Sleeping giant

By LuvsMusl  Email
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• Latest update: 19 September. Next update: 3 October. (Submissions welcome.)

• Latest from BRK: “Return of the cocksucking fleshsock”; “Jocktaur pledge”; “Remodel”, Part 2.


I wake up, screaming, aware of something angry and powerful pinning me to my bed. ”Shut up!” a voice says, and I do as I’m told, although my breath comes in shallow, frightened gulps. My eyes adjust to the darkness and I see the face of my roommate, Shane. Until this moment I have not had a complete sense of the strength contained in his well developed body. But I feel it now. My wrists feel like they’re about to shatter in his grip, and I have the sense that if he wanted to he could force me and my iron bed right through the floor. I smell mouthwash on his breath as he moves his face an inch from mine and growls at me through a tight, bullying grin: ”How do you like me now?” he says.

Let me back up a moment…. It was senior year. A week earlier I had driven back up to school, my stuff tossed carelessly in the back of my dented pickup. This was definitely going to be the greatest year of my life. I was a senior now, with only a handful of credits left to complete. With only one serious course on my schedule, a seminar that met on Tuesdays and Thursdays, the rest of my week was filled with bullshit electives and plenty of free time. I could take long weekends, party all I wanted, stay up late and still sail through the year with flying colors.

Best of all, I had a single. Housing was tight at Claremont. Each school year only a few very lucky seniors had the privilege of a private room. And I was one of them. It meant everything. It meant freedom. It meant sex. For me that was especially significant. There were probably a few openly gay students at the college, but I wasn’t friends with any of them. My pals were either other engineering geeks, all business… or my fellow jocks from the rugby team. We drank beer, played sports on the quad, stayed up all night playing cards… and we chased girls. Or at least pretended to.

Up until now I hadn’t had much actual sex. Some soccer player and I had given each other hand jobs in the field house jacuzzi. Another time two guys and me—I think they may have been lovers—had locked ourselves in a men’s room in the Commons and enjoyed a little afternoon mini-orgy. It was all casual, harmless fun. But this year would be different. This year I had a single. And much of my summer had been spent thinking about various hot boys I had spotted on campus, plotting how and when I would happen to run into them and lure them back to my comfortable, private dorm room.

But that hopeful fantasy crumbled, collapsed into dust and rubble, when David, the R.A. on my floor, wandered in as I was arranging my things. ”Dan,” he said, “I’m really sorry. But you need to look at this.” With apologetic eyes he handed me a letter from Housing. I quickly scanned it, and what it said made my head swim. ”What the fuck??”

“I know, it totally sucks,” David said. “But they’re completely out of space. They need to put someone else in here with you. You’ll be rooming with a freshman named Shane Treadwell. He should be here some time tonight.”

Without a word I rudely shoved the letter back in David’s hand and nodded my head, signaling him to leave. David walked out and I kicked the door shut behind him, making sure to let it slam. My golden adventure, my season of sexual awakening and conquest, had just been derailed. Thanks to some clueless dork called “Shane Treadwell.” A freshman, no less.

I lingered at dinner that night, trading stories of summer fun and mayhem with some of my old friends. And then I met a few of the rugby guys at the pub in Commons so we could welcome two reputedly talented players who had just come up from prep school. It was a happy, boozy first night back at college, and I pretty much forgot about my housing situation. Forgot, that is, until I got to the dorm and noticed the lights on in my room.

When I walked in, my new roomie was putting things away in the bathroom. He hadn’t yet heard me come in, so I took a moment to glance around at his stuff and try to get some impression of what I was in for. Shane was obviously the neat and tidy type. His clothing was arranged in orderly piles on his bed. Books were carefully stacked on the desk I had decided would be his. And on a few shelves that I had already monopolized Shane had stuck little yellow post-its with polite questions: ”OK with you if we share this?” Stuff like that.

On the table next to his bed my roommate had placed a nicely framed photo of a girl around 17. Blond hair, gleaming white smile, beautiful eyes with a sparkle of naughtiness. Whoever she was, Shane’s girlfriend was a hottie. Which, for me, could be good or bad. On one hand it might mean that Shane was in the throes of a serious romance, in which case he’d be lying around the room a lot, writing long emails or trading calls and text messages with the hot chick in the photo. But it might just mean that Shane was a hottie, himself. In which case it would be relatively easy to hook him up with one or two of the hotter girls at Claremont, or some townie girls, even. And then I could bully and coerce him into spending most nights sleeping over with one of his ladies. And I could still effectively have the single I had been promised.

