Content Warnings: Adult sexual content. Drunk sleepover. Straight-curious friend. Shared bed.
Tristan is on his back in my bed in his boxers, one arm over his eyes, and I am still fully dressed on top of the duvet with my cock aching against the zip because I have not let myself do a single thing yet.
The night had been the same as a dozen others except I had spent all of it watching him. Tristan is the friend I have wanted since the first year we lived in each other’s pockets: the one who talks about girls in the pub and slings an arm around my neck on the walk between places, the one I have jerked off thinking about more times than I would ever say to his face. He is straight in the way that has always been the wall. He borrows my hoodies. He falls asleep on my sofa. He has never looked at my mouth the way I look at his. Tonight he drank more than he meant to. By the last place his words were coming slower and he was leaning his weight into me like I was furniture he trusted. I felt the heat of his side the whole walk home, the damp