Two farm boys collide at university

[jayson_steyn]

This story is set on the Western Cape of South Africa about two polar opposite farm boys whose worlds collide when they become roommates at Stellenbosch University.

Character 1: Johan "Jo" van der Merwe

• Age: 19
• Appearance: Johan is tall and lanky, with sun-bleached blonde hair that’s perpetually tousled from the wind on the farm. His fair skin is tanned from years outdoors, dotted with freckles across his nose and cheeks. His hands are rough and calloused, and he’s usually seen in faded rugby jerseys or plaid shirts, paired with scuffed boots.
• Background: Johan grew up on a wheat and sheep farm near Malmesbury in the Western Cape. He’s the youngest of three siblings, with two older sisters who’ve always kept him in line while teaching him the finer points of a good potjie. His family’s farm has been passed down through generations of van der Merwes, and while he’s proud of that legacy, he’s at Stellenbosch University studying Agricultural Economics to figure out if it’s really his path.
• Personality: Jo is laid-back and quick to laugh, with a knack for disarming people with his lopsided grin and self-deprecating humor. He’s a hard worker but still a bit green when it comes to life beyond the farm—he’d never been past Cape Town until uni. He’s straight, with a handful of clumsy high school romances under his belt, but there’s a curious streak in him he can’t quite pin down. He’s drawn to people who challenge his small-town worldview and secretly craves a taste of something different.
• Quirks: He’s a braai (bbq) purist, always preaching about the “proper” way to season meat. He whistles old Afrikaans folk tunes when he’s anxious or deep in thought.

Character 2: Pieter "Piet" de Wet

• Age: 20
• Appearance: Pieter is shorter than Johan, with a stocky, muscular frame built from years of farm labour. His light brown hair is cropped short, and his pale skin carries a faint sunburn that never quite fades. He’s got a jagged scar on his left forearm from a barbed wire mishap as a kid, which he shows off with a smirk. He dresses simply—jeans, plain T-shirts, and a faded blue cap he’s worn since he was 16.
• Background: Piet comes from a cattle farm near Robertson, where his family has been raising livestock for decades. He’s an only child, brought up by his mom and grandfather after his dad died young. The farm’s been hit hard by drought lately, so he’s at Stellenbosch studying Viticulture and Oenology, hoping to bring winemaking skills back to diversify their income.
• Personality: Piet is quieter than Johan, with a dry wit that sneaks up on you. He’s dependable and fiercely loyal, the kind of friend who’d drop everything to help you out. He’s straight and always assumed he’d settle down with a girl from back home, but he’s got a restless, curious side—he’s fascinated by the wider world and isn’t afraid to question the life laid out for him. Johan’s free-spirited nature both intrigues and unsettles him.
• Quirks: He’s a natural mechanic, always tinkering with engines or tools. He collects odd-shaped rocks, claiming they’ve got “character,” and keeps them lined up on his dorm shelf.

Dynamic as Roommates

Johan and Pieter meet as first-year roommates at Stellenbosch University, assigned to a small res room with creaky beds and a window overlooking the vineyards. At first, they’re an odd pair—Jo’s loud, outgoing vibe grates on Piet’s more reserved demeanor. But they find common ground over shared farm-boy gripes: ornery animals, early mornings, and the smell of manure. Late-night chats over lukewarm coffee or smuggled beer reveal their curious sides—Jo pushes Piet to loosen up, sneaking them into campus parties, while Piet challenges Jo with big-picture questions about life beyond the Western Cape. There’s an unspoken edge to their friendship, a mutual pull toward the unknown that neither quite knows how to handle, making their time as roommates both thrilling and tense.

Chapter 1

The sun had just dipped below the horizon, painting the sky above Stellenbosch a bruise of orange and purple, when Johan "Jo" van der Merwe hauled his last duffel bag into the cramped dorm room. The place smelled faintly of old wood and disinfectant, with two single beds shoved against opposite walls and a rickety desk wedged under the window. The view wasn’t half bad—rolling vineyards stretching out toward the mountains—but Jo barely noticed. He dropped his bag with a thud, wiped sweat off his freckled forehead, and turned to survey his new kingdom.

“Ag, man, it’s not the farm, but it’ll do,” he muttered, kicking off his boots and flopping onto the bed nearest the door. The springs creaked under his lanky frame, loud enough to make him grin. He’d brought a faded rugby jersey to hang on the wall and a small tin of braai spice his ma had insisted he’d need—“For when the city food gets kak,” she’d said. He was already itching to test it out, though he doubted the res had a fire pit.

Across the room, Pieter "Piet" de Wet was unpacking with the kind of quiet focus that made Jo wonder if the guy ever relaxed. Piet’s stocky build filled out his side of the space as he methodically stacked textbooks on the desk—Viticulture 101, some dog-eared novel about wine estates, and a notebook already scribbled in. His blue cap sat perched on the bedpost, and a small pile of odd rocks—smooth, jagged, one shaped vaguely like a heart—lined up beside it. Jo squinted at them, curious, but didn’t ask. Not yet.

“First time away from home?” Jo ventured, propping himself up on his elbows. His blonde hair stuck out at wild angles, catching the last of the daylight filtering through the window.

Piet glanced over, his sunburnt face unreadable for a second before cracking into a half-smile. “Ja, pretty much. You?”

“Same. Malmesbury’s not exactly far, but it feels like a bloody continent away now.” Jo chuckled, then nodded at Piet’s rocks. “What’s with those? You starting a collection or just miss the dirt already?”

Piet shrugged, picking up the heart-shaped one and turning it over in his calloused hands. “Habit. Found this one when I was fixing a fence last summer. Figured I’d bring a piece of Robertson with me.” He set it down and met Jo’s eyes, a flicker of something—maybe amusement, maybe challenge—passing between them. “You?”

Jo patted the tin of braai spice on his nightstand. “This is my piece of home. Ma reckons I’ll starve without it. She’s not wrong—had some res food earlier, and it tasted like cardboard.”

Piet snorted, a dry sound that broke the tension. “Cardboard’s generous. I’m betting we’ll be smuggling a braai in here by week two.”

“Deal,” Jo said, grinning wider. He sat up, restless already, and glanced out the window. The campus was buzzing—laughter and shouts echoing from the quad below as other first-years milled around, some hauling boxes, some already cracking open beers. “You reckon we should go check it out? See what trouble’s brewing?”

Piet hesitated, then pulled his cap off the bedpost and tugged it onto his head. “Might as well. Beats sitting here listening to you whistle all night.”

“Oi, my whistling’s a gift!” Jo shot back, but he was already on his feet, shoving his boots back on. He didn’t know Piet yet—not really—but there was something about the guy’s quiet edge that made him want to push, to see what lay under the surface. And Piet, watching Jo with that same sharp, curious glint, seemed to feel the same pull.

