"If you took everybody you ever jerked off home to meet your parents, they'd have to build a new wing on the house."

"It's just my dad. It's in Geneva. We're staying at a hotel."

"They could rent out another floor, probably."

"We own it," Kendall says, frowning.

Stewy's smirk breaks into a smile, awful and amused and all incredible white teeth, all while his ass is grinding against him like some kind of obscene performance. Kendall Roy hasn't gotten a lapdance since he was fifteen, but this has got to be the next best thing. Stewy's thick thighs have a softness to them that the gym hasn't burned off and the full hard muscle grips like a straitjacket. Pinned in place, whatever shall I do.

His erection is throbbing, and all of a sudden the room seems really small. Every inch of his body is turned on to sensation, like the strangest kind of full-body high, and it feels like every inch of him is touching somebody else's body parts -- Stewy's hairy knees bracing his hips, Stewy's hands on his belly, his feet curling softly against Kendall's shins.

This isn't a thing, but it's their thing. It's like a more elaborate way of jerking off. On Thursday nights Kendall comes over and Stewy plays one of those prerecorded econ lectures in the background and gives him a backrub, which always somehow turns into the two of them giving each other handjobs which more often than not turns into Kendall sleeping better than he has since -- well, since he can remember. This seems like the logical next step. Kendall fucks Stewy, and then Stewy fucks Kendall, and on and on until one of them graduates or kills himself or goes to white collar prison. It's perfect.

Stewy's awful little mustache brushes his cheek -- he thumbs at a bead of lube resting on the tip of his dick and makes Kendall gasp.

"You want this?"

"Yeah," Kendall breathes. He's agonizingly hard, and he doesn't know if he's lying. "You can -- you can do it, right?"

"Watch me."

Kendall doesn't have any other choice but to watch, and to hold on to Stewy bruisingly tight as he goes slipping down on his cock like a pro. Like the Harvard ass-fucking champion Class of 2002. An ass is an ass, which is really convenient because Stewy looks fucking incredible from behind and since the moment Kendall brought the subject up he's been using escalatingly disgusting euphemisms for the act like that's going to put him off. No fucking chance. Just another tight hole.

Kendall fantasizes about getting fucked, not fucking, and not like this -- like an awful anonymous alleyway gangbang where brutal international businessmen screw him silly, not a choreographed fuck ballet in a two-bedroom university lease. Stewy has taken a scientific approach. The slippery heat of him, wet with lube and lotion, is like the squeeze of a hand and Kendall's heart is pounding so hard he's certain Stewy can hear it.

Stewy rides his cock, arms braced against the headboard behind, and from beneath Kendall can see the razor burn on the side of his throat and the faint yellow bruise beneath it. It must have been some girl that left it there, because Kendall can't remember -- but he can't remember a lot of what they get up to together, it's all about the feeling and the feeling is phenomenal.

Knowing Stewy is like surrendering to be touched -- he'll probably lose the habit in about ten years when one of the partners at his no-doubt massive brokerage firm nails him with a lawsuit but for now Kendall gives him carte blanche to handle. He surrenders himself to being held and pawed and squeezed with the effortless confidence of a straight guy with a coke problem. Kendall is almost certain that he likes girls, but no girl has ever treated him how Stewy does, with such blithe disregard for boundaries. He doesn't know what he'd do if he met one who did. Introduce her to Stewy, probably.

"Fuck, that's good--"

"Yeah? You're fucking lucky to have me. I told you."

Kendall grips onto his ass so tight that his hands ache, half-guiding the hard press of his body and half-victim to it -- the constriction passes, as Stewy spoons more lube onto the both of them with his cupped hand, but the close hot tightness never goes away. Kendall wants to touch him all over or grab his balls or something, but Stewy swats his hands away and kisses him instead without even breaking the pattern of his thrusts.

In all honesty, Stewy is a pretty bad kisser. He must really like doing it, because Kendall never gets away from him unscathed by some kind of beard burn in a place he's never even thought about before and Stewy always acts so fucking smug about it later -- he's rough and heavy and ardent, all lips and tongue when just for once Kendall would like to feel teeth. Stewy's hand is on the base of his throat, his fingernails are digging in as he rides Kendall's erection, and Kendall is starting to feel the kind of head-rush vertigo that means something really good or really bad is about to happen. Maybe both.

