My Gooner Best Friends Made Me A Cum Dumpster Practice Girl (Patreon)

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Chapter 1: The Goon

I've tried to figure out when exactly we crossed over from being a group of straight teens into a debaucherous pile of male bodies and cum and sweat, and all I can attribute it to is eleven weeks of nothing happening, three dudes getting quietly, incrementally stranger.

Me and my two horny best friends, Kale and Dylan, had shared everything since little league, and one summer we somehow ended up sharing the most dangerously backed-up balls. Something about free time and warm weather, having zero luck with girls, and the overwhelming onslaught of free internet porn had pushed us to a level I did not know a human body could sustain. Kale had gotten big over the prior year playing sports, his shoulders sticking out a bit, his upper body dense and somewhat intimidating, and Dylan was still the same lanky skater kid with curly hair.

None of us would buy a fleshlight. We talked about it constantly, but we didn't exactly have money, and the thought of a mom finding one in a sock drawer was worse than death. So we all jerked off. A lot.

Sometime early that summer it stopped being regular jerking off and turned into legit gooning. Dylan found the term online and dropped it into the group chat.

Dylan: Bro look up gooningKale: What is thisDylan: It's edging but you never stop. You just goon. This is me rn. Me: I'm not looking this up

I looked it up. We all did. And honestly we got hooked almost immediately, hours at a time, porn on, barely touching ourselves, just floating in it, saying stupid things, at first quietly under our breaths then louder. It was stupid and it was also the best feeling of my life up to that point.

It leaked into the group chat fast. We texted each other mid-session, which somehow made it better, knowing the other two were in their own rooms doing the exact same thing.

Me: Hour three. I can't feel my legsKale: Weak. I did four yesterdayDylan: Watch this one right now. Trust me

We started trading links, and they got rapidly filthier, and we rated them and argued about them and saved the best ones in the chat. When the thread got too clogged to scroll, Dylan set us up a private discord server, three members, channels for everything, with a name too demented to repeat.

A voice chat came next, Kale's idea, so we could stream our screens to each other and goon to the same video at the same time. Muted at first, obviously, but that lasted maybe a day until Dylan forgot to mute one time, and suddenly we could hear everything, the breathing, his hand working, and instead of saying anything about it me and Kale just unmuted too. After that nobody muted again.

"Bro, at this point we might as well just do it in the same room," Kale said one night, and we all laughed. But pretty soon doing it alone felt like a waste. Kale's basement was built for it, a huge room with an old couch that sagged in the middle and a TV his dad had sized for a sports bar, and his parents slept two floors up and could not have heard a bomb go off down there. So that became the spot.

First time, the three of us sat on opposite ends of the couch with a full cushion of space between each of us, and nobody took anything off. We just whipped them out through our flies and kept our eyes forward, mostly. Nobody talked except to argue over which video. Nobody admitted to looking at each other either. I looked. They definitely looked. I got good at doing it without moving my head.

I learned from not-looking that Kale's buddy-below-the-waist matched the rest of his new body, not especially long but seriously thick. His fingers barely closed around it. Dylan was a skater boy everywhere. His extension was long like him. It made his fist look small on it. Mine ranked in the middle on both counts, and I privately decided mine was the best one of the three.

Finishing was the tense part. Kale cracked first, stood up without a word and walked into the little basement bathroom, and the fan clicked on, and me and Dylan both pretended that meant we couldn't hear anything else. Dylan didn't bother. He leaned back, breathed harder, and squirted all over his own abs right there on the couch. Hearing that happen next to me pushed me over, and I finished right after him, aimed straight up so it shot into the air, dropping onto myself in hot globs. When I glanced over, Dylan was watching me do it.

When Kale came back out Dylan said, "Feel better?" and Kale told him to shut up.

We cleaned up with paper towels, watched the video like nothing happened, and maybe five minutes later all three of us were stroking again.

The second night, all our shorts came off before the video even loaded. The videos we tended to watch had a bunch of guys walking around in just t shirts, taking turns banging a girl or doing her at the same time, so it kind of felt like we were "cool guys", mimicking them. Dylan just stood up and stepped out of his pants and underwear together, his half-covered lower cheeks facing me, smooth and hairless.