“Is that you, Dan?” The voice that came from the bathroom sounded surprisingly young and innocent. Definitely a freshman.

“Yeah, hey, I just came in. Welcome to Claremont.” As I heard Shane setting down a few items in the bathroom and washing his hands I glanced down and noticed a set of chrome dumbbells at the foot of his bed. Pretty big ones. The set ranged from 25’s to 90’s.

At this point the bathroom door opened and Shane emerged, blushing slightly and straightening the bottom of the oversized sweatshirt he was wearing. The jolt of electricity I felt in my balls was an instant answer to at least one of my questions. Shane Treadwell was definitely a hottie, and then some. Cropped blond hair surrounded the square jawed, blue-eyed, handsome features of a Midwest farm boy. But his thickly muscled neck and shoulders told me this was a farm boy who either knew his way around the gym or had a part time job pulling transmissions. ”I’m Shane.”

He stuck out his hand and I gripped it, a thick, muscular tiger’s paw, his palm calloused like tree bark. Now, I’m not exactly delicate; in fact, I can easily palm a rugby ball in either one of my meathooks. But with Shane’s strong hand wrapped around mine I felt almost girlish.

“I guess you probably want to get to bed,” he said. ”I can finish unpacking in the morning. I just need to clean up a little.” The kid was shorter than me, but he probably outweighed me by about forty pounds. Judging by the way the fabric of his jeans hugged his hard ass and massive thighs, it was all muscle. ”Do you want to get in the bathroom before I shower?”

“That’s okay,” I said. ”I’ll probably just read a little before I go to sleep. Feel free to leave the lights on as long as you need.” I grabbed a book, not paying attention to what it was, just making sure it was small enough for me to steal glimpses of the freshman’s titanic body as he shed his clothes. I lay back on my bed and pretended to read.

Shane modestly turned his back to me and somewhat self-consciously took off his sweatshirt, his jeans and finally his briefs. I got a quick flash of the world’s most perfectly sculpted muscle ass before the kid could grab a towel from his bed and wrap it around him. I guess he turned toward me a little faster than I expected, because he caught me looking at him over the top of my book. His whole body (and what a body it was!) colored slightly in embarrassment.

“I don’t mean to sound gay or something,” I said. ”But you’ve got a kickass physique. Do you wrestle, or what?”

Shane seemed a little hesitant to talk about himself. He fastened the towel a little tighter around his waist. Well… you couldn’t really call it a waist. More like a granite column, hard muscle jutting into hard muscle, with little veins traversing the flat plane of his lower abs. “I wrestled freshman and sophomore year,” he said. ”But it turns out I have really great genetics for bodybuilding, so I started concentrating on that.” No shit. ”Last year I did two regional shows, and I took my weight class in both of them. So now I’m training for the Teen Nationals next July.”

“A real live bodybuilder, huh? Why don’t you show me what you’ve got? Hit a pose for me.” I set my book aside and sat up, so as to not reveal the anticipation that was quickly building in my pants. But I guess what I said went a little too far. Shane looked away from me, his face showing discomfort and maybe a tinge of irritation.

“Listen, about that—” he said, looking back at me. ”I love bodybuilding—the hard training, the discipline, all of it. And I know it ends up with me onstage in a posing strap. But the truth is I’m a little shy about showing off. You’ll notice I tend to wear baggy clothes most of the time. And I hate being asked to flex. I even get a little miffed when my girlfriend wants to feel my biceps. Which is pretty much all the time.”

“Hey, that’s cool,” I said. ”Congratulations, anyway, on what you’ve accomplished. I can’t say I’ve ever seen a freshman your size. That body is sick.”

Shane half-smiled and went into the bathroom. While he showered I quickly undressed, got under the covers, and went to work stroking the throbbing boner my new roommate had inspired.

For the next few nights I didn’t get much sleep. In spite of all the back to school social activity on campus I found myself staying in the room most of the time. You never knew when Shane would wander in to change his clothes. Or take a quick shower. Or set up the little workout bench he’d made from cinderblocks and a board, so he could pump out a few sets of bicep curls. It’s hard for me to write this without regressing into full slave boy mode, but holy fuck! When he was feeling strong he’d rep out with the 90’s, in slow, strict form, each veiny, blood-gorged bicep inflating like a balloon on every upstroke.

