My New Roommate- Part 6

For weeks, I watched. I waited. I built theories like a fucking detective, but this wasn’t about truth. It was about getting off.

For weeks, I watched. I waited. I built theories like a fucking detective, but this wasn’t about truth. It was about getting off.

I had almost everything.

The cum drawer. The wet dreams. The stained underwear hidden like precious secrets. I knew Damien jerked off now—finally. But that wasn’t enough.

I wanted to see it.

And I was getting close to snapping.

It started on a Tuesday. Regular day. Or so I thought.

We had different class schedules, and I usually didn’t think much of it—until I came home early last week and noticed something weird. A crumpled gym towel on the floor. A bottle of lotion out of place. The faintest smell in the room. Not sweat. Not soap.

Sex.

And Damien had class that afternoon.

So why the fuck had he come home?

I started watching more carefully.

And then I saw it—Thursday morning, he left like normal. Said he had back-to-back classes. But a few hours later, I saw his car wasn’t parked at campus.

I didn’t have a car.

So I ran.

By the time I got home, I was drenched in sweat, out of breath, and hard as fuck from adrenaline.

The front door was unlocked.

The hallway quiet.

I moved slow. Barefoot. Careful.

Every part of me was shaking.

And then—

I heard it.

Soft moaning.

Coming from the bedroom.

My hand gripped the doorknob.

I turned it.

Opened it.

And there he was.

Damien.

Naked.

Flat on his back on my bed—our bed—one leg bent, the other stretched out. His head tilted back, mouth open, eyes half-shut in ecstasy. His whole body was moving in soft pulses, hips grinding upward as he fucked his own fist.

He wasn’t quiet now.

He was moaning—deep, soft, filthy sounds.

And he looked fucking beautiful.

His cock was thick, hard, leaking. He stroked it with slow, practiced strokes, his thumb grazing the head on every up-slide. His other hand was gripping the sheets, pulling them into fists, like he couldn’t stay still.

He was whimpering.

His voice was shaking.

“Fuck… yes… fuck…”

I stood there, frozen, heart pounding like it was trying to escape my ribs.

My cock surged in my shorts. I grabbed it through the fabric, unable to stop myself. Just holding it. Just feeling it throb as I watched the guy I’d been chasing for months finally give in.

He looked unreal. Sweaty. Glowing. His abs clenched on every stroke. His balls were tight, ready. His moans got higher, his hips bucked, his hand sped up.

And then—

His eyes opened.

And he saw me.

His whole body jolted.

His hand stopped mid-stroke. His chest was heaving. His cock—angry, wet, begging for release—twitched in the air.

We stared at each other.

Breathless.

Hard.

And then I said it.

A whisper. A smile.

“Gotcha.”