The door swung shut behind them as they stepped into the humid February night, the dorm room left silent except for the faint creak of Jo’s bed settling. Outside, the world was loud and new, and neither of them knew just how much it’d change them—or each other—before the year was out.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 2
The night air was thick and warm as Jo and Piet stumbled back into their Stellenbosch dorm room, the buzz of cheap beer humming in their veins. The quad had been a chaotic blur—first-years shouting over each other, someone blasting Die Antwoord from a portable speaker, and a couple of guys handing out lukewarm cans of Black Label like they were doing everyone a favor. Jo had downed two, maybe three, laughing too loud at Piet’s dry jabs about the “city kids” trying to dance. Piet had matched him, though he’d been quieter about it, nursing his last can with that half-smile that Jo was starting to recognize as trouble.
The door banged shut behind them, and Jo kicked off his boots with a groan, nearly tripping over the duffel bag he’d left sprawled by his bed. “Ag, man, I’m stuffed,” he said, voice loose and sloppy from the beer. He tugged his rugby jersey over his head, tossing it onto the floor where it landed in a crumpled heap. His tanned chest gleamed faintly with sweat, freckles dusting his shoulders like constellations. “Those okes out there—wild, hey. Did you see that one guy fall into the fountain?”
Piet snorted, pulling his faded cap off and dropping it onto the desk. “Ja, and he acted like it was planned. Idiot.” He swayed a little as he peeled off his own T-shirt, revealing a stockier frame, pale skin flushed pink from the heat and the alcohol. The scar on his forearm stood out sharp against the redness. He chucked the shirt toward his bed, missing by a mile, and muttered, “Kak aim,” under his breath.
Jo laughed, a loud, unguarded sound that bounced off the walls. “You’re a mess, bru.” He flopped onto his bed, the springs squeaking, and started fumbling with the button on his jeans. The beer had loosened him up, made him careless, and he shucked them off without a second thought, kicking them to the floor. Clad only in a pair of faded boxers, he stretched out, arms behind his head, grinning at the ceiling. “This is living, hey. No ma yelling at me to close the blinds.”
Piet watched him for a beat, that sharp glint in his eyes flickering again—half amusement, half something else. The beer had softened his edges too, and he shrugged, unbuttoning his own jeans with a slow, deliberate motion. “Ja, well, no grandpa snoring through the wall either.” He stepped out of them, leaving him in plain grey briefs, and stood there a moment, hands on his hips, like he was daring the room to judge him. His stocky build carried a solidity Jo didn’t have—muscle layered over a frame that spoke of hauling hay bales, not just chasing sheep.
Jo propped himself up on one elbow, still grinning, though his gaze lingered a second longer than it might’ve sober. “You look like you could wrestle a bull, man. Farm life’s been good to you.”
Piet raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “And you look like a scarecrow who forgot the straw. What’s your excuse?” He turned to grab a water bottle from the desk, casual as anything, but there was a slight flush creeping up his neck—beer, heat, or maybe the weird electricity crackling between them.
“Oi, I’m lean, not scrawny,” Jo shot back, sitting up fully now. The buzz made him bold, and he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, pausing like he was about to yank them off just to prove a point. “Bet I could still outrun you, though. Wanna test it? Naked dash to the quad?”
Piet froze mid-sip, water bottle halfway to his mouth, and let out a bark of laughter—rare and real. “You’re fokken insane. They’d lock us up before we hit the grass.” But he didn’t back down, setting the bottle down and crossing his arms, that curious edge sharpening in his stare. “Go on then. You first.”
Jo hesitated, grin faltering for a split second, then shrugged like it was nothing. “Fine, bru. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” In one fluid, beer-fueled motion, he shoved his boxers down and off, letting them hit the floor with a soft thud. Naked now, he stood up, all lanky limbs and freckled skin, and struck a ridiculous pose—hands on hips, chest puffed out like some farm-boy superhero. “Your move, de Wet.”
Piet’s smirk froze, then widened, and he shook his head. “You’re a bloody nutcase.” But the challenge hung there, and the beer had stripped away just enough of his restraint. He hooked his fingers into his briefs, slid them off with a quick tug, and kicked them aside. Standing there, stocky and scarred and unapologetic, he met Jo’s eyes with a look that was half defiance, half question. “Happy now?”
For a moment, the room went quiet—just the hum of the night outside and the faint creak of the floorboards. Jo’s laugh broke it, loud and bright, but his eyes darted over Piet, curious and unguarded. “Ja, man. Living the dream.” He flopped back onto his bed, still naked, sprawling out like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Piet grabbed his water bottle again, taking a long swig, and muttered, “Freak,” though there was no bite to it. He didn’t bother covering up either, just sank onto his own bed, the beer buzz and the strangeness of the moment settling over them like a blanket. Outside, the quad had quieted, but in that little dorm room, something unspoken had shifted—raw, awkward, and electric.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 3
The first light of morning crept through the dorm window, a soft gold spilling over the vineyards outside and into the cramped room where Jo and Piet lay sprawled across their beds. The air was sticky, the kind of humid February heat that clung to skin, and the faint buzz of last night’s beer still lingered in their heads. Jo stirred first, groaning as he rolled onto his side, the thin sheet tangled around his legs. His blonde hair stuck up in sweaty spikes, and his freckled shoulders twitched as he blinked awake. Then he felt it—morning wood, stiff and insistent, pressing against the sheet like it had a mind of its own.
“Fok,” he muttered under his breath, yanking the sheet higher over his waist. His cock wasn’t anything outrageous—average length, maybe a tad over five inches, straight as a fence post, with a slight upward curve and a thick, pinkish head that stood out against his tanned skin. The blonde fuzz at the base matched his hair, sparse but wiry. He shifted, trying to flatten it down with a hand, but the damn thing wouldn’t cooperate. He glanced across the room, hoping Piet was still out cold.
No such luck. Piet was awake, propped up on one elbow, his own sheet pulled tight across his lap. His short brown hair was a mess, and his sunburnt face scrunched in a mix of grogginess and annoyance. He’d felt it too—morning wood, no hiding it. His cock was shorter than Jo’s, maybe four and a half inches, but thicker, stocky like the rest of him, with a blunt, ruddy tip and a darker shaft that matched his scar-weathered skin. A patch of coarse, dark hair framed it, scruffy and untrimmed. He pressed a hand down over the sheet, trying to will it away, but the bulge stayed stubborn.
“Morning,” Jo croaked, voice rough, keeping his eyes on the ceiling. He tugged the sheet tighter, crossing one leg over the other like that’d somehow fix it.
“Ja,” Piet grunted back, shifting to sit up, then thinking better of it and staying put. His free hand stayed clamped over his lap, the sheet tenting awkwardly. “Sleep okay?”
“Like a rock,” Jo said, risking a glance. He caught the shape under Piet’s sheet and smirked, despite himself. “You, uh… got a situation there, bru?”
Piet’s eyes narrowed, but the flush creeping up his neck gave him away. “Says the guy wrestling a snake over there.” He nodded at Jo’s lap, where the sheet was doing a piss-poor job of hiding anything.
Jo barked a laugh, loud enough to jolt the room. “Fair. Bloody hell, it’s like it’s got a vendetta this morning.” He adjusted again, the sheet slipping a bit, then sighed. “Screw it.” He tossed it off entirely, letting his erection spring free, hard and unapologetic against his freckled stomach. He stretched his arms over his head, grinning through the awkwardness. “Not like we didn’t see it all last night, hey.”
Piet froze for a second, then snorted, his dry humor kicking in. “Ja, well, yours hasn’t changed much.” He hesitated, glanced at Jo’s shameless sprawl, and shrugged. “Fok it.” He shoved his own sheet aside, revealing his thick, stubby cock, standing proud against his stockier frame. He leaned back on his elbows, one eyebrow cocked like he was daring Jo to say something.
Jo whistled, low and teasing. “Look at you, de Wet. Built like a tank, even down there.”
“Piss off,” Piet shot back, but a smirk tugged at his lips. “Yours looks like it’s ready to herd sheep.”
“Better than herding nothing,” Jo quipped, sitting up now, legs dangling off the bed. His hard-on bobbed as he moved, but he didn’t bother covering up anymore—the beer buzz was gone, but last night’s reckless vibe still hung in the air. He scratched at his blonde fuzz, eyeing Piet with that curious glint. “Reckon this is just uni life now? Waking up like a pair of randy roosters?”
Piet huffed a laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe. Beats waking up to a cow staring at you through the window.” His cock twitched slightly, still rigid, but he didn’t flinch—just met Jo’s gaze with that same steady, questioning look.
The room settled into a weird, easy quiet, the morning light catching the sweat on their skin. Neither moved to cover up, the pretense dropped like last night’s clothes on the floor. It wasn’t a big deal—not yet—but there was something in the air, a thread of that unspoken “what if” pulling tighter between them.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 4
The dorm room was dark, save for the faint silver of moonlight slipping through the cracked blinds, casting stripes across the floor. It was past midnight, the campus outside finally quiet, and the humid February air hung heavy, sticking to everything. Piet stirred, woken by a faint sound—rhythmic, soft, but unmistakable. His eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the dimness, and he froze. Across the room, Jo was sprawled on his bed, sheet shoved down to his ankles, one hand wrapped around his cock.
Jo’s lanky frame was tense, his freckled chest rising and falling fast. His blonde hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, and his eyes were squeezed shut, lips parted in a silent grunt. His dick—straight, pink-tipped, that slight curve Piet had clocked that morning—glistened faintly in the low light, his hand moving in quick, sloppy strokes. The bed creaked under him, a quiet groan slipping out as he bit his lip, trying to keep it down. Piet’s breath caught, and he didn’t move—just watched, eyes locked on the scene, a mix of shock and something hotter curling in his gut.
Jo’s pace picked up, his free hand gripping the mattress, knuckles white. His cock twitched in his fist, the head flaring redder with each stroke, and Piet could see the tension building—Jo’s thighs flexing, his stomach tightening. A low, choked “Fok” slipped out, barely a whisper, and then he came, hard. Thick spurts hit his chest, pearly against his tanned skin, one catching the edge of his freckled shoulder. His hand slowed, milking it out, and he slumped back, panting, oblivious to anything but the aftershock.
Piet shut his eyes fast, rolling onto his side to face the wall, heart hammering. He forced his breathing to steady, pretending to sleep, though his own cock was stirring now, thick and heavy against his briefs. He could still hear Jo—ragged breaths evening out, the rustle of the sheet as he wiped himself off with a corner of it. Minutes dragged by, and when Jo’s snoring kicked in—soft, uneven—Piet figured it was safe.
He shifted, glancing over to confirm Jo was out, sprawled naked with the sheet half-on, face slack. Piet’s hand slid down, hesitating, then pushed past the waistband of his briefs. His cock was already hard, shorter but fatter than Jo’s, the ruddy tip slick with precum from watching. He gripped it tight, stifling a groan as he started slow, picturing Jo’s frantic strokes, the way his body had arched. His scar-marked forearm tensed, the coarse hair at his base brushing his fingers as he worked himself, keeping it quiet, quick.
Across the room, Jo wasn’t asleep. His snoring had been a fake-out, a trick he’d pulled since he was a kid sharing a room with his sisters. He’d heard the shift in Piet’s breathing, the faint rustle, and cracked an eye open just enough to see. Piet’s stocky frame was hunched, hand moving under the sheet, the outline clear—thick, blunt, pumping fast. Jo’s pulse jumped, a weird thrill mixing with the lazy buzz still lingering from his own release. He kept still, watching Piet’s jaw clench, the way his hips jerked slightly as he got close.
Piet’s breath hitched, a low grunt swallowed in his throat, and he came—less messy than Jo, but forceful, soaking into the sheet he’d yanked up at the last second. His hand stilled, chest heaving, and he lay there, spent, oblivious to Jo’s half-lidded stare. After a beat, he tugged his briefs back up, rolled over, and let out a shaky sigh, assuming the room was dead to the world.
Jo stayed quiet, eyes drifting shut for real this time, a smirk tugging at his lips. The air felt thicker now, charged with something neither of them would name—not yet. Outside, the night ticked on, but in that little dorm, the space between their beds had shrunk, pulled tight by secrets they’d never planned to share.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 5
Morning

