He was still naked when I made it back to the bedroom. Sat at my desk, checking his fantasy football page or some other bullshit on my computer. Didn't even bother turning, as I stood at the doorway toweling my hair.
That's the thing with best friends. Everything feels simple, and easy, right up until the point that it doesn't.
Up close, I leaned down to peer at the screen. My arm around Chance's shoulders, and the smell of him - and of me on him - competing with the body wash I'd just scrubbed myself with.
"How's your team?"
His eyes didn't move from the columns of numbers. "How's your butthole?"
I gave him a smack on the side of head, before turning to my closet.
"Am I allowed to shower, now?"
He'd twisted the chair around, when I glanced back over my shoulder. Legs splayed wide, soft cock hanging thickly between his muscled thighs. It wasn't as if I was in the habit of watching gay porn, but I figured it was pretty likely to look something like Chance did.
"All yours," I told him, and reached for a pair of boxer shorts.
He'd smacked me on the ass, as he walked out of the room.
And even now, standing on Riley's doorstep a good twenty-four hours later, my brain keeps replaying that smack. Trying to decide if Chance's hand lingered longer than it usually might; what message might be in that fraction of a second's difference. Wondering, and then mentally kicking myself for being so ridiculous, and then wondering all over again. A loop so stupid, I practically shove my way past Riley when he finally opens the door.
"You broke me, dude," I snap at him, as I head down the hallway to the kitchen.
"No refunds, even if the dick makes a lasting impression," he calls out, following me with a look of amused confusion on his face. Crossing his arms, he leans against the doorframe. "Wanna slow the fuck down, and maybe explain why you're freaking out on me?"
I glare at him, even though I know that's doing nothing to counter his accusation that I'm overreacting and emotional.
Riley waits, for a moment, staring at my angry face. Expectant in the face of my seething silence, until he grunts with exasperation.
"So, you hooked up with my brother, and now you're having a meltdown."
My eyes go wide. It's just about all I can do to stop my jaw from falling open.
"He told you?"
To call Riley's expression withering would be a severe understatement.
"No, idiot. But thanks for the confirmation."
It's more than a blush; I have to stop myself from clawing at my face, the fiery redness prickles so intensely.
He shakes his head, apparently amused. "So, what? You come over early tonight, to tell me that the two of you are dating now?"
"I have a girlfriend," I remind him, coldly.
"Oh, right, yeah." Riley's eyebrow arches. "Did you scream her name while I was breeding you downstairs, or was that when Harper had his tongue in your ass? I forget."
"Fuck you."
His grin is insufferable, only I don't know whether I want to punch his mouth or fuck it.
Riley sighs. "Sit down, Lincoln."
I glare at him some more.
"Sit," he repeats, softer the second time.
Grudgingly, I sit.
He pulls out the chair opposite, sitting down with his elbows on the table. "So, this is all my fault."
I don't know if he means it as a question, or a statement, or a confession, or what. And regardless of the three, it's not like I have an answer, or much of an explanation beyond the fact that my brain is going in big, stupid loops about what the hell all this means. So I just sit there, my arms folded across my chest and a sullen expression on my face, knowing I must look like a stubborn little kid.
"Hooking up with guys doesn't make you gay," Riley tells me.
"I know that." My frown deepens. "It's not about... it's not about that."
"It's just friction."
"I kissed him," I blurt out, then feel a flush of something that isn't quite regret.
Riley smiles. "Spoiler alert, Lincoln. Kissing a guy while you're hooking up with him doesn't make you gay, either."
"Why are you trying to convince me I'm not into men?"
He laughs. "I'm not. I'm just trying to move us past leftover adolescent angst. I get enough of this bullshit from my brother."
I cross my arms a little tighter, annoyed at the both of us, and then realize it probably just looks like I'm hugging myself. Force myself to unwrap my arms.
"If I hadn't jerked off, would you have tried anything with me?"
Riley chuckles. "Probably not, no."
"But you wanted to."
He taps at his phone a few times, then tosses it down on the table. Sits back, arms dangling over the backrest of the chair. Staring at me, with a look that makes me sorry I brought the topic up.
