Help a bro out! - Chapter 1 (Patreon)

Chapter 1

The croissant café smelled like butter and burnt sugar the way it always did after the lunch rush. I had flour on my apron and a coffee stain on the cuff of my sleeve that wouldn’t come out no matter how many times I scrubbed it. Twenty-five years old, gay, living alone in a studio three blocks from the shop, and still somehow the only one who ever volunteered to clean the bathroom when it got bad.

That afternoon it was bad.

Someone had left the seat up, the floor sticky, and a trail of paper towels that looked like a crime scene. I grabbed the spray bottle, the roll of blue paper, and the “Closed for Cleaning” sign, and walked the short hallway past the storage closet. The bathroom door was shut. I knocked once out of habit, didn’t wait, and pushed it open.

Sven was standing at the far sink.

I knew him the way you know a regular. Tall—six-four, easy—Swedish, twenty-eight, the kind of face that looked like it belonged on a university brochure for exchange students who also played rugby. Round wire glasses. A beige Mercedes cap pulled low over short reddish-brown hair. Always the wired earphones, always the black fanny pack low on his hips, always the same easy smile when he ordered a smoked salmon croissant and a black coffee like it was the highlight of his day. He came in two or three times a week, never stayed long, never made small talk beyond “thanks, man” in that soft accent that made every word sound friendlier than it needed to be.

Today the smile was gone.

His gray t-shirt was shoved up under his armpits, exposing a thick, hairy chest and the soft trail that ran down a solid stomach. White athletic shorts sat low. The front was open. His cock was out—long, heavy, uncut, the foreskin already rolled back, colorful veins standing out along the shaft, the head flushed purple and wet. He was stroking it with one big hand while the other held his phone, screen bright with porn. The sound was low but clear: someone moaning, wet, explicit coming from his earphones.

He looked up.

Those big blue eyes went wide behind the glasses. The friendly face turned pure panic for half a second.

“Shit—sorry, I—” I started, already backing up, heat flooding my neck.

Sven didn’t cover himself. He just stared at me, still gripping his cock, phone still playing.

“Andrew,” he said. My name, like he’d actually read the tag I wore every shift. The accent made it softer. “Wait.”

I should have left. I should have laughed it off, locked the door from the outside, and given him five minutes like he was donating spunk to a sperm bank. Instead I stood there with the spray bottle in one hand and my pulse in my throat, looking at the thick Swedish cock I’d only ever imagined under those white shorts.

Sven’s voice came out rough, almost shy under the horniness.

“Help a bro out. My girlfriend is in Sweden. Has been for two months. I’m dying here.”

He said it like he was asking to borrow a charger.

I looked at the door. Looked at him. The porn kept playing in his hand—some girl getting railed, loud now that neither of us was pretending. Sven’s cock twitched in his fist, a clear bead already sliding down the underside.

I stepped fully inside, turned the lock, and set the cleaning stuff on the edge of the sink.

“Okay,” I said.

He let out a breath that sounded like relief and hunger at the same time. He leaned back against the tiled wall, shoulders filling the space, and kept stroking slow while he watched me drop to my knees on the bathroom floor. The fanny pack shifted against his hip. The earphones hung around his neck, still connected to the phone.

Up close he was even bigger. Not just tall—broad through the chest, arms thick from whatever he did when he wasn’t eating croissants in my café. The hair on his stomach was darker than the hair on his head, soft, trailing down to the dense bush above his cock. The smell of him hit me: clean sweat, a little cologne that had faded, pure peak masculinity. His cock looked almost too heavy for the angle, the foreskin bunched behind the head, veins thick and blue-green under the pale skin. He looked like Scandinavian warrior ready for battle.

I wrapped my hand around the base. My fingers didn’t meet. He was hot, solid, already leaking.

“Fuck,” he whispered, accent thicker. “Yeah. Just—yeah.”

I licked the head first. Salty pre-cum. The skin was silky over the hardness underneath. I took him into my mouth slow, letting my tongue work under the foreskin, and Sven’s free hand came down to rest on the top of my head like he needed the anchor. He didn’t push. Not yet. He just held on while I worked him deeper, inch by inch, until the thick head nudged the back of my throat and my nose brushed the soft blondish pubes at his base.

He groaned. Low. Honest. Relieved for finally finding a hole to stick it in.

The phone was still in his other hand, porn still going. He glanced at it, then down at me, then back at the screen, like he couldn’t decide which view he wanted more. His hips gave a small, involuntary roll. I took it, relaxed my throat, and let him slide deeper. Spit ran down the shaft and over my fingers. The bathroom was quiet except for the wet sound of my mouth and the muffled moaning from the phone speaker.

