Page 7 of Taste Test

I woke up to the smell of toast and coffee and an uninvited guest entering my bedroom.

“Morning, sunshine,” came Jared’s voice from my doorway.

I cracked one eye open to find him standing there with a tray. He didn’t have a shirt on, and only a pair of light pink boxers covered his lower body. A thin line of brown-blond hair climbed out of the waistband, up to surround his navel, like a halo against the tan skin.

“What time is it?” I groaned, pushing myself up on my elbows.

“Early enough that Mrs Lean next door hasn’t started her morning yoga yet.” He stepped closer to the bed.

Mrs Lean, our super-fit forty-something neighbour who did her stretches on her back deck every weekend morning in increasingly revealing workout gear.

Jared had turned watching her “fitness routine” from the kitchen window into his own weekend tradition.

I was pretty sure she knew he was watching.

No woman would bend over that much in a low-cut top while facing our direction, and downward dog definitely didn’t require that many hip adjustments.

My bleary gaze focused on the tray: two pieces of buttered toast, a mug of coffee that smelled decent, and a small glass I didn’t recognise.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Breakfast in bed,” he said cheerfully. “I thought you might be hungry.”

“Since when do you make me breakfast in bed?”

“Since I wanted to be nice to the world’s coolest flatmate.” His smile widened, and there was something almost manic about it. “Plus I’ve been up for ages. Couldn’t sleep.”

I looked at the tray more carefully, my brain slowly catching up to consciousness. The toast was golden brown rather than his usual charcoal, which meant he’d paid attention while making it. The coffee smelled like he’d used the good beans I kept hidden in the back of the pantry. And the glass...

“Jared,” I said slowly, “what’s in the glass?”

“Well... you did say you’d swallow it if I put it in a cup.”

I stared at him. Then at the glass. Then back at him.

“I even used a special glass,” he said, looking proud of himself. “It’s the little whisky glass my uncle got me for my twenty-first. The one with the little rugby ball on it. Seemed appropriate for the occasion.”

I stared at the glass again. Sure enough, there was a tiny etched rugby ball on the side, and what looked like... “Oh my fuck.”

“I could’ve just used any old cup,” he said, “but I wanted to make it... I don’t know, nice? Put in a bit of effort.”

“Nice? You think handing me a glass full of your jizz for breakfast is nice?”

“You make it sound weird.”

“It sounds weird because it is weird.”

“But you said you’d swallow my load,” he whined like a petulant child who’d been promised ice cream.

“I said it sarcastically!”

“But you still said it.”

“That doesn’t make it a binding bloody contract!”

“Look, maybe it is a bit weird,” he said, setting the tray down on the bedside table. “But I’ve been thinking about it all night. Couldn’t sleep. This is my chance to finally know what it feels like, to have someone want to taste me.”

“I don’t want to taste you. I want you to stop obsessing about this.”

“Just pretend it’s medicine or something,” he suggested, as if that would somehow make it better.

I looked at the glass again, my stomach doing uncomfortable flips.

The contents were exactly what you’d expect: slightly opaque, not quite white, definitely not appetising, sitting there like the world’s most awkward breakfast accompaniment.

What really got me, though, was the sheer amount.

It wasn’t just a token shot. He’d either jerked off twice to ensure there was more than a mouthful, or Jared was the sort of fit, healthy, insufferably virile specimen who could produce porn-worthy loads on demand.

I lifted the glass just to check, half hoping it was a trick of the light or some elaborate prank. Nope, enough to swirl. It clung to the crystal sides, thick and viscous. I set it straight back down, resisting the urge to wipe my hands on the sheets.

“Bloody hell. How much is in there?”

“Why? Are you impressed?”

“Impressed isn’t the word I’d use. But yeah... there is a lot.”

“What can I say? When I commit to something, I go all out.”

I willed a sinkhole to open up and swallow him whole, but I also had to grudgingly admit there was something almost endearing about how chuffed he looked. Like a golden retriever who’d just brought me a dead bird and was waiting for praise.

After a moment of just staring at him, and the glass, I found my voice again. “So um... when did you prepare this?”

“About half an hour ago? Maybe forty minutes.” He nodded, more to himself than to me, then started pacing.

Three steps to the window, pivot, three steps back.

“I didn’t want to wake you too early, but I was buzzing to see if you’d go through with it.

Probably should’ve timed it better because I jerked off way too early and then had to pace around the kitchen like a complete tosser. ”

“Tosser?” I raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Oh, fuck off.” But he was grinning again. “You know what I meant.”

He stopped pacing and planted himself directly beside my bed, close enough that I could smell the citrus bite of his bodywash still clinging to his skin.

My eyes betrayed me, sliding down to the soft pink cotton of his boxers, the elastic sitting low enough to reveal the sharp V of muscle that disappeared beneath the waistband.

I dragged my gaze back up.