"You like attention, Lincoln. You like people watching you, and preferably wanting what they see, and you get off on it."
I frown. "I... I don't know if that's true."
He nods, slowly. "Yeah, I know you don't. I thought, that first night, that you were pretty self-aware. Enough, anyway, that you knew what you were doing, what you were inviting. And then you turned up here, practically naked on the doorstep."
It's dumb, to blush at that memory given everything that has happened since, but I do anyway.
"That was meant to be a joke."
It's a look that says he knows that's what I probably believe, genuinely, and that he thinks it's ridiculous.
"And what you're wearing now... is that meant to be a joke, too?"
I look down at myself: at the white shorts that I guess don't really cover that much of my thighs, and the muscle shirt with the gaping holes either side. Then back up, at Riley.
"It's comfortable."
His nostrils flare. "Are you even wearing underwear?"
"That's not the point," I protest. "Why are you looking?"
The stupidity of that sentence hits me barely a moment later, even if Riley's withering stare hadn't made it abundantly clear.
"It's comfortable," I repeat, sullenly.
"It's bait." He leans back, arms crossed. Sticks out a leg, to nudge my chair away from the table. Like, having leveled the accusation that I intentionally try to get attention, Riley plans to make sure nothing - including his kitchen furniture - could be accused of interfering with that.
My skin prickles, from the imagined heat of his gaze. Tracking down my torso to the fullness of my crotch: I grit my teeth, willing my dick not to twitch.
"So, how was my little brother in the sack?"
I raise an eyebrow. "You really want to know?"
Riley laughs. "Not especially, no. One of the benefits of moving into my own place was not having to hear him through the wall, frantically jacking off morning, noon, and night."
No way not to grin, at the mental picture. "He always used to insist he didn't jerk off."
The snort belies his brother's well-repeated claim. "He's a fucking liar, then."
"So you're saying I shouldn't believe him when he tells me he loves me?" I figure Riley knows I'm kidding, but I wink just to make it absolutely clear.
"You probably shouldn't trust what men tell you when they're balls-deep in you, Lincoln," he says, wryly. "Are you in love with him?"
He says it so casually, but it still lands like an unexpected slap.
"No." I take a breath; force my volume down. "No," I repeat, "or, I mean, only as a friend. My best friend, really."
He nods, slowly. Like this is all interesting stuff; real useful research, somehow.
"Do you love your girlfriend?"
I open and close my mouth a few times, because the words aren't presenting themselves and just sitting there mute and motionless seems even more ridiculous than doing a fish impression.
"I'll take that as another no, then," Riley concludes.
I shrug, the gesture awkwardly lopsided. "It's complicated."
"Is it?" He shakes his head, like my desperate insistence that there's nuance here is yet another sign of my own naivety. "You're twenty-two, Lincoln; you just got fucked by your best friend for the first time. And instead of running to your girlfriend to salve your conscience, you're sat in my kitchen with shorts that are about a half-inch away from your dick falling out."
He's right, and I'm messed up in so many ways, but there's still something gratifying about the way Riley's stare drops when I pull on my shorts. Eyes glued to where I'm dragging the hem up, until the fat head of my cock is hanging out, pressed against my muscled thigh.
"How did my brother fuck you?" There's a rasp to his voice, a raw edge there. Riley's still staring at my crotch, so he doesn't see my confused frown.
"I mean..."
"On all fours, or standing up, or..."
My throat suddenly feels thick, as I try to swallow. "Doggy first, then on my back, and then I was in his lap, sitting up."
He nods, slowly. "Did he cum in you?"
No way not to picture Chance's face, the twist of his expression as he erupted inside me. No way, too, not to realize that my dick is thickening now, at that memory.
"Yeah."
"But he didn't eat your ass, afterwards." Riley says it like he already knows the answer.
I chuckle, softly. "Nah. He's not Harper."
The grin is wolfish. "That boy's a little freak."
He says it like it's admirable. And considering my dick's all the way hard, now, in part at the memory of Harper shoving his face between my cheeks and digging his tongue into my gooey hole, maybe that's not a bad assessment, overall.
