, muscular conquest, a test of dominance. Tyler… Tyler was different. Delicate. Tempting in his quiet intensity. Like poking a sleeping fox.
"Game over for me already," I sighed dramatically, leaning against the doorframe. "Mason folded like cheap origami. Gym showers. Predictable, right?"
Tyler jumped, spinning in his chair, eyes wide behind his glasses. He ripped off his headphones, the sudden silence thick. "Evan! Shit, you scared me. Mason…? He lost? Already?" His gaze flicked involuntarily to my watch, still stubbornly green. A flicker of something – anxiety? – crossed his face. He subtly pulled his thin blanket higher over his lap.
"Day three," I confirmed, pushing off the frame and strolling in. I let my eyes roam over him. The sharp line of his collarbone, the faint trail of dark hair leading down his flat stomach into his waistband. "Big guy cracked under pressure. Couldn't handle a little… steam." I stopped right beside him, gazing over his shoulder at the paused game screen. "Whatcha playing? Getting your ass kicked?"
"Uh… strategy RPG," he mumbled, shifting uncomfortably. His fingers hovered uselessly over the keyboard. "Just grinding." He smelled faintly of fabric softener and that slightly sweet, clean sweat unique to him. Innocent. It made the dark coil of anticipation in my gut tighten.
"You need a better chair, man. Posture’s gonna be fucked." I leaned down, ostensibly to get a better look at the screen. My bare forearm brushed against his shoulder. He flinched. Barely, but I felt it. A tremor. Good. "And your headset cord’s tangled." My hand drifted up, fingers grazing the sensitive skin just below his ear as I pretended to fiddle with the cord draped near his neck.
A sharp intake of breath. His whole body stiffened. His skin was impossibly soft, warm. I let the pad of my thumb trace a slow, deliberate circle against the hollow behind his jawbone. His pulse hammered against my touch. Wild.
"T-that tickles," he whispered, voice tight. He didn't pull away. He leaned into the touch, just a fraction. His free hand drifted down, subtly trying to adjust the blanket tenting over his lap.
"Does it?" I murmured, my lips now dangerously close to his other ear. My breath stirred the fine hairs there. I saw the goosebumps erupt down his neck, over his shoulder. "Bet you can’t focus now, Ty." My fingers abandoned the cord, sliding down the tense line of his neck, tracing the knobs of his spine. Slow. Possessive. My other hand landed lightly on his inner thigh, just above the knee. He jerked, a small gasp escaping him. The blanket slipped lower.
He was hard. Obscenely hard beneath the thin grey sweats. The outline was unmistakable, thick and straining upwards, tenting the fabric. A damp spot was already blooming at the tip. Precum. Fuck. He was primed. Sensitive. My own cock throbbed in response, trapped in my jeans.
"Evan…" His voice was a ragged whisper, trembling. His eyes were huge, dark pools in the dim light, fixed on the frozen explosion on his monitor. Not looking at me. Couldn't. "Don't… the bet…"
"The bet?" I breathed the words against his ear, feeling him shiver. My hand slid higher up his inner thigh, the heat radiating through the cotton felt like a brand. I squeezed gently. He whimpered. "Forget the bet. This is about how fucking wound up you look. About this…" My fingers brushed the swollen head of his cock through the sweats. He cried out, a short, sharp sound, hips bucking involuntarily into my touch.
"Please…" It was barely audible. A plea or a protest? Didn't matter. The dam was cracking.
I dropped to my knees beside the chair. The worn carpet scratchy through my jeans. He froze, staring down at me, chest heaving. I looked up at him, holding his terrified, fascinated gaze. Slowly, deliberately, I hooked my fingers into the elastic waistband of his sweats and tugged them down, just enough to free him.
His cock sprang out, flushed dark red and glistening at the tip. Thick for his frame, veined, straining upwards. Beautiful. Needy. I didn’t touch it. Not yet. I just looked. Let him feel the weight of my stare. Let the panic and the desperate want war inside him. His breath hitched, a ragged sob catching in his throat. His thighs tensed, trembling.
"I… I can’t…" he choked out, his knuckles white on the armrests.
"Can’t what, Tyler?" I whispered. My breath ghosted over the slick head of his cock. He whined, high-pitched. "Can’t stop thinking about how good my mouth would feel? How deep I could take this?" I leaned in, letting my lips brush the throbbing vein along the underside. Just a feather-light touch. He jerked, crying out again. "Beg me."
He was breaking. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. His eyes were wide, desperate, locked on my mouth hovering inches from his cock. "Please," he gasped. "Evan, please…"
"Please what?" I prompted, my tongue darting out, tracing a teasing line up the shaft, collecting the bitter-salt bead of pre-cum. He tasted clean, musky, perfect. Savory.
"Please… suck it." The words tumbled out in a rush, thick with shame and want. "Please suck my cock. I need… I need your mouth. Now. Please!" His voice cracked. His hips lifted off the chair, pushing towards me.
That was all I needed. I opened my mouth and took him in. Deep. Swallowing him down in one smooth motion until the head nudged the back of my throat. I groaned around him, the vibration making him shout, his hands flying to my hair, tangling, gripping almost painfully.
"Oh FUCK! Oh god, Evan! Yes! Suck it!" he babbled, hips pistoning shallowly. "Your mouth… so fucking hot… fuck!"
I worked him. Hard. Fast. No teasing now. Just raw, wet suction. My lips stretched tight around his girth. My tongue pressed hard against the sensitive underside. My head bobbed ruthlessly. Slurping, gagging slightly as I took him deep, over and over. My hand wrapped around the base, pumping in time, twisting on the upstroke. The sounds were obscene: wet sucking, his frantic gasps and cries, the creak of the cheap chair as he writhed.
"Gonna cum! Fuck, Evan, I'm gonna cum!" he warned, his voice strangled, his fingers clawing at my scalp. "Oh shit! Oh fuck! YES!"
He came with a choked roar, back arching violently off the chair. Thick, hot spurts of cum shot down my throat, bitter and salty. I swallowed, sucking hard, milking every drop as he bucked and shuddered, his cock pulsing wildly against my tongue. "Drink it, yes, swallow it all, fuck!" he sobbed, his body rigid, then collapsing back into the chair, trembling uncontrollably.
I sucked him clean, gently now, until he whimpered from oversensitivity. Then I pulled off with a wet pop, wiping my lips with the back of my hand, looking up at him. He was wrecked. Sweaty, glasses askew, eyes glazed and unfocused, chest still heaving. Completely spent.
Then, the sound. Sharp. Insistent. Not a victory fanfare, but a judgment. A low, continuous beep. Tyler turned his head slowly, dazedly, towards his own wrist. The smartwatch face glowed a vibrant, accusing crimson. The light painted his stunned, slack-jawed face red.
He was out. Day seven.
I slowly got to my feet, my own cock aching fiercely in my jeans. I looked down at the ruined boy in the chair, the red light bathing his stunned face. A slow, satisfied smile spread across my face. Two down.
"Damn, Ty," I said, my voice rough. "Guess strategy games aren't the only thing you can't focus on." I ruffled his sweaty hair. "Better luck next year."
I turned and walked out of the dim room, leaving him trembling in the glow of the monitor and the condemning red light on his wrist. The hallway felt cold. Good. Leo was next. The quiet one. The observant one. Maybe the toughest nut to crack. The itch beneath my skin, the relentless pull of the game, hummed louder. The craving was morphing. Darker. More personal. Who’s next?
