Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
It’s the neighbors’ fault. All of it. Well, not the booze but everything else that lead up to the weird we’re going to figure this out exploration is definitely the neighbors’ fault. Dean’s starting to realize he’s not as nervous about their new adventure as he should be but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t found plenty to worry about. With his roommates and best friends, there’s always something to worry about.
Joel
They have the best neighbors, but they’ve left Joel with more than a few questions. Why do people submit? Why don’t more people like humiliation? Why has it taken him so long to figure out how much he likes his roommates? Yes, Joel has questions, but he’s not going to let that stop him from diving into all kinds of fun.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter 1
Dean
“I’m pretty sure everyone is supposed to be completely sober when they do BDSM shit.” Glancing over Tate’s shoulder, I couldn’t resist peeking at Joel who was stretched out on the couch giggling to himself.
My grandmother had a higher tolerance for alcohol than he did.
“Who said that?” Tate scoffed, pouring another screwdriver.
He only drank “girly” drinks, but he was the only one of the three of us who’d have a chance of out-drinking Grandma.
Who had said that?
I shrugged. “The internet?”
He snorted. “They also think that we need to invade Area 52 and that Elvis is still alive.”
“One.” What was Joel giggling about?
“Huh? This is like my third.” Tate shrugged, looking at the bottles on the counter. “Maybe fourth? Do you remember?”
“No, it’s Area 51.” And when he couldn't remember what drink he was on, we were done with booze.
“That’s what I said.” He rolled his eyes like I was being ridiculous. “How much have you had to drink?”
“Less than you, moron.” Sticking the orange juice back in the fridge, I took a second to put the rest of the bottles away to make it harder to get more booze. We weren’t lushes, but once everyone let their hair down things, had a tendency to get out of control.
Wait. If we didn’t have long hair, could we let it down?
Was that just for girls?
“You always have less than me.” Shaking his head and still surprisingly steady, Tate wandered over to the couch and sat down like he was sober as a church mouse instead of three sheets to the wind.
Possibly four sheets depending on how sheet math worked.
“Because someone has to make good decisions.” And once I went beyond fuzzy-brained, I didn’t like alcohol.
Besides, I could make bad decisions sober, so I didn’t need any help in that department.
“Bad decisions are always the best ideas.” Joel finally stopped giggling long enough to be thoughtful. “The weird guy downstairs said so.”
Great.
“We’re not using any of them as the standard for what to do.” The whole building was insane. “We’re smarter than that.”
Most of the time.
“You’ve got to be kidding?” Tate was looking at me like I was an idiot. “We’re just as stupid as they are. We were just stupidly uninformed too.”
No more booze for him.
“I don’t know how they were raised, but I had kiddie limits on all my devices until I was a freshman in college, and my parents’ talk on the birds and the bees didn’t include BDSM.” Thankfully, they’d never been surprised that I liked guys, so the birds portion of that lecture had been very short.
“Wait.” Joel frowned. “Why are the birds the girls?”
“Um, because bees have stingers?” Tate grabbed his generously sized stinger through his sweatpants.
Why he needed the hand gesture to get his point across I wasn’t sure.
“Oh.” Joel looked down at Tate’s lap and frowned even harder. “Are stingers that small proportionally? I always thought of them as big.”
“What the fuck, man?” Tate’s eyes got wider than his dick. “My stinger is fucking huge.”
And he proved that by taking it out of his pants.
He needed to wear underwear more often.
“See?” Wrapping his hand around his growing dick and giving it a few rough jerks, Tate glared at Joel. “I’m almost nine fucking inches when I’m sober hard. Don’t be an asshole.”
He’d measured his dick while sober and drunk?
Were we supposed to do that?
I’d only given my sober number…should I have been giving a range?
How much was he rounding to get almost nine inches?
Joel blinked a few times before sticking his hand close to Tate’s erection and measuring it with his fingers. “I meant bees’ actual stingers. It seems like half their bodies are stingers and that would be like a three-foot dick on a human. But are you sure you’re almost nine inches?”
I was way too sober to deal with this ridiculousness.
“I said sober hard I was almost nine inches.” Rolling his eyes, Tate continued to jerk himself off as Joel’s finger got closer and closer. “Whiskey dick is a real thing. Don’t get drunk if you’re going to top.”
Having no idea what to say to that or the way Joel seemed to be petting one finger along Tate’s stinger, I just flopped down on the floor in front of the couch. Not for the view of course. I was tired. Yep, just tired.
“I have no desire to top and I’m not sure your dick would comfortably fit in anyone’s ass if it got any bigger.” Still studying the cock in question, Joel kept petting it. “You’ve got a great stinger, though. Don’t worry about size.”
They were insane.
How had I forgotten how weird they got when they were drunk?
“I don’t think size is supposed to matter in most BDSM stuff either.” Inching closer, Joel spread his fingers to measure the tip to base length of Tate’s cock. “I found a few websites that talk about how to humiliate a sub if you want to tease him about having a small dick, though. But they were pretty clear that everyone was supposed to be on the same page with that. Like, no messing with a guy’s head without it being on that ingredient list. You know?”