My str8 best friend - Chapter 2 - Fan request (Patreon)

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

One of my fans liked Part 1 so much that he asked me to write a continuation. I’m already working on Part 3… stay tuned.

Chapter 2

Three days passed before we trained together again. Our dynamic didn’t change after licking his feet. It was like a fever dream.

I showed up at the gym ten minutes early like since I was too fucking excited. Brock was already there, laughing with two other guys near the squat racks — Derek, the tall Black guy who always wore a do-rag under his cap, and Mason, the short stocky one with the neck tattoo. They were talking shit about some girl from the smoothie bar. Brock had his black compression shirt on again, already dark between the shoulder blades even though he’d only been warming up.

“Look who decided to show,” Brock said when he saw me. He didn’t smile. “You ready to actually work or you still distracted?”

Derek and Mason glanced at me, then back at Brock. They didn’t know. Nobody knew.

“I’m ready,” I said.

We loaded the bar. The four of us rotated through heavy sets. Brock talked the whole time, loud enough for half the floor.

“Derek, you see the blonde on the stairmaster? Ass is ridiculous. I would fold her in half.” He repped out a clean triple and racked it. “Mason, your girl still won’t let you hit it raw? Weak. I told you, next time just pull out and paint her. She’ll get over it.”

The other two laughed. I laughed too, because that was what I always did. My eyes stayed on the way Brock’s shirt clung to his chest when he breathed, the dark hair visible at the collar, the thick veins on his forearms. Every time he bent to chalk his hands I caught the smell of him — already strong, already that mix of deodorant and real sweat that had lived in my head since THAT day.

Between sets he looked at me once, just once, and the corner of his mouth twitched like he was remembering exactly what I’d done with his shorts.

We finished legs late. The gym was thinning out. Derek and Mason hit the showers first. Brock dragged his shirt over his head in the locker room and the smell hit me like a wall. His whole torso was shiny. Hair on his chest and stomach matted down in dark trails. He scratched his stomach absently and the muscles jumped under the skin.

“You’re staring again,” he said without looking at me. His voice was low enough that the other guys wouldn’t hear. “Keep doing that in public and someone’s gonna notice that you’re a hungry fag.”

I turned away and opened my locker. My hands were not steady.

Derek and Mason left first, still talking about chicks, I guess they are kinda limited. The locker room went quiet except for the hiss of a distant shower. Brock grabbed his bag and nodded toward the door informing me:

“Your place. I need to sit down before I drive home.”

We took separate cars. I spent the whole drive with my pulse in my throat, replaying the way he’d looked at me when he caught me with his shorts, the way he’d pressed his sweaty foot against my face three nights ago and called me a nasty little faggot while I licked.

His truck pulled into my driveway right behind me. He walked into my apartment like he paid rent, dropped his gym bag by the couch, and went straight to the fridge. He came back with a beer already open, dropped onto the middle cushion, and spread his knees wide. The grey shorts were still on. White crew socks. The same ones from the gym, damp along the soles.

“Shirt off,” he said. “You’re already looking at me like you want to. Might as well make it easier.”

I pulled my shirt over my head and stood there. Brock looked me over the way he looked at a piece of equipment he wasn’t impressed with.

“Still skinny. Still soft. Three years lifting with me and you still look like you skip leg day. You need more protein, bro.” He drank, throat working. “Get on your knees. Same place as last time.”

I dropped down between his legs. The smell of him was stronger now that we were alone and the air conditioning hadn’t cut the heat of the workout yet. Brock leaned back, one arm along the couch, and watched me over the top of his beer

.

“You been thinking about my feet since the other day?”

“Yes.”

“Say it properly, fag. Like you mean it.”

“I’ve been thinking about your feet since the other night, sir.”

“Atta boy. What else?”

I swallowed. “Your shorts. The way they smelled.”

Brock’s mouth curled. “My sweaty compression shorts. You had them pressed against your face like a fucking security blanket. You know how fucked up that is?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re hard right now just talking about it.” It wasn’t a question. He could see it. “Take my socks off. Teeth only. No hands.”

I leaned in. The first sock was heavy with sweat. I got the cuff between my teeth and dragged it down slowly, inch by inch, until the bare foot came free. The smell that rose off his skin was thicker than the sock — hot, sour, pure Brock after heavy squats and lunges. I did the same to the other one. He watched the whole time, beer resting on his stomach, eyes half-lidded and mean.

“Smell them. Both. Like you mean it.”

I pressed my face into the arch of his left foot and inhaled until my lungs hurt. Then the right. Brock laughed under his breath, the same short, disgusted sound from the locker room.

“Pathetic. My best friend since we were twelve and this is what you are. A sock-sniffing faggot who gets hard when I call him names.” He lifted one foot and smeared the sole across my mouth. “Lick. Heel to toes. Slow.”

I dragged my tongue over the damp skin. Salt. Skin. The faint taste of the inside of his shoe. He made me spend a long time on both feet — between the toes, across the ball, the rough heel — while he scrolled on his phone with one hand and occasionally pressed down harder when I got too eager. Spit ran down my chin. My knees already ached.

When he got bored of my mouth on his feet he shoved me back by the forehead.

“Up. Closer.”

