Dylan saw Elliot dropping me off at the apartment earlier this morning. One thing led to another, and five minutes later, his cock was buried down my throat, his fingers twisted in my hair like he owned me. He didn’t even take off my hoodie. Just bent me over the couch, yanked my shorts down, and lined himself up behind me. His cock was thick and slick and pulsing against my hole, the head already leaking, just about to press in.....
and that’s when the knock came at the door.
“Shit,” I muttered, blinking. “That’s my sister.”
Dylan didn’t move. He stayed there, crouched behind me, cock still perfectly in position. His chest was heaving against my back, his breath warm and shaky. He let out a low groan, almost angry. “I don’t care,” he muttered, voice raw with need. “Don’t answer. Let her go. I’m so fucking hard right now...don’t do this to me, Spaghetti Noodle.”
“Are you insane Dylan?” I hissed, twisting underneath him. “She can’t see you literally about to fuck me in HER apartment.."
The knock came again...louder this time, more impatient.
I slipped out from under him in a panic. My legs felt like jelly, my shorts were tangled around one ankle, and my ass was still wet from his precum. Dylan stood, towering, bare-chested, cock still pointing straight up, flushed and twitching. His swim trunks were still balled up near the couch. He looked like sex itself.
“Put something on!” I said, dragging my shorts up.
“Don't really want to...” he muttered, reaching down and yanking on his trunks in a hurry. The fabric barely contained him. I threw his T-shirt at his chest, but he ignored it, already stalking toward the balcony with that same desperate tension running down his spine.
There was no time to argue. I ran a hand through my hair, pulled the hoodie down over my hips, adjusted my expression into something half-awake and confused, and cracked open the door.
Becca stood there in her running gear...tight black leggings, sports bra, her ponytail slick with sweat. She had an iced coffee in one hand and a suspicious look in the other.
“Why was the door locked, Troy?”
“It probably just latched,” I lied.
Her eyes narrowed as she looked me over. I probably looked wrecked—flushed, hair messy, lips swollen. Her gaze swept over the couch, the twisted blanket, the slightly ajar balcony door. She took a long sip of her drink.
“I thought I heard voices.”
“Must’ve been the neighbors,” I said.
Becca stepped inside, walking slowly. “It smells like cologne in here.”
I didn’t answer. My pulse was hammering in my neck. She glanced again at the balcony. I could already see where this was going. “It’s stuffy in here,” she said casually. And then, before I could stop her, she was already halfway across the living room.
She opened the sliding door.
Dylan was out there, leaning against the far end of the railing like he lived there. Still shirtless, still in those tight underwear, his chest rising and falling with the effort of pretending to be unfazed. His arms were crossed, his jaw tight. The bulge in his trunks was impossible to miss.
Becca froze. “Oh. Uh. Hi.”
Dylan gave her a nod. “I was just leaving.”
Cool. Calm. Like he hadn’t had his cock grinding into me thirty seconds earlier.
He stepped back into the apartment, grabbed his jeans off the floor in one motion, and walked out the front door without saying anything else.
The second the door clicked behind him, Becca spun toward me.
“Who was that handsome gentleman?”
I cleared my throat. “Dylan.”
She blinked. “Dylan Dylan? As in Jake’s brother? Are you fucking insane?”
I had no response.
“Oh my god,” she said, laughing, flopping onto the couch. “You’ve been getting absolutely destroyed by Jake’s hot older brother.” "Didn't he have a girlfriend or something?"
“He’s just a friend,” I said quickly.
She gave me a look. “Troy, he was in his underwear. And not in a ‘just woke up’ way. That was a man who was interrupted mid-thrust.”
“I wasn’t even....nothing was happening.”
Becca took another sip of her coffee, eyes glinting. “You were getting fucked. Don’t lie.”
I sighed. “We’re just… hanging out.”
“Babe. That man is a walking sex scene. His arms? His abs? I saw everything. I could draw a police sketch of his body from memory.”
I buried my face in my hands. “Please stop.”
“Honestly, I love it for you,” she said, grinning as she stood up. “You’ve got full netflix drama going on. Don’t forget to use condoms”
She disappeared into her room without another word.