The dorm room was quiet when Piet woke, the kind of stillness that felt loud after last night’s chaos. Sunlight streamed through the blinds, harsh and golden, and he squinted, groaning as he rolled onto his back. Jo was gone—bed empty, sheets a tangled mess, the faint dent of his lanky frame still pressed into the mattress. Piet’s head throbbed, a dull echo of the beer and the restless sleep, and he shifted, feeling the familiar ache of morning wood straining against his briefs. His cock was hard again, thick and pulsing, the memory of Jo’s frantic strokes flickering unbidden in his mind. He clenched his jaw, willing it down—no time, no privacy, not with the day already ticking by.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and that’s when he saw them: Jo’s faded boxers, crumpled on the floor between their beds, right where he’d kicked them off after that naked dare two nights ago. Piet hesitated, then slid off the bed, bare feet hitting the cool floor. He glanced at the door—locked, silent—and crouched, picking up the briefs with a cautious hand. They were still damp, a sticky patch near the waistband from Jo’s load last night, the faint musk of sweat and cum clinging to the fabric. His pulse jumped, a mix of guilt and curiosity spiking through him.

He brought them closer, just an inch from his face, and inhaled—sharp, earthy, unmistakably Jo. It hit him like a punch, stirring his already hard cock, and for a second he froze, caught in the weirdness of it. Then he dropped them fast, like they’d burned him, letting them fall back into the same crumpled heap. He stood, adjusting his briefs to hide his erection, and muttered, “Fok, man,” to the empty room. He grabbed his towel and bolted for the showers, hoping the cold water would kill the heat coiling in his gut.

That Night

By the time night rolled around, the dorm room felt smaller, the air thick with unspoken weight. Jo was back, sprawled on his bed in a fresh T-shirt and shorts, tossing a rugby ball up and catching it with lazy precision. Piet sat at the desk, pretending to read Viticulture 101, though his eyes kept drifting to the floor where those briefs had been—now gone, probably stuffed in Jo’s laundry bag. The campus outside buzzed faintly, but in here, it was just them, the tension from last night hanging like a third presence.

Jo caught the ball one last time and sat up, running a hand through his sweaty blonde hair. His freckled face was flushed, like he’d been wrestling with something all day, and when he spoke, his voice was casual but edged with intent. “Hey, Piet. We need to talk about something, bru.”

Piet’s stomach tightened, but he kept his eyes on the book, turning a page he hadn’t read. “Ja? What’s that?”

Jo tossed the ball onto the floor, letting it roll to a stop. “This whole… roommate thing. We’re stuck here, right? Two farm boys, no space, no secrets.” He paused, grinning that lopsided grin, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m just gonna say it—masturbation, man. We’re both doing it. No point pretending otherwise.”


Piet’s head snapped up, his sunburnt face going pink. “Fok, Jo, you don’t beat around the bush, hey.”

“Why should I?” Jo shrugged, leaning back on his elbows, all casual bravado. “I know you’re not blind. I was at it last night—couldn’t sleep, couldn’t hold back. Reckon you heard me, maybe saw me. And I’m not dumb either—I heard you after, quiet as you tried to be.” His grin sharpened, teasing but probing. “So how we gonna work this? Set a schedule? Draw a line down the room?”

Piet’s mouth went dry, the memory of Jo’s damp briefs flashing hot in his mind. He forced a laugh, short and rough. “You’re a bloody lunatic. What, you want a roster? ‘Jo’s turn at midnight, Piet at two’?”

“Could work,” Jo said, laughing too, though his eyes locked on Piet’s, that curious glint flaring. “Or we just… let it happen. No hiding. We’re mates, right? Farm boys don’t get shy about shit like this.” He scratched at his chest, casual, but there was a challenge in it, a dare Piet couldn’t quite read.

Piet leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms over his stocky frame, his scar catching the lamplight. “You’re saying we just… what? Jerk off whenever and call it normal?” His voice was steady, but his pulse wasn’t, thudding hard from the memory of that smell, that sight.

“Ja, pretty much.” Jo’s grin softened, less cocky now. “Look, I’m not gonna judge you, bru. You don’t judge me. We’re stuck here all year—might as well figure it out now before it gets weird.”

Piet snorted, dry humor masking the heat creeping up his neck. “Too late for that.” But he didn’t argue, just held Jo’s gaze a beat longer than he meant to, the air between them buzzing with something raw and untested. “Fine. No schedules. Just… don’t make it a bloody performance, hey.”

“Deal,” Jo said, flopping back onto his bed, satisfied but restless. “Though I reckon I’d win if it was.”

“Piss off,” Piet muttered, turning back to his book, though a smirk tugged at his lips. The room settled, but the tension didn’t—it coiled tighter, waiting for the next move neither of them was ready to admit they wanted.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 6
Thursday Night

The dorm room dimmed as Jo flicked off the overhead light, leaving just the faint glow of a desk lamp casting shadows across the walls. The conversation about masturbation hung in the air, but neither pushed it further. Jo sprawled on his bed, T-shirt rucked up to his chest, shorts riding low, tossing that rugby ball again until he missed and let it thud to the floor. “Night, bru,” he mumbled, rolling onto his side, the sheet half-draped over his freckled legs.

Piet grunted a “Ja, night,” from his own bed, briefs and a loose tank top clinging to his stocky frame. He lay on his back, arms crossed, staring at the ceiling, the memory of Jo’s briefs still prickling at the edges of his mind. The room settled into quiet—Jo’s snoring kicked in first, real this time, and Piet’s breathing slowed, but nothing happened. No rustling, no sneaky strokes. Just the hum of the night outside and the weight of unspoken possibilities left untouched.

Friday Morning

Morning broke with the same golden glare through the blinds, the heat already sticking to their skin. Piet woke first this time, hard again, his thick cock tenting his briefs like clockwork. He groaned, shifting to hide it, then caught sight of Jo—already awake, sitting up with the sheet shoved off, his own erection bobbing shamelessly against his freckled stomach. That straight, pink-tipped length gleamed with a sheen of sweat, unapologetic as ever.

“Morning, sunshine,” Jo said, grinning, not bothering to cover up. “Same old, hey?”

