I stood infront of Brody's apartment building, the midday sun warming my neck as I shifted my weight. Freshly showered and dressed in crisp blue jeans and a fitted white tee, I’d styled my hair just so – sharp enough to catch Brody’s eye but casual enough to seem effortless. Beneath the calm exterior, anticipation hummed. Our morning texts had been a pleasant buzz: him detailing his garage work, me mentioning lunch plans, the unspoken promise of *more* simmering beneath mundane words. He’d been tied up all morning, finishing some transmission job, his final task before hitting the gym with Derek a few blocks away. Glancing down the street towards the gym’s direction, I waited to spot their bulky silhouettes. My fingers tightened slightly on the bag holding three generous containers of steaming vegetable lo mein. Enough for two powerhouse appetites... and mine.
A flicker of annoyance resurfaced as I recalled Brody’s text: *Derek comin 2 lunch 2? Cool?* I’d typed *Sure* instantly, smooth facade intact, but my teeth had clenched. I’d meticulously prepped – shaved everywhere, used that expensive sandalwood body wash, imagined Brody’s big hands exploring the smoothness after lunch, just us. Derek tagging along felt like a wrench thrown into intimate gears. Yet, practicality won out. Derek *was* cool, undeniably masculine company Brody respected and so did I. Besides… I liked Derek, he was a cool and geniuinly entertaining guy. Fine. Adjustments could be made, and maybe I got a chance a few hours later when Derek left after we ate the lunch I brought for us.
Then, movement registered at the far end of the sidewalk. Two unmistakable silhouettes rounded the corner, gym bags slung over broad shoulders like duffels full of bricks. My irritation dissolved instantly, replaced by a warmth low in my belly as I caught myself smiling.
They spotted me simultaneously. Derek gave a curt, acknowledging nod, his expression impassive as ever. Brody’s face lit up, a wide, guileless grin splitting his features as he picked up his pace slightly. "Hey bro." His voice boomed unnecessarily loud on the quiet street. He gestured towards the insulated bag I held. "That lunch?" The simple eagerness in his tone was endearingly predictable. Derek just grunted softly, his sharp eyes flicking briefly from my face to the bag, acknowledging the offering without fanfare.
Brody reached me first, his large frame swallowing the sidewalk as he engulfed me in a quick, hard hug that smelled faintly of clean sweat. "Looking good," he said, his mind already on the food i brought with me. Before I could even react, he’d already pulled away, his focus snapping to the bag in my hands. "That smells fuckin' awesome." He immediately started patting the deep pockets of his grey sweatpants, fingers scrambling clumsily for his keyring, his brow furrowed with single-minded intensity. "C'mon, where are ya..." he muttered under his breath, eager to get inside and tear into the food.
Derek reached us a second later, moving with a deliberate, unhurried stride that contrasted sharply with Brody's frantic energy. He offered a casual fist bump, his knuckles rough against mine. "Mika," he acknowledged, his deep voice calm. "Been awhile." His dark eyes held mine steadily, a faint, knowing smirk touching his lips. It *had* been awhile – back when Brody still lived at home, Derek was practically a fixture, always showing up for workouts or crashing on the couch. Same cool, understated swagger. Same intense gaze beneath thick black brows, his black hair neatly parted on the side and trimmed short, giving him that sharp, Italian-stud look. He still looked damn good.
By then, Brody had triumphantly jingled his keys free, shoving the sticky apartment door open with his shoulder. "Hell yeah! Get in!" he boomed, practically vibrating. He disappeared into the dim hallway without a backward glance, wholly focused on the prize. Derek followed him in, unhurried and controlled. I trailed a step behind, my eyes instinctively tracing the contours of Derek's back beneath his tight black tee. Broad shoulders tapered down to a defined waist, muscles visibly shifting with each step – harder, more chiseled than Brody's thick power, but equally impressive in its own sculpted way. Hot, definitely, just a different flavor of heat compared to Brody's imposing mass.