Riley looks up, meeting my eye again. Something close to satisfaction there, like my clear arousal is only further evidence in his case.
"Do you wanna fuck him?"
I frown. "Harper?"
Riley nods.
"I dunno," I hedge.
Another pointed glance down, to where there's precum now oozing down my inside thigh. My brain might not be certain, but my cock seems convinced.
"Have you fucked him?"
Riley's smirk speaks volumes.
"You said he's wanted to hook up with me for a while," I press. Remembering the heavy hints Riley had dropped before.
"Trying to get your ego stroked?"
I push my ass forward, on the wooden seat. It only drags the shorts up higher, exposing more of my erection. Pulling the fabric tighter, so that the veins running along my dick really pop.
"Trying to get something stroked, anyway," Riley adds, amused.
"If you're not interested..."
"What if I'm more interested in fucking your throat?"
I blink at him. Knowing that I should be asking myself what the hell I'm doing, seriously considering all this shit, and yet instead too busy focusing on little details like whether Riley will let me jerk off while I blow him.
I guess there's something in my face, in the set of my features, that screams compliance. Or, perhaps to Riley I'm just a foregone conclusion.
"Can I be rough with you?"
I shrug, trying not to let it look like I just shivered with some undefinable blend of anticipation, excitement, and trepidation. "Do I look delicate?"
He leans forward, to gently slap my cheek. "Is that permission, Lincoln?"
It was a light tap, barely more than a stroke, but my face still tingles. "Don't hold back on my account," I tell him, desperate to keep my voice level, controlled.
He's hard already, when he drops his pants. Thick and straining against black briefs; something flattering about the heft of his cock and the knowledge that I played an instrumental role in turning him on that way.
Riley slaps my hands away, when I reach for him.
"Put them behind your back," he scolds, like I'm a kid who can't wait for the cookies to cool.
I grunt frustration, as I obey. Watch him sit up on the edge of the table, his thighs spread and framing that mouthwatering bulge.
He doesn't stop me, when I lean forward. Doesn't complain when I press my face into that heavy swell: black cotton struggling to contain his swollen inches. I don't really have the words to describe what Riley smells like - soap, and musk, and a hint of fresh sweat that has all my nerves jangling - but that doesn't stop me from digging my nose into the crease between his junk and his thigh. Desperate, suddenly, to feel overwhelmed by a scent that drives any lingering doubts from my skull.
He cradles the back of my head, as he tugs down his briefs with the other hand. Tucking the waistband under his balls, his cock pressing into my cheek.
I think, for a moment, he's going to remind me to be careful of my teeth, or not to be over-ambitious, or something like that. Instead, Riley just presses his thumb at the base of his dick, levering it down until the goo-drooling tip is pushing at my lips.
No conscious thought required, really, to open my mouth and let him slide across my tongue.
It doesn't feel real, or normal, but I can't exactly claim it doesn't feel right, either. To be so full, so thoroughly filled with another man's cock: that sense of power, and trust, and risk all melding together, as Riley's tip brushes at the entrance of my throat and - his hand on the back of my skull urging me closer still - pushing, a moment later, deeper into me. Not stopping until somehow my lips are pressed into his groin.
When he groans, I can feel it all the way down into my gullet. Like his dick is a grounding rod; the one true way to understand exactly what Riley's feeling, beyond his sarcasm, and humor, and needling.
I can't help the ripple of delight, at knowing I'm the cause of such satisfaction.
Both of his hands are on my head, now. Cradling it, fingers digging but not unduly: just enough to move me, forward and back, as he works himself in and out of the tight grip of my clenching throat.
"Fuck, you feel good."
I close my eyes, my skin tingling from the afterglow of his compliment, and let him stroke himself with me.
And then I hear the door.
Riley's fingers squeeze me, a wordless instruction. Obedience demanded, and something in me - even with the panic building in my chest, as though the friction of his fat cockhead was stoking it like a flame - daren't contradict him. Refuses to pull away, or push him back.
