My str8 best friend - Chapter 3 - Fan request (Patreon)

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

Chapter 3

He texted at 11:12 on Saturday.

Brock: ran an hour. coming over. don’t make plans.

No question mark. I was still in last night’s shirt when his car hit the driveway. He didn’t knock. He never knocked. The door opened on heat and cut grass and the smell of a man who’d been moving for hours.

He stood in my living room in a soaked grey tank and the same compression shorts from the week, socks and sneakers. The tank was translucent down the spine. Dark hair at the collar. A V of sweat from throat to navel. His face was red from the run, mouth open, that mean little almost-smile he wore when he already knew how the next hour went.

He went straight to the sink. Didn’t ask. Drank from the tap with his hand under the stream like my glasses were decoration. Water ran down his wrist onto the floor. He wiped his mouth with the hem of the tank and the whole front of him lifted — wet stomach, the trail of hair, the waistband of the shorts dark and clinging.

“You look soft,” he said. “I just did six miles. You’re standing there like a houseplant.”

“I just woke up.”

“That’s your problem.” He kicked the sneakers off. Dropped the keys on the counter. “I need five minutes.”

He dropped onto the middle of the couch. Knees wide. The shorts rode up. I could see the crease of his thigh, the damp fabric stuck to him. He put his head back and breathed through his nose like the run was still in his chest. Sweat ticked off his jaw onto the cushion.

“Shower’s down the hall,” I said.

“I know where your shower is. I’m not getting in it.” He opened one eye. “You want me clean, you should’ve said so before I left the river path. This is what an hour of running looks like. Sit down. You’re making me nervous standing there.”

I sat on the arm of the chair. He was breathing hard, his big Adam’s apple moving. The smell of him filled the room without him doing anything — salt, old deodorant, the sour heat of mile six. My apartment was usually lemon and laundry. In ten minutes it was Brock.

“Clear the floor,” he said, when the bottle was half gone. “Table to the wall. We’re wrestling.”

“Brock, it’s too early.” I complained just to act.  I obviously wanted my best friend to rough me up. 

“You said you wanted to get tossed around. You said it in the locker room like a joke. I’m not joking. If you tap, you tap. If you start crying about it, I’m leaving and I’m telling the guys you licked my feet like a little bitch. You want to wrestle your bro or not?”

“Yes… I want it.”

“Good boy, Adrian.”

I moved the coffee table. He watched me do it with his elbows on his knees, still breathing from the run. I pulled my shirt off. He looked at my chest the way he looked at a lift he didn’t respect.

“Still skinny. Three years and you still skip the work that makes you heavy. You need more protein, dude. Get on the carpet.”

I did.

He came off the couch slow, like his legs were considering it. Then he hit me.

No stance. No tap gloves. Just weight. He took my shoulders and the air left my lungs and then he was on top of me, sweaty tank sliding against my skin, thigh hooked over mine, and he laughed when I tried to bridge.

“That’s cute. Do it again.”

I tried. He flattened me. His chest was a wet slab. The smell of the run was in my mouth. He got an arm under my neck and cranked it just enough to make the room tilt.

“Tap.”

I tapped his forearm. He didn’t let go for another two seconds. Then he rolled me onto my stomach and put a knee in my back, not mean enough to injure, mean enough to own the pin.

“You’re tapping like a kid. Get up. We go until I say we’re done.”

I got up. My hands were already shaking from excitement. He shot a single-leg before I found my stance and dumped me on my side. Followed me down. His crotch landed against my hip through two layers of shorts. Hard-ish. Heavy. He didn’t move off it.

“That’s a pin,” he said into my ear. Sweat dripped from his jaw onto my cheek. “You feel that? That’s what happens when you skip lifting and wrestle a guy who doesn’t.”

“Get off.” I asked without meaning it.

“Make me.”

I shoved. He rode it and ground down once, slow, like he was settling into a seat. The shape of him dragged along my hip. He made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh.

“There it is. That’s the part you wanted. Don’t act shocked.”

He let me up. I barely stood. He underhooked me, lifted, and I went over the arm of the couch and onto the carpet again. My elbow barked. He didn’t ask if I was okay. He climbed on facing my legs this time, straddled my ribs, and reached back and shoved my face into the wet tank at his stomach.

“Breathe. That’s the run. That’s an hour on the river path. You wanted rough. Smell it.”

I smelled it because I didn’t have a choice. My system needed him. Cotton and skin and the metallic edge of a body that hadn’t stopped moving. He held me there until I made a noise against his stomach, then released my head, spun, and dropped his weight so his crotch sat on my stomach.

The shorts were soaked through. I could feel him — thick, half-hard from the fight, not from romance. He rolled his hips once, testing.

“You gonna tap because I’m sitting on you, or you gonna act like a man for five minutes.”

I shoved his hips. He caught my wrists and pinned them over my head with one hand. The other palm flattened on my chest. Sweat ran off his tank onto my skin in a line.

“Wrestling,” he said. “That’s all this is. Two best friends. I used to do this in high school on garage floors. You didn’t have a garage. You had this girly carpet and a mom who said be careful.”

He started moving.

Not sex. Not yet. The grind of a pin that had gone on too long. His ass and the heavy bulge in the compression shorts dragged up my stomach, down, up again. The wet fabric whispered. His breath hit my face. I could see the dark hair matted at his throat, the pulse there, the contempt in his mouth.

“You hard?” He already knew. He shifted so his thigh pressed my cock through my shorts. “Yeah. Of course you are. I fake-ride you for ten seconds and you leak. Derek would fucking die.”

“Brock—”

“Shut up. Bridge.”