"Cute butt," I said.

"Shut up."

Kale shoved his down too with a quick comment, and I peeled mine off without a word. 

We even stopped keeping a cushion between us. Legs spread wherever they wanted, somebody's knee against somebody's knee, and the sounds we'd been muffling that first night came out at full volume, grunts, dumb commentary, the slow wet rhythm of three guys gooning with no limits, tugging on everything, our hands exploring ourselves. I remember glancing down the couch at both of them glassy-eyed in the TV light and thinking this should have felt weirder than it did.

But it didn't. It weirdly felt like the most natural thing we'd ever done together. These were my horny nut bros that I'd always known. Now we were just dropping a barrier that never needed to be there.

After that it was basically every night for a week. Our parents figured we were gaming, and we let them, because from two floors up three guys shouting at a TV sounds exactly like gaming anyway. Nobody else cared where we were or what we did with our nights. We were broke, home, and bored, and the basement belonged to us.

We watched gangbangs almost exclusively by then. One girl, a crowd of guys standing around in t-shirts waiting on their turn, and the three of us spread along that saggy couch, pretending we were just part of the crew of dudes waiting our turn. 

Stroking dry stopped cutting it somewhere in there, so vaseline became the house lube, a fat tub we found under the basement bathroom sink. It was greasy and it was perfect, a slow heavy slide that let us hold a lazy rhythm for an hour or more without rubbing ourselves raw. The whole couch started to pick up a faint smell of it on top of male body smell and ball sweat.

One night, Kale brought in a clear glass cup from his pantry, because we were actually going through too many paper towels and his mom was starting to notice. Dylan wondered out loud how much three guys could actually produce in one night. So we started catching everyone's loads in it. When somebody announced they were gonna blow, whoever sat closest grabbed the cup and held it out for him without looking away from the screen, and he'd squirt into it while the other two heckled him a little about volume or how long he had lasted. Afterward we held it up to the TV light, checking the level.

"Three-man effort," Kale said one night, swirling it. "This is teamwork."

····[]····

We decided we needed something to actually fuck, badly. We wanted a fleshlight. Apparently Dylan had used his brother's before, but it was "not available" for us to borrow. 

Kale kept pulling the same overpriced one up on his phone and reading the reviews out loud as we groaned about our inability to have one for ourselves.

"One of us should just be the fleshlight," Dylan said one night, mid-stroke, eyes still on the TV.

"What does that even mean," I said.

"Butt cheeks, bro." 

Kale laughed hard, his hand losing its rhythm on himself. "Count me out," he said. 

"Just blow me then," I said. 

"I'd rather let you use my butt cheeks," he muttered, and we all cracked up.

Dylan turned it into a bet. 

"Let's jerk for it," he said. "Draw straws, in a way."

Before we even had any rules set, we started jerking each other off in a circle. I had Kale's thickness, Kale reached across me for Dylan, and Dylan had me. One video, Dylan's pick, the filthiest one on the server, and nobody was allowed to slow down or let go of whoever he had.

"First to bust gets humped," Kale said.

Dylan picked an absolute gauntlet, five guys on one girl, going rough and cumming a lot, and I actually held up fine against the video. What killed me was the couch. Kale started grunting and whining on my left, like I was doing too good of a job cranking his hog, and Dylan was breathing hard on my right, his breath tickling my neck while he did me. The two of them at once in this close proximity was a stronger stimulus than the video. I was done first, and I announced it out loud, as had become tradition, and Kale grabbed the cup out of habit while Dylan milked me into it, adding my load to the cup that already had someone else's load in it. I don't even remember whose it was.

"Cup's retired for tonight," Dylan said, swirling my contribution. "Get the vaseline, buddy."

Dylan went first. He stood up, grabbed my hip, and bent me over the arm of the couch, my knees sinking into the cushion, my face toward the wall. He scooped two fingers of vaseline, and I felt the firmness of him settle into the groove of me, not pushing in, just humping, his weight draped warmly over my back.

"You're really doing it?" Kale said from his end of the couch.

