I’d never actually been over to Preston’s place before. We’d worked side by side for almost two years, gone for beers plenty, hit the gym once or twice, but for some reason it just hadn’t happened. Until that Tuesday night when a casual “you wanna chill for a bit?” after work turned into me following him back to his apartment in Midtown, tie shoved into my pocket, two six-packs dangling from my hand.
The place fit him perfectly. Sleek but still messy, like he’d thrown some money at a decorator and then lived in it like a frat house anyway. Big sectional couch, giant TV mounted on the wall, stacks of finance magazines and Xbox controllers scattered like he hadn’t bothered cleaning for anyone.
“Kick your shoes off, man,” he said, loosening his tie. “You’re about to get wrecked at FIFA.”
I laughed, dropping onto the couch and cracking open a beer. “Please. I’ve seen your work ethic, I’m not worried about your gaming skills.”
He snorted, dropped beside me, and the controller was in his hand like he’d been born with it. He was still in his work clothes...white dress shirt rolled at the sleeves, gray pants hugging those big quads I’d noticed way too many times. The guy just had that built ex-linebacker thing going on, all wide shoulders and thick arms, but dressed up like a hedge fund darling.
We started playing, trash talk flying immediately.
“You call that defense?” Preston barked, beer bottle clenched between his thighs as he spammed the sprint button.
“You’re literally spamming through balls, bro,” I shot back. “Cheap. Fucking cheap.”
“Win’s a win, Dan,” he grinned, that cocky finance-bro smirk that made half the floor roll their eyes during meetings.
The first game went his way. I won the second. By the time the third kicked off, we were leaning into each other, swearing at every missed shot, shoving shoulders, half-pretending we weren’t sitting close enough to feel body heat through thin work shirts.
“Shit, I need another,” he said, jumping up to grab beers. His shirt lifted slightly, flashing a line of abs I pretended not to see.
“Man’s got abs but still plays FIFA like it’s his first time holding a controller,” I called after him.
“Talk when you win another one, dickhead.” He dropped back down, slid the fresh bottle into my hand, and the next kickoff started.
Time got blurry. One beer turned into four. One game into ten. It was just that dumb competitive haze, the way guys like us could burn hours over nothing, talking markets one minute and screaming “foul!” the next.
But somewhere around midnight, when the buzz had set in and my shirt felt too hot against my skin, the air between us shifted. Preston stretched, leaned back, his thighs opening wide on the couch. I tried not to look. Failed. There it was...his bulge, heavy in those gray pants, filling the fabric like it had its own gravity.
He caught me glancing. Or at least, it felt like he did.
“You slowing down, bro?” he asked, smirk tugging again. “That last game was tragic.”
“Fuck off,” I muttered, forcing my eyes back to the screen.
But the image stuck. That thick outline pressing against fabric. The way his hand absentmindedly rubbed along his thigh, close enough to graze himself.
We played another match, both quieter this time. Less trash talk, more tension humming underneath.
Then he said it. Casual. Like nothing.
“You ever just crank it after a loss?”
I choked on my beer. “What?”
“You know,” he said, not looking at me, still hammering buttons. “Like, fuck, I lose again, I’m jerking it before bed just to get it out.”
I laughed too loud. “You’re fucked.”
“You don’t?” He shot me a look, eyebrow cocked.
I swallowed. My chest buzzed. “Not...like...after FIFA, bro.”
“Don’t lie.” He smirked, scored a goal, threw his controller down. “See? Now I gotta.”
I blinked. “You’re not serious.”
He leaned back, spread wider on the couch. “Why not? You’ve never beat off with a bro before?”
My pulse slammed. “That’s—”
“What? Gay?” He laughed. “It’s not gay if you’re just doing your own thing.”
The room felt hot. Too small. My heart in my throat.
He shrugged like it was nothing, then tugged at his belt. Unbuckled. My eyes locked there, couldn’t help it.
“Dude…” I breathed.
But he was already unzipping. Casual as fuck. Pants sliding open, hand reaching in. Then, he pulled it out.
Preston’s cock. Thick, long, half-hard already, hanging heavy over his thigh. Uncut. Veiny. Way bigger than I’d guessed. My stomach flipped.
