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Ouma Kokichi was stunning, through and through. No matter what he was doing—thinking, talking, crying, walking, eating—he was striking. Even if Ouma was a pathetic loser that by any means, was and should not be attractive, Momota couldn't help but let his gaze linger every time he got a glimpse of his classmate.
So, when the short teen accepted Momota's invitation to spend the night at his place, he was ecstatic. Having Ouma all to himself, without anyone else around, was almost like a dream come true—if Momota even had any dreams or aspirations to begin with, that would be one of them.
Their time together in Momota's dingy, cheap apartment had gone about as expected. He ordered the two of them dinner while they caught up on the latest season of Danganronpa, by Ouma's request of course. Momota didn't care much for it.
Those who found true enjoyment in it were depraved losers that Momota found truly sickening. Not Ouma, of course. He wasn't like the others—wasn't like anyone else.
Naturally, he couldn't keep his gaze off of Ouma. Or rather, his exposed thighs thanks to the shorts he changed into to get himself comfortable. They were milky pale, and could be considered entirely white even. Momota could picture himself between them, on his knees leaving beautiful, purple hickeys or spearing Ouma open on his prick, either was acceptable to him.
He recalls subconsciously gnawing on the inside of his cheek, that familiar, searing heat coiling rather uncomfortably in his gut then.
Momota crossed his legs in hopes of smothering any evidence of the tent that had materialized. The next time Ouma looked at him, he reminded himself to smile; to smile as warmly as he conceivably could.
And he did, and Ouma didn't suspect a thing. Maybe he was too engrossed in the gory show being broadcast to notice anything amiss, not like Momota cared when it came to him.
And now, here he was. Rubbing one out next to the sleeping boy in his bed, any previous concerns from earlier thrown out the window while he ogles Ouma's sleeping form. From his face, neck, collarbones, shoulders, chest, forearms, hands, stomach, hips, ass, thighs—
“H-haaah…”
Fuck. He bites his lip, practically hard enough to break the skin there. Fuck it. Too far gone enough to care about waking his guest, Momota rearranges himself closer—close enough to breathe and bite down on his neck—and slides his stifling boxers down. Breathing a silent sigh of relief, he keeps stroking himself, more feverish than before.
God, Ouma was even prettier sleeping than he was awake. He looked so innocent, so peaceful, so unaware of the depravity taking place right beside him. It was exhilarating.
Momota slides a thumb over the slit of his dick, the action spurring a low whine out of his throat, his hips twitching forward to accommodate it. He does it again—repeatedly—and spreads the building precum over and around every crevice of his shaft.
It wasn't much but better than no lubricant, he supposed.
Momota continues this cycle for a stretch of time. He’d move in fast strokes, aggressively even, then slow to more gentle ones that didn't rock the mattress, if only to ward off orgasm and relish this moment for a little while longer. Relish the beautiful way Ouma's chest rose and fell, the way his nose would crinkle and uncrinkle, the little unadulterated noises he let out…
So cute…
Keeping a steady eye on Ouma's attractive (that shouldn't be attractive) face and body, Momota moves his hand back to firmly press onto his deliciously sensitive head. His thighs start to tremble as he teases himself.
Even though Ouma was right there next to him, Momota's dirty mind conjures up an image of him anyway, an image of him on his knees while he tends to his classmates’ erection. His glamorous violet eyes peer up at Momota, his hands and demeanor shy—like they usually were—even whilst he does such an indecent thing.
Using his hands to squeeze at the base of Momota's girthy cock, Ouma diffidently asks him if he's doing a good job, if Momota was satisfied enough with what he's doing. He chooses not to answer him. Instead, he arches his hips to further Ouma's hold on him.
A smirk plays at his lips when Ouma’s eyes widen in surprise, his cheeks flushing a pretty shade of pink. “Go on. It's okay,” Momota assures.
Seeming to make up his mind, the Ouma his mind roused up tentatively licks up his glans, and Momota feels as if a dam had broken—like a rubber band that’s been pulled taught finally gave way to the pressure, it was sudden.
“Ouma–!” Momota gutterly moans out, louder than he ever intended to. His body painfully tenses up and before he can stop it, ropes of cum are spurting out of him. He strokes himself through it, even if he was as sensitive as he was he didn't dare stop. It felt too good.
Wringing the last bits of cum out, his body ultimately relaxes and he's left a shuddering, panting mess. So much for relishing the moment.
