My Best Friend Said It Helped His Workouts 03: Anterior Pelvic Angle (Patreon)

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My Best Friend Said It Helped His Workouts

Chapter 3: Anterior Pelvic Angle

By the first week of August we had a routine, and neither of us had ever said one word about what was really happening.

Deadlift day. Max pulled four sixty-five for a double and dropped it, and the plates rang on the mat, and by the time I had the collars off the bar he had his thumbs in his waistband. He wasn't even sweating that much yet. He stepped out of the shorts and kicked them toward the wall and set the bench up himself, up two notches, the same incline as the last however many times we had been doing this.

I went to the sink in the corner and washed my hands, because that was still my part of it.

The baby oil didn't stay in his mom's bathroom anymore. We kept it behind the coffee can next to the massage gun. Neither of us ever said the oil should stay in the garage. It just stayed there now.

"Four sixty-five for two," he said, kneeling up on the seat, talking to the wall. "Write that down. That's a twenty-pound jump in three weeks, bro."

"I'll write it down."

"Three weeks." He put his forearms on the pad and settled his forehead on his wrists, then picked his head back up because he wasn't done. "And I'm at forty-one days."

I got the bottle from behind the can and poured oil into my palm and rubbed my hands together to warm it, which I'd started doing at some point without either of us discussing that either.

"Forty-one," I said.

"Forty-one."

"You came on this bench like, three days ago."

"Yeah, but... that's not spending it, that's just clearing out the unneeded extra stuff," He said. "...probably."

"It doesn't totally make sense to me..."

"Do you want me to explain the whole thing again or do you want to get in me," he said, and put his head back down on the pad.

So I got in him. Three fingers, oiled, and he was already loose and hot and pushing back before I had them all the way in, and he made that noise into the pad that he'd been making since we started with the ass play. 

I stood up behind him and pushed into him in one slow go, and his back arched into that exact squat-bottom shape as I got my thumb into the dimple where it always sat.

We started how we always started now. He was facing the wall, me behind him, his forehead down, his hands hooked over the top of the pad. The bench frame picked up its squeak on the third or fourth stroke. Everything about it was worn in by then, and I could have done it half asleep. I sped up my pace, slapping my hips against his body, my favorite part of all of this. 

Then he stopped moving with me, mid-rhythm, and reached back and put a hand flat on my hip to hold me still.

"Hold on. Pull out a sec."

I pulled out. I froze with my hands still on him, sure for a second I'd hurt something.

"There's a thing about the anterior pelvic angle," he said, still braced on the pad, breathing hard, not looking at me. "Like the angle of the pelvis relative to the spine when you're taking it. If you're folded forward like this, everything's compressed in the front. You're basically doing it in a bad squat position."

"Okay."

"So supine's better for absorption. Blood flow's better. It's the same reason you don't sleep on your stomach." He was already turning as he said it, swinging one leg over, sitting down on the incline and then lying back on the vinyl with his knees coming up. "Guys were saying it in the comments too, not just the post."

And then my best friend was on his back on his weight bench, with his knees up and his heels on the edge of the seat, naked, oiled up, hard, and looking at me.

I got between his legs and put my hands under his thighs and pushed his knees back toward his chest, and I pushed into him again, feeling the heat take over my cock, and the whole time I was doing it there was nowhere for my eyes to go except his face.

I had spent a month doing this, but staring at the back of his head, and those two dimples, and now his whole front was pointed at me. His big cock swinging around, the same tan line, but on the front. It stopped at his neck in a hard line, and started again in the middle of his muscular biceps. His chest and stomach were pale, and the muscle looked fake in the window light. His stomach still did that eight-pack thing where the ridges looked more like a cartoon than a real body. His nipples were tight and his pecs jumped every time I bottomed out in him. His dick lay up along his stomach, thick and heavy, the vein down the left side of it, slapping against him with every stroke as I started to pump into him harder.

His eyes were open, and I couldn't look away from that. He was staring right at me, and he didn't look away once.

"Full range," he said. "All the way in. Don't cut it at the top."

"I know."

"Control it on the way out. Control the ec…" He stopped. His jaw stayed open a second and then he shut it.

I kept driving into him. His thighs were wet in my hands and I had to keep re-gripping. Every time I went all the way in, his stomach flexed and pre-cum ran out of him in a long clear string down over his abs and pooled in the dip above his navel, and there was so much of it that it kept going, filling that little hollow space and then spilling over the side of his body. I didn't know a guy could leak like that.

