My best friend asked me a favor - Chapter 2 (Patreon)

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

Chapter 2

Thursday came like he’d promised.

I opened the shop at six and watched the window like the glass might tell me if he was going to text. He didn’t. Not at seven. Not at eight. At 10:22 my phone lit up with an address I already knew and three words.

Travis: I’m going in

Travis: stay in the waiting room

Travis: I mean it this time

I flipped the sign early. Told my boss I had a dentist thing. Sat in the beige box behind the dentist with a magazine I didn’t read. The same poster of a smiling family. The same cold air. Fourteen minutes last time. I counted.

Eleven minutes. No text.

Twelve.

Thirteen.

I thought he’d done it. I thought the good version had won — the one where I stay in the chair and he walks out with a cup and a story about a numb hand that finally worked. My stomach did something ugly about that. I hated the ugly. I also wanted him to succeed so he wouldn’t look at me like a tool he’d used. 

I thought about leaving. That would have been the kind thing. Let him sit with the dead appointment and the poster. Let the list drop him. Then he wouldn’t have to look at me over a burger and remember my mouth.

I didn’t leave.

At fourteen the phone buzzed.

Travis: room 2

Travis: glove

Travis: lock’s still shit

I went through the side door. Alcohol wipes. Same hall. Room 2.

He pulled me in by the shirt again. Harder than last time.

The TV was on. Different porn movie, different blonde chick. Same mute. Cup in the box. Gloves. Poster. Travis had his jeans open and his cap pulled low and his jaw set like he’d been in a fight with himself and lost. He was hard. Angry-hard. The chain sat in the sweat at his throat.

“I tried,” he said. No hello. “Eleven minutes. I got further than the other times. Then the nurse walked past and I heard the shoes and it died. I wasn’t going to text. I was going to sit here and miss another one. Then I texted anyway.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t say okay like that.”

I pulled a glove. Blue. Snapped it.

“Same rules,” he said. He was already breathing wrong. “Hand. Cup. You don’t put your mouth on it. I said that last time and I meant it. They test. I need this one to count. Two hundred. Keep me on their list. You understand.”

“I understand.”

He sat. I stepped in. The nitrile went around him and his whole body flinched like the glove was a verdict. Thick. Veiny. The head already wet from his own failed work. I stroked the way I had on Monday. Slow base. Twist. He lasted twenty seconds before his head tipped back and his mouth opened.

“Faster.”

I went faster. The glove whispered. His thighs opened. He stared at the poster like he could burn it off the wall.

“I almost had it alone,” he said through his teeth. “You should’ve stayed out there. That’s the version I wanted. This is the other one. Don’t you get comfortable.”

“I’m not comfortable.” I told him what he wanted to hear.

“Good.”

He got close. I felt it in the kick. I reached for the cup with my other hand. He grabbed my wrist.

“Not yet. Not yet. If I look at the cup I lose it. Just—” He swallowed. His eyes dropped to my mouth and bounced away like the mouth was the poster. “Kneel. I don’t want to see that family. I don’t want to see the TV. I want to look at the floor. You kneel so I don’t have to look at anything else.”

I knelt.

The tile was cold. The angle put him right in front of my face with the glove still working. Travis stared at the ceiling. Then he looked down. The look lasted too long for a man who had a rule.

“Drew.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t.”

I didn’t move my mouth. I kept the glove going. He was shaking. The cap brim cut his eyes. A bead ran down the underside and hit the nitrile.

“I said don’t,” he whispered. “I’m saying don’t and I’m looking at your mouth. That’s not— I can’t get over and you’re right there and last time I almost missed the cup because I was looking at your face. This time I need the cup. This time I need to not be a problem.”

“Then look at the wall.”

He didn’t look at the wall.

He took the gloved hand off himself. Held his cock like it might jump. The head was dark, wet, an inch from my mouth. The rule sat in the room with the poster and died the same way it had been dying since ninth grade.

“Just the head,” he said. Voice thin. “Just to get me there. Then I pull out. Then you aim me. I mean it, Drew. I mean it and I know how that sounds.”

“You said no mouth.”

“I know what I said.” He stepped in. Deodorant. Heat. The shake in his legs. “Open. Don’t look at me. When I say now, you get off. We put it in the cup. If they flag it I deserved it. Open.”

I opened.

He put the head on my tongue like he was setting down a tool he wasn’t allowed to use. The sound that left him wasn’t a cough this time. He didn’t bother. His hand found the counter. The other landed in my hair after all, heavy, not shoving yet, just holding on so he wouldn’t fall over.

I took more than the head because the head wasn’t going to finish him and we both knew it. The taste I’d had on my skin Monday and not in my mouth. His thighs shook against my shoulders. The glove hung empty off my right wrist like a joke.