I shuffled forward on my knees until I was between his thighs. Brock set the beer down, grabbed the hem of his own shorts and the compression shorts underneath, and dragged both down to mid-thigh in one motion. His cock sprawled out heavy against his leg, thick even soft, the head half-covered by foreskin, a dark thatch of hair above it still damp from the workout. His balls rested against the couch cushion, full, lightly furred. The smell that came off him was immediate and raw — concentrated sweat and cock and the sharp edge of a man who hadn’t showered.

“There,” he said. “That’s what you really wanted in the locker room. Not the shorts. What was in the shorts.”

I stared. Brock reached down and gave himself one slow stroke, skin moving over the thick shaft, then let go.

“Smell. Don’t touch it with your hands. Just your face.”

I leaned in. My nose brushed the side of his cock. The heat of it was shocking. I breathed in and the scent flooded everything — musk, sweat, the faint metallic note of pre from earlier, pure male crotch after a hard session. My eyes almost fluttered shut. Brock’s hand landed on the back of my head, not pushing yet, just resting there with casual ownership.

“That’s it. Breathe it. This is what a straight man’s dick smells like when he’s been lifting heavy and ignoring faggots like you for an hour.” He shifted his hips, dragging the soft weight of his cock across my cheek and lips. “You wanted this so bad you risked getting caught in public. Now you get it. Enjoy it while I’m still in a good mood.”

I nuzzled into the base of him, into the damp hair, inhaling like I could live off it. My tongue slipped out without permission and dragged over the side of his balls. Brock’s fingers tightened in my hair.

“I didn’t say lick yet, stupid boy.”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry what?”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Better.” He spread his knees wider. “Now you can lick. Balls first. Get them clean. They’ve been sitting in those shorts all session.”

I opened my mouth and took one side of his sack against my tongue. The skin was hot, slightly damp, the taste pure salt and skin. I licked slowly, thoroughly, the way he’d made me work over his feet. Brock’s breathing changed just enough to notice. He kept his eyes on his phone but his hand stayed in my hair, guiding me from one side to the other, then lower, forcing my mouth under his balls so I had to tilt my head and take the smell straight from the source.

“Fucking degenerate,” he muttered. “Look at you. Best friend I’ve got and you’re on your knees polishing my sweaty nuts like it’s a privilege. You should be embarrassed.”

I was. And I was harder than I’d ever been in my life.

He let me stay there a long time. When my jaw started to ache he pulled me up by the hair and wiped the head of his cock across my lips, still not fully hard, just heavy and warm.

“Sniff it. Right at the head. That’s where it smells strongest.”

I did. The scent was sharper there. My tongue flicked out again. This time he didn’t stop me. He let me lick the head, the ridge, the loose foreskin, while he watched with open contempt and something darker underneath it.

“You want to suck it,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “You’re dying to get it in your throat. I can see it on your face.”

I didn’t deny it. I was desperate to suck it…

“Not today.” He pushed my forehead back. 

“You’ve done enough begging with your eyes. Shirt’s still off. Lie down on the floor. On your back.”

I stretched out on the living-room carpet. Brock stood up, shoved his shorts and compression shorts the rest of the way off, and stood over me completely naked. His cock was fuller now, hanging thick over my chest. He looked down at me the way he looked at the floor of the locker room when someone left towels everywhere.

“Stay still.”

He straddled my ribcage, knees on either side of me, and lowered his weight until his heavy balls and the base of his cock rested against my sternum. The heat of him soaked straight through my skin. He reached down and slapped his cock lightly against my lips a couple of times, almost thoughtful.

“Open your mouth. Tongue out.”

I obeyed. Brock shifted forward, took himself in one hand, and let a thick stream of piss hit my tongue.

It was hot. Sharp. The full strong taste of a man who’d been drinking water all session and hadn’t pissed since before the last set. He didn’t ask if I wanted it. He just watched it fill my mouth and overflow down my cheeks while he kept a steady stream going. When my mouth was full he moved the stream up across my face — forehead, eyes, the bridge of my nose — then back down to my tongue again.

“Swallow,” he said. “Don’t you spit my piss on your own carpet.”

I swallowed. He kept pissing. The stream slowed, then started again as he emptied the rest of it across my chest and neck, warm lines running down my sides onto the floor. When he finished he gave his cock two slow shakes over my open mouth and wiped the last drops on my tongue.

“There,” he said. His voice was almost calm. “That’s what you get for sniffing my shit in the locker room. Next time I catch you, I might not be this nice.”

He stood up, stepped over me, and walked naked toward the bathroom. I heard the shower turn on. I stayed on my back on the floor, face and chest wet with his piss, the taste of it still thick in my mouth, cock leaking steadily into my shorts.

Brock came back ten minutes later in clean boxers, drying his hair with one of my towels. He looked down at me still lying there and shook his head once.

“Get up. Clean your floor. And wash your face before you start looking at me like that again.”

He dressed, grabbed his gym bag, stepped into his slides, and opened the front door. That end of the day breeze came in. He paused with one hand on the frame.

“Same time Thursday,” he said. “Don’t be late. And Adrian?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re lucky I don’t tell Derek and Mason what their gym buddy really is. Keep it that way.”

The door closed.

I lay there another minute before I could move. The smell of his piss and sweat was everywhere — on my skin, in the carpet, in my mouth. My cock was so hard it hurt.

I cleaned the floor.

I changed my clothes.

I washed my face.

I didn’t jerk off.

I wanted to still be able to taste him when I finally did.