"That's the stretch," he said. "That's… you gotta…"

He didn't finish. His hands came off the bench and both of them wrapped around my forearms, holding on where I was gripping his legs, and after that he just breathed at me. His eyes stayed open the whole time.

Then he mumbled something I couldn't hear.

"What?" I exhaled, out of breath.

He swallowed and said it again and I still didn't get it, so I slowed down, quieting our movements.

"Spit in my mouth," he said, sternly.

I was all the way inside him, and I stopped.

He opened his mouth and kept his eyes on me and said, "For the gains."

I leaned down over him and spit into his open mouth, and he closed it and swallowed immediately, and his throat moved, and his hands tightened on my forearms. Then I started up again and he groaned so loud that I looked at the door out of paranoia that we might be caught.

"I missed this," he said.

"Since yesterday?" I said, between breaths.

"No." His chest heaved under me. "I missed getting off with you. Like we used to."

I smiled down at him, and my hips didn't stop. "Me too, dude."

And all the memories suddenly got more context. My bedroom floor freshman year with a laptop on a pillow between us. His room with the door wedged shut with a shoe. All the times we did it hip to hip next to each other, and thought it was about the online porn rather than the company. And then one summer, it quit happening and I never asked why. And he never really brought it up either. Neither of us said any of that. He was looking at me and I knew he was thinking about the same things I was.

I finally looked back into his eyes, and my head suddenly felt heavier. Gravity closed the last few inches of space between our faces. I've thought about which one of us moved first, and I genuinely don't know, because I was already coming down toward him and his hand was already coming off my forearm and up around the side of my neck.

His mouth was open when it met mine. There was oil on my hands and I had a fistful of the back of his thigh and I didn't let go of it. His jaw worked under my palm, and his tongue came into my mouth, and his lower lip was slightly chapped in the middle, and it caught on mine every time we came apart for air. And he kept pulling my neck back down. 

His hand slid up into my hair and gripped there as I pounded into him harder, losing my rhythm with the position we were in, which made it feel even better somehow. He tasted like the pre-workout he'd chugged an hour before, cherry-flavored and sweet, and salt over that from his own sweat running down onto his face.

And neither of us stopped moving as we gyrated together. My hips kept the same rhythm, and he kept meeting my body's movements, and the bench frame squeaked under us on every stroke.

He broke off first, only because his head went back and his throat opened up and he made a sound that echoed off the walls of the garage.

"Bro. Bro, hold on."

I didn't hold on. I got up on my toes and drove into him harder and watched his face while I did it. His eyebrows pulled together and his mouth fell open, and he stopped breathing for several seconds, and his whole body locked up. His thighs squeezed me tightly, but through the slippery sweat I was able to keep pushing into him. His abs stood up in hard ridges.

He squirted up to his neck, without either of us touching his dick, three big pulses that hit him under the chin and across the pale part of his chest, then two more that ran down over his stomach into the puddle already sitting there. His hole clamped on me hard, and I didn't pull back on the next stroke.

I held it inside him, watching his orgasm face for the first time. He looked so surprised, almost like he was in pain. His breath was shaky, and his throat was doing this strange wiggling thing. I had never noticed how big his Adam's apple was before. I became weirdly more aware than I was before that his butt was on me. His big meaty cheeks held my dick like a vice, like he was communicating with me through it. White streaks appeared on his body as he released more and more of his fluids.

I finished about three seconds later, pushing in as deep as I could get, my forehead down against his collarbone and my mouth open on his skin. I stayed buried and let him milk it out of me while his throbbing kept going, and I could taste his cum on his own chest under my lips.

We stayed like that. My arms were shaking from holding his legs up and I let them down onto the bench, and his knees fell open, and I stayed inside him with my face on his shoulder.

"That angle was better," he said after a moment.

"Yeah?"

"Way better." He reached down blind with one hand for his shorts on the floor and started wiping his stomach with them, dragging the fabric through the mess between his abs. "All this cumming is gonna kill my gains though."

"That's on you, coach."

He laughed, one wheezy hiccup of a laugh, and then his hand stopped on his stomach and he turned his head and looked up at me.

"Could you... go again?"

I smiled at him. "You should do me now. Donate some of that back to me."

"Bet."