Piet snorted, tossing his sheet aside too, letting his shorter, fatter cock jut free. “Ja, like a damn alarm clock.” He swung his legs off the bed, standing with a stretch, scar catching the light. “You gonna parade that around all day?”

“Only if you ask nicely,” Jo quipped, hopping up and grabbing a towel, his hard-on swaying as he moved. They didn’t hide it anymore—just smirked through the awkwardness and headed for the showers, routine as brushing their teeth.

Friday Night – First Social

By Friday evening, the campus was electric, the first social of the year kicking off in a packed courtyard strung with fairy lights. Music thumped—some Afrikaans rock remix—and the air smelled of beer and braai smoke. Jo and Piet showed up buzzed already, having split a six-pack in the room while getting ready. Jo wore a tight rugby jersey, blonde hair tousled, all charm and loud laughs, while Piet stuck to a plain T-shirt and his faded cap, dry wit cutting through the noise.

They worked the crowd, Jo flirting with a brunette in jean shorts who giggled at his braai stories, Piet chatting up a quiet girl with glasses who seemed into his rock collection spiel. But the night fizzled—brunette ditched Jo for some rugby jock, and glasses girl vanished with her friends. By midnight, they stumbled back to the dorm, buzzed on beer and frustration, no luck to show for it.

The door slammed shut, and Jo flopped onto his bed, kicking off his shoes with a groan. “Fok, man, thought I had her. What’s wrong with these city chicks?” His shorts clung tight, the outline of his cock already half-hard from the pent-up energy, pressing against the fabric.

Piet yanked off his cap and T-shirt, tossing them aside, his stocky frame flushed from the heat and the booze. “Dunno, bru. Mine just bolted. Reckon we’re too farm for them.” He dropped onto his bed, briefs straining as his own erection stirred, thick and insistent, fueled by the night’s dead-end flirting.

Jo laughed, rough and restless, peeling off his jersey and tossing it to the floor. “Too farm, ja right. I’m bloody horny now, though—no way I’m sleeping like this.” He palmed himself through his shorts, casual but pointed, his freckled chest heaving with a sigh.

Piet’s eyes flicked over, that curious glint flaring despite himself. “Same,” he muttered, shifting to ease the pressure in his briefs, the ruddy tip of his cock peeking above the waistband. “What’s the plan then? Your no-hiding rule still on?”

Jo grinned, propping himself up on one elbow, shorts tenting now. “Ja, bru. No point pretending. I’m about to burst—reckon you are too.” He slid a hand under his waistband, not breaking eye contact, daring Piet to match him. “We just… take care of it. Roommates, hey?”

Piet’s breath hitched, the buzz and the horniness shredding his usual restraint. “Fok it,” he said, shoving his briefs down, letting his thick cock spring free, already slick at the tip. He gripped it, slow at first, watching Jo do the same—shorts off now, that straight, curved length in hand, stroking with that shameless grin.

The room filled with the sound of it—ragged breaths, the faint slap of skin, neither bothering to hide. Jo’s eyes fluttered shut, his load from last night replaying in his head, while Piet’s stayed half-open, sneaking glances, the memory of those damp briefs spurring him on. They didn’t speak, didn’t cross that line—just rode the edge of release, horny and buzzed, the tension between them thick enough to choke on.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 7
The dorm room was a haze of heat and heavy breathing, the faint creak of bedsprings mixing with the rhythmic slap of skin. Jo stroked himself fast, his straight, pink-tipped cock slick in his hand, freckled chest flushed red from the effort. Across the room, Piet mirrored him, his thicker, ruddier erection gripped tight, stocky frame tense as he worked. They’d been at it for a while, the buzz from the social still simmering, but the edge wouldn’t come—too much pent-up need, too little payoff from the night.
Jo broke first, his voice cutting through the quiet, rough and ragged. “Fok, bru, I was banking on that chick finishing me off. Going solo’s not working, man.” He slowed his hand, letting it rest on his thigh, his cock twitching in protest. His blonde hair stuck to his forehead, and his grin was gone, replaced by a frustrated scowl as he stared at the ceiling.
Piet’s hand paused mid-stroke, his breath hitching as he glanced over. Jo looked wrecked—sprawled naked, legs spread, that curved length still hard but his face tight with irritation. Piet’s own cock throbbed, unsatisfied, and he felt the same itch gnawing at him—solo wasn’t cutting it, not tonight. He swallowed, hesitating, then rasped out, “What you gonna do about it, then?”
Jo’s head turned, slow, and their eyes locked. No words—just a long, heavy stare, green meeting brown, the air between them sparking with something raw. Piet’s pulse jumped, his grip tightening on himself unconsciously, while Jo’s lips parted, a flicker of realization passing over his freckled face. It wasn’t a plan, wasn’t spoken—just a mental click, an understanding neither had to name.
Piet moved first, tentative but deliberate. He slid off his bed, briefs already kicked away, and crossed the short distance, bare feet silent on the floor. His stocky frame loomed for a second before he sank onto the edge of Jo’s bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. Jo didn’t flinch—just shifted slightly, making room, his cock still hard against his stomach, precum gleaming at the tip. Piet sat there, scarred forearm resting on his knee, his own erection jutting out, blunt and thick, inches from Jo’s sprawled leg.
Neither spoke. Jo’s eyes flicked down, then back up, that curious glint sharpening into something bolder. Piet’s stayed steady, questioning but open, his breath uneven. The silence stretched, taut and electric, until Jo reached out—not fast, not sure, just a hand hovering near Piet’s thigh, testing. Piet didn’t pull away, just nodded once, barely perceptible, and that was enough.
Jo’s hand closed the gap, wrapping around Piet’s cock—warm, calloused, a little shaky. Piet sucked in a breath, sharp, and let his own hand drift to Jo’s, gripping that straight, sweaty length. They moved slow at first, feeling it out, strokes clumsy but firm, eyes locked like they were daring each other to break. Jo’s grin crept back, small and jagged, while Piet’s jaw tightened, a grunt slipping out as the frustration started to crack.
The room shrank to just them—hands, heat, the slick sound of it—two farm boys crossing a line they’d never drawn, chasing release in the only way that made sense right then.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 8
The air in the dorm room thickened, a humid pulse syncing with the rhythm of their hands. Jo’s calloused fingers wrapped tight around Piet’s thick, ruddy cock, stroking in perfect time with Piet’s grip on his own straight, pink-tipped length. They matched each other—slow at first, then faster, exploring every ridge, every slick inch, thumbs brushing over sensitive tips in a way that made their breaths hitch. Their eyes stayed locked, green on brown, wide and unblinking, like they were seeing each other raw for the first time.
No words—just heavy, labored breathing, the occasional sigh or grunt slipping out as they pushed each other closer. Jo’s chest heaved, freckles stark against the flush spreading down his neck, while Piet’s stocky frame tensed, his scar glinting in the dim light. Their hands moved like they’d done this a hundred times, instinctive, relentless, the wet sound of it filling the space between them.
Jo broke first. His hips bucked, sharp and unsteady, thrusting into Piet’s fist. His eyes squeezed shut, a low “Fok” rumbling out as his body locked up—muscles rigid, thighs trembling. Then he erupted, the strongest orgasm he’d ever felt tearing through him. His cock pulsed hard, shooting thick, heavy ropes—more than he’d ever managed—splattering across his chest, his shoulder, one streak hitting the pillow beside his head. His biggest load by far, messy and endless, leaving him gasping, wrecked.
Piet’s body reacted like it was wired to Jo’s—a chain reaction, instant and brutal. His grip tightened on Jo’s softening cock, and he came just as hard, a guttural grunt ripping from his throat. His shorter, fatter dick throbbed, spraying a load farther than he’d ever shot, arcing over Jo’s sprawled legs to hit the floor beyond the bed, a wild, uncontrolled burst that left his hand slick and shaking. His chest heaved, sunburnt skin glistening with sweat as the aftershocks hit.
They collapsed back onto Jo’s bed, side by side, the mattress groaning under their combined weight. Breathing ragged, they lay there—Jo’s lanky frame splayed out, Piet’s stockier one slumped—neither letting go. Jo’s hand stayed wrapped around Piet’s sensitive, softening cock, fingers loose but possessive, while Piet’s held Jo’s, sticky with cum, a faint twitch still lingering under his grip. Their eyes drifted shut, then opened again, catching each other in a hazy, wordless stare.
The room spun slow, the heat pressing down, their breaths syncing up again as the buzz faded into something heavier. No one moved to pull away—just lay there, spent, hands still tangled in the mess they’d made, the silence saying more than they ever could.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 9
The dorm room was still when morning crept in, the golden light softer this time, filtered through a haze of dust motes. Jo and Piet had fallen asleep where they’d collapsed—side by side on Jo’s narrow bed, naked, the mess of last night splattered and drying across their bodies. Cum crusted on Jo’s freckled chest, a flaky trail from his collarbone to his stomach, while Piet’s stockier frame bore its own map—dry streaks matting the sparse hair above his navel, a faint smear on his scarred forearm where he’d wiped his hand.
They woke hard, as usual, cocks stiff against the morning heat. Piet lay on his back, blinking awake first, his thick, ruddy erection jutting up, unbothered by the crusty chaos. He felt the weight before he saw it—Jo, the loud, cocky farm boy, curled up against him, quieter than he’d ever been. Jo’s blonde head rested on Piet’s shoulder, using it like a pillow, one freckled arm slung across Piet’s chest, fingers lax near his nipple. His own cock—straight, pink-tipped—pressed against Piet’s hip, hard and warm, a faint twitch stirring as he slept.
Piet didn’t move, just breathed slow, feeling Jo’s heat, the steady rise and fall of his chest. His own pulse thudded, a mix of shock and something softer—comfort, maybe—settling in. Jo stirred, eyes fluttering open, and for once, he didn’t bolt upright with a grin or a quip. He just looked at Piet, green eyes bleary but steady, and stayed put, letting their bodies press together, sticky and unwashed.
They lingered like that, silent, for longer than either expected—Jo’s head nestled into Piet’s shoulder, Piet’s arm shifting just enough to rest against Jo’s back. The cum, the sweat, the mess didn’t matter; it was theirs, a mark of the night before. Their hard-ons brushed occasionally, a lazy reminder of the heat they’d shared, but neither reached for it—just soaked in the closeness, the raw, easy weight of each other.
Bladders broke the spell. Piet shifted first, a low groan escaping as the pressure hit. “Fok, man, I’m gonna burst,” he muttered, voice rough with sleep. Jo huffed a laugh, muffled against Piet’s skin, then peeled himself away, wincing as the dried cum tugged at his chest hair.
“Ja, same,” Jo rasped, sitting up slow, his cock bobbing as he stretched. He glanced at Piet, then down at the mess—cum flaked on the sheets, a stray streak on the floor—and smirked, softer than usual. “We’re a bloody disaster, bru.”
Piet swung his legs off the bed, standing with a grunt, his own erection still proud. “Worth it,” he said, dry humor lacing the words, but his eyes held Jo’s a beat longer, something solid passing between them.
They grabbed towels, shambling toward the showers, shoulders brushing as they moved. No words needed—just a look, a nod. Not boyfriends, nothing so tidy or labeled, but best friends now, bonded deeper than farm roots or uni chaos. That night had shifted them, sealed them, and the crusty mess on their skin was just proof of it.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 10
Saturday Morning