I bridged. He rode the bridge and slammed me back down and the back of my head kissed the carpet. He stayed on me. The grind got less fake. His cock had filled out in the shorts. Every pass smeared heat across my abs. Sweat from his run dropped onto my mouth. I licked it before I could stop myself.

He saw.

“Oh my God.” He laughed, mean, delighted. “You’re licking sweat off your best friend’s stomach while he pins you. You’re a joke, Adrian. But I fucking admire you, you’re a gay who knows what he wants.”

He let one wrist go so he could grab my jaw and turn my face into his chest. The tank was a rag. I breathed through it. He rolled his hips harder, the head of him catching the waistband of my shorts, a dry-thrust that wasn’t dry anymore because both of us were soaked.

I tried to dump him sideways. For a second I almost had leverage. He dropped his chest, killed it, and put his mouth next to my ear.

“Nice. Do it again. I’ll give you the point if you actually move me.”

I tried again. He let me get halfway and then flattened me so hard my teeth clicked. His cock dragged the length of my stomach on the way down and he left it there, pulsing through the shorts, and breathed like he’d just won something that wasn’t wrestling.

“This is what I’d do if I was fucking you,” he said, conversational, like spotting a set. “I’d hold you down just like this. I wouldn’t even take the shorts off at first. I’d just use the crease. You’d cry. I’d tell you to take it. That’s wrestling. That’s me being better than you. Don’t dress it up.”

He kept the grind going.

It stopped being a joke around the time my shoulders burned and the carpet started chewing my spine. He didn’t speed up. He just didn’t get off. Minute after minute of wet fabric and weight and the smell of his intense sweat filling my mouth. My arms shook when I pushed. He pinned the push. Sweat from his hair hit my eyelid. I blinked it in.

“Tap if you need to,” he said. Almost kind. Not kind. “I’m not stopping because you’re uncomfortable. I’m stopping when I get bored or you tap.”

I didn’t tap.

He smiled against my temple like that was the wrong answer and the right one at the same time.

When he finally sat up it was only to peel the tank over his head and throw it at my face.

“Hold that. Don’t you drop it.”

I held his shirt. It was heavy with the run. He stayed on my hips, shirtless now, chest hair dark and flat, nipples tight from the air. He looked down at the wet patch on my shorts without comment, then hooked his thumbs in the compression shorts and yanked them down just far enough.

His cock sprang out over my chest — thick, ugly, straight man’s cock, foreskin wet from the trapped heat of the hour. He wasn’t all the way hard and it still looked like a threat. A vein stood out along the top. He wrapped a hand around himself once, lazy, and the smell that came up off him was the locker room plus six miles.

He shuffled forward on his knees until he was over my face.

“Stay. You move, I put my weight on your throat and we start the pins over.”

The first cock slap was lazy. The weight of him hitting my cheek, my mouth, the bridge of my nose. Not a punch. A meaty, wet smack. He did it again. My lips stung. I tasted skin and the inside of the shorts.

“Open.”

I opened. He dragged the head across my tongue and didn’t give it to me. He slapped my other cheek with it and laughed when I chased it.

“No. You don’t get to suck it. You get to take it in the face like the pin you lost.” He held himself at the base and tapped my forehead, my mouth, my chin. Slow. Counting it out like reps. “That’s a straight guy’s dick after an hour in the heat. Say thank you.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you what.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Attaboy.” He lowered his hips and dropped his balls onto my mouth. Hot. Damp. The smell punched up through the sweat of the run — concentrated, musky, sour, the same crotch from Thursday except he’d been moving since morning and hadn’t showered and had sat on my couch drinking my tap water first.

 “Smell. Then lick. I didn’t say suck my cock. I said my nuts. Do the job.”

I inhaled until it hurt. Then I licked.

He sat on my face like I was furniture. One hand on the floor beside my head. The other idly slapping his cock against my forehead while I worked his sack with my tongue. Salt. Skin. Hair. He made me take both sides, then shoved my mouth lower so my nose was buried in the seam and I had to breathe him.

“Fucking bitch!” he muttered. Not angry. Satisfied. “Best friend since we were twelve and this is how you spend a Saturday. Sucking my heavy balls on your own carpet and cleaning sweat off my balls. Mason’s girl won’t even swallow. You’d drink whatever I gave you.”

I didn’t answer. My mouth was full.

He stayed there. Not a taste. A shift. When my jaw shook he lifted an inch, let me drag air, and sat back down.

“I didn’t say you were done. You wanted rough. This is rough. This is me after a run and you on your back because you couldn’t dump a pin. Lick.”

I licked. He slapped his cock across my lips three more times, thoughtful, and wiped the head on my tongue without letting it in.

“That’s all you get. You earn the rest when you stop tapping like a bitch on the first crank.”

He stood. I stayed on my back. The tank was still in my fist. My chest was shiny with him. My shorts were ruined. The carpet under my shoulder blades was wet.

Brock picked up his sneakers, didn’t put the tank back on, and looked down at me the way he looked at the floor after deadlifts.

“You tap faster next time or I stop pretending it’s wrestling. Keep my shirt as a souvenir, it’s my anticipated birthday gift for you.”

He opened the door. Morning air already hot.

“And Adrian.”

“Yeah.”

“Wash that carpet. It smells like me. I don’t need your neighbors asking questions.” He said mocking me.

The door shut. He got into his car, cocky and shirtless. Like a warrior than won a battle.

I lay there with his shirt on my face and the taste of his run still in my mouth, and I already knew next time wasn’t going to be wrestling.

I also knew I wasn’t going to tap faster.