He glanced at me, reading my face. “What? You scared?”
I swallowed. Heat crawling up my neck.
He spit into his hand, wrapped it around himself, and started stroking slow.
The sound. The sight. My own cock twitched instantly, traitor in my slacks.
“Bro,” I muttered.
He grinned. “Come on. Don’t tell me you’re not hard right now.”
And he was right. I was. My cock was thick against my thigh, aching.
I hesitated, every warning bell in my brain screaming. But the part of me that remembered Bryce in the office, Grant in his chair, that part was louder.
“Fuck it,” I said under my breath.
I undid my belt, shoved my pants open, and yanked myself free.
The relief was instant. My cock throbbed in my fist, hard already, leaking at the tip. Preston laughed when he saw it.
“Knew it,” he said. “Fucking knew it.”
And then it was happening. Two finance bros, shoulder to shoulder on a sectional couch, FIFA still paused on the screen, both of us stroking our cocks like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The sounds filled the room...skin on skin, breath tightening, beer bottles clinking on the table.
“Fuck,” Preston muttered, leaning back deeper. His chest rose heavy under that half-unbuttoned shirt. His fist slid up and down, spit shining his shaft.
I tried not to moan but it slipped out, low, sharp. My cock was dripping, hand sliding easy. Every time I glanced sideways, my eyes locked on his thickness, the way his fist worked it, veins bulging, tip flaring darker.
“Shit,” he laughed, noticing. “You’re into this.”
I bit my lip, kept stroking. Couldn’t stop.
“Fuck yeah, bro,” he groaned, eyes half-shut. “This is better than FIFA.”
And it was. It was insane. The tension, the closeness, the heat rolling off his body. My arm brushed his once, then again, too close to be an accident.
Neither of us pulled away.
Preston's hand was moving steady, wrist flicking just enough to make his shaft glisten in the TV glow. My own grip matched his rhythm without me even thinking about it, like we were syncing up. The sound of spit and wet skin filled the silence between us, louder than the FIFA menu music in the background.
Preston leaned his head back against the couch cushion, eyes half-lidded. “Fuck… I needed this,” he muttered.
The casual way he said it sent a pulse straight through me. Like this was just another stress relief, another after-work beer, except now our dicks were out.
I tried to laugh, but it came out shaky. “Better than yelling at spreadsheets?”
He smirked sideways at me. “Way better.”
Our arms brushed again. This time, neither of us moved.
I couldn’t stop staring at his cock. Thick, flushed, veins standing out as his hand worked it. Every stroke dragged his foreskin tight, then back down, his fat head leaking shiny pre across his knuckles. He stroked like he’d done this in front of other guys before...confident, lazy and with zero shame.
“You’re leaking like a faucet, bro,” Preston grinned, nodding at my cock.
I glanced down. He wasn’t lying. My tip was glossy, leaking, a bead of precum sliding down my shaft.
“Fuck dude,” I muttered, swiping it with my thumb. My whole body jerked at the contact.
Preston laughed low. “You’re really into this, huh?”
I shot him a look. “You’re one to talk.”
His grin widened. “Fair.”
We stroked in silence for a while. Just two dudes, fists working, breaths heavy. But then his hand slowed. He glanced down at my cock again, and his smirk twisted into something sharper.
“You ever let another guy finish you?” he asked, voice low.
The question hit me like a shove to the chest.
“No,” I said quickly. Too quickly.
He chuckled. “You wanna?”
My mouth went dry. I looked at him, really looked...at his jaw shadowed with stubble, at the sweat glistening at his temple, at that heavy cock still sliding in his fist.
I swallowed. “You’re not serious.”
He leaned a little closer, voice dropping. “Dead serious.”
I froze, cock pulsing hard in my grip. The thought of his big hand wrapping around me, jerking me like he did himself...it shot through my brain like lightning.
“Bro…” I started, weak.
“What?” he teased. “You scared?”
That fucking smirk. The same one he wore when he crushed me at FIFA, when he nailed a presentation without even trying. It pissed me off and turned me on all at once.
“Fuck you,” I muttered.