“You’re good at this, bro.” he muttered. “Andrew. Your mouth—”

I hollowed my cheeks and sucked harder on the way up, tongue pressing the thick vein on the underside. His stomach tensed. The hand on my head tightened. He was still trying to be polite about it, still the smiling regular who said “thanks, man” every time I handed him a donut, but the politeness was cracking.

I pulled off long enough to catch my breath and stroke him with both hands, twisting over the wet head.

“You can fuck my face,” I said. “Just don’t cum on the uniform. I still have three hours on shift.”

My uniform was already stained but the reason I said that was because I really wanted it o swallow his Swedish load.

Sven’s blue eyes went darker behind the glasses. He nodded once, almost solemn, then locked the phone and shoved it into the black fanny pack without looking. Both hands came to my head. He didn’t ask again. He just guided himself back into my mouth and started thrusting—short, careful strokes at first, then deeper when he realized I wasn’t going to pull away or vomit.

The facefuck started proper after that.

He held my head still and used my throat the way a guy uses something he’s needed for weeks. The thick uncut cock dragged over my tongue, filled my mouth, pushed into my throat until my eyes watered and spit poured down my chin onto the floor. Every time he went in I gagged around him and he groaned like it was the best sound he’d heard since his girlfriend left. The Mercedes cap stayed on. The glasses stayed on. The gray t-shirt stayed shoved up under his arms, hairy trimmed chest heaving above me.

“Fuck—take it—just like that—” His accent broke the words apart. “Miss this so much. Miss getting my dick sucked properly. You’re—ah—you’re saving my life, bro.”

I let him use me. My hands stayed on his thick thighs, feeling the muscle jump every time he drove in. The white shorts were still around his hips, framing everything. The fanny pack bumped my forehead whenever he went deep. I could taste him getting closer—saltier, thicker precum coating my tongue. My own cock was hard and ignored in my work pants, pressed against the zipper, leaking.

Sven’s rhythm got rougher. The polite Swedish guy who smiled at the counter was gone. In his place was a tall, horny digital nomad who hadn’t been touched in two months and had just been given permission to take what he needed. He fucked my throat with long strokes now, pulling almost all the way out so I could see the wet shine on the shaft before pushing back in to the root. My nose crushed into the dense hair. I couldn’t breathe. He held me there for three full seconds, hips tight, before letting me up for air and doing it again.

“Gonna come,” he warned, voice wrecked. “Where—throat? You said uniform—”

I nodded as much as his hands would allow and took him deep one more time.

Sven’s whole body locked. A broken, grateful sound tore out of him and he started pulsing down my throat—thick, hot, a lot of it, the kind of load a guy saves up when the only option has been his own hand and porn on a phone screen. I swallowed around him, once, twice, feeling every spurt, while he held my head in place and rode it out with small, helpless thrusts. His cock kept twitching. His thighs shook. The hands in my hair finally loosened.

He pulled out slow, almost careful. I stayed on my knees, breathing hard, chin wet, eyes streaming, uniform still clean the way I’d asked.

Sven leaned against the wall like his legs weren’t fully working. His big thick legs were shaking from the intensity of the orgasm. He tucked himself back into the white shorts with clumsy hands, fixed the t-shirt, and adjusted the fanny pack. The glasses were slightly crooked. The Mercedes cap sat askew. He looked down at me and the big, friendly smile came back—softer this time, almost shy under the post-orgasm flush.

“Holy shit,” he said quietly. “Thank you, bro” Seriously, you’re the best. I owe you.”

I wiped my mouth with the back of my wrist and stood on unsteady legs. My knees hurt. My throat felt used. I was still hard as hell.

Sven dug into the fanny pack, pulled out a folded twenty and a receipt from the café, and scribbled something on the back with a pen. He pressed both into my hand.

“Tip,” he said. “And my number. If you ever… you know. Want to help a bro out again. Girlfriend’s gone another six weeks at least.”

He unlocked and opened the door, checked the hallway, and slipped out like nothing had happened. I heard the little bell over the café entrance a few seconds later.

I locked the bathroom again, cleaned the floor properly this time, and fixed my apron in the mirror. My mouth still tasted like him. The twenty and the number were still in my fist.

Sven Anderssonand a local number written in messy European handwriting. I was paid $20 for a blowjob. Wow, what a cheap slut. But that thought really made me hornier that I was already.

I put both in my pocket, unlocked the door, and went back to the front of the café to finish my shift. Every time the bell rang for the rest of the afternoon I looked up, half hoping, half terrified it would be the tall Swede in the Mercedes cap coming back for another croissant or blowjob…

He didn’t come back that day.

But I already knew he would or maybe I was going to send him a text. Offering some help…

And I already knew that the next time he asked me to help a bro out, I was going to say yes before he finished the sentence in his English with a sexy accent.

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