Miffed that he couldn't drag this out for as long as he needed, Momota runs a calloused hand up Ouma's arm in an attempt to make himself feel better, the skin there unblemished. Unsatisfied with that, he lays his hand flat on his chest, and even then the disappointed feeling doesn't simmer.
Shutting his eyes and squeezing his half naked frame impossibly closer, he runs his hand down and all over Ouma's body. He takes care to slow over every jutting bone and to squeeze at any scarce plump his body has to offer. It's only until he's spreading Ouma's thighs apart does he realize: he came all over him. His lower back, boxer shorts and thighs were covered in Momota's seed.
He feels his dick twitch in interest, the sight just enough to arouse Momota again. God, there must be something wrong with him, if he was getting turned on this easily.
Huffing, Momota reaches between what little space there is between his and Ouma's bodies and starts to pump his stiffening prick again. Every minute touch practically hurt from how sensitive he still was, but he was able to ignore it, having done this sort of thing time and time again aiding in his stamina.
Momota uses his free hand to grope at Ouma's small, slender thighs and presses his forehead to the other boy's shoulder, his eyes lingering over the sticky mess he left.
At that moment, an idea forms. Momota's movements halt as he gauges Ouma's body language. His breathing was still steady, his body hadn't really moved at all since he fell asleep. He was probably going to stay asleep, no matter what the other did.
Ouma was a real heavy sleeper. Thank God for that.
Dead set on this new objective he set for himself, Momota gently scoops up some of the cum still left on Ouma's thigh and uses it to lubricate himself. Swallowing, he situates himself further down and begins to methodically rub the head of his cock between the two squishy muscles.
Momota feels his eyebrows draw up in pure ecstasy, his mouth opening to let out a shuddering moan. Squeezing Ouma's thighs even closer together, he slowly but surely shoves himself between them, their sticky wetness supporting the intrusion.
He sighs when his lower half finally makes full contact with Ouma, his beautiful thighs enveloping him. Momota's prick looked absolutely debauched when compared to the timid boy's legs, and really anything. It was ridiculous how different he and Ouma were—both mentally and physically.
Steeling himself with one last look at Ouma's cute, innocent face, he pulls his hips back and, in one quick motion, thrust himself back in.
Another low moan escapes him, the feeling entirely foreign but not unwelcome. It wasn't tight in any way—it wasn't like fucking a girl. Momota was able to move entirely of his own volition, any direction he wanted, really.
He starts to build a rhythm and quiet plaps fill the room, interrupting whatever silence the room offered. It's slow. It's slow because Momota wants to take his time. He wants to take his time with Ouma. Anything that concerned Ouma, Momota was always sure to take his time, no matter what it was.
This was no different.
Flicking his eyes shut with a trembling breath, he gradually picks up the pace. Those soft plaps soon enough turned into slaps. But it wasn't rough. He wouldn't be rough.
Wouldn't be rough with Ouma. Momota couldn't afford to ruin his chances with him. With such a perfect person. With a person so—
“N-Nhhnn…” Oh, fuck, he was close. The heat in his abdomen was growing and burning—burning so much—he couldn't take it. Oh God he couldn't take it he couldn't take it hecouldnttakeittoomuuchh...!!!
Momota shoves his face in-between Ouma's shoulder blades, his fervent panting growing in volume as he now fucked in earnest—he was like a rabid dog, he couldn't stop. No, he wouldn't stop, even if he could.
With a last few heavy pounds, he cums for a second time, whispering a matra of “I love you’s” into Ouma's skin. The streaks of seed spurt out even more powerful than before—all over the mattress, all over Ouma.
It takes him a few minutes to collect himself, but he lays there, embracing the other while his dick gradually softens where it stays seated. He’d much rather just fall asleep right then and there but… he has a mess to attend to.
Leaving a short-lived kiss on Ouma's shoulder that felt more apologetic than anything, Momota pulls away from him. He lets his shoulders sag down when he sits up. Becoming all too aware of how clammy and foul his skin became, his face contorts to one of disgust. So gross... He internally curses himself for getting so carried away, so carried away with Ouma. He just couldn't help himself.
It was a real mystery how the scrawny teen managed to stay comatose all through that.
Petulantly groaning to no one, he pulls his boxers back over himself, his cock sticking uncomfortably to the fabric. He briefly considers taking a shower to wash all the grime off of him, but decides against the idea. For now, at least.
First, he has to tend to Ouma. He'd clean him up with a rag, take his now soiled boxer briefs off to put in the washer and carry him to his couch. In the morning, Momota would lie to him and say he wet the bed or something of the like.
Should be simple. Ouma was incredibly gullible, after all.