The days after church are a blur of texts and photos.
Michael is more eager than ever. His messages come constantly—morning, afternoon, night. Pictures of his body from every angle. "Look at my pump after chest day!" and "Do my abs look more defined?" and my personal favorite: "Been thinking about our church hangout 😊 that was so fun bro!"
Fun. He thinks it was fun. Like we played video games or went to a movie.
The complete lack of awareness is staggering. And incredibly useful.
I respond to every message, keeping up the supportive gym bro persona. "Looking huge man!" and "Definitely seeing progress!" All while planning my next move.
Wednesday afternoon, I'm lying on my bed scrolling through Michael's latest batch of photos—post-workout selfies showing his massive pecs glistening with sweat, his nipples hard and visible through his tight tank top—when inspiration strikes.
I haven't seen him in person since Sunday. Three whole days. That's long enough.
I pull on my running shorts and a fitted tank top, lace up my sneakers. I actually do go for a run—a short one, just enough to work up a light sweat and make my story believable. When I get back, I don't shower. Instead, I head straight across the lawn to the Richardson house.
Perfect timing. It's mid-afternoon on a weekday. Mr. Richardson will be at work. Mrs. Richardson might be home, but that's fine. I'm the polite neighbour boy. The one who goes to church with them.
I knock on the front door, running my hand through my slightly damp hair, making sure I look appropriately post-run but still attractive.
Mrs. Richardson answers, her face lighting up when she sees me.
"Jordan! What a nice surprise!"
"Hi, Mrs. Richardson," I say, flashing my most charming smile. "I was just out for a run and thought I'd stop by to see if Michael wanted to hang out. Is he around?"
"Oh, he just got back from his own run actually! He's upstairs taking a shower." She steps aside, gesturing for me to come in. "You're welcome to go up and wait for him in his room. I'm sure he'll be thrilled to see you."
"Thanks, Mrs. Richardson. You're the best."
She beams at me, completely charmed. "Can I get you some water? You look like you worked up quite a sweat."
"I'm okay, thank you. I'll just head up."
I climb the stairs, my heart rate picking up—not from the run, but from anticipation. The upstairs hallway is quiet. I can hear the shower running from the bathroom at the end of the hall. Michael's bedroom door is open, his room visible—typical teenage boy mess, gym equipment in the corner, posters on the walls.
But I'm not interested in his room.
I move quietly down the hall toward the bathroom. The door is closed but not locked—I test the handle carefully. It turns.
I slip inside.
The bathroom is filled with steam, warm and humid. The mirror is completely fogged over. The shower curtain is drawn, water running behind it, and I can see Michael's silhouette through the translucent material.
I close the door behind me silently, leaning against it, just watching.
Michael is completely oblivious to my presence. He's humming something—probably a worship song from church—while he showers. I can see the outline of his massive body through the curtain: broad shoulders, thick arms, that incredible chest.
I watch as he moves, the water cascading over him. His hands running through his hair, down his chest, over his abs. Completely innocent, completely unaware.
God, he's perfect.
I let myself enjoy the view for a moment longer, then decide it's time.
"Hey, buddy."
Michael jumps, letting out a startled yelp. The shower curtain is yanked aside slightly, and his face appears—eyes wide, water dripping from his hair.
When he sees it's me, his expression transforms immediately. That dumb, puppy-dog smile spreads across his face.
"Jordan! Dude, you scared me!" He doesn't try to cover himself. Doesn't close the curtain. Just stands there, completely naked, water running down his incredible body, grinning at me like an excited golden retriever.
I let my eyes travel down his body slowly, appreciating every inch. His massive pecs, firm and perfect, water droplets clinging to them. His abs, defined and tight. His thick thighs. And his cock—soft right now, but still impressive, hanging heavy between his legs. The gold cross necklace is still around his neck, wet and gleaming against his skin.
"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you," I say, keeping my voice casual. "Your mom said I could come up. I just finished my own run and I'm all sweaty." I gesture to myself, to my damp tank top and running shorts. "Saw you were already in the shower and thought... well, you know how teammates shower together after practice at school, right? Mind if I join you? Save some water?"
Michael blinks, processing this. For a moment I wonder if even he will see through this obvious ploy.
But then that dumb smile gets wider. "Oh yeah, totally! Like in the locker room! Sure, bro, hop in!"
He actually moves aside, making room for me in the shower.
Too easy. Way too easy.
