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Chapter 3: Bro Edging
Things were kind of just back to normal after the cockfight, for a few days. I had been introduced to something very stupid that opened my eyes to male bonding rituals in college. But I had loosely brought up the idea to some other freshmen around the dorm and in study groups and stuff like that, and none of them had heard of anything like that. So I was stuck between thinking this was some secret rite of passage among males at this school, and maybe wondering if I had stumbled on just some strangely touchy group of guys associated with Charlie.
Still, after some time passed, I started to feel like I was never going to do something gay ever again, until one day after another gym sesh.
I was sitting on the bench in the locker room pulling on my socks when Charlie came around the corner from the showers with nothing on. That was normal by now. What wasn't normal was that he stopped right in front of me to dig through his bag on the upper hook, which put his whole cock and balls right at eye level with me, literally almost touching my face. Besides his musculature which I never fully got used to, his big meat, which I had touched several times at this point, still gave me feelings of inferiority and a nervous erection every time it was too close.
I couldn’t really move. Even after all the stuff that had happened, it was still intimidating. Part of me wanted to touch it again, to harness some of his aura, and part of me was scared of how much I wanted to do something like that.
Another guy came in from the gym floor, nodded at Charlie and started working his combination lock. Charlie didn't move or adjust. Just kept looking through his bag, unhurried, completely at ease with the nudity and the proximity to my face.
"Come over to my place tonight," he said, still looking through his bag. "If you want."
"Yeah," I said, looking at my sock, pretending to be fixing it, but really just sort of frozen with the male organ in my face. "Sure."
—[]—
I spent the rest of the day thinking about what "come over" meant now. I had a broader frame of reference than I'd had when I first met him. I ran through possibilities and landed on being prepared for anything. I headed over to his place, leaving my underwear at home, then cursed myself for doing that and went back to put some on. Then I pushed through the nerves and got to his place and texted him that I was outside.
He answered the door in sweatpants and nothing else. His chest was glistening slightly with the dim lights of his apartment casting an aura around him. He was a golden god, same as always, but something about seeing it in the quiet of his apartment, with no gym noise and no other guys around, made it feel different, like I was seeing him up close for the first time, in private.
"Hey," he said, and stepped back.
It was just him. No group of rowdy guys hyping up the toxic masculinity, no contextual groupthink, no red cups. I felt something settle in my chest.
We sat down on the couch, him plopping down a second after me, and making my body shift closer to his by pure physics. He handed me a water and asked how my week was going and actually waited for the answer. I told him about a class I was struggling with. He had taken the class and knew the current TAs, and he told me which one to go to to get the inside scoop. He was practical and specific, which was unusual outside of workout routines. Normally, he was more of a loudmouth, a little too physical when he was joking around, sort of “accidentally” demeaning when he told a joke. He was always a little bit of a bully, but it started to hit me that he was actually a sensitive bully.
Tonight he was different. At some point, he moved the conversation back to working out.
“Your form has gotten a lot better this week,” he said. “It’s critical to check your knee tracking, and you’re killin’ it.”
“I still feel like I suck,” I said.
He looked at me. "You're doing better than you think."
He got up at some point and came back without his sweatpants, just boxers, and sat back down like nothing had changed. He stretched out, one arm along the back of the couch, and the apartment was warm and the light was low and I was aware of his body.
"You cold?" he said.
"No," I said.
He nodded. We kept talking while TV played in the background, which I hadn’t even noticed was on before.
By the time the conversation shifted I had forgotten to be braced for anything. That was probably the point, though I wouldn't have said so at the time.
"You wanna know the real secret?" he said, "About discipline, and maximum output."
I waited.
"Edging," he said. "You know the concept?"
I chuckled. “Yeah, I mean, gooner shit…?”
“It’s more than that,” he said. “I’ll show you. It changes the quality of everything downstream, focus, output, physical presence. Guys who learn it right feel more like themselves than they ever had before.”
