My str8 best friend - Chapter 1 - Fan Request (Patreon)

This story is a fan request from one of my Lavish Obsessed supporters. If you want a personalized story subscribe to that tier.

Author’s note: All characters are consenting adults (18+). All sexual acts depicted are consensual between the characters.

Chapter 1

Brock was already on the bench when I walked in, racking two-twenty like it was nothing. Black compression shirt soaked through between the shoulder blades, grey shorts hanging low on his hips, white crew socks pushed down around his ankles. The same look he always had at the gym — focused, a little bored, completely unaware of how many people watched him.

Brock was thirty-five, built thick and solid from years of heavy lifting. Broad chest carpeted in dark hair that ran down his stomach in a dense trail, arms and legs just as hairy. He kept a full dark beard and short hair usually hidden under a backward black cap. Six-foot-one of heavy muscle, low-hanging grey sweatshorts, and the permanent scent of clean sweat and balls after a hard session. Everything about him looked and smelled like a straight alpha who had never once questioned how much space he took up.

I dropped my bag and started warming up next to him.

“You’re late, bro.” he said without looking at me.

“Five minutes.”

“Still late.” He repped out another set, breath controlled, veins standing out on his forearms. When he sat up he dragged the bottom of his shirt across his face, flashing the thick dark hair on his stomach. “Spot me on incline.”

We fell into the usual rhythm. He lifted heavy. I kept up as best I could. Between sets he talked the way he always did — loud enough for half the floor to hear.

“See the redhead on the cables? Ass like that shouldn’t be legal. I would fuck her doggie against a dumpster.” He chalked his hands and glanced over my shoulder. “And the blonde by the squat rack. You see the way she looks at me when I walk past? Straight up thirsty. I would facefuck her until she’s gagging.”

I nodded and loaded another plate. Brock never asked if I was looking at the girls. He just assumed I was, or didn’t care that I wasn’t. He’d known I was gay for three years and still talked like this every single session. Sometimes I thought he did it on purpose.

By the time we finished legs my shirt was stuck to my back and Brock’s was completely transparent. He peeled it off the second we hit the locker room and threw it into his open bag. The smell hit me immediately, strong sweat, deodorant that had given up an hour ago, that thick male musk that only comes from a full hard session. His chest was still heaving. Dark hair ran from his pecs down the middle of his stomach and disappeared under the waistband of his shorts.

He grabbed his towel and phone.

“Gotta piss before we leave to your place. Don’t let anyone steal my shit.”

The second the bathroom door swung shut I moved.

His bag was half-open. The black compression shorts he’d worn under the grey ones were right on top, still warm, damp in the pouch. My heart was already hammering. I glanced at the door, then reached in and pulled them out.

The crotch was soaked.

I brought them to my face and inhaled like a fucking addict.

Sweat. Musk. The sharp, salty scent of his cock and balls after ninety minutes of heavy lifting. My own dick went from soft to fully hard so fast it hurt. I pressed the wet fabric against my nose and mouth and breathed deeper, eyes half-closing. I could smell the exact place where the head of his cock had rested against the material. I was so hard it felt obscene. I could smell him during hours. I was so obsessed with him since our teenage years.

I never heard him come back.

The door opened. Brock stopped mid-step.

For a second neither of us moved. He just stood there in his towel, staring at me on the bench with his used compression shorts crushed against my face.

His expression went from confusion to pure disgust in about two seconds.

“What the fuck are you doing, Adrian?”

I dropped them like they burned. “I—”

“Are you sniffing my fucking underwear?”

His voice wasn’t loud. It was worse. Cold. Disbelieving.

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

Brock stepped forward, snatched the shorts out of my lap and held them up between two fingers like they were contaminated.

“You nasty little faggot.” He laughed once, short and mean. “I leave for two minutes and you’re huffing my sweaty shit like a creep. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

My face was on fire. I couldn’t look at him.

He threw the shorts at my chest.

“Put them back. And keep your fucking hands off my stuff.”

I shoved them into his bag with shaking hands. Brock didn’t stop staring. Without showering he dried off his sweat slowly, pulled on clean black boxers and jeans, all while shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he’d just seen.

“Three years I’ve known you’re gay,” he muttered. “Three years and I still find out new ways you’re a fucking pervert.”

He didn’t speak to me while we finished changing. He didn’t speak when we walked out to the parking lot. He just unlocked his truck, got in, and waited for me to climb into the passenger seat like always.

The second the doors closed he started.

“You actually get hard sniffing your best friend’s shorts? That’s where you’re at?”

I stared straight ahead. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry.” He laughed again and pulled out of the lot. “You’re sorry you got caught. Not sorry you did it.”