It means I only hear the footsteps behind me, in the kitchen. Jerk, in shock, at the lightly trailing fingertips, tracing the curve of my ass. Knowing it's not Riley's hand, Riley's fingers: even if he could reach, they're currently holding my head in place as he steadily reams my throat.
"He won't say no, will you, Lincoln."
Maybe it doesn't even matter, if it's a question or a statement. Not like I have the capacity to answer; not beyond a grunt, anyway.
I groan, as my shorts are dragged down. Catching around the heft of my thighs, enough to expose my cheeks, and it's a liberty whoever's stripping me takes full advantage of.
The sound of spitting; a thick, wet sound, and then fingers pushing at my hole. Setting me twisting and bucking on the tabletop, not so much in protest as surprise. At the realization of what's going to happen now, here in Riley's kitchen, if I don't put a stop to it.
Surprise, too, at the crisp realization that I'm not going to put a stop to it.
The first finger works its way into me, sly and probing. Twisting in the tight clench of my fluttering hole, as my throat spasms around Riley's digging inches.
I squeal - the sound muffled, stoppered - when the second finger grinds inside. Two digits flexing and scissoring, working my barely-experienced muscles. Another hand pressing at the small of my back, not hard but pointedly. A reminder that good boys don't protest, not when everyone involved knows it's what they want, really.
All the same, I practically howl when those fingers pull loose and twist around the head of my cock, where it's trapped in the tangle of my shorts. Presuming torture at first, only for relief to flood me a moment later when I'm released. Hearing - above the rhythm of my throat, squishy and wet - the slick, sloppy sound of my own precum being stroked along another man's dick.
"Don't cum too fast, now," Riley cautions, amusement in his voice, and it's clear he's not talking to me.
The push at my hole comes fast, urgent despite Riley's warning. A desperation to be inside me, to overcome my body's meager protests as the blunt head spreads me open and I gurgle mindlessly around the shaft stretching my lips. A sense of being skewered at both ends, and like before, no way to judge the size of the cock in my ass beyond near-panicky assessments that it must be huge, monstrous, for it to feel like it does.
And then suddenly, I can feel his thighs pressed against me. Both of his hands braced at the small of my back, pinning me to the table like a butterfly to a board, as he saws his hips back and then thrusts into me again, and again.
He's grunting, with each deep stroke, but he still hasn't said a word. Nothing by which I could recognize his voice, know the identity of the guy currently plowing me raw. There's something unbelievable about that, borderline-crazy, that someone I might not even know has walked into Riley's house and is now balls-deep inside me. One of his friends, maybe, or even one of mine, or a total stranger to me. Someone from elsewhere in Riley's life, content to take my obedient compliance as the consent everyone in this room knows it is.
There's a part of me which doesn't want to know, either. Which is happier that this is anonymous, simple: the heat, and stretch, and pull of my body. Straightforward physical sensations, which don't demand I think about what this says about my sexuality, or what gets me off, or how my relationships with my friends might be changed irreversibly. Just friction, my hard cock grinding against the edge of the table as I'm used so thoroughly.
I groan, as Riley pulls my head back. Dizzy, from the rush of air my lungs gulp down; hyper-aware of the thick heft of his dick pressed against my cheek, slick with throat slime. The way it's throbbing with his heartbeat, as I peer up at him with bleary eyes and find him already grinning down at me.
"Feel good?"
My grin feels lopsided, drunken. Spreads a little further, at his amused chuckle.
"Do you even care who it is? Who's inside you right now?"
It'd require too much for me to answer, to figure out how to form words. Easier, then, to reach back and pull at my cheeks. Spread myself wider, a silent invitation.
I gasp, as he slams an extra fraction of an inch into me.
Riley laughs, and then lifts my head back onto his dick.
It felt good, with Chance. Knowing it was my best friend who was inside me; seeing that pleasure play out on the familiar contours of his face. A heat at my core that was more than just the intense friction of him slamming into my gooey hole, and a rightness to it all, to the way our closeness had escalated.