Pale blue eyes were waiting, locking onto mine with a glacial focus. My gut flip-flopped. Butterflies gone berserk, wings soaked in caffeine. He stared back at me, his face a blank slate.

“So...” He bit his lower lip, eyes flicking to the tray, then back to me. “Will you give it a taste test?”

Of all the words in the English language he of course had to use those two. Taste Test . On their own they were fine, but together, with that meaning...

“If I do this,” I said, “this obsession of yours ends. No more Tinder disasters, no more analysing fictional couples, no more asking random girls if they swallow. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“And we never speak of this again.”

“If that’s what you want.”

“It’s what I want.”

I reached for the glass, trying not to think too hard about what I was about to do. It was just protein, really. Organic chemistry. Nothing more significant than that.

The glass was cool against my palm, and the contents had the consistency of... well, exactly what it was. I looked at Jared, who was watching me with the intensity of someone witnessing a miracle.

“Fuck it,” I said, and knocked it back like a shot.

The taste hit me immediately: salty, slightly bitter, with an underlying sweetness that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. It was thicker than I’d expected, coating my throat as I swallowed, but not in a bad way. Just... different.

Jared was staring at me like I’d just performed magic. “You did it.”

“I did it.”

“How was it?”

“Surprisingly not bad.”

“You’re not lying?”

“No, I’m not lying. I mean, I’m not saying it tastes like candy, and I sure as shit wouldn’t put it on my toast, but as far as cum goes, it tastes alright.”

“Holy shit. Really?”

“Really. But it would benefit from not being so cool.”

“Sorry about that.”

I reached for the coffee, needing something to wash away the aftertaste and the surreal nature of this conversation. “Right. Well. There you go. Mystery solved. You’re perfectly swallowable.”

“This is amazing,” he said, starting to pace again in front of my bed. “I can’t believe you did it. I can’t believe it doesn’t taste terrible. I can’t believe—”

“Jared.”

“What?”

“We had a deal. This obsession ends now.”

“Right. Yeah. Absolutely.” He paused his pacing. “But what if... I mean, if you ever wanted another cup. A warmer one. Later. I could—”

“No.”

“But you said it wasn’t bad.”

“The bridge has been crossed, dude. You wanted to know what it felt like to be swallowed. Now you know. Move on.”

He nodded. “Okay. Yeah. You’re right. Bridge crossed.”

“Exactly.”

“But it was good though, right? Like, objectively?”

I set the coffee mug down and fixed him with a stare. “What part of ‘we never speak of this again’ was unclear?”

“Sorry. It’s just that this is a monumental moment for me.”

“I’m very happy for you. Now can I eat my toast in peace?”

“Yeah. Okay.” He pointed towards the door. “I’ll be in the lounge if you need anything.”

“I won’t need anything.”

He headed for the door, then paused. “Casey?”

“What?”

“Thanks. I know it was a lot to ask, but... thanks.”

I stared at him standing there, all grateful and earnest, and felt something shift in my chest. Not attraction (definitely not attraction), but something like understanding.

For all his faults, all his crudeness and ego and social obliviousness, this had mattered to him.

And somehow, inexplicably, it hadn’t been as awful as I’d expected.

“You’re welcome,” I said, reaching for the coffee mug again.

Before I could stop him, he lunged forward and wrapped me in a massive hug.

The force of it knocked me back against the headboard, coffee mug tilting dangerously in my grip.

His bare chest pressed against me, warm and solid, arms crushing me tight enough that I could feel his heartbeat drumming against my ribs.

“Careful, you idiot!” I yelped, trying to save the coffee from spilling all over my bed. “I’m holding hot liquid!”

His grip loosened just enough for me to steady the mug, but he didn’t let go entirely. For a moment we stayed like that, Jared half-draped over me, his face buried against my shoulder, arms still circled around my back. I could feel his breath against my neck, warm puffs that made my skin prickle.

“Jared,” I grumbled. “You need to release the hostage.”

“Let me have my hug. It’s a thank-you hug. Mates give those when their mates do something awesome.”

“Cool, but I’d rather not experience the awesome sensation of scalding hot coffee giving me third degree burns.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he laughed and let me go. “Right. Going now. Leaving you to your breakfast.”

He practically bounced towards the door, energy radiating off him like he’d just won the lottery. At the threshold he paused, looking back over his shoulder with that stupid, pleased grin still plastered across his face.

“Cheers, Casey. You’re a legend.”

Then he disappeared out the door and down the hallway, his footsteps thundering against the floorboards like an overexcited puppy. I sat there listening to him crash around the kitchen, probably cleaning up whatever mess he’d made while preparing breakfast.

I took another sip of coffee, trying to convince myself this was just a one-off. A funny little moment between flatmates. Nothing more.

A small voice in the back of my head whispered: Yeah, Casey... on Planet Denial.

I ignored it.