If my new roommate was aware of my attentiveness he didn’t let on. Typically, I’d be in my bed with a book when he came in for the night from wherever—a jog around campus, a hard workout in the athletic building. We’d exchange a few polite words, me pretending disinterest. And then he’d shower and go to bed. But I’d be up, way up. Shane’s mere presence in the room, awake or asleep, was enough to keep me unquenchably aroused and obsessively focused. I just couldn’t relax with that muscle stud lying there, eight feet away.

What I noticed, however, on the second or third night he was there, was that my roommate was a fast and heavy sleeper. No doubt the rigors of his daily physical regime left him bodily exhausted by bedtime. Shane’s head would hit the pillow and within seconds he’d be asleep and snoring peacefully. I don’t mean the tormented freight train noises my Dad makes after he’s drunk too much and falls unconscious in front of the television. This was more like a healthy, contented hum. The purring of a lion cub, maybe, or the smooth idling of some perfectly tuned, exotic sports car.

“Shane? Are you still up?” I was fairly certain he wasn’t, but I needed to make sure. After a minute or two I got out of bed and went into the bathroom. I sat on the can in the dark, struggling to balance the risks versus the benefits of the crazy notion that had begun to form in my head. I opened the bathroom door a crack and peered out at the 18 year-old demigod still purring contentedly on his mattress. I guess it was now or never.

Leaving the bathroom, I took a few tentative steps in Shane’s direction and then waited. The steady rhythm of his breathing continued, his big torso rising and falling like an ocean swell as he slept. His face, in repose, was disarmingly innocent, even pretty. High cheekbones, full, round lips, flawless skin. An innocent schoolboy, but with the body of a gladiator. I wondered if he was dreaming. I wondered if he was seeing himself on the Mr. Olympia stage, flexing away under the klieg lights, a towering trophy gleaming beside him.

I took a step closer and knelt next to his bed. Those huge muscles, viewed at close range, were intoxicating. Shane’s left arm was bent, his meaty hand resting in the gully between his pecs. Even this relaxed, the kid’s grapefruit-sized bicep swelled improbably on his arm, a pencil-thick vein running its meaty length. I tried to imagine how much of that massive sphere I could fit in my mouth, and what that mighty blood vessel might feel like under my tongue. It was an exciting thought.

I’ve got a big cock, did I mention that? Well, I do. But I can tell you without hesitation that it’s never been bigger or harder than it was at that moment. I actually surprised myself for a second when I reached into my shorts and my hand locked around the happy tree limb that had sprouted there. Maybe Shane’s body was magic. Maybe he was so full of manliness, of muscleboy life force, that it cascaded out of him like a waterfall, transforming everything it touched. What would happen next? Would the walls sprout thick hair? Would pre-cum drip from the ceiling?

Pondering these things, and simultaneously pounding my meat, I leaned forward to breathe in the young stud’s essence. Shane’s powerful right arm hung off the bed, which caused his shoulder, the shoulder of a cartoon superhero, to flare magnificently. I moved my nose as close to it as I could get without touching. And then lower, into the crook of his hairy arm pit. I sucked in as deep a whiff as I could and I swear I almost fainted. He was freshly showered, of course, so there wasn’t much stink. But there was enough to make the blood drain from my head, enough to make me high. He smelled like gym socks. He smelled like sour milk. He smelled like muscle, like hairy balls, like a man. It was the sweet stench of everything I’ve ever feared, ever lusted for, in my twenty-one years on the planet. I shot a huge load, and then a second load I hadn’t expected. A creamy aftershock. And then I stood up, as quietly as I could, and got back in bed.

Not that I slept. I had to jack off four more times that night, reliving the moment. I was still awake, covers pulled over my head, when Shane got up and went to class. It wasn’t until after he was gone that I could close my eyes and eventually sleep. I missed both of my classes that day, dozing until some time in the late afternoon.

Here’s the thing about addiction. It’s progressive. When you get what you want it’s not the end, it’s the beginning. Now you want more. As much as possible, as soon as possible.