The food was great – greasy, salty, satisfying – and predictably, I was scraping the last noodles from my container while Brody and Derek sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the worn leather couch hunched low over the chipped coffee table. They were massive, taking up the entire two-seater, elbows bumping as they devoured their portions silently. I sat cross-legged on the thin carpet directly in front of them, strategically positioned not to get accidentally crushed if Brody shifted enthusiastically, but also perfectly angled to see them both clearly. My chosen spot offered unintended perks: the low vantage point framed Brody's thick thighs straining his sweatpants and Derek's defined forearms resting on his knees, tendons flexing subtly. Horniness simmered beneath my skin, a low burn amplified by the lingering scent of sweat and hot food. The anticipation of Derek leaving, finally giving me uninterrupted time with Brody, made my cock twitch persistently against my jeans. Half-hard and buzzing, I shifted subtly.
Just as the final forkful passed my lips, Brody shoved his own empty container aside with a satisfied grunt. "Alright," he announced, pushing himself up with surprising agility for his size. "Gonna wash these 'n' chuck the trash. Quick." Derek stood fluidly beside him, stretching his compact torso briefly. "Yeah," Derek added, his voice a low rumble. "Gotta piss first. Then I'll bounce." He glanced at the trash bag overflowing with containers near the door. "Can drop that on my way out." Brody nodded eagerly. "Sweet, thanks man." He clapped Derek lightly on the shoulder before turning towards the small kitchen alcove. Derek padded silently down the hall towards the bathroom.
I stood smoothly. The moment Derek's door clicked shut, I followed Brody into the cramped kitchen. He was already pulling the trash bag out, his broad back flexing. That horny buzz surged hotter. Without hesitation, I stepped close behind him, pressing my chest against his muscled back. My hands slid around his waist, fingers splaying possessively across his abs beneath the thin fabric of his tee. I squeezed, feeling the dense ridges beneath my palms, and leaned in, lips grazing his ear. "So," I breathed, my voice husky and unmistakably eager, "what exactly do you want to *do*... once Derek’s gone?" My thumbs brushed the waistband of his sweatpants, dipping just below.
Brody froze mid-motion, trash bag dangling forgotten in his grip. He inhaled sharply, muscles bunching under my touch. Then, slowly, he turned in my arms. I released my hold deliberately, stepping back just enough to give him space but keeping that electric closeness. His eyes followed mine, lingering on my face. His expression shifting from surprise to dawning recognition. A slow, thick grin spread across his face as he looked down at me, those blue eyes darkening with understanding. "Oh," he rumbled low, dropping the bag entirely.
He leaned in, his voice a gravelly whisper barely audible over the distant sound of Derek’s piss hitting the toilet water. "Yeah... 'bout that talk yesterday... Was thinkin' 'bout it." His cheeks flushed deeper crimson than exertion alone could explain. "All damn mornin'. While wrenchin'." He swallowed hard, his gaze drifting down my body, then snapping back to my face. "That... adventure thing." The sheer, unvarnished hunger radiating from him was intoxicating. My own breath hitched. The horniness surged, obliterating caution. I stepped forward again, pressing flush against his solid frame.
My hands slid up his chest, fingertips tracing the rough fabric of his shirt. I tilted my head up, lips brushing the stubble under his jaw as I whispered, voice dripping with raw intent, "Mmm... Know what I did? Got myself ready for *you*." I paused, letting the implication hang thick in the air. "Smooth everywhere... slicked myself up..." My breath hitched audibly against his skin.
Then, slowly, deliberately, my right hand drifted lower. Down past the trembling ridges of his abs. Down to where the thin grey sweatpants tented obscenely. I cupped him gently through the fabric, feeling the thick heat radiating against my palm. He clearly enjoyed it, relaxing into my touch. "Been eager all day," I murmured, squeezing lightly. "Next time ask me first before inviting Derek." My tone held playful reproach, but my fingers traced the swollen outline of him, knowing he’d melt beneath the guilt. His breath stuttered, shoulders drooping slightly. "S’ry," he mumbled.