I pull my tank top over my head slowly, watching Michael's eyes follow the movement. His gaze traces over my chest, my abs, lingering. When I hook my thumbs into my running shorts and push them down along with my underwear, his eyes go wide.
My cock springs free—already half-hard from anticipation—and I step out of the shorts, completely naked now.
Michael's staring. His mouth is slightly open, his eyes fixed on my body. Specifically on my ass as I turn slightly to set my clothes aside.
I know what he's looking at. My bubble butt—smooth, round, perfect. I've worked hard on it, and it shows. The kind of ass that makes people stare.
When I turn back, Michael quickly looks up, his face flushing slightly. But he's still smiling that dumb, happy smile.
I step into the shower with him. The space is immediately cramped—the shower isn't really meant for two people, especially not two athletic guys. Our bodies are close, almost touching. The water is hot, cascading over both of us now, steam rising around us.
Michael moves back slightly, giving me room under the spray. "This is cool," he says, still grinning. "Like team bonding, right?"
"Exactly," I say, letting the water run over me, washing away the light sweat from my run. "Just buddies helping each other out."
I reach for the soap, lathering my hands, and start washing myself. Michael watches, his eyes following my movements. I make sure to take my time, running my soapy hands over my chest, my abs, making it a show.
When I glance down, I notice Michael is getting hard.
His cock is swelling, thickening, rising slowly. He doesn't seem embarrassed by it—doesn't try to hide it or turn away. Just stands there, that dumb smile on his face, his massive cock growing harder by the second.
Within moments, it's fully erect—huge and thick, standing nearly vertical, the head dark and swollen. Water runs down the shaft, and I can see it pulsing with his heartbeat.
"Looks like someone's excited," I say, grinning at him.
Michael glances down at his own cock, then back at me, and actually giggles. "Sorry, dude. It just does that sometimes. Especially when I'm all pumped from working out."
"Nothing to apologize for, buddy. Totally normal." I hand him the soap. "Hey, since we're helping each other out... think you could soap up my back? Hard to reach sometimes."
"Oh, sure!" Michael takes the soap eagerly, lathering his hands.
I turn around, presenting my back to him. And my ass.
Michael's hands touch my shoulders first, spreading soap across my skin. His touch is firm but gentle, his large hands covering a lot of area. He works down my back, his fingers tracing over my shoulder blades, down my spine.
"You've got a really nice back, bro," he says, completely sincere. "Really defined."
"Thanks, man. You too."
His hands reach my lower back, and I can feel him hesitate for just a moment. Then he continues, his soapy hands moving to my ass.
He's tentative at first, just spreading soap across the surface. But then his hands linger. He squeezes slightly, his fingers kneading the firm flesh.
"Dude, your butt is like... really firm," Michael says, sounding genuinely impressed. "What exercises do you do for it?"
I have to suppress a laugh. He's literally groping my ass and thinks we're having a conversation about workout routines.
"Squats mostly," I say. "Lots of squats."
"Nice." His hands keep moving, squeezing, exploring. He's getting bolder, his touch more confident. His fingers slip between my cheeks slightly, spreading soap there, and I feel his breath hitch.
I arch my back slightly, pushing my ass back toward him. Michael's hands freeze for a moment, then continue, his touch becoming almost reverent.
I can feel his hard cock pressing against my lower back now. The thick shaft hot and rigid, trapped between our bodies. Michael doesn't pull away. Doesn't seem to realize—or care—that his massive erection is rubbing against me.
"Think you got it all soaped up?" I ask, my voice low.
"Yeah, I think so," Michael says, but his hands don't leave my ass. They keep squeezing, playing, exploring.
I turn around slowly, and suddenly we're face to face. His cock is right there, standing between us, thick and throbbing. Water runs down it, and I can see pre-cum starting to leak from the tip, mixing with the water.
Our eyes meet. Michael's expression is that same dumb, happy smile, but there's something else there now—arousal, need, confusion all mixed together.
I reach down and wrap my hand around his cock.
Michael gasps, his eyes going wide, but he doesn't pull away.
"Just helping you clean up, buddy," I say, stroking slowly. "Gotta make sure we get everywhere, right?"
"R-right," Michael stammers, his hips pushing forward into my grip.
I stroke him a few times, feeling the thick shaft pulse in my hand, then I turn around again. This time, I press my ass back against him deliberately.
His cock slides between my cheeks, the thick shaft nestling perfectly in the cleft of my ass. I can feel every inch of it—hot and hard and throbbing.