“Not tonight.” He grinned. Then he reached.
Before I could say anything else, Preston’s hand was on my cock. Big, warm, calloused from the gym. His grip was firm but not too tight, sliding over my spit-slick shaft like he’d been jerking me for years.
My whole body jolted. “Fuck Preston”
He laughed. “Relax, bro. I got you.”
And he did. His fist pumped me slow, teasing, dragging over my head just enough to make my thighs tense. I groaned, head falling back against the couch.
“Holy shit,” I gasped. “You’re actually…”
“Jerking you? Yeah.” He leaned back, still stroking himself with his other hand. “Feels good, huh?”
I could only nod, breath ragged.
He sped up, fist twisting, spreading my pre down the length of my cock. Every stroke sent sparks through me. I’d never felt anything like it...not from my own hand, not from anyone else. It was too much, too raw.
“Fuck, Preston,” I groaned.
He grinned, biting his lip. “Say it again.”
“Preston…”
His laugh was low, rough. “Yeah, that’s it.”
I glanced down, hypno-tized. His fist working me, his other fist working himself. Two cocks, side by side, both thick and hard, both leaking. His was bigger, heavier, but mine twitched like crazy under his grip.
“Fuck, you’re hard as hell,” he muttered, stroking faster. “Didn’t think you’d be packing like this, bro.”
I groaned again, hips jerking. “Shit...don’t stop.”
“Wasn’t planning to,” he smirked.
My own hand hovered, shaking. Then, before I could second-guess it, I reached over. Wrapped it around Preston's cock.
His cock was hot, thick, pulsing against my palm. Slick with spit and pre, sliding smooth as I stroked. His breath hitched.
“Damn,” he muttered. “Alright, Dan. Fucking fair trade.”
And then it was on.
Both of us stroking each other, cocks glistening, fists flying. Our arms brushed, thighs pressed, shoulders leaning into each other. The air reeked of sweat and beer and pre, thick enough to choke on.
He groaned, head falling back. “Shit, bro, you’re good at this.”
“You too,” I muttered, teeth clenched.
He laughed through a moan. “Don’t tell me you’re about to cum already.”
“Not—fuck—” I gasped as his fist twisted just right. “Not yet.”
We were a mess. Pre-cum dripping from shafts, pre smearing across knuckles, every stroke wet and filthy. The sounds filled the room; wet and sloppy.
Preston leaned closer, breath hot against my ear. “We gonna cum together, or you gonna bail first?”
That pushed me over the edge of sanity. My hips bucked into his fist, stroking him harder, both of us panting like animals.
“Fuck, Pres--”
“Yeah,” he groaned. “Fucking stroke it, bro. Get me there.”
Our fists blurred, cocks throbbing, precum flying. He was groaning louder now, no pretending, no jokes. Just raw sound tearing from his chest.
I couldn’t hold back. My balls tightened, stomach clenched, every nerve on fire.
“Fuck—dude— I am gonna shoot”
“Do it Dan,” he gritted, jerking me fast. “Fucking do it with me.”
I stroked him harder, felt his shaft twitch in my fist. His whole body tensed.
Then we both broke.
Cum shot from me in thick ropes, splattering across my stomach, his hand, the couch. My vision blurred, every muscle convulsing. I gasped, choked, nearly blacked out from the intensity.
At the same time, Preston roared. His cock jerked in my grip, unloading heavy streams across his abs, his shirt, even onto my thigh. Hot, messy, endless.
We kept stroking each other through it, milking every last spurt, until we were both gasping wrecks. Cum everywhere. Hands soaked. The room stinking of sex.
Finally, he let go, collapsing back against the couch, chest heaving.
“Holy… fuck,” he panted.
I dropped back too, cock still twitching, stomach a sticky mess.
Silence. Just heavy breathing, the FIFA menu music still looping in the background like nothing had happened.
Preston turned his head, smirked at me through the sweat and cum. “Guess that’s one way to end game night.”
I laughed weakly, wiped my hand on a cushion I knew we’d regret later. “Yeah… definitely better than spreadsheets.”
He chuckled, eyes closing. “Bro… we’re doing that again.”
"Bet", I replied.
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