Then I leaned closer, lips brushing his earlobe. "Lucky Derek’s leaving *now*," I whispered, my voice slick with promise. "Go on... get a little taste." Brody’s eyes flared wide—simple, eager hunger igniting. His grin returned, crooked and bright. "Alright," he rumbled, breath catching. Without hesitation, those massive hands slid down my jeans, fingers digging possessively under my asscheeks. He hauled me upward, cupping my flesh firmly through denim, lifting me onto my toes. He squeezed experimentally, kneading the softness beneath the fabric, fingers pressing deep enough to feel the indentations. A soft grunt escaped him—pleased, fascinated. "Softer'n I thought," he muttered, giving my ass a playful wiggle that made me gasp.
"How's that feel?" I breathed, arching into his grip. His thumbs rubbed slow circles near my cleft. "Good... real good," Brody rasped, cheeks flushed crimson. His gaze dropped hungrily to where my jeans stretched taut over hips. "Better with 'em off?" The question came out rough, hopeful. I nipped his jawline. "After Derek’s gone?" I teased, my hand sliding back down his sweatpants to stroke his thickening bulge. "Then I'm all yours." Brody shuddered, hips jerking involuntarily against my palm. He bounced lightly on his heels—restless energy barely contained—eyes locked on mine, hungry and unfocused. "Fuck... yeah," he managed, voice thick. "Want you..." He began but had to stop as the bathroom door clicked open down the hall.
We sprang apart instantly. Brody snatched the forgotten trash bag, fumbling loudly as Derek emerged. He walked over casually, oblivious—why would he suspect anything? He glanced at the overflowing bin near the door. "Hand me that bag, Brodes?" Derek asked, reaching out. But Brody shook his head sharply, his face flushed crimson. He wasn't dumb—he knew *exactly* how tented his sweatpants were. Clutching the bag like a shield against his crotch, he blurted out way too fast, "Nah, I'll—I'll go with ya. Bring it down real quick." Already shuffling towards the exit, shoulders hunched. Derek just shrugged, unfazed. "Okay. Cool." He turned, nodding at me. "See ya again, Mika." His tone was utterly neutral, completely unaware of the frantic energy crackling behind him.
I watched them from the kitchen, already relaxing slightly after the short jump scare, as they shoved their feet into the worn sneakers by the door. Brody kept the trash bag pressed low, angled away. Derek slid his effortlessly, then pulled the door open. Brody practically vibrated with tension as he shuffled out after Derek, hesitating only a split-second—casting one desperate, molten-hot look back at me over his shoulder—before following Derek into the hallway. The heavy apartment door thudded shut behind them with finality. Silence crashed down, thick and heavy as the humid air suddenly trapped inside. Alone.
Fuck, I was hard—achingly so—jeans straining against the trapped heat of my cock. The image of Brody’s flushed face burned behind my eyelids: his dumb, needy grin, the way his hips had jerked into my palm, that rough voice breaking when I teased him. He was so fucking obvious—so deliciously *eager*—it made my stomach clench with anticipation. My fingers twitched at my sides. How long? Two minutes? Three? He’d bolt back up those stairs the second Derek turned the corner, probably taking them two at a time like an overexcited golden retriever. The thought sent a fresh pulse of heat straight to my groin.
Decision made. My fingers flew to my belt buckle, yanking it loose in one fluid motion. The denim peeled away from my thighs with a whisper, pooling around my ankles. Cool air kissed my bare skin—except where the jockstrap hugged my ass, tight and purposeful. Perfect. Just enough coverage to ease Brody in, but leaving the rest exposed—ripe for his big hands. Stepping out of the tangled jeans, I left them crumpled on the linoleum like a breadcrumb trail of intent. My pulse hammered in my throat as I walked—slow, deliberate—toward the kitchen island.