The rest of the drive was a slow, steady verbal beating. He kept his eyes on the road and his voice casual, like he was discussing the weather.

“I bet you jack off thinking about me, don’t you? Bet you’ve been sniffing my shit for months. Gym bag. Laundry. Fuck, do you go through my hamper when you come over?”

“No.”

“Liar. Look at you. Can’t even deny it properly.” He glanced sideways. “You’re hard right now, aren’t you? Sitting in my truck with a boner because I yelled at you. Because I smell like a real man.”

I didn’t answer. That was answer enough. I was obsessed with him.

Brock shook his head and turned up the music. We didn’t speak again until he pulled into my driveway.

He killed the engine and sat there for a moment, one wrist resting on the steering wheel.

“Inside,” he said. “You’re gonna make this right.”

My house felt smaller with him in it. Brock dropped onto the couch like he owned it, kicked his sneakers off, and spread his legs. His white crew socks were damp and grey along the soles.

“Beer,” he ordered. “And don’t take all day.”

I brought him a cold one. He took it without saying thank you, cracked it open, and drank half in one go. Then he looked down at his feet.

“Socks are rank after leg day. Get down there and deal with it.”

I stared at him.

Brock raised an eyebrow.

“You heard me. You wanted to smell my shit so bad in the locker room. Here’s your chance. On your knees.”

My face burned, but my cock was already throbbing again. I dropped to the floor between his spread knees. I dreamed about this since we were horny teenagers. Brock leaned back, one arm along the back of the couch, and watched me with open contempt.

“Smell them first,” he said. “Properly. Like you did with my shorts.”

I leaned in. The scent hit me hard — hot feet, sweat, rubber from his sneakers, that thick animal smell that only comes after a heavy work out session. I pressed my nose against the arch of his left foot and inhaled. Brock laughed under his breath.

“Fucking pathetic. Look at you. Straight-up addicted to another man’s stink. And I’m your bro since we’re kids.”

He lifted his foot and pressed the sole against my face, grinding slowly.

“Lick.”

I dragged my tongue from the heel all the way up to his toes. The taste was salty, slightly bitter, pure Brock. He made a low sound of disgust mixed with amusement and shoved his foot harder against my mouth.

“Both of them. Don’t stop until I say.”

I worked over his socks with my tongue while he drank his beer and scrolled on his phone like I was barely worth watching. Every so often he’d mutter something.

“Nasty little cocksucker. This is what you actually want, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” I replied sniffing him like a junkie needing a dose.

“Sniffing my shit in public. Fucking embarrassing.”

When the first sock was dark with my spit he made me peel it off with my teeth. The bare foot underneath was even stronger. I licked between his toes while he flexed them against my tongue. Brock reached down, grabbed a handful of my hair, and held my face against his sole.

“Breathe it in. That’s what a real man smells like after he actually works out. Not like whatever weak shit you do.”

He made me spend a long time on his feet. When he finally got bored he shoved me back by the forehead and spat. The warm spit landed across my cheek and lips.

“Wipe that off with your tongue. No hands.”

I did.

Brock watched me clean his spit off my own face and shook his head again, almost impressed by how low I was willing to go.

“You’re actually into this,” he said. “Getting treated like garbage by your straight friend. That’s the shit that gets you hard.”

He finished the beer, set the empty bottle on the table, and spread his legs wider.

“Another one. And this time stay on your knees when you bring it.”

I crawled to the kitchen, grabbed a second beer, and crawled back. Brock took it, cracked it, and then rested both bare feet on my shoulders like I was a piece of furniture.

“You’re gonna stay down there for a while,” he said calmly. “I had a long workout. My feet are tired. You’re going to keep them company while I relax.”

He turned the TV on and started scrolling through sports channels, one hand occasionally dropping down to adjust his hard cock through his jeans. Every few minutes he’d press a foot against my face again or make me kiss the arch, the toes, the damp heel. Sometimes he spat. Sometimes he just laughed when I got too into it.

The whole time his voice stayed lazy and mean. I was dizzy with desire.

“My little best friend is a faggot. Sniffing used underwear like a bitch in heat. “You’re lucky I don’t post about this shit. Your boyfriend would love to know what you do in the gym with me.”

I stayed on my knees on my own living-room floor, face buried against my straight friend’s sweaty feet, while he drank beer and watched television and treated me exactly like the thing he’d called me in the locker room.

And the worst part — the part that made my cock leak steadily into my shorts — was that I didn’t want him to stop.

Not even a little. I need more and more. Finally Brock discovered how much I wanted him.