The communal showers were a zoo—first Saturday of the term, and the res was alive with groggy first-years shuffling in and out, the air thick with steam and the sour tang of hangovers. Water hissed from every nozzle, voices echoing off the tiles, a chaotic symphony of grunts and half-hearted banter. Jo and Piet slipped in, towels slung low, their crusty chests unnoticed in the blur of bleary eyes and pounding headaches. Dried cum flaked off Jo’s freckled skin under the spray, while Piet scrubbed at the mess matting his sparse chest hair, both of them grinning like they shared a secret no one else could crack.

They didn’t linger—just rinsed off, the hot water washing away the evidence of last night’s chaos. Back in the room, they half-assed a tidy-up: Jo kicked his cum-stained sheets into a pile, Piet swept the stray rugby ball under his bed, and they left the rest. The campus was calling, a full day of events buzzing outside, and they were too wired to care about housekeeping.

The Day

Out in the sun, they were thick as thieves—shoulders bumping, laughs loud, a rhythm to their steps that felt unbreakable. Jo dove into a touch rugby game on the quad, all lanky limbs and cocky grins, dodging tackles and shouting trash talk that had the other guys howling. His blonde hair gleamed with sweat, and he roped in a few new mates, already planning a braai for next week. Piet, quieter but no less alive, found a cluster of rock nerds near the geology booth—swapping stories about weird finds, showing off the heart-shaped stone from his collection. His dry wit landed well, earning nods and a couple of numbers scribbled on a napkin.

The day was a triumph—beer cans cracked open at noon, music thumping through the afternoon, new faces blending into a blur of handshakes and half-remembered names. They stuck close, orbiting each other like planets, Jo’s wild energy pulling Piet along, Piet’s steady presence grounding Jo. By 9 p.m., they stumbled back to the dorm, a slight buzz humming from the day’s drinking, cheeks flushed and voices hoarse from laughing.

Saturday Night

The door barely clicked shut before Jo was stripping, peeling off his sweaty T-shirt and shorts in a fluid, careless motion. Down to his faded boxers, he flopped onto his bed, sprawling across it like he owned the place, one freckled arm flung over his head. “Fok, bru, what a day,” he mumbled, grinning up at the ceiling, his chest still heaving from the high.

Piet tugged off his own shirt, tossing it aside, then stepped out of his jeans, briefs clinging to his stocky frame. He started toward his bed, the familiar creak of routine beckoning, but Jo’s voice stopped him—low, casual, but pointed. “Oi, de Wet.” He patted the space next to him on his bed, a lazy gesture, his green eyes catching the lamplight. “C’mere.”

Piet paused, towel still in hand, his pulse kicking up. Was it last night all over again? The heat, the hands, the messy release? He wasn’t sure, but the thought didn’t scare him—didn’t even feel wrong. Just… possible. He dropped the towel, crossed the room, and sank onto Jo’s bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. His thick frame settled beside Jo’s lanky one, their bare legs brushing, a faint echo of the night before.

Jo didn’t hesitate—just rolled toward him, curling into Piet like he was a human blanket. His blonde head found Piet’s shoulder again, nestling there, warm and heavy, while one arm draped across Piet’s chest, fingers curling loosely near his scar. Piet stiffened for a second, then relaxed, letting his own arm rest against Jo’s back, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breathing. No words, no rush—just the buzz of the day settling into something softer, closer.

Within minutes, Jo’s snores started—soft, uneven, a gentle rumble against Piet’s skin. Piet stayed awake a bit longer, staring at the ceiling, Jo’s heat seeping into him. It wasn’t a repeat of the wildness, not tonight—just a quiet echo of that bond, best friends carved deeper by touch and trust. He closed his eyes, the weight of Jo’s head grounding him, and drifted off, the campus humming faintly beyond their locked door.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 11
Sunday Morning

Sunday dawned quiet, the campus hushed under a lazy sun. Piet woke first, the familiar weight of Jo curled against him pinning him to the bed. Jo’s blonde head rested on his shoulder, breath warm against his neck, one freckled arm slung across his chest. Their legs tangled under the sheet, and Piet’s cock stirred, hard as usual, pressed against Jo’s hip. The comfort was heavy, a pull he hadn’t expected—church tugged at him, a habit from home, but Jo’s steady snoring and the heat of his body kept him rooted.

He lay there, fighting it—guilt versus ease, duty versus this new thing they’d stumbled into. His bladder ached, and the clock ticked past 9 a.m. With a low groan, he finally slipped free, Jo’s arm flopping to the mattress. Jo didn’t stir—dead to the world, sprawled naked in his bed, cum-free this time but still a mess of freckles and sweat. Piet grabbed a towel, showered quick—cold water to kill the morning wood—and dressed in a button-up and jeans, slipping out to church with a last glance at his sleeping friend.

Jo’s Morning

Jo woke hours later, the room still and empty, sunlight slicing through the blinds. He blinked, groggy, and felt it—the absence. Piet’s side of the bed was cool, his own bed across the room untouched. The quiet gnawed at him, a hollow he didn’t like. He rolled out of bed, cock half-hard, and shuffled to the showers. They were deserted, just the drip of a leaky faucet. Warm water hit his skin, and he considered a wank—hand drifting down, a few lazy strokes along his straight, pink-tipped length—but it felt off, empty without the spark of last night. He stopped, rinsed, and headed back.