Positioning myself against the edge, I leaned forward onto my elbows, shifting my hips back just enough to arch my spine. The jockstrap dug snug between my cheeks, framing everything. Every exhale made the thin fabric shift against sensitive skin. Eyes locked on the fridge infront of me, I bit my lower lip hard enough to sting. *Hurry up, Brody.* The mental image of him bursting in—stopping dead at the sight of me—sent a shudder down my thighs. Would he freeze? Stutter? Or would that simple, hungry instinct take over, driving those thick fingers straight under the elastic? My cock throbbed at the thought, leaking a sticky smear against the jockstrap’s pouch.
Then—footsteps. Heavy, urgent, thundering up the stairs like he’d sprinted the last flight. The doorknob rattled. My spine stiffened instinctively, then I forced my muscles to relax, arching deeper against the countertop. *Don’t look.* But anticipation burned too hot—I glanced over my shoulder just as the door swung open. Brody froze mid-stride, one massive sneaker still hovering above the threshold. His lips parted—no sound came out. Eyes wide, pupils blown black, scanning my ass like he’d never seen one before. The door slammed shut behind him, rattling the frame.
He didn’t move. Just stood there, thick chest heaving, fingers twitching at his sides. His dumbstruck expression flickered between confusion, hunger, and the frantic calculation of a man whose brain had just blue-screened. His Adam’s apple bobbed. A drop of sweat slid down his temple. Slowly—painfully slowly—his right hand lifted, paused, then dropped again. Like he couldn’t decide if touching was allowed yet. His other hand fisted in the fabric of his sweatpants, knuckles whitening around the straining bulge.
The air between us crackled. I bit back a smirk, shifting my hips just enough to make the jockstrap dig tighter. Brody’s breath hitched audibly. A choked noise escaped him—half-groan, half-whimper—and suddenly he was moving, crossing the room in a few clumsy strides. His hands hovered over my ass, trembling. “Can I…?” he rasped, voice wrecked. I glanced over my shoulder, meeting his fever-bright gaze. “All yours,” I murmured, stretching back further. His exhale was hot against my skin. Then—finally—those thick fingers landed on my hips, squeezing cautiously, testing the give. The jockstrap’s elastic pinged against his knuckles.
He started slow—painfully so. Fumbling at the fabric’s edges, tracing the seam where it met skin, mapping the curve of my ass like he was memorizing terrain. His hands were big, calloused but unsure, skating along the outer swell before retreating. Each touch sent jolts up my spine. “So… soft,” he muttered, dazed. I arched into his hands. “Yeah? Feels good?” His answer was a grunt, fingers sinking deeper. Then, unexpectedly, he tugged his shirt off—just flung it somewhere—revealing that barrel chest and thick shoulders. My breath caught. He was breathtaking like this: dumb, eager, muscles flexing as he leaned closer, drawn in by some primal pull.
His thumbs hooked under the jockstrap’s sides, hesitating. “Can I…?” he rasped, breath hot on my lower back. I glanced over my shoulder, grinning. “Told you—all yours.” His pupils swallowed the blue of his eyes. A growl rumbled in his chest—half-nervous, half-hungry—before he peeled the fabric aside just enough to expose the cleft. His fingers hovered, then pressed tentatively into warm flesh. The groan that escaped him was raw, almost reverent. “Fuck… never touched one like this,” he admitted, kneading gently. His hands were clumsy but earnest, exploring the give of my cheeks, squeezing like he was testing ripe fruit. “So fuckin’ round,” he marveled, voice thick. “Pink, too.”
I smirked, pushing back slightly. “Only gets better.” His fingertips brushed my hole—dry, curious—and I hissed at the friction. He froze. “Too much?” I shook my head, twisting to catch his gaze. “Just needs… prep.” His brow furrowed. “Spit?” The word came out rough, hopeful. I nodded, watching his throat bob as he gathered saliva in his mouth, then spat messily onto my backside. The warm glob slid down my crack, and Brody tracked its path with rapt attention before smearing it clumsily with two fingers. “Like that?” His voice cracked. “Yeah,” I sighed, arching. “Now—slow circles.” He obeyed, pressing slick digits against my rim, his nails scraping lightly. “So fuckin’ tiny,” he marveled, rubbing experimentally. “Gotta—stretch ya?”