The next night, it won’t surprise you to learn, I repeated the same ritual. I waited patiently, until at least an hour after Shane had fallen asleep. And then I crept next to his bed. And with my hungry eyes I made love to his body. But this time it was different. This time, as I leaned forward for a second dose of his man-stench—one was no longer enough!—his lower right pec began to twitch. At first I thought he was waking, and almost fell over backwards. God knows what would have happened if I had. But I quickly realized he was still fast asleep, and what I was seeing was just an involuntary electro-motor response. I remembered Shane telling me he had powered through a killer chest workout that day. Now deep muscle fibers that had been accessed for the first time through the application of heavy iron were establishing new electrical pathways between nerve and muscle. The kid’s chest was so massive, and he had blasted it so brutally, that whole chunks ofit were now jumping and twitching as they came to life. His pecs were flexing themselves, practicing to grow. You can’t begin to understand how fucking hot it was. “Well, maybe you can.

Anyway, before I could stop myself I reached out my free hand and placed my fingers on the twitching fibers. It was mindblowing to feel a swath of my roommate’s chest pulsing and throbbing against my skin as if it were a hard cock responding to my touch. When the movement slowed I opened my hand and let it lay upon Shane’s whole pec, or at least the small portion of it I could cover. Checking carefully to make sure the kid was still in dreamland, I gave his chest a little squeeze. Fucking incredible. That previous summer my family threw a July 4th barbeque, and my Mom had sent me to pick up an entire ten pound loin of beef. Shane literally had a similar amount of dense, hard muscle hanging on either side of his deep cleavage.

Slowly, cautiously, I let my hand glide southward, until it entered the low mountain range of my roomie’s thick, ripped abdominals. I gotta tell ya, abs are my weakness. I can cum just from looking at a hot six-pack. And Shane’s was miraculous. Even though he was flat on his back, his perfectly symmetrical abdominal muscles stood up off his body like cobblestones, neatly surrounded by deep trenches, gullies deep enough to plant beans in.

What I planted, instead, was my tongue. Now, I understood this carried some significant risk. The probability that Shane would wake up upon feeling something rough and wet on his stomach was enormous. But I was beyond reason. By now I was on a sexual kamikaze mission, and if the price was humiliation, violence, even death, it barely mattered. With the moist tip of my tongue I took a long, ecstatic ride up and down those streets of a thousand wet dreams. And when I’d had enough (as if that were possible!) I leaned my head closer and pasted a gentle, adoring kiss on the muscleboy’s stomach.

A sane man would have stopped there. No. A sane man would never have gotten this far. But four days in Shane’s hulking presence had made me crazy. I was boy crazy, muscle obsessed, cock hungry. I’d been driven to a place of such blind lust, such reckless disregard for my own preservation, that there was nothing I wouldn’t have done for one more taste of that tender, virile flesh. If I could have melted Shane in a spoon and injected him into my veins I would have done it.

Happily for me it was a warm night and Shane had thrown his blanket and top sheet aside, exposing everything above the waistband of his white micro-briefs. With extreme caution, tugging gently, I pulled the covers lower. The boy’s generous package loomed into view. A mighty cannon resting on the deck of a schooner, its deadly potency hidden but implicit under a tightly battened cover.

I placed my mouth around Shane’s cock, trying to suck some essence of dick through the taste of laundry bleach and polyester. The boy’s big love muscle stirred in response to this and began to thicken in my mouth. And then Shane started to wake up.

I heard him stop snoring and draw in a deep breath. With a cat’s instinctive quickness and finesse I backed away from his bed, pivoted silently into my own, and disappeared under the covers. I stayed there, silent and motionless, for several minutes.

In that time Shane shifted his position on the mattress. In the dark I could see him reach down and rearrange his junk in the tight briefs. He pulled his blanket and top sheet up as far as his arm pits, and settled into a new sleeping position. After a moment his gentle snoring resumed. I breathed a deep sigh of relief and let my roommate’s contented rumbling lull me to sleep.

But I would not sleep for long—

“How do you like me now?” The angry voice, and the mega-force pressing me against my bed jarred me wide awake.


“Are you a bitch, Danny? Are you my little bitch?”

“Shane, I –”

His iron claws tightened around my wrists, which I feared would snap like twigs in his grip. My mouth opened wide as I sucked air, having forgotten to breathe for the last minute or so. Shane hawked up a big load of phlegm and spit it down my throat, then sat back and laughed as I choked on it, my face deep red.