I just nodded as he went on. I felt my nervous boner coming and adjusted myself.
"Most guys can't pace themselves alone the first few times," he said. "You need someone to call it."
"I think I can tell when I’m about to cum," I said.
"Trust me," he said, and I smiled, even while my stomach did a flip.
He was sitting close enough that I could feel his warmth. I was aware that I was in his apartment, just the two of us, and that this conversation had moved somewhere significant, and I wasn't doing anything to redirect it.
"Okay," I said.
He tapped his phone twice and suddenly there was a porn compilation going on the screen. It was big dicks cumming on girls, but you could honestly barely see the girls. It felt like thinly veiled cock-worship porn for guys who liked to see more dick than girl in their porn, but couldn’t admit it to themselves.
I settled back into the ample couch cushions, and tried to look normal about it. Charlie got comfortable, shifting closer to me, his bare, tree trunk thigh sticking out of his underwear and just barely not touching my leg. He was close enough that his arm was against mine, watching the screen with the same loose expression he had at the gym when he was resting between sets, his hand resting near his slowly growing mountain of bulge.
I was still fully dressed. It felt significant that we had such differing dress codes in the moment, especially considering that he was about to make me undress.
On screen a guy finished, and it landed on another guy’s thigh even before it touched a girl, and the clip cut to the next one. Charlie reached forward for his water on the coffee table and settled back and his shoulder pressed into mine and stayed there.
I still watched the screen.
After a minute, my raging boner was achingly hard, and I couldn't ignore it anymore. I was sort of waiting for Charlie to make me do something. I shifted slightly and he glanced down at my lap and then back at the screen. I looked at Charlie’s bulge, his fully hard cylinder was pressing down his left thigh in his boxer briefs.
"There it is," I said.
He chuckled. "Go ahead and take your jeans off."
I looked at him.
"You'll be more comfortable," he said, gently.
I stood up and took them off and folded them over the arm of the couch and sat back down. He glanced at my lap once, said nothing, looked back at the screen.
"Relax," he said. "Don't think about it too hard."
We sat like that for another few minutes. His arm was still against mine. The compilation kept going, clip after clip, and I stopped trying to look normal about it and just watched Charlie get more worked up.
“Is this what you meant by edging?” I asked.
“We haven’t started yet,” he said, confirming my fears and also my bizarre desire mixed in.
Charlie pushed his underwear down and off without standing, lifted his hips and slid them to the floor, and settled back. His thick, steel pole slapped against his abs. He didn't touch himself yet, just let it rest against his stomach and looked at me.
I sat there in my boxers and processed the situation.
"Touch yourself," he said. "Keep it slow."
I looked at Charlie, and reached into my boxers. I did what he said, keeping myself covered from some illogical sense of modesty while I moved my fist up and down, ruffling my underwear and watching his cock.
“Slower,” he said, watching me carefully.
I obeyed. The slow pace he wanted was harder than it sounds, when my body was demanding for me to go faster, but I went agonizingly slowly at his direction.
“That’s it,” he said, when I was barely moving on myself.
He finally started touching himself, turning to face me. I matched his pace and felt the pressure build differently than it usually did, more evenly, like it was a strange mix of pleasure and torture, spreading out through my thighs and lower back like a dense tingling sensation.
His free hand resting on his thigh as he slowly squeezed the big, red apple at the end of his long tube of meat while neither of us said anything. The TV kept going, but we ignored it completely.
After a few minutes he said, "Put your hand on my thigh."
I looked at him.
"Camaraderie improves gains," he said, raising one eyebrow, just barely.
I moved my hand across and set it on his thigh. The muscle under my palm was dense and warm and I felt it shift slightly as he adjusted his position.
"Now, do me," he said taking his hand away from his shaft, leaving it staring at me. "Match the pace you're going."
I moved my hand up and held it, not for the first time, but the first time it felt this intimate. My fingers didn't touch on the other side, which was still a trip. The weight and warmth of him in my grip required my full attention, something that needed to be held carefully, and I matched the slow pace he'd told me and felt him respond with a low steady pulse under my hand.