His movements were adorably earnest—like a kid figuring out a new toy. One thick finger traced the outer ring, retreated, returned with more pressure, breathing ragged. His other hand gripped my hip hard enough to bruise, steadying himself. “Can I—try?” he panted, nudging inward. I bit my lip, nodding, and he pushed just past the tight ring of muscle, exhaling sharply. “Holy shit—” His fingertip pulsed inside me, hot and thick. “Feels like… suckin’ me in.” His hips jerked unconsciously, sweatpants tenting obscenely. I glanced back, drinking in his dazed expression—mouth slack, eyes glazed, the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips.
He twisted slightly, knuckle catching my rim, and I gasped. “Good?” Brody rasped, drunk on the play. “So good,” I breathed, reaching back to grip his wrist, guiding him deeper. His breath hitched. “Fuck. You’re—hot.” His finger curled, uncoordinated but eager, prodding blindly at sensitive walls. “I wanna—” He swallowed hard, thrusting shallowly, mesmerized by the way my body yielded. “Fuck yeah, bro,” I murmured, rocking back onto him. His free hand roamed my ass, squeezing greedily, leaving sticky streaks of spit in his wake. “Look at you,” I added, voice husky. “The best.., Ugh...fucking big brother.” That did it—his chest puffed, hips jerking against air like he forgot he wasn’t inside anything yet.
One finger became two with a whimper—his, not mine. He marveled at the stretch, spreading me clumsily, watching his own thick digits disappear. “Like… gripping a steering wheel,” he muttered, flexing. I choked out a laugh. “Jesus, Brody.” He grinned, sheepish, but didn’t stop, scissoring with the same concentration he’d give a carburetor. Every time I couldnt hold back a moan, his strokes turned sloppier—like praise short-circuited his brain.
“Fuck,” he whispered, slowly, so slowly, he eventually withdrew his fingers, dragging a gasp from my throat. His gaze stayed locked on my ass as I straightened up, turning to face him—god, he was a sight, sweatpants tented obscenely around his erection, that thick torso gleaming, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “Thanks,” I murmured, the tease somehow softening into something unexpectedly genuine as I raked my eyes over him—every ridge of muscle, that desperate bulge, the way his arms flexed with restless energy. His cheeks flushed darker.
His breath hitched when I stepped closer, nodding toward his straining sweatpants. “See you’re hard too,” I said, voice low. “You did great. Want me to return the favor?” Brody’s throat worked, his nod almost frantic. “Yeah,” he rasped, then swallowed hard, glancing toward the couch. “We should, uh—sit down?” The way he asked, like it was some grand suggestion, made my stomach tighten. I just smirked, sauntering past him toward the couch, letting him stare at the jockstrap clinging to my ass. “Looks good in these,” he blurted, voice rough. I didn’t reply—just let him stew in that admission, smiling to myself as I perched on the edge of the couch, turning to beckon him closer with a curl of my fingers.
No more asking. He was right there, trembling with need as I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants, feeling the damp heat radiating beneath the fabric. His cock twitched against my knuckles as I tugged them down, his hips lifting slightly to help—eager, so fucking eager—until they pooled around his ankles. My breath stuttered at the sight: his boxers soaked through with precum, where his cockhead strained visibly beneath the thin cotton. The bulge was obscene—thick and ruddy against his hip—and I couldn't resist leaning in, pressing my tongue flat against the wet spot, tasting salt through the fabric.
Brody exhaled, fists clenching at his sides as I dragged my tongue slow and deliberate over the trapped outline of his tip, teasing the slit through damp cotton. "Fuck—Mika," he rasped, hips canting forward helplessly. I glanced up, catching his blown pupils, the way his jaw slackened when I sucked lightly through the fabric, letting the material cling obscenely to his shape before releasing with a wet pop. His boxers were practically translucent now, sticking to his flushed skin, and his whole body shuddered when I blew a stream of cool air over the damp spot. "Jesus," he choked, staring down at me like I'd invented sin. "You—fuck—look so hot like this."