“Fucking little bitch. You think I haven’t noticed you staring at me nonstop like some pathetic faggot these last few days?”

“Shane, look, I don’t know what you –”

“Shut up, faggot! “You wanna see some muscle? You wanna see me flex? I looked away from him in abject shame. ”I’ll show you my shit, fag-boy! Is this what you want? Is it?” He planted his feet and swept up his arms in a triumphant double biceps shot, seemingly growing a foot taller and a yard wider in the process. ”Look at me, bitch! Get an eyeful, I know this is what you want!”

I sat up on my bed and lowered my face into my hands, wishing I could disappear through the floor. ”Oh, suddenly you’re not interested, huh? Twenty minutes ago you were creeping across the floor to suck my cock, and now you won’t even look.”

“Shane, listen. I’m sorry, I am, but I think now we just need to—” His powerful right hand shot out and nearly decapitated me with a hard slap to my face that left me fighting back tears.

“Let’s get clear on something,” he said. “This is not a discussion. It’s not a negotiation.”

“Then what is it?”

Shane thought about that a long moment. ”It’s surrender terms. Your surrender, my terms.” I looked back at him. There wasn’t really much I could say. ”This is my room, now. I own this room and everything that’s in it, including you. And don’t look so depressed. This was going to happen sooner or later, no matter what. Just consider yourself lucky I’m not on my juice cycle yet.”

I stood up and started for the bathroom, intending to nurse the rising bruise on my face.

“Bitch, did I say you could get up? Get back on the fucking bed!” If there was a moment to defy him, it was now. If I stood up for myself now I’d probably get beaten to a pulp. But despite that painful humiliation, and despite the many public agonies that would surely follow, I’d have a shot at getting free. I could probably get Shane moved, or get myself moved. Or, failing that, I could always leave the school. Family emergency. Sudden, mysterious illness.

The sick thing, the terrifying thing, the thing that was now pulling me into a swirling vortex of weakness and self loathing was this. I didn’t want to. Whatever the terms, whatever the price, I wanted to be right there, with Shane. I sat back down on the bed. He stared at me with obvious contempt.

“I don’t think I like the name Dan.”

“Well, you can call me Daniel, or Danny.”

“I’m calling you ‘Stinky.’ That was the name of my first dog. Smelly little mutt, one ear bitten off, one gimpy leg. Something about you reminds me of him. You cool with that? Stinky?”


“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir?” Shane shook his head. Not quite satisfied. ”Yes, Master?”

“I think you need to call me ‘God.’” I looked back at him in disbelief. He wasn’t kidding. “I mean, it can be ‘Oh, God,’ or ‘Dear God’ or ‘Oh my fucking God,’ but that’s how I’d like you to refer to me. That’s the nature of our relationship. You’re a dog and I’m God.”

“Thank you, God. I understand, now.”

“Good. Now help me move your bed next to mine.” My heart experienced a fleeting moment of hope, a flash of bright sunlight amid the gloom. Would it be this easy? Was God granting me his ultimate gift? Alas, no.

“That bed was cramped, I can use the extra room. You’ll be sleeping outside tonight, Stinky. Maybe for the next few nights. I need to feel secure again that I can sleep straight through. It helps my muscles grow. After a while we’ll fix you up something on the floor.”

My face must have looked like it had been stepped on. Shane looked at me without compassion. ”Better take a blanket and maybe some coins for the vending machines. I’ll be leaving for class a little before nine, you can come back then. But I don’t want you on the bed, or touching any of my things. Got that?”

“Yes, God.”

“Good. Oh, and one more thing.” Shane strode over to a shelf near where my bed had previously been. The shelf was filled with an arrangement of my prized possessions: rugby trophies, photos of friends, some treasured books and CD’s. With a violent sweep of his arm he sent all of it clattering to the floor, at least a few of the pieces breaking into bits. I stared at him in mute horror. ”I’m thinking of getting a gold fish,” he said. ”It’ll be your job to take care of him. I just want to make sure there’s somewhere to put his bowl.” He headed for the bathroom.

“Yo, Stinky, clean that shit up on your way out, huh?”