Dressed in shorts and a faded tee, he stepped into the sunlight, mood lifting fast. The quad buzzed—touch rugby was already in swing, and some guys roped him in, shouting his name like they’d known him forever. The day blurred into tackles, beer pong, more rugby—sweat and laughs, Jo’s cocky grin back in full force. He didn’t think about Piet much, just rode the high.

Sunday Night

Piet got back first, the rock nerd meetup—a chill afternoon swapping stones and stories—leaving him buzzed in a quieter way. He stripped to his briefs and flopped onto his own bed, stocky frame sinking into the mattress, the faint hum of hymns still in his head. The door banged open, and Jo burst in—energy spiking the room like a live wire. Sweat clung to his freckled skin, shorts riding low, a grin splitting his face as he kicked them off, down to his boxers in seconds.

He clocked Piet on his own bed and shook his head, blonde hair flopping. “No, my guy, we sleep here now,” he said, flopping onto his own bed with a dramatic sprawl, patting the space beside him. “C’mon, don’t fight it.”

Piet laughed—a short, rough sound mixed with a sigh—but didn’t argue. He rolled off his bed, crossing the room, and sank beside Jo, the mattress creaking under their weight. Jo curled into him instantly, head finding Piet’s shoulder like it belonged there, one arm draping across his hairy chest. “Tell me about your day, bru,” Jo mumbled, voice soft but eager, breath warm against Piet’s skin.

Piet started talking—church, the sermon, the rock nerds—his tone low, steady, lulling. Jo’s hand moved absentmindedly, fingers tracing circles through the coarse hair on Piet’s chest, brushing his nipples slow and lazy. Piet’s breath hitched, his cock stirring under the briefs, thickening against the fabric. Jo noticed, a smirk tugging at his lips, but didn’t stop—his hand slid lower, trailing down Piet’s abs, rough fingertips grazing the taut skin until they hit the elastic of his briefs.

No hesitation this time—Jo’s hand ducked under, finding Piet’s hard, wet cock, the ruddy tip slick with precum. Piet grunted, hips shifting as Jo’s calloused grip closed around him, slow and sure. “Round 2, hey?” Jo murmured, half-teasing, head still nestled on Piet’s shoulder, eyes half-lidded but locked on his friend’s face.

Piet’s hand moved too, slipping under Jo’s boxers, wrapping around that straight, curved length—already hard, pulsing in his palm. They stroked in sync again, unhurried this time, sighs and soft grunts filling the room. No rush, no words—just the heat of it, hands exploring, their bond tightening with every slow, deliberate move.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 12
The dorm room pulsed with heat, the air thick as Jo and Piet shed their last barriers. Jo tugged his boxers off first, kicking them to the floor, his straight, pink-tipped cock springing free, already slick. Piet followed, peeling his briefs down his stocky thighs, his thicker, ruddy length jutting out, precum beading at the tip. They pressed closer on Jo’s bed, hands everywhere—Jo’s rough fingers tracing Piet’s scarred forearm, Piet’s palm sliding up Jo’s freckled chest, brushing a nipple, then down again, greedy, reckless.
Pleasure mounted fast, a tight coil winding in their guts. Jo’s hand pumped Piet’s cock, firm and relentless, while Piet matched him, stroking Jo’s curved length with a grip that knew every inch now. Their breathing turned ragged—grunts, sighs, the slick sound of skin on skin filling the space. Jo’s hips twitched, need clawing at him, and he looked up, expecting Piet’s usual steady smirk. Instead, he met a deep, searing stare—Piet’s brown eyes boring into him, intense, unreadable, like they were peeling back layers Jo didn’t know he had.
Jo faltered, unsure—those eyes weren’t joking, weren’t casual. But Piet didn’t let up, his hand tightening on Jo’s cock, stroking faster, heat pouring off him. Jo’s pulse raced, a mix of confusion and fire, and he decided to match it—locking his green eyes on Piet’s, staring back just as hard, daring him to blink. Their hands synced perfectly, a rhythm they couldn’t break, cocks throbbing under each other’s touch, slick with sweat and precum.
Then, like some pull neither could fight, their heads drifted closer—slow at first, then crashing. Lips met in a hot, sloppy kiss, all teeth and tongue, passionate and messy. Piet groaned loud into Jo’s mouth, a raw, guttural sound, and his cock erupted—cum blasting out, thick ropes splattering Jo’s thigh, his abs, the bed, his hand convulsing around Jo’s length as he rode it out.
Jo’s body reacted instantly, hips bucking wild, uncontrollable. The kiss swallowed his gasp as he unleashed a torrent—cum surging from his cock, spraying Piet’s chest, his arm, a messy flood that outdid even Friday night’s chaos. Their hands kept moving, milking every shuddering pulse, lips locked until the last wave hit.
They broke apart, panting, foreheads pressed together, cum-slick hands still gripping softening cocks. Jo’s freckled face was flushed, eyes wide but grinning now, while Piet’s sunburnt skin glistened, his stare softening into something raw but warm. They didn’t pull away—just collapsed back, tangled and sticky, breathing hard, the kiss hanging between them like a new thread in their bond, unspoken but real.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 13
Sunday Night

Jo crashed fast, curling into Piet like it was second nature—head on his shoulder, arm slung across his chest, snoring soft and steady within minutes. The electric buzz he’d brought into the room fizzled into quiet, his freckled face slack, peaceful, a stark contrast to the wild heat of their kiss. Piet lay awake, Jo’s warmth pressing into him, their cum still tacky where it had dried on his hairy chest and Jo’s abs. His hand drifted up, fingers threading gently through Jo’s sweaty blonde mop, a subtle motion he barely noticed as his mind churned.

The sermon from that morning echoed—words about sin, purity, clashing hard with the memory of Jo’s lips, sloppy and desperate, the groan he’d let out as they came together. Piet’s gut twisted, guilt tangling with the comfort of Jo curled up in his arms. He tried to steer his thoughts—rocks, church hymns, anything—but they looped back, relentless. He stayed up most of the night, eyes tracing Jo’s sleeping form, the peaceful rise and fall of his chest mocking the battle in his head.

Monday Morning and Day

Monday hit like a freight train—first real lectures, the showers buzzing like Saturday, a chaotic stew of steam and hungover grumbles. Piet shuffled in, bleary from no sleep, and swore he caught a few raised eyebrows at the crusty cum matting his chest hair. Too tired to care, he scrubbed it off, the cold water barely waking him. The day blurred—lectures on viticulture, textbook lines, meeting new faces—his mind half-there, Jo’s absence a quiet ache.

They crossed paths at lunch, crammed around a table with other freshers—Jo’s loud laugh cutting through, Piet’s dry quips landing soft. It was quick, normal, but not enough. Their courses pulled them apart—Ag Econ for Jo, Viticulture for Piet—and the term kicked off strong, a whirlwind of timetables and profs they’d later bitch about. Back in the room that night, they swapped stories—Jo griping about a lecturer’s accent, Piet rolling his eyes at a stuck-up TA—sprawled on their beds, the vibe easy but tired.

Come bedtime, Jo flopped onto his bed, patting the space beside him, grinning that cocky grin. “C’mon, bru.” But Piet hesitated, rubbing his neck. “Nah, man, I barely slept last night. Day was full-on. Just need to crash.” He sank onto his own bed, voice flat, eyes avoiding Jo’s.

Jo’s grin faltered, a flicker of doubt creasing his freckled face. He sensed it—a shift, a wall—and it scared him. Had he pushed too far? The kiss, the hands, the line they’d crossed? He didn’t sleep that night, lying awake, replaying it all—Piet’s stare, the way he’d pulled back. Scenarios spun wild in his head: Piet pissed off, disgusted, done with him. By morning, Jo was a wreck, stomach knotted. He couldn’t face it—showered fast, bolted before Piet stirred, leaving the room empty.

Tuesday

Piet woke to silence, Jo’s bed cold, a first in their short, chaotic history. Jo, the loud one, gone before him? It gnawed at him, a dull pang he shoved down as he hit the showers, the day repeating Monday’s blur—lectures, notes, no Jo. They didn’t cross paths, their courses a wedge, and Piet felt the absence harder than he’d admit.

Back in the room that evening, Jo burst in late—sweaty from rugby, quieter than usual, stripping to his boxers with a forced grin. Piet lay on his own bed, briefs on, textbook open but unread. The mood was off—stale, heavy, like the air before a storm. Jo flopped onto his bed, staring at the ceiling, while Piet flipped a page he didn’t see. They both felt it, hated it—the ease gone, replaced by a tangle of unsaid shit.

