Engines & Lace

Chapter 2: Patterns in the Dark — Lust under elevator lights, weed smoke, and learning the rules of trade.

This is Chapter 2 in the “Engines & Lace” series. Chapter 1: Engines at Rest can be found here.

The elevator was well lit, humming faintly as it carried us between floors. He lived just one floor below me, close enough that we often crossed paths but never long enough to notice each other until that night. I was a sophomore, he was a junior. We were not fresh meat anymore. Past the chaos of move-in, past the wide-eyed stage, we both already knew how campus worked and how to carry ourselves inside it.

It was late, the kind of late when the building was silent except for drunk kids stumbling in from the club or parties. He stepped in wearing gym shorts and a fitted tank top, the faint smell of weed clinging to him like it was stitched into the fabric. The shorts didn’t hide a thing. Freeballing as always, he carried no restriction, every step swinging heavy. His dick print sat bold against the fabric, impossible to ignore under the bright elevator lights. I tried to keep my eyes up, but the outline pulled me back down, like it was begging for attention.

He was taller than me, shoulders wide, the kind of slim frame that told you basketball wasn’t just a hobby. His calves flexed easy under the hem, muscles filling out his shorts without effort. And in the middle of it all, that weight. Even soft, he was too much for most men. Hard, it was obscene, the kind of size that stretched fabric to its limit.

And then he asked for my number. Just like that. No hesitation, no explanation. He slipped it over his like he was passing contraband. I was surprised he even risked it. I was obviously gay, and he was obviously not ready to call whatever he was doing gay. But he gave it anyway, and that was the first crack in the wall.

On campus, we kept it light. Passing between classes, it was nothing more than a quick “hey,” never anything that could be mistaken for friendship. Trade always expected distance in daylight, and heat saved for the dark of the night. I learned to match it, to keep my voice even, my walk casual, even when my chest tightened just seeing him.

We built a rhythm after that. Nothing rushed. Small exchanges in the elevator. A nod in the hallway. Nights outside his car while he smoked. Southern air never cooled, just clung heavy and close, the smoke rising slowly between us. I wasn’t there for the weed, but I smoked with him anyway. That was part of the play. You did what trade wanted, stayed in their orbit, let them feel like they were still in control. Patience was the currency.

He never talked much. Silence was his default. But silence taught me everything. It was in the way he shifted when I leaned too close. The way he lingered when he should’ve gone back inside. And always, the way his shorts betrayed him.

That was the thing about gym shorts: they gave him away every time. Sitting on the hood of his car, blunt in hand, legs spread wide, the fabric stretched across his dick so tight it was practically porn. Thick, long, print screaming bold enough that I stared even when I tried not to. Grey sweatpant season was years away from being a meme, but I already knew why it mattered. Men like him couldn’t hide their size if they tried. But why would they want to.

But it wasn’t outside where it happened. It was in my dorm room.

He came up late one afternoon after classes, casual, like he was just passing through. But he wasn’t. He dropped onto my bed, legs wide in those same shorts, and it was right there—his dick hard, thick, stretching the fabric. He didn’t hide it, didn’t adjust. He just sat, daring me to notice.

I reached out slow, giving him every chance to stop me. He didn’t. Didn’t even flinch. My hand wrapped around him through the thin material, and it felt like I was gripping him bare…heavy and throbbing in my palm. His breathing shifted instantly, shallow, uneven. He leaned back, jaw tight, eyes closed like he’d been waiting years for someone to touch him like this.

I yanked his shorts down and his dick flopped out, already slick at the tip with precum. I dropped to my knees and sucked him, spit running down my chin as I tried to take as much of him as I could. He was too big for my throat, but I gagged myself on it anyway, choking loud enough I worried the roommates down the hall might hear. He didn’t care. He just grunted, hips rolling, feeding me his dick.

The first kiss came later, in the same room. Quick at first, lips pressed together, weed still on his breath. He pulled back like it burned, then leaned in again, hungrier, deeper, tongue pushing against mine like he couldn’t stop. It felt dangerous, but it also felt like the start of something he couldn’t name out loud.

After that, it escalated. I got on top of him one night, straddling his lap. His dick was already rock hard, pressing thick against me through the shorts. I ground down, the heat undeniable, the outline stiff between us. We kissed again, rougher, and my hand slid under the waistband. No underwear meant I had him bare in my grip instantly.

He was even bigger in my hand than he looked. Long, thick, pulsing hot against my palm. I stroked him wet, jerking him until precum dripped down my fist. His hips lifted into me, groaning through clenched teeth, hands gripping my waist just to hold me in place. He didn’t touch me. He never did. This was about his release. My job was to serve.

It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t rushed. It was exactly what he needed—his dick sucked, stroked, milked until he came hard. Hot ropes shot across my sheets, dripping down his shaft as I kept jerking him, squeezing out every last drop. He lay back, chest heaving, face tight, like even cumming was something he couldn’t fully admit to.

The next morning, he acted like nothing had happened. Passed me in the hallway with the same blank look, the same nod. But that night, he was back outside, blunt lit, waiting. That became the pattern. Silence in the day. Confirmation in the dark.

I learned more from him than he probably ever realized. Not about attraction—I already knew men like him would always be my type. Ripped, masculine, big dick swinging in gym shorts, print heavy and impossible to ignore. What he taught me was patience. The discipline of not rushing. The skill of meeting trade where they were, even if it meant nights of silence, or smoking weed I didn’t care for, or choking on his dick until he emptied across my sheets without a word. That was how you bagged the trade: patience, comfort, familiarity.

I can still see those nights like snapshots. The glow of the blunt tip in the dark. His legs spread wide. Dick straining against fabric, print screaming what he wouldn’t say. The nervous laugh that gave away more than his words ever could.

Years later, I saw him on Tinder. Just a profile picture in the endless scroll. But it made me smile. Not because I wanted him again, but because it meant he’d stepped into daylight. He’d accepted something he couldn’t back then. That was closure. Not for us, but for him.

Looking back, I realize he was the test run. The practice before the main act. When the football player showed up in Timberlands, hoodie low, nerves thick in the air, I already knew the play. I’d seen it before. I knew patience would win. I knew trade needed comfort and time more than pressure. And I knew that when the moment finally came, I’d be ready.

Patterns in the dark. That’s how it always started.