I’d never been much of a religious person. I had attended church now and then with my family, usually around the holidays. It had always seemed like a mostly social thing—an affirmation of community, whatever. A chaste mating dance for the teenagers (the straight ones, anyway.) But what any of it had to do with the sad, skinny man hanging above the altar had always eluded me.

Suddenly I found myself toiling in the service of a far more demanding and corporeal God, a God with direct and terrifying authority over my body and soul. This God made me understand the meaning of utter powerlessness, of complete and total servitude. The God Shane instinctively knew that in weakening me he rendered himself stronger; the further he drove me down the higher and mightier he rose, in his own conception and mine.

It was actually quite shocking how quickly and completely my own needs and desires were made to disappear. I slept on the cold, hard linoleum floor with only a tattered blanket for comfort. God forbade me to leave the room except to go to my classes or attend to his various demands—returning his library books, doing his laundry, booking him sessions on special equipment in the athletic center or at the tanning salon in town. It was only right. God needed to train. And when not training, to eat. And when not eating, to rest.

My rugby buddies reacted with shock and suspicion when I stopped coming to practice and eventually sent word that I needed to quit the team for personal reasons. But the truth is I had no time. My focus and energy had narrowed—had been forced to narrow—to a single, overwhelming concern: carrying out Shane’s will. At mealtimes I was allotted half an hour to visit the dining hall and return with a tray piled high with protein-rich entrees and the “cleanest” of whatever carbs were on offer. I would return to the room, set the tray in front of Shane, and wait patiently as he scarfed down the best of the meal, sometimes all of it. If he felt he had been short changed in any way—too few veal patties, not enough rice—it would earn me a kick in the ribs or maybe a Pepsi can thrown at my head.

After Shane was done grazing he would shove the tray aside, belch or fart, and lie back in his comfortable double bed, leafing through a muscle magazine or surfing the internet on his laptop. Wordlessly I would collect the tray, bring it into the bathroom, and eat whatever meager scraps my Master had left me. Often dinner was a cellophane pack of crackers and whatever left over gravy I could lick from the plate.

Naturally, my body withered. The brawny rugby player I had been dwindled to a weak, pale wisp of a man, ribs showing through my sallow skin. Once Shane caught me fretting over my reflection in the mirror. Without saying a word he stood beside me, stripped off his shirt, and flexed his magnificent body so that both of us could savor the contrast between his godlike perfection and my own pathetic state of decay. It was an intensely humiliating, painful moment, but at the same time a moment of deep spiritual cleansing. I found myself getting a hard on.

Sex was forbidden to me, I should mention, unless it was at Shane’s bidding. I was prohibited from touching myself (let alone pleasuring myself) if my roommate was around, or might be expected to return any time soon. Once he entered the room and thought he heard me masturbating in the shower. He burst through the bathroom door, ripped the plastic curtain from its rod and bloodied me with his fists as I cried under the rushing water. “Just for laughs,” as he put it.

On the other hand Shane had his uses for my talents. Often he would linger on the phone with his girlfriend, sitting naked or in his briefs and stroking his big, muscleboy cock. At some point he’d snap his fingers, which was my signal to approach him and begin expertly, lovingly sucking his hard tool. He would finish his phone call, spewing baby talk and giggling a tender goodbye to his faraway sweetheart before he hung up the phone. Then he’d settle back and enjoy my increasingly energetic ministrations. He would always pull out of my mouth before cumming, preferring to finish himself off and shoot thick strings of bodybuilder cum on my face and chest. As he pulled up his briefs he would say, “You’re not to clean that off until I say so.”

Sometimes his permission was withheld for hours, sometimes even for days. Many times I would sit in class enduring perplexed and angry stares in response to my odd appearance and unpleasant odor. You have to believe me when I tell you those are some of my happiest memories.

To finish the story I’ll tell you that Shane (as was widely predicted) won his weight class and the overall title in the Teen Nationals. He has been photographed for almost every bodybuilding magazine and website in the world, and I have had the honor of tagging along as his personal assistant.

The unusual demands of the last school year interfered with my studies, and I was unable to complete my course work and graduate on schedule. So I’ll be back at Claremont again next semester. Shane and I have decided (not that, for me, there was really any decision) to stay together and to keep the same room. There are some sacrifices and inconveniences involved, but I can’t really complain. In a way he’s kind of the perfect roommate.

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