Jo broke the silence, voice low, no grin this time. “Bru, we need to talk.”

Piet’s head turned, eyes meeting Jo’s—brown on green, steady but guarded. “Ja,” he said, shutting the book. “Reckon we do.”

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 14
The dorm room felt smaller, the air thick with the weight of what hung between them. Jo sat on his bed, legs crossed, freckled hands fidgeting in his lap, no cocky grin tonight. Piet leaned against his own bed’s headboard, stocky frame tense, briefs riding low, his scarred forearm resting on a knee. The silence stretched until Jo’s low “Bru, we need to talk” cracked it open.
Piet nodded, shutting his textbook with a soft thud. “Ja, reckon we do.” His voice was steady, but his brown eyes flicked to Jo’s, searching. He took a breath, then let it spill. “This… what we’re doing, man. It’s messing with my head. Church yesterday—the sermon was all about sin, right and wrong, stuff I grew up on. And then last night—” He gestured vaguely between them, the kiss, the cum, the closeness. “—it doesn’t gel with that. Feels like I’m breaking something big.”
Jo’s green eyes widened, a flicker of panic crossing his face, but Piet held up a hand. “Wait, let me finish. I’m not saying I hate it. Fok, I like it, Jo—too much, maybe. The way you’re just… you, all in, no bullshit. It’s good, bru. But it’s fighting everything I’ve been taught, and I don’t know how to square that yet.”
Jo swallowed, his usual loud bravado gone, replaced by something tender, serious—a side Piet hadn’t seen. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice soft but shaky. “Shit, Piet, I didn’t mean to mess you up. I’ve been scared all day, thinking I pushed too hard, broke some rule we never wrote down. That kiss, the hands—I wanted it, but if it’s screwing with you, I…” He trailed off, eyes dropping, then snapped back up, raw. “Yesterday, you were gone all day, and it hit me—how much I need you around. One day apart, and I felt it, like a hole. I don’t wanna lose this, bru, whatever it is.”
Piet’s chest tightened, Jo’s words landing heavy. He rubbed his neck, a rough laugh escaping. “Fok, man, you’re gonna make me soft.” But his eyes glistened, and he blinked fast, a tear slipping free. “I felt it too—waking up, you gone. First time you beat me out the door, and it was kak. Didn’t like it.”
Jo grinned, small and wobbly, a tear streaking his freckled cheek. “Ja, well, I was freaking out, thinking you hated me.” He wiped it away, laughing wetly. “Look at us, crying like a pair of saps. Ma would never let me live this down.”
Piet snorted, wiping his own face. “Grandpa’d call me a poephol and tell me to toughen up.” The laughs mingled with the tears, easing the knot between them. They sat there, open, candid, stripping it all bare.
“It’s not broken,” Piet said finally, voice firm. “Just… different. We’re not like most mates, hey. Week one, and we’ve done shit people wait months for—maybe years.”
Jo nodded, serious again. “Ja, we’re ahead of the game. Too fast, maybe. I don’t wanna stop, though—not if you don’t. Just… slow it down? Figure it out as we go?”
“Ja,” Piet agreed, exhaling like a weight lifted. “Slow it down, not stop. I can’t—don’t wanna—cut you out, bru. Just need space to breathe, get my head round it. Church, this—” He waved a hand at Jo’s bed, their tangled history. “—it’s a lot.”
“Deal,” Jo said, a real grin breaking through now, tender but steady. “We’ve got time. Whole bloody year in this room. No rush.”
They shared a look—green on brown, raw but relieved—and the tension cracked, leaving something solid in its place. Piet stood, stretching, and Jo flopped back on his bed, but neither patted the space beside them this time. Piet sank into his own mattress, Jo stayed put, and they turned off the lights. The emptiness hit—Jo missing Piet’s heat, Piet feeling the lack of Jo’s weight—but it wasn’t hollow. It was okay, a breather they both needed.
Jo’s voice cut the dark, sleepy but warm. “Night, bru.”
“Night,” Piet echoed, a smile in his tone. They drifted off, apart but tethered, knowing they’d be alright.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 15
Wednesday Morning

Wednesday dawned with the usual heat, the room already sticky by the time Jo and Piet stirred. Cocks were hard as ever—Jo’s straight length straining his boxers, Piet’s thicker one tenting his briefs—but they stayed tucked away, a silent nod to the slowdown. Jo rolled out of bed first, scratching his freckled chest, while Piet sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. No shameless display this time—just a quick glance, a smirk, and they grabbed towels for the showers.

Back in the room, fresh from the steam, they dressed—Jo in shorts and a tee, Piet in jeans and a faded shirt. Before heading out, Jo pulled Piet into a brotherly hug, all rough pats and grins. “Lunch, bru? Same spot?” Piet nodded, clapping Jo’s back. “Ja, one o’clock. Don’t be late, rugby boy.” Plans set, they split—day three of lectures calling.

The Day

Jo spent the morning with his touch rugby mates, dodging tackles and cracking jokes, his blonde hair a sweaty mess. Piet holed up with the rock nerds, geeking out over mineral samples, his dry wit earning laughs. They kept looking for each other—Jo scanning the quad, Piet glancing across lecture halls—but their paths didn’t cross. Lunch was quick, a table piled with trays and new friends, chats flowing easy—Jo ribbing Piet about his “rock obsession,” Piet firing back about Jo’s “ball-chasing.” Laughter stitched it together, their bond unshaken.

The second half flew—Jo in tutorials, Piet in labs—and by evening, the term’s rhythm was settling in.

Wednesday Night

Piet got back first, already at the desk, briefs on, textbooks open, scribbling notes for his first Viticulture assignment. The door banged open, and Jo burst in—rugby boots clacking, shorts dusty, energy crackling off him like static. “Bro, you already swotting?” he chirped, kicking off his boots with a grin.

Piet laughed, leaning back in the chair, his stocky frame relaxed. “Not everyone can rely on charm to get through life, hey. Some of us gotta work.”

Jo chuckled, flopping onto his bed, still pumped from practice. “Ja, well, charm’s working so far.” His chest heaved, freckled skin flushed, and that post-workout horniness hit hard—cock stirring in his shorts, a need to bust clawing at him. He hesitated, the slowdown fresh in his mind. Was the “anytime, no judgment” rule still on? He propped up on an elbow, voice softening. “Piet, bru, I um… you know, need to, uh…”

Before he could stumble through it, Piet cut in, laughing low. “Anytime, no judgment, boet. Go for it.” He turned back to his notes, pen tapping, but the humor didn’t hide the flicker in his eyes.

Jo sighed, relieved, and slid his shorts off, boxers following fast. Naked now, he sprawled back, hand wrapping around his straight, pink-tipped cock—half-hard already, thickening quick. He started slow, a sigh slipping out, eyes drifting shut as the tension from practice unraveled. The slick sound of it filled the room, steady, unapologetic.

Piet tried to focus—vines, soil pH, words blurring on the page—but it was useless. Knowing Jo was there, stroking himself, hips shifting slightly, broke every thread of concentration. His own cock twitched in his briefs, a heat he couldn’t ignore, but he stayed put, gripping the pen harder. A grunt from Jo—low, needy—sent a jolt through him, and he glanced back despite himself. Jo’s freckled chest flexed, hand moving faster now, oblivious or uncaring.

“Fok,” Piet muttered under his breath, shaking his head, a half-smile tugging at his lips. He turned back to the desk, but the words were gone—just Jo’s rhythm behind him, a pull he couldn’t shake. They weren’t crossing lines tonight, just sharing space, but the air buzzed with it anyway.

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 16
Wednesday Night

Jo went at it hard, no holding back—hand a blur on his straight, pink-tipped cock, pace picking up, breaths deepening into rough, needy gasps. Sprawled naked on his bed, freckled chest flexing, he was lost in it, uninhibited, the post-rugby need driving him. The slick sound bounced off the walls, relentless, and Piet’s resolve cracked. His own cock throbbed in his briefs, turmoil boiling over—faith, desire, Jo’s raw energy tearing at him. He turned, decision made, ready to join in, hand hovering near his waistband.

Too late. Jo’s hips bucked, a deep “Fffoook” ripping from his throat as he blew—a thick, messy load splattering his chest, streaking up to his collarbone, one rogue shot hitting his chin. His hand slowed, milking it out, body slumping as he panted, spent. Piet froze, relief and disappointment crashing together—relieved he hadn’t crossed the line, gutted he’d missed the chance. Jo’s snores kicked in minutes later, soft and steady, oblivious to the storm he’d left behind.