I stood there, dazed. My cock was still semi-hard in my shorts. My ass still tingled from how close it had been...how much I still needed it. The only thing I could feel was my phone buzzing in my pocket.
Dylan:
Don't think for a second that this is over.
My apartment now!!!
I wanna fuck you so bad.
I didn’t think. I grabbed my spare keys and stepped into the hallway. The floor felt warm under my feet, the air cool against my still-sweaty skin. My legs were moving on their own.
His door was just across the hall.
I knocked once.
It opened instantly. He stood there....shirtless, still in his underwear, still hard.. His cock was visibly straining against the fabric, angry and red and leaking at the tip.
His eyes locked on mine, dark with hunger. "In my bedroom, now!” he said, voice rough and low. “You’re not going anywhere until I fuck you.”
He stepped aside to let me in.
Dylan was still in his underwear, the same ones that barely contained his cock this morning. Still shirtless, too, muscles tense, jaw tight, the line of his abs dipping down into that waistband like a carved invitation. His cock was hard again..... leaking and straining against the fabric like it remembered exactly where we’d left off.
“Bedroom. Now,” he growled. “You’re not going anywhere until I fuck you.”
He stepped aside. I walked in. My legs felt like they were moving on instinct.
The second the door clicked behind me, his hand was on my lower back, guiding me forward. My breath hitched. I didn’t speak. Neither did he. The apartment was dim and warm. The curtains were half-open, the late morning sun spilling over the floor in soft streaks of gold.
He walked me straight to his bedroom.
When I turned, his eyes dropped to my shorts.
"You know," he muttered, voice low, "I watched that French guy drop you off earlier today. That little wave you gave him. The smile. Thought I’d throw up."
My heart thudded.
He stepped in closer, crowding me backward until the backs of my knees hit the mattress. "You think he's gonna take care of you?"
I wanted to say something back.....anything.....but my mind was blank, already spiraling with what might happen next. Dylan leaned in, fingers grazing the edge of my waistband, slow and deliberate. “You know your hole twitches the second I walk in,” he whispered, voice low and smug. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
He didn’t wait. Didn’t need to. He knew exactly what he was doing. Knew how badly I wanted him.... how desperate I was.
My shorts were tugged down in one swift motion. My legs parted. I was still wearing Elliot's hoodie and he shoved it up my back as he pushed me down to my knees on the bed.
“Face down. Ass up.”, he commanded.
I obeyed before I could even think. My knees sank into the pillow-soft mattress, my arms stretched forward, my hips lifted.
A hand landed on my ass...firm, claiming, hot. “You wanna give that pretty hole away?” he asked. “To some Parisian prick who probably eats salad with his hands? Or you wanna give it to me; the guy who’s about to fuck the noise outta you?”
I groaned into the sheets.
Dylan’s hands spread me apart slowly. My breath caught.
“You’re already wet,” he muttered. “You’re such a little cockslut for me, huh?”
I bit the pillow.
Then I felt it....his tongue. A slow, firm lick right down the middle. I gasped. My whole body shuddered. I wasn’t expecting that. I was certain, as usual, my hole would be met with Dylan’s cock. But feeling his tongue, the scratch of his stubble grazing my ass.... it made me feel things I hadn’t braced for. This was the first time my best friend’s not-so-straight brother had his face buried between my cheeks, and it didn’t feel like some casual power move. It felt like he didn’t want me going back to Elliot. Like he needed to prove that underneath all that alpha male bravado, there was a guy who wanted to please me just as badly as he wanted to ruin me.
“I should’ve claimed this hole the second I saw you again,” he muttered between licks. “Should’ve bent you over the couch and made you mine.”
His tongue flattened against me. One slow, obscene lick from base to rim, his hands spreading me wide like he was inspecting his property. I gasped...my whole body tensed, thighs trembling, face burning. He groaned, low and greedy, burying his face deeper.
It wasn’t just the way he licked. It was the way it felt. His mouth was hot, wet, sure. His tongue worked with heavy, deliberate pressure...up, around, into me, making the whole world melt into the space between my legs. His spit dripped down my crack. My hole twitched and clenched with every glide of his tongue, every flick and swirl and press.
And it was him.
Dylan.