“Jesus— that’s— don’t you— fuck—”

He wasn’t fucking my face. Not like a guy who owned it. He was standing there getting his soul pulled out through the one place he’d banned, hips stuttering, cap brim hiding nothing. I kept it wet and simple. No show. The room was too small for a show. I could hear the hall. I could hear him trying not to make a noise the nurse would recognize.

A knock on the door.

Hard. Two raps.

“Two minutes,” the nurse called. Cheerful. Professional. “Wrap up when you can.”

Travis went rigid.

His cock was in my mouth. His hand was in my hair. The cup was on the counter. The lock was shit.

“Yeah,” he called. Voice almost normal. Almost. “One minute.”

Shoes moved away.

He looked down at me with a face I’d never seen on him. Panic and heat and the kind of anger a man gets when his body won’t obey the story he told himself in a truck.

“Now,” he hissed. “Cup. Cup—”

I pulled off. He grabbed the cup. His aim was better than Monday and worse than he needed. The first pulse hit the plastic. The second hit the rim. The third he forced in with his jaw locked, hips jerking, a broken noise he swallowed so the hall wouldn’t hear it. I still had him on my tongue. He painted the inside of the cup and the edge of my lip in the same three seconds.

The cup clicked on the counter.

Travis stood there with his jeans at mid-thigh and his cap crooked and his best friend’s spit on his cock in a room that was about to open.

“Wipe your mouth,” he whispered. “Wipe it. Don’t you walk out like that.”

I used the back of my wrist. He shoved himself into the boxers, zipped, washed his hands like the sink could erase the last minute. I pulled the glove off. Red bin. He put the cup in the window with fingers that didn’t work right.

“If she smells it,” he said to the glass. “If she— I don’t know. I don’t know what they test.”

“You got volume.”

“I got your mouth.” He laughed once, ugly, under his breath. “Eleven minutes alone. I almost did it. Then I texted you and I put it where I said I wouldn’t. Again. What’s wrong with me, Drew.”

I didn’t answer.

The hall. The nurse smiled at him the way people smile at Travis.

“Even better than Monday,” she said. “You’re on a streak. Keep whatever routine you’ve got.”

Travis’s ears went red.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He didn’t tip the cap this time. He walked.

The truck. Heat. Engine on. Gear not in.

He sat with both hands on the wheel and stared at the clinic like it might come outside and say the word.

“I almost did it alone,” he said.

“You already said that, Travis.”

“Next time you stay outside.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t say okay like you believe me.” He reached into the console. Another fifty. Then he looked at it, swore, and put a second one on top. “Take it. That’s a hundred. Monday was the glove. Today I used your mouth in a building with a nurse in the hall. I don’t leave that sitting between us like I stole it.”

“Travis—”

“Take the money.”

I took it.

He still didn’t put the truck in gear.

“It was thirty seconds,” he said. Quiet. “I lasted thirty seconds in your mouth and I came like I was an animal. That’s not how I finish. That’s not a favor anymore. That’s me being a problem in a room I’m paying you to fix. Thursday I said no mouth. I said it in this truck. Then I looked at you on your knees and I did it anyway.”

“You can not text next time.”

“I know I can not text.” His hand flexed on the wheel. “I’m going to try not to text. That’s the version I want. You in the waiting room. Me with my own stupid hand. A cup. A check. Burgers after that don’t feel like I owe you my whole face.”

He pulled out. Rock on the radio. Cap brim. He didn’t talk to my building.

At the curb he said, through the window, without turning his head:

“If I text, you come. If I don’t, you stay. And Drew— don’t you wait by the phone like I already failed. I haven’t failed yet. I almost had it.”

“I won’t wait.”

That was a lie.

Best friends don’t wait by the phone for a man who said stay outside. I was going to wait anyway. I had been waiting since ninth grade. The clinic was just the first room that gave it a clock.

He left.

I stood on the curb with a hundred dollars and the taste of him and the nurse’s voice saying routine.

Monday had been a miss and a Kleenex. Thursday was a knock and a mouth and a man who had lasted eleven minutes alone and thirty seconds in me. The math was going to kill him. I already knew he’d do the math in the truck at every red light between here and his place.

I went upstairs. I didn’t spend the hundred. I put both fifties next to the first fifty in a drawer like evidence.

At 1:14 a.m. a text arrived and disappeared.

I saw the preview before it went.

“I almost didn’t pull out. I wanted to feed you my load. I almost forget where I was. The knock almost got us. Don’t let that get in your head.”

It was already in my head.

The next booking was on the calendar. He was going to try first. He was going to tell himself the waiting room was the good version.

And I was going to sit in the beige chair and count minutes like a dog that already knew the door.