He exhaled once through his nose.
"Good," he said. "Keep doing that."
He reached across without looking at me and wrapped his hand around my pole, replacing my hand. My whole body registered it simultaneously, everything going tighter and more alert at once. His grip was certain, and unhurried, and he set the pace, slow, building it up from the bottom with a tight grip that got looser near the sensitive head, like he knew not to overstimulate the mushroom tip at the end.
We stayed like that. Both of us working at the same pace, our legs overlapping, the TV going in the background, the rest of the world quiet.
I felt the pressure climb gradually, and sat with it and breathed. Until I felt it build to a nine out of ten.
“I’m close,” I muttered with a squeak, my voice cracking for the first time in over a year.
He stopped, and I stopped on him too.
“Combined edging,” he said, “You’re a natural.”
He kept his hand where it was, still, just holding me. I did the same. He squeezed the base gently, applying some internal pressure, like he was an expert, like he knew my body better than I did. The feeling in my body hung between a pulsing, pleasurable heaviness and just a bare glimpse of a release. I gripped his thigh tightly with my fingers and breathed through it, my whole lower body wanting to finish what it had started, but not being allowed to.
"Stay with it," he said. "Don't chase it. Let it fade."
I did what he said. The intensity went to my head. His thigh was solid under my hand. I could feel his dick pulse through my other palm, slow and steady, nothing like mine, which was tensing up sporadically.
After a minute the feeling settled enough, that I could breathe normally. He didn’t even ask. He just knew.
"Again," he said.
We went again. Slower than the first round, both of us, and the pressure that built was bigger and more total than before. I felt it moving up through my stomach. My jaw tightened. I was gripping him more firmly than I meant to.
"Easy," he said.
I loosened my grip.
"Stop," he said.
We stopped again. His hand stayed still on me and I kept mine still on him and the room was very quiet and the TV had moved to a new clip and I wasn't watching it anymore.
"You're holding it," he said. "Good."
"It's a lot," I said.
"Yeah," he said. "That's the point. Focus on your breath."
I sat there with his weight in my hand and felt my whole body pulsing with my cock, everywhere. I started to focus on my breathing, just like he said.
Two minutes. He gave me two full minutes before he said, "One more."
The third time, we went even slower. I felt him in my palm getting fuller, the pulse in him stronger, and I kept my pace steady the way he'd asked and felt the pressure in my own body climb toward the edge and hold there, right at the limit, both of us balanced on the same point.
In this round, the build in my own body was so gradual, I didn’t even realize how high the sensation had built up. The pressure suddenly climbed past where it had been, and then it kept going. My thighs were locked. His muscular thigh had an indentation from my grip.
By the time I said, “Wait,” he had pushed through one stroke too many.
“Woops,” he said casually as I started to rapidly pulse in his fist.
I went over the edge before I knew it was happening. My whole body clenched hard and a sound came out of my mouth that I had never made before, something between a groan and an exhale that I had no control over. My thighs locked and my ass tensed so hard I lifted myself slightly off the couch cushion.His hand stayed steady as he realized what was happening, if he didn’t already know exactly what he was doing before, and he aimed my dick up in the air as I squirted a long, watery, whitish shot of jizz above my own head. It came down and landed on my face, streaking my cheek and mouth as additional shots covered my abs and crotch.
Charlie rubbed me through all of it, not stopping, drawing it all the way out while I forgot entirely what I was supposed to be doing with my own hand. The wave built past what I thought the peak was and then further still and then finally crested and settled through me in a long full release that left my hands shaking and my chest heaving and my vision soft at the edges.
I sat there as the life started to re-enter my body.
Charlie set his water down and looked at me with the same observational expression he'd had all night.
"You blew," he said.
"Sorry," I said. Still catching my breath.
"Don't apologize." Firm, not unkind. "But we need to address it."