"Yup," me and Dylan said in unison, just as he put a hand on each butt cheek and pushed them together, hugging his dick tightly. 

He sped up abruptly, his hips smacking into me, the greasy slide of him running up and down between my cheeks while his hands kept them tight around him. His weight pinned me harder over the arm of the couch, his breath hot against my neck, chopping into little grunts that pitched higher and closer together. I could feel every bit of him dragging through the vaseline, blunt and firm and heavier with each pass, and his whole body seized up behind me, hips stuttering, and he squirted across my lower back in warm ropes without announcing it first.

The tone was different. We normally made some sort of comment about our nut, but besides his grunting and breathing, I didn't get any warning before my back was streaked with his hot lines of boy juice. 

"Ah why'd you finish on him," Kale blurted out, "You ruined it."

"It's just more lube," Dylan muttered as he wiped the head of himself off on my butt, while I lay there folded over the arm of the couch, wondering why that had felt good.

Kale took his turn next, and he was heavier about everything. He planted a knee behind mine on the cushion, scooped a fresh glob of vaseline even though Dylan's mess was still warm on my back and running down my ass, and he pressed his thickness down between my cheeks. He didn't ease in. His weight flattened me over the arm of the couch, and the fat slide of him ground over me on every pass, his breathing deep and even, nothing like Dylan's little grunts. I realized I had quit waiting for it to be over, and I just liked it every time it pressed against my actual hole. It felt good. I pushed back into him.

"Just stick it in," I said.

Dylan's head came up off the back of the couch. "You're really gonna do that?"

I didn't know which one of us he was asking. Kale answered for us both by dragging himself back along the groove of me until the blunt head of him sat square against me, right where I kept pushing back, and he leaned his weight in. My body argued for a long second, a dull stubborn pressure that refused to give, so I breathed out and pushed back at the same time he pushed forward, and he opened me up.

It hurt. It burned and ached and my fingers dug into the couch arm and my mouth hung open against the cushion. But under the burn sat this full, heavy, stretched feeling I had never had in my life, all that new thickness of his parked in me, matching the rest of what had built on him, his strength and weight. And when he drew back and slid deeper the ache rolled over into something that curled my toes against the cushion. And I was still hard. Harder, honestly, trapped against the arm of the couch and leaking into the fabric.

"Oh my god," Kale breathed above me. His hands wrapped my hips and he started moving, short careful pumps that stretched into long greasy slides once I quit clenching, each one dragging across a spot in me that lit up every pass. His chest flattened against my back, heavy and warm, each of his pecs tensing and adding pressure individually, his knees crowding mine on the cushion. I quit trying to keep quiet. So did he. Dylan watched us carefully, naked and a bit wet. On the TV the gangbang kept playing, for nobody.

"Dude," Dylan muttered as he scooted down the couch to watch us from close up. "Dude."

Kale's breathing got choppy, rough against my ear. "Can I just cum inside you?"

"Go for it."

He buried himself and held there, and I felt him throb, actually felt each pulse of it stretch me even more, heat blooming deep inside me, while he groaned into the back of my neck and crushed me into the couch arm. 

He pulled out carefully and some of his load followed out, crawling down warm on my thigh.

"No way you actually did that," Dylan breathed, except he was already off his cushion, already working his fist, shouldering Kale aside before the sentence ended. "Move."

He slid in on Kale's load in one long push, nothing careful about it, and he reached deeper than Kale had, long like the rest of him, deep enough that I grunted into the cushion. He had squirted once, like three minutes prior, so he lasted a bit as he humped rapidly, clumsy like a bunny while I braced against his movements. His hips smacked into me in a fast, wet smacking rhythm, the couch arm creaking under us, and I pushed back to meet him because by that point I wanted every bit of it. When he finished he did it his new way, no announcement, just his whole lanky body seizing against my back while he unloaded in me, his breath stuttering hot on my shoulder.

He stayed draped over me after, leaving it inside me, probably wondering if he could pump another load in me yet, both of us breathing hard.

"Well," Kale said with an exhale, "We just saved like three hundred bucks."

"I'm way better than a fleshlight," I mumbled into the cushion.