Page 19 of Taste Test

The weekend turned into a non-stop production line for what Jared proudly dubbed Sutherland’s Special Blend .

After locking in our deranged arrangement Friday night, he wasted no time putting it into practice.

We’d worked out a system—fucked-up but efficient—that guaranteed I got the goods fresh without having to actually see his cock.

He kept offering to let me watch. “I could just do it here on the couch, bro. Might be quicker.”

But I had to draw the line somewhere. I couldn’t have him thinking I wanted to see his dick, right?

So the ritual was: he’d hop in the shower—not to wash, but fully clothed behind the curtain—while I waited on the bathmat like some perverse delivery boy.

I’d hear the slick rhythm of his hand, the occasional grunt, then that tell-tale thit-thit-thit of his semen splattering into the cup.

A moment later, his arm would snake out from behind the curtain, cup in hand, still hot from the source.

Friday night, the cup had been filled twice before he announced he was off to bed.

Saturday’s output was particularly impressive considering he had a game that afternoon.

Not only did his team win, he got player of the match despite having emptied his nuts three times before the game, and then he’d come home and emptied them three more.

Sunday I got five separate brewing sessions.

By the time I’d turned in last night, I was half convinced my digestive system had reached peak capacity for Jared’s swimmers.

Now here I was, opening up Brew & Bean on Monday morning, trying to act like a functioning member of society instead of someone who’d just spent the weekend as a human spunk receptacle.

Every hiss of the steam wand made me think of that shower curtain.

Every splash of milk foam in the jug made my stomach give a knowing churn.

He’d admitted to me over breakfast this morning that he hadn’t masturbated this much since he was fourteen. “Seriously, mate, my wrist’s killing me,” he’d said, flexing his fingers like a pianist warming up. “But I’m not complaining. Haven’t felt this relaxed in ages.”

Then, as casually as asking me to pass the milk, he’d mentioned he was planning to “squeeze one more out” before heading to his sport science lecture.

“You know,” he’d said, spooning cereal into his mouth, “for consistency. Don’t want you going into withdrawal or anything.”

He’d done it too. Twenty minutes before leaving for uni, he’d disappeared into the shower on his own to squeeze out another batch of Sutherland’s Special Blend .

“There you go,” he’d said returning with the cup, fully dressed and shouldering his gym bag. “Fresh squeeze. Should keep you going till I get home.”

The way he’d integrated spunk production into his daily routine was almost impressive. Like he’d found a new hobby that happened to involve my digestive system as a key component.

Standing behind the coffee machine now, I could still taste the last delivery on my tongue—slightly bitter, with that familiar Jared tang that I was starting to recognise like a signature. My stomach felt heavy, content in a way that probably wasn’t entirely healthy.

Maybe it would die down now. The weekend had been a novelty for both of us but the true test would be what happened from here.

Was this a Friday-to-Sunday kind of kink, or was I about to find myself collecting deliveries on a Monday night after dinner, a Wednesday morning before work?

Part of me hoped it would settle into something occasional.

Another part knew exactly what Jared was like when he got into a routine.

Dash showed up fifteen minutes into my shift, looking the happiest I’d ever seen him at work. I tried to keep my smile professional—like I wasn’t standing there with what felt like half a litre of my flatmate’s swimmers still sloshing around in my guts.

“Morning,” he said when he walked in.

“Morning. Good weekend?”

“Yeah, brilliant actually. Friday night was the highlight though.” He stood still for a moment, starry eyed. “I can’t believe I got to hang out and have a beer with Jared Sutherland. He’s such a sound dude.”

“Jared’s definitely something.”

For the next couple of hours, whenever there was a lull in orders, Dash would drift over and relive his trip to my place in painstaking detail—like I hadn’t been standing right there for the majority of it.

He was so wrapped up in his Jared Sutherland glow that he didn’t once acknowledge the fact that our last shift had ended with him naked and passing me his underwear.

After lunch, when the café had emptied out and we were just cleaning up, something shifted. Dash had been uncharacteristically quiet for about twenty minutes, wiping down the same patch of counter like he was stalling.

“So,” he said finally, eyes fixed on the cloth in his hands, “did you enjoy Friday’s little show then?”

I pretended not to catch his meaning. “What’s that?”

“The strip show. In the stockroom.” Dash looked up at me, eyes gleaming. “Did you appreciate the view?”

“It was fine.”