"Hey," Kendall mutters in the most broken awful voice he can barely manage, "would you -- could you ever choke me?"

"What, like with a belt?"

Kendall makes a disgusted sound, as disgusted with himself as he is with Stewy for making everything into a fucking joke, and lets his head fall back. The heavy headboard is scraping against the wall with every purposeful slam of Stewy's hips and he can feel himself not far from the brink, all that awful sex energy mounting inside him for the big finale. Stewy treats him like a thing to be fucked with, like a helpful marital aid, and it would be insulting if it weren't so hot.

He doesn't have to ask Stewy if he'll jerk off on his chest, if he'll come on him like some awful frathouse initiation ritual -- he's already doing it, working his ruddy veined dick with pride like a champion major-league masturbator. There's a weird kind of sprezzatura to it, the way he rocks forward and back with Kendall's dick inside him while working his own erection until it's dark and glistening -- the grace of doing something that's not easy and making it look like it is. Who else has Stewy fucked like this? No one, nobody. The two of them share a special relationship -- like Churchill and Truman, like Thatcher and Reagan.

"Tell me when you're going to come," Stewy says. What he really means is, ask me if you can. Ask me if I'll let you finish. "You know how to tell that, right?"

"I think I'm gonna," Kendall breathes -- he's sweating and seeing spots and all the feeling is gone below the waist, though that might just be having the weight of another dude on him pinching some kind of dick nerve and no doubt causing permanent damage. His orgasm is out of his own control now, it's rising and rising to the point where it seems impossible to withstand --

"Oh yeah?"

Stewy arches forward, letting his cock slip free, and Kendall finishes all over the cleft of his ass, which by extension means finishing all over his own lap. He climaxes harder than he ever has before, hard and sharp and all at once -- in that instance whatever else there was just melts away, and there's no more Kendall, no more Stewy, nothing. Nobody in this bedroom has a name, because nobody exists.

When the feeling starts to return to his body, Stewy's benign weight is slumped against his chest -- Kendall knows he should be the bigger man and stroke his back or something like that but he doesn't want to touch him more than he absolutely has to, not when Stewy's dick is sticking to Kendall's thigh. They're buddies, pals, friends, but they're not that close.

Kendall shuts his eyes. He could go to sleep just like this, actually. It would be fucked up, but he could do it. He's slept on helicopter trips, and in worse places, and with the dull haziness of a sober orgasm still cradling him the weight of another body is a comfort -- all that naked skin, all that touch. The smell of sex is heavy in the room, and the weird bright smell of lubricant, but Stewy smells like a forest of cedars and the rise and fall of his modestly hairy chest is steady enough for Kendall to keep time.

Stewy lifts his head, limbs shifting. Is he getting up? Is he getting ready to go again? Does he want to flip the script and fuck Kendall now, right after? Motherfucker, he's checking his watch.

Kendall's eyes snap open. Stewy is playing it cool, lowering his head and gazing at him under those pretty black eyelashes like nothing weird just happened, but his ugly digital watch is beaming back an irradiated 12:31.

"Have fun on your European vacation tomorrow. Just remember, you owe me."

"So really you don't want to go. You didn't want me to ask you."

"I would rather gnaw my fucking arm off, bro. Scout's honor."

"Then why bring it up?"

"Well, if you're going to be weird about it--"

"Like ha-ha, wouldn't it be crazy if I met your dad, just kidding, not really? Fuck you."

Kendall jerks free, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed -- Stewy reaches out and grabs at him, but he can't get a grip and Kendall is already yanking on his gray boxer briefs with ferocity. Drawing back on the bed, all tangled in the pinstripe sheets, Stewy looks like one of those paintings in European art museums of strung-out old courtesans -- no longer taut with muscle and burning to fuck, just limp-dicked and on display.

His face is burning.

"You've got come all over you," Stewy calls out as Kendall yanks a pair of sweatpants that aren't his up past his shins. The sooner he can scrub away the traces, the better, but that's not something Stewy needs to know about.