Piet sighed, calling it a night. He flicked off the desk lamp, the room dropping into shadow, and climbed into his own bed, briefs still on. But his cock was steel—thick, insistent, refusing to settle. He slid the briefs down, freeing it, and started stroking, slow at first, then faster. Something took over—a memory, sharp and vivid: the musky smell of Jo’s damp boxers days ago. He needed it again, craved it. Blindly, he reached down, fingers brushing the floor near Jo’s bed, and found them—sweaty, crumpled, still ripe from practice.

He brought them to his face, inhaling deep—Jo’s scent, earthy and raw, flooding him. His hand blurred on his dick, thick and ruddy, the smell pushing him over. His cock erupted in a wild spasm, cum blasting out—ropes hitting his headboard with a soft splat, one streaking across his pillow. The orgasm wiped him out, a shuddering release that left him breathless, clutching Jo’s boxers as he sank into the mattress. Sleep took him fast, the fabric still tangled in his hand.

Thursday Morning

Jo stirred first—a rare win—sunlight slicing through the blinds, his cock hard as usual, jutting up against his stomach. He blinked awake, groggy, the slowdown rule flickering in his mind. No shameless display today. He reached down for yesterday’s boxers, dropped by his bed after his wank, but his hand hit empty floor. Frowning, he figured they’d slid under—rugby boots and chaos, typical. He rolled out of bed, naked, grabbing for a towel, but stopped dead.

There, across the room, Piet slept—stocky frame sprawled, briefs around his thighs, Jo’s sweaty boxers clutched in his hand. And on the headboard above him, a semi-dry load—cum crusted in streaks, a wild spray that told its own story. Jo’s jaw dropped, green eyes wide, a grin tugging at his lips despite himself. “Fok, bru,” he muttered under his breath, half-shocked, half-amused. Piet’s chest rose and fell, peaceful, oblivious, the boxers a quiet confession.

Jo stood there a beat, cock still hard, processing—Piet, the steady one, losing it like that. It stirred something in him, a mix of pride and heat, but the slowdown held him back. He grabbed a towel, headed for the showers, and left Piet sleeping, the room humming with a secret he’d carry all day.

 

[dickmaxwell]

Enjoying the story!

 

[jayson_steyn]

Chapter 17
Thursday Morning

Piet jolted awake to the soft click of the door closing, the sound yanking him from a heavy sleep. His eyes darted across the room—Jo’s bed empty, sheets tangled, no freckled sprawl in sight. Then, like a bolt of lightning, it hit him. He sat upright, heart slamming, briefs still bunched around his thighs, Jo’s sweaty boxers clenched tight in his fist, cum crusted on the headboard in damning streaks. “Fok,” he breathed, panic flooding in. There was no way Jo hadn’t seen it—hadn’t put two and two together. The boxers, the mess, his broken resolve—all laid bare.

Guilt crashed over him, but not about Jo. Jo knew how Piet felt—liked it, even, the wild pull between them. No, the guilt was sharper, deeper—his faith, the sermon’s echo, the promise to slow down shredded in a horny haze. He was still processing, head spinning, when the door banged open again. Jo bounded in, glistening from the shower, towel slung low around his waist, blonde pubes peeking above the edge. Water dripped down his freckled chest, and that cocky grin was back, lighting up his face like he’d won something.

Piet froze, caught—briefs down, boxers in hand, the headboard a crime scene. Jo’s eyes flicked over him, taking it all in, then locked on Piet’s with an eyebrow raised, grin widening. “Care to explain, bru?” he chirped, voice teasing but sharp, leaning against the doorframe like he had all day to hear it.

Piet’s face burned, sunburnt skin flushing deeper. He yanked the briefs up, fumbling, but didn’t drop the boxers—couldn’t, like they were glued to his hand. “Fok, Jo,” he muttered, voice rough, half-laughing, half-choked. “You’re a bloody menace, you know that?”

Jo laughed, loud and bright, stepping closer, towel slipping an inch lower. “Me? I’m just the guy who left you my undies, hey. Looks like you had a party without me.” He nodded at the headboard, then the boxers, grin turning sly. “What’s the story, boet? Thought we were slowing down?”

Piet rubbed his neck, guilt and relief tangling up. “Ja, we were. I just…” He trailed off, eyes meeting Jo’s—brown on green, raw but steady. “Lost it, man. You were going at it last night, and I couldn’t—fok, those boxers were right there, and I…” He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “No excuse, hey. Broke my own rule.”

Jo’s grin softened, less cocky now, more real. He dropped the towel—shameless as ever—grabbing fresh boxers from his bag, stepping into them slow. “Bru, you don’t need an excuse with me. Anytime, no judgment—still stands.” He flopped onto his bed, still glistening, and shot Piet a look—teasing but warm. “Just didn’t peg you for a boxer-sniffer. That’s next-level, de Wet.”

Piet snorted, tossing the sweaty fabric at Jo, who caught it with a cackle. “Piss off,” he said, but the laugh broke the tension, guilt easing into something manageable. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Always,” Jo shot back, sprawling out, towel forgotten. “But you like it.”

Piet didn’t argue—just smirked, swinging his legs out of bed, the mess still there but the weight lighter. Jo knew, didn’t care, and that was enough for now.

 

[tallmascaussie]

Great read. Great build up and development. looking forward to more!!

 

[michaelnola]

Chapter 17
Thursday Morning

Piet jolted awake to the soft click of the door closing, the sound yanking him from a heavy sleep. His eyes darted across the room—Jo’s bed empty, sheets tangled, no freckled sprawl in sight. Then, like a bolt of lightning, it hit him. He sat upright, heart slamming, briefs still bunched around his thighs, Jo’s sweaty boxers clenched tight in his fist, cum crusted on the headboard in damning streaks. “Fok,” he breathed, panic flooding in. There was no way Jo hadn’t seen it—hadn’t put two and two together. The boxers, the mess, his broken resolve—all laid bare.

Guilt crashed over him, but not about Jo. Jo knew how Piet felt—liked it, even, the wild pull between them. No, the guilt was sharper, deeper—his faith, the sermon’s echo, the promise to slow down shredded in a horny haze. He was still processing, head spinning, when the door banged open again. Jo bounded in, glistening from the shower, towel slung low around his waist, blonde pubes peeking above the edge. Water dripped down his freckled chest, and that cocky grin was back, lighting up his face like he’d won something.

Piet froze, caught—briefs down, boxers in hand, the headboard a crime scene. Jo’s eyes flicked over him, taking it all in, then locked on Piet’s with an eyebrow raised, grin widening. “Care to explain, bru?” he chirped, voice teasing but sharp, leaning against the doorframe like he had all day to hear it.

Piet’s face burned, sunburnt skin flushing deeper. He yanked the briefs up, fumbling, but didn’t drop the boxers—couldn’t, like they were glued to his hand. “Fok, Jo,” he muttered, voice rough, half-laughing, half-choked. “You’re a bloody menace, you know that?”

Jo laughed, loud and bright, stepping closer, towel slipping an inch lower. “Me? I’m just the guy who left you my undies, hey. Looks like you had a party without me.” He nodded at the headboard, then the boxers, grin turning sly. “What’s the story, boet? Thought we were slowing down?”

Piet rubbed his neck, guilt and relief tangling up. “Ja, we were. I just…” He trailed off, eyes meeting Jo’s—brown on green, raw but steady. “Lost it, man. You were going at it last night, and I couldn’t—fok, those boxers were right there, and I…” He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “No excuse, hey. Broke my own rule.”

Jo’s grin softened, less cocky now, more real. He dropped the towel—shameless as ever—grabbing fresh boxers from his bag, stepping into them slow. “Bru, you don’t need an excuse with me. Anytime, no judgment—still stands.” He flopped onto his bed, still glistening, and shot Piet a look—teasing but warm. “Just didn’t peg you for a boxer-sniffer. That’s next-level, de Wet.”

Piet snorted, tossing the sweaty fabric at Jo, who caught it with a cackle. “Piss off,” he said, but the laugh broke the tension, guilt easing into something manageable. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Always,” Jo shot back, sprawling out, towel forgotten. “But you like it.”

Piet didn’t argue—just smirked, swinging his legs out of bed, the mess still there but the weight lighter. Jo knew, didn’t care, and that was enough for now.

Awesome story and well written. Thanks