“Just fine?” He stepped in closer, close enough for me to catch the mix of cigarettes and budget cologne clinging to him. “Be honest, bro. You must’ve got something out of it.”

“Yeah. A hard-on and guilt for selling Jared’s time to get a peek at your dick.”

He barked a laugh. “Fair trade then. I got to meet my idol and you got your stiffy.”

“I sure did.”

His eyes narrowed with that sly grin. “So… did you jerk off with my undies?”

What was the point of denying it? “Yup.”

“I knew you would.” He nodded, pleased with himself. “I could practically see it all over your face when I handed them to you. Bet you had ‘em balled up under your nose, humping your pillow like a mutt. Did you cum fast?”

“Quicker than I’d like to admit.”

“Good. Means I left an impression.”

He was loving it. You could see it in the way his chest puffed out, like my filthy confession was worth more than gold.

His ego was being injected in ways only men like Jared usually got to enjoy.

On one level I was embarrassed—burning red, feeling smaller than I ever let myself feel—but there was something twistedly nice about it too.

Seeing my shameful honesty actually light him up, make him happy.

Like giving him this power was its own kind of reward.

“Am I right in thinking you’ve been wanting to see me naked since the day you started working here?” he asked

Again, what was the point of denying it? “Pretty much.”

“Knew it. Gay dudes always fancy me. Wish girls were half as keen.”

“I’m sure they are.”

He shook his head. “Nah, nah. I get way more attention from your lot. I think it’s the punk look. Hair dye, piercings—gay dudes see me and think, oh yeah, he’s into freaky shit. But truth? I don’t wanna suck anyone’s dick.”

I wasn’t sure what response he was fishing for, so I just shrugged.

“But,” he drawled, “I’d let a guy suck mine. If he knew what he was doing.”

Here we go. The seed Jared had planted had sprouted into a full fucking weed.

“You know,” Dash went on, tone dropping like he was sharing classified intel, “Jared told me some shit the other night when you ducked out to the shops.”

“Did he now?”

“Yeah. Proper personal. Couple of beers, you know how it goes.”

“Mmhmm.”

“He said you’re... experienced. At certain things.”

“Such as?”

A blush crept up Dash’s cheeks, though his grin didn’t fade. “He reckons you’re a weapon at sucking cock. Like, Olympic level. Said you do the balls, the crack, the works. Said you’re mad for straight boy dick. Proper fiend for it.”

“And how would he know that?”

Dash gave me a look like I was retarded. “Cause you’ve been sucking him off since you moved in, obviously.”

My jaw clenched. What the fuck, Jared.

“Yeah,” Dash carried on, more animated by the second.

“He told me you’re his on-call cocksucker.

Said some weekends he’ll just sit there on the couch gaming while you’re down there for hours, going to town.

Doesn’t matter if he’s chatting on his headset to his mates, you keep your lips round him till he busts. That’s hardcore, man. Respect.”

I stayed silent.

“And he said you’re obsessed with swallowing. Like, don’t even wanna waste a drop. He told me once you followed him into the shower fully clothed just so you could drain him while he was shampooing.”

I’m going to murder you, Jared.

“...And get this,” Dash’s eyes went wide, like this was the best bit, “he reckons you love it after he gets home from training, when his balls are all sweaty. Said you call it ‘extra flavour.’ That’s disgusting, bro—but also?

Fucking hot. I’d kill for a chick who’d tongue-wash my nuts when they’re rank. Proper bath and everything.”

So in the space of an hour alone with Dash, my flatmate had managed to rewrite me into some dick-drunk cum dumpster he used like a fleshlight between rugby drills. And the fucked-up bit? Some dark corner of me enjoyed the picture he had painted, even if it did little to lessen how angry I was.

“So I was wondering,” Dash said, “if you’d suck my straight boy dick too.”

I cringed on his behalf for saying something so lame, but there was an almost boyish charm in the effort.

He cast a glance at the stockroom, then back at me with a hopeful tilt. “I could whack the ‘Back in 15’ sign up and we slip out back, yeah?”

“Um...”

“I did shower this morning, though.” He pulled a face. “So I might be more fresh than you’d like. But I could jog round the block a couple times if you want? Work up a sweat. Give you something extra.”

I didn’t want a salty mouthful of sweat, but I did want his dick. And more importantly, I wanted him out of the way long enough for me to ring Jared and verbally castrate the bastard.

“Yeah,” I said. “Go for that run first. I’ll wait here.”