And yet, this feels so good, too. To be spreadeagled across the table, filled at both ends as my body is plied mercilessly. A complicity to it: I could protest, pull away, set boundaries if my brain was even capable of fathoming the words for them. The fact that I don't - the fact that I claw my cheeks further apart, so that the stab of nameless cock can grind against fresh spots in me - is so much easier than having to tell them I want this.
Hard to feel guilty, at hearing yourself beg to get screwed more roughly, if the pleading can't even escape because your throat is stuffed.
The spiraling thoughts are derailed, by his tighter squeeze. Fingers digging almost painfully into my waist, yanking me back to meet each desperate stroke. Even I - inexperienced as I am - know what comes next.
The smack of sticky, sweaty skin against skin, and suddenly he's holding deep in me. Pinning me down, as his erection throbs and I picture the spray of hot cum filling my hole. Wanting to believe I can feel each splash, the change in sloppy, slimy friction as his grip eases slightly and he pulls back. Even if I can't, even if this is all my imagination left to run wild, it leaves me groaning with satisfaction.
I hiccup with shock, throat spasming around Riley's shaft, as he slaps my cheek. Wide-eyed, staring up at him as best I can. Tears, and snot, and a thick sheen of slop his broad cockhead has dredged out of me covering my face. I'd feel self-conscious, cowed by his knowing sneer, if I couldn't also tell from his shaking fingers how close to losing control he is himself.
A curse, and then he's unloading in me too. The first burst of it filling my throat before he pulls back: yanking his inches from my depths to bob in front of me, cum spewing across my flushed, bedraggled features. Heavy on my forehead, down my nose; forcing me to blink, as fresh splashes droop precariously from my eyelids, and ooze in creamy waves down my lips.
"So hot," Riley grunts, and then pushes back in my mouth. The sound of his balls slapping my well-glazed chin has changed, stickier and louder. I do my best to work him with my tongue, until he drags himself away from me, panting hard.
I simultaneously want, and am terrified by, the idea of rolling over and seeing who just bred me. Almost wish Riley would take the initiative and make the decision for me: send them away, leaving their identify forever a secret.
And then I hear the chuckle - a cracking, overwhelmed sound - and my brain fills in the dots by itself.
Harper's face is still flushed, his cock still stiff and twitching, when I twist over to look at him. Watching me with an expression that somehow manages to be hungry and terrified, as though he's not sure I won't freak out at him for what just happened. His eyes widen, just a fraction, as I sit up.
Easy, though, to reach out and bunch a fist in his shirt. To drag him closer, into the splay of my thighs. Proximity enough to see how his pupils swell when I yank him into me, his squeak of surprise instantly muffled when our mouths connect.
It's not the first time that Harper has worked the cum out of my mouth with his tongue, but now I'm not pretending this isn't a kiss, too. My hands at the small of his back not necessary to hold him in place, but to steady him, as we make out intensely. The clinch interrupted, at times, as he runs his tongue across my features and returns to share Riley's load.
He's easy to pick up, my hands tucked under his thighs. Easy to lift into my lap, Harper's legs spreading around me and his arms draping my shoulders. Easy, too, to reach beneath myself; to scoop his freshly-deposited cum that's already drooling out of my well-fucked hole, and - with a little fumbling to free my needy erection - stroke it along my own inches.
He whines as I lift him again, aiming my cock at his tightness. Bites down on my bottom lip, pain blossoming as his own bodyweight impales him onto me. No protest, though; no desperate plea for more time, for it to be slower, easier. Just a whimper, sounding fractured and low, as his ass comes to rest on me.
Harper's hard again, or maybe he never got soft. The heft of it pressed against my belly, sandwiched tight as he hugs himself to me.
I tilt my head back, feeling the stretch of my lip, until I think for one shocking moment that he doesn't mean to release me. Will simply bite down, harder and more insistent, until his teeth go clean through my tender flesh.
He relents, though, and it's like his strings are cut in that same moment. Body going practically slack in my arms, his stare unfocussed.
Tight, though, when I lever my hips up, digging my cock into him. Expecting Harper to complain, to say it's too much for him, only he doesn't. As willing as Riley always hinted he'd be, as I open him up with his own load for lube.