Michael makes a small sound—half gasp, half moan.
"Feels good, right?" I say, grinding back against him slightly. "Just two buddies getting clean together."
"Y-yeah," Michael breathes. His hands come to my hips, gripping instinctively.
I reach back, wrapping my hand around his cock, and position it more deliberately. The thick head presses right against my hole now—my smooth, pink hole that I made sure to clean thoroughly this morning in anticipation of... well, something like this.
"You know what would really help me out, buddy?" I say, my voice casual despite my racing heart. "I've got this special place that's really hard to reach. Really hard to get clean. Think you could help me out? Like a good friend?"
Michael's breathing is heavy now, his chest heaving against my back. "Special place?"
"Yeah." I press back slightly, feeling the head of his cock push against my entrance. "Right here. Just need you to help me get really deep. Really clean. Can you do that for me?"
There's a pause. I can practically hear Michael's brain trying to process this, trying to make sense of what I'm asking.
Then, in that dumb, eager voice: "I want to help, bro. I'm a good buddy."
"I know you are," I say, reaching back to grip his hip. "Just push forward. Nice and slow. Help me get clean."
Michael nods—I can feel the movement against my back. His grip on my hips tightens. And then he pushes.
The head of his cock presses against my hole, and I relax, letting him in. It's tight—he's so fucking big—but I've prepared for this. I breathe through it, pushing back slightly, and the head pops inside.
We both gasp.
"Keep going," I say quickly, before he can think too much. "You need to get deeper. Really deep. That's how you help me relax. How you massage those inner muscles."
"Massage?" Michael sounds confused but eager. "Okay. I can do that."
He pushes deeper. Inch by inch, his massive cock slides into me. It's intense—the stretch, the fullness, the heat. I grip the shower wall for support, my fingers splaying against the wet tile.
"That's it," I moan, and it's not entirely an act. "Just like that. Deeper."
Michael keeps pushing, his breathing ragged now. His hands are shaking slightly on my hips, his fingers digging into my skin. The gold cross swings against my back with each movement.
Finally, after what feels like forever, I feel his hips press flush against my ass. He's all the way inside. Balls deep.
Michael gasps. "I'm—I'm all the way in."
"Good boy," I breathe. "Now just... move. In and out. Nice and slow. That's how you help me. That's how buddies take care of each other."
Michael nods against my back. Then he pulls out slightly and pushes back in.
The sensation is incredible. His thick cock dragging against my inner walls, hitting every sensitive spot. I moan, loud and genuine, and Michael makes a similar sound.
"Like this?" he asks, pulling out and pushing in again.
"Exactly like that. You're doing so good."
He establishes a rhythm—slow, deep thrusts. His massive cock sliding in and out of my tight hole, water cascading over both of us. The sounds are obscene: wet slapping, our combined moans, the shower running.
Michael's breathing is heavy against my neck, his chest pressed against my back. I can feel his pecs—those huge, firm pecs—heaving with each breath. His hands grip my hips tighter, his fingers digging in, holding me in place as he fucks into me.
"This is—" Michael gasps. "This is really helping you, right? This is what buddies do?"
"Yes," I moan, pushing back to meet his thrusts. "This is exactly what buddies do. You're helping me so much."
He picks up the pace slightly, his thrusts becoming more confident. His cock is hitting deeper now, harder, and I can feel my own cock throbbing, leaking pre-cum that mixes with the shower water.
"You feel so good," Michael breathes, and there's wonder in his voice. "So warm and tight. Is this—is this what massaging feels like?"
I almost laugh. He genuinely doesn't know. He thinks this is just some kind of deep tissue massage. Some buddy bonding exercise.
"Yes," I gasp. "This is exactly what it feels like. Keep going. Harder."
Michael obeys immediately, his hips snapping forward with more force. His cock drives deep, and I cry out, my hands slipping slightly on the wet tile.
"Harder?" he asks, sounding eager to please.
"Yes—fuck—harder—"
He pounds into me now, his massive body using its full strength. Each thrust drives his cock deep, the thick shaft stretching me, filling me completely. His balls slap against my ass with each movement, the sound mixing with our moans and the running water.
I look down and see my own cock—rock hard, bouncing with each of Michael's thrusts, pre-cum dripping steadily. My bubble butt is bouncing too, jiggling with the impact of his hips, water splashing everywhere.