I grinned, hooking my fingers into the waistband of his boxers this time, peeling them down agonizingly slow, millimeter by millimeter, revealing the swollen base of his cock first—thick veins pulsing—then the heavy curve of his shaft, glistening with precum. His balls followed, full and tight against his thighs, and finally the flushed, weeping head of his cock sprang free, bobbing against his stomach. Brody exhaled sharply, his Adam's apple bobbing as he stared down at himself, then at me.
His hands hovered uncertainly before settling on my shoulders, fingers kneading like he didn't know whether to push me closer or hold himself back. I silenced that hesitation by grabbing his wrists, guiding those thick palms to cradle the back of my skull—his grip instinctively tightening as I leaned forward to swirl my tongue around his flushed tip. Brody gasped, hips jerking forward before he caught himself, the sweet-salty taste of precum blooming across my tastebuds as I hollowed my cheeks around the swollen head. His fingers flexed against my scalp, not directing, just reacting—as I sank lower, letting his thick shaft stretch my lips obscenely wide.
The hand not bracing against his hip found its way to the base of his cock, thumb brushing the tight furl of his balls as I established a slow rhythm—down until my nose brushed his soft skin, then back up with a wet pop, repeating the motion until saliva dripped down his shaft. Brody's thighs trembled beside my knees, his breathing ragged above me. "Fuck—fuck," he chanted, voice cracking each time I swallowed around him, the vibrations wringing choked whimpers from his chest. I knew he wouldn't last—not with how his abs clenched spasmodically, not with the way his fingers tangled helplessly in my hair—so I doubled down, tilting my head to take him deeper, throat fluttering as I fought my gag reflex to accommodate his girth.
His choked cry warned me seconds before his release—hands yanking me flush against him as his hips stuttered erratically. Heat flooded my mouth, bitter and thick, as his cock pulsed against my tongue. I drank him down greedily, milking every last spurt with tight sucks until he whimpered from oversensitivity, his grip going slack as he slumped bonelessly against the couch. Panting, I pulled off with an obscene sound, wiping my chin with the back of my hand as I peered up at his dazed expression—mouth slack, eyes unfocused, chest heaving like he'd run a marathon.
The silence stretched, broken only by Brody's ragged breathing and the slick sound of my tongue swiping across my lips to catch stray beads of cum. His gaze tracked the movement hungrily, and I grinned, watching his spent cock twitch—still half-hard, as if his body hadn't quite processed what just happened. He opened his mouth, closed it, then finally managed a hoarse, "Holy—fuckin'—shit," punctuated by another full-body shudder.
His knees slid forward on the couch cushions, thick thighs parting as he swayed unsteadily. The movement forced me to lean back onto my elbows, my spine pressing into the armrest as his torso loomed over mine—half-collapsed, his palms braced flat beside my hips. The scent of musk and salt filled the space between us, mingling with the sharp tang of his aftershave. His chest still heaved against me, damp skin sticking to my bare stomach where our torsos brushed, his heartbeat erratic beneath the drum-tight muscle.
From this angle, he was a vision—the broad V of his hips framing his softening cock, flushed and glistening against his thigh. A stray drop of cum pearled at the tip, threatening to drip onto my bare skin. I licked my lips again, deliberately, and Brody groaned, his forehead dropping against my shoulder. "Fuck," he muttered, voice wrecked. "That was..." he trailed off, chest expanding with a deep breath before exhaling shakily. His fingers flexed beside my hips, knuckles grazing my stomach in slow circles, like he couldn't stop touching even now.
I leaned forward, planting a kiss on his chest, and felt the answering tremble in his muscles. "Good?" I murmured, already knowing the answer by the way his blue eyes darkened with something dangerously close to addiction.
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