Our panting is almost so loud that I don't hear the sounds in the hallway. Not until the voices are very nearly at the kitchen; I look up, over Harper's shoulder, just in time to see Chance and Aidan turn the corner.
Aidan looks shocked, jaw dropped.
Chance... Well, my best friend just rolls his eyes. Like my being buried in another guy is par for the course, now, just another thing that Lincoln gets up to.
At this point, maybe that's not an inaccurate assessment.
Chance shakes his head, grinning at me, then pushes Aidan forward with a hand at the small of his back.
"You might as well dump a load in him as well. Looks like the rest of us have, by now."
Aidan's trying to look back, expression confused - I guess he didn't expect Chance and I to actually hook up - but Chance just gestures with his chin in my direction.
"Don't worry, bro, he can multitask."
Maybe I should feel like I have more of a say in the matter, as Aidan pulls me by the hips toward the edge of the kitchen table. Or maybe I should stop pumping Harper's limp, pliable body onto my cock, as my legs are spread and I hear Aidan spit.
It's easier, though, to just let him slide into me. To watch how the muscles in his face shift, as my body reshapes itself around him and Aidan's eyes roll back, apparently overwhelmed.
Only for a moment, though. Or maybe it's instinct, a dude's natural inclination to pound whatever he can shove his dick into. Overcoming his uncertainty, and shock, and soon I'm rocking on the table again as another of my buddies nails me with increasing urgency.
Each thrust pushes me deeper into Harper, and his weight bouncing on me slams me back onto Aidan's cock, until it's like a perfect loop of friction. Filling and being filled; our bodies simply components in some perfect, sweaty machine, intended only for coaxing pleasure out of every cell. A rutting, grinding centerpiece, as Chance takes the beer his older brother holds out, and the two of them watch me fuck and get fucked in the middle of the kitchen.
"So, you hook up with guys, now." Riley says it casually, like it's really no big deal, though Chance's blush betrays his self-consciousness.
"It's not..." His voice trails off. "It was just..."
Riley snorts. "I hope you were more confident when you were pounding him."
His brother jabs him with his elbow. "Fuck off. He had no complaints."
It's not easy, tilting my head back to stare up at the two of them, while also grinding Harper onto my dick and getting plowed by an increasingly aggressive Aidan. I still attempt it, though; grin, as best I can, at their varying degrees of amusement as they stare back at me.
"He's easy to please, as you can tell," Riley says, winking at me.
I stick out my tongue, and his smirk spreads wider.
"Was this all your idea, then?" Chance sounds like he's trying to change the subject, or at least shift it away from his own inaugural dude-on-dude experience.
Riley snorts, gulping down a mouthful of beer. "Trying out a new strategy. If we wear him out up here, maybe he'll get less cum on my damn couch."
Chance gives him a meaningful side-eye. "Oh, please, like you haven't hooked up with your share of guys down there yourself."
Riley's grin is full of teeth. "Difference is, it's my fucking couch."
Hearing them laugh together is weird. I'm so used to Chance and his brother arguing, practically being at each other's throats, it's strange to see them getting along so well.
I mean, maybe not as strange as being buried in Harper's clenching hole, while Aidan jackhammers my cheeks. But still, pretty damn strange.
Riley nudges Chance with his elbow, then nods down at me.
"He's still got one hole open."
Trying to decode the expressions on my best friend's face can be tricky at the best of times. Never mind when I'm staring at him upside down, from the middle of a fuck-sandwich, with Harper's sweat dripping into my eyes and a fizzing, churning sort of heat building from my well-stretched hole, all the way to the deeply buried tip of my almost painfully-hard cock.
Then again, I decide a moment later, maybe analysis is overrated. At least in situations like these, anyway. More, certainly, than could reasonably be expected from a guy in my position.
I tilt my head a little further back, and open my mouth.
Thank you for reading, and for your comments and ratings! If you're looking for something to read while you wait for chapter 11, I released a new book this month: "Farmed Out 2: City Heat" is the sequel to my gay-awakening-on-the-farm story, and if you're into confused-but-horny guys and cum-obsessed farm jocks, I think you might like it...