My best friend’s older brother. The guy I used to see around Jake’s house every time I visited; Dylan, always shirtless, always ignoring me like I didn’t exist. The same Dylan I’d secretly fantasized about since high school, even when we barely spoke. And now, here he was, face-deep in my ass, eating me out like it was the only thing he’d ever needed.
“You feel that?” he growled, voice hoarse. “That’s mine. You’re mine.”
I whimpered, nearly collapsed onto my elbows. My cock hung between my legs, dripping. His spit made everything feel slick, messy, obscene. I could hear the sounds...wet, hungry, rhythmic and it only made me leak more.
His fingers dug into my cheeks. “Did that French dude eat you out like this?” he asked, voice smug, cocky, as his tongue circled and pushed. “No, he didn’t. ‘Cause he doesn’t know how to take care of you. Not like I do.”
“D-Dylan…”
He pulled back for a second. I could feel the cool air rush over my wet, swollen rim. Then his hands tightened. His mouth came back with more force this time....messy, desperate. He moaned into it like he was drunk on my taste. His tongue pushed in deeper, flicked faster, and I jolted forward, letting out a noise I didn’t even recognize as mine.
“Fuck, your hole tastes so good,” he groaned, breath shaky. "I literally flew to Paris to this hole of yours."
He pulled back again. I heard him spit and then felt it drip down onto me, hot and thick. His tongue followed immediately after, lapping it up, spreading it in circles, deeper and deeper. Then came up for air, spit glistening on his lips, a smug half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Tell me,” he said, voice low and dirty. “You want me to stop?”
“No, Dylan,” I gasped. “Please. Please don’t stop.”
His hand smacked my ass once, light but firm. “Say it again.”
“Please, Dylan. I want your mouth on my hole so fucking bad.”
He grinned. “That’s what I thought. You should know you belong to me. You’re mine and only mine. ”
And then he dove back in. This time it was rougher...wilder. He made noise now. Slurping, licking, moaning into me like I was dessert. His nose brushed my crack, his tongue stabbing in tight, fast, overwhelming circles. I couldn’t even moan properly; I was shaking too hard, hands clutching the sheets, body caught in this overstimulated, breathless state.
He buried his face between my cheeks and held me there...firm, anchored, like he could live there. My thighs trembled. My cock leaked onto the sheet. His spit was everywhere. My ass was wet, throbbing, fluttering open like it knew who it belonged to.
And he knew it, too.
I could feel him smiling against my skin.
He pulled back, finally, licking his lips, voice husky. “Yeah. That’s right. No one eats you like I do.”
I was panting, wrecked, arched into the pillows, my whole body loose and weak. I wanted him so badly I could barely see straight.
Then...
He kissed the inside of my thigh...slow, wet, warm and whispered, “Spaghetti Noodle…” His voice was darker now. Calmer. Hungrier. “If you want this cock,” he murmured, lips brushing my skin, “you gotta beg for it.”
My hands curled into the sheets. My face burned.
“Please,” I gasped, breath hitching. “Please fuck me.”
Dylan didn’t say anything at first. Just stared down at me from behind. I could feel his gaze, feel the weight of it, the heat. My hole twitched, still slick and needy. I turned slightly, desperate to see him.
He was gripping his cock now, stroking it slowly teasing me. “You think I’m just gonna fuck you because you asked, Spaghetti Noodle?” he murmured. “Nah. Not until you say it properly.”
I whimpered. “Dylan...”
“I wanna hear you say it like you mean it.”
“I do,” I gasped. “I mean it. Please. I want your cock. I want you inside me.”
My voice cracked as I said it. There was no playing now. No teasing. I was trembling under him, soaked with his spit, my body open and aching and ready. I needed him so badly I could taste it, feel it in every pulse of my skin, every twitch of my hole. I looked back, eyes wide, lips parted, and he was already lining himself up behind me, cock heavy, flushed, thick and wet with precum.
He didn’t move yet. Just stayed there, rubbing the swollen head of his cock over my rim in lazy, taunting circles. His hands gripped my hips like he owned them. Like I was already his.
“Tell me how much you want me,” he said, voice low and dark.
“I have been waiting a month to feel your cock inside me,” I said, every word rushed and breathless. “Dylan, please. Please fuck me.”