Michael's grip on my hips is bruising now. His fingers dig into my skin, holding me steady as he fucks me. His breathing is ragged, desperate, right against my neck. I can feel his lips brushing my skin, his hot breath, the gold cross pressing into my back.
"Jordan—" he gasps. "This is—I feel—"
"I know," I moan. "It's working. You're helping me so much. But I need one more thing."
"Anything," Michael pants, still thrusting. "I'll do anything to help."
"I need you to finish inside me," I say, my voice strained. "That's how we fully relax together. That's how the massage really works. Can you do that for me?"
"Finish?" Michael sounds confused but desperate. "You mean—"
"Cum inside me," I say bluntly. "Fill me up. That's what good buddies do."
"Okay," Michael breathes, and he sounds so eager, so willing to please. "Okay, I'll—I'll do it—"
His thrusts become erratic, harder, faster. He's chasing his release now, his massive body working, his muscles flexing. I can feel every inch of him—his thick cock pounding into me, his firm pecs pressed against my back, his strong hands gripping my hips, his heavy breathing against my neck.
"That's it," I moan.
"Jordan—" Michael's voice is strained, desperate. "I'm—I'm gonna—"
"Do it," I gasp. "Cum inside me—"
Michael slams into me one final time, burying himself balls deep, and then he's cumming. I feel it—hot and thick, flooding my insides. Wave after wave of cum, so much of it, filling me completely.
He's moaning loud, his whole body shaking, his grip on my hips almost painful. "Oh god—oh fuck—Jordan—"
The sensation of him cumming inside me, the fullness, the heat—it pushes me over the edge. My own cock pulses, and I'm cumming too, thick ropes of cum shooting out, splattering against the tiled shower wall. White streaks painting the surface, mixing with the water, dripping down.
We stay frozen like that for a moment—Michael buried deep inside me, both of us trembling, panting, the shower water cascading over our joined bodies.
Finally, Michael pulls out slowly. I feel his cock slide free, feel his cum start to leak out of my stretched hole, mixing with the shower water and running down my thighs.
I turn around, and Michael is staring at me with that dumb, blissed-out expression. His face is flushed, his chest heaving, his cock still half-hard and glistening.
"That was..." he starts, then trails off, clearly not sure how to finish.
"That was great buddy bonding," I say, grinning at him. "Really helped me relax."
"Yeah," Michael says, nodding eagerly. "Yeah, me too. That was... that was really cool. Like, really intense massage."
I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. He still doesn't get it. He genuinely thinks we just did some kind of advanced stretching exercise.
"We should do that again sometime," I say casually, reaching for the soap to actually clean up now.
"Definitely!" Michael's face lights up. "Anytime you need help, bro. That's what buddies are for."
We finish showering—actually washing this time, though Michael's hands linger on my ass again, and I don't discourage him. When we finally turn off the water and step out, we're both grinning.
I grab a towel and start drying off. Michael does the same, and I watch as he runs the towel over his incredible body—those massive pecs, his thick arms, his abs. Water droplets cling to his skin, and the gold cross gleams against his chest.
"Your mom's probably wondering where we are," I say, wrapping the towel around my waist.
"Oh yeah." Michael looks momentarily concerned, then shrugs. "I'll just tell her we were talking about workout stuff."
"Perfect."
We head to his room, and I pull my running clothes back on—slightly damp but wearable. Michael throws on a pair of gym shorts and a tank top, his massive body barely contained by the fabric.
As I'm about to leave, Michael grabs my arm, that puppy-dog expression on his face.
"Thanks, Jordan. For... you know. Helping me be a better buddy."
I grin, reaching up to ruffle his hair. "Anytime, Michael. That's what I'm here for."
He beams at me, completely oblivious, completely mine.
I head downstairs, say goodbye to Mrs. Richardson—who comments on how nice it is that Michael has such a good friend—and walk back across the lawn to my house.
Once I'm in my room, door closed, I let myself laugh.
He still doesn't know. He genuinely thinks we're just really close buddies who help each other out with "massages" and "relaxation techniques."
And I'm going to keep it that way for as long as possible.
My phone buzzes. A text from Michael: "that was awesome bro!!! feel so relaxed now 😊 we should definitely do that again soon!!!"
I type back: "Definitely buddy. Anytime you need help."
I lie back on my bed, still feeling the phantom sensation of his massive cock inside me, and start planning what comes next.
This is going to be so much fun.
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