"Good Boy. You have to know who is in charge, Troy", he said.
His body shifted forward, and I felt him press his cock harder against me. A single inch of pressure, enough to make my breath stutter and my back arch. He stayed there, not pushing in yet, just letting me feel the threat of it. The promise. His fingers dug into my waist.
“Get comfortable,” he said. “Spread your ass wider. Open up that hole for me.”
I whimpered, shifting slightly, pulling my thighs apart, arching deeper into the mattress. My arms braced, fingers curling into the pillow. My heart was racing. My cock was leaking onto the fabric. He leaned down slowly until his chest pressed against my back, skin warm and tight with muscle, his whole body blanketing me in heat.
Then he brought his left hand around and slid two fingers into my mouth. His right hand snaked under me, dragging slowly across my stomach until it found my belly. He held me there, pinned and breathless.
“Moan for me,” he whispered. “Mon amour. That’s what that French dude calls you, right?”
His voice turned sharper, darker, hungry. “He can’t fuck you like I do.”
And then he pushed inside.
One long, slow, unrelenting stroke. My mouth fell open around his fingers. I made a choked, helpless sound, tears pricking my eyes as my whole body tensed and then melted around him. He didn’t stop. He didn’t pause. He just slid in deeper, inch by inch, stretching me, claiming me. His fingers in my mouth muffled my moans.
“You want this,” he growled. “My fucking spaghetti noodle. This is what you’ve been waiting for.”
I nodded frantically, unable to speak around his fingers. I sucked on them, lips wrapped tight, moaning as he bottomed out. My hole pulsed around him, clenching, fluttering, stretching wide.
He pulled back halfway, then thrust forward again. Harder. Then again. Each stroke was a declaration. A reminder. I was his. He knew my body. Knew what made me shake, what made me cry out, what made my back arch and my toes curl.
"I've been waiting to feel that hole wrap around my cock for so long and you are going on dates with a french guy?.. I didn't think of you as a romantic".
Then he pulled his fingers from my mouth, slick with spit, and reached up to turn my face toward him. I could barely see him through the blur of lust and sweat, but his eyes locked on mine.
“You like romantic?” he said, voice tight, breath ragged. “I’ll give you romantic.”
He kissed me. Hard. Open-mouthed. Devouring. His tongue pushed into my mouth like his cock pushed into my ass, and I whimpered into him, kissing him back as best I could while he fucked me harder. Our teeth clashed. Our lips smeared. His hand slid down again, grabbed my cock, and started stroking it.
“Yeah,” he whispered, mouth brushing mine. “You like that, don’t you? You like when I stroke you while I fuck you.”
I couldn’t answer. I was too far gone. Every stroke of his hand, every thrust of his cock, every filthy word he breathed against my skin was undoing me.
And then it happened.
I came.
It hit me like a wave...unexpected, overwhelming, raw. My whole body seized, and I cried out his name, my voice cracking as I spilled over his hand, onto the couch, onto myself. I was panting, shaking, trembling all over.
He laughed, but it wasn’t cruel. It was cocky. Proud.
“See what I do to you?” he murmured.
"Making you cum just by touching you", he smiled.
But he didn’t stop. His hand stayed on my stomach, his chest on my back, his cock still fucking me, harder now, faster. My orgasm had only made him rougher. Hungrier. He drove into me with long, deep strokes that made my whole body rock forward with every thrust.
“Ahh,” I moaned. “Fuck, Dylan...fuck.”
"aaah.. aahh"
"fuckk.."
“You take me so fucking well,” he said through gritted teeth. “You were made for me.”
His hands grabbed my chest, pulling me back against him as he drove in even deeper. I could feel every inch, every vein, every beat of his cock inside me. I could feel him losing control. His breath caught. His hips stuttered.
Then one final thrust.
Hard.
Deep.
He grabbed me tighter, both arms around me, and groaned into my neck.
“Ahh fuck—ahh—”
And he came.
I could feel it. Hot. Pulsing. Filling me.
He stayed there for a long second, cock buried deep, chest rising and falling against my back. I could feel the sweat between us. The heat. The weight of everything that had just happened.
Then he let out one more breath and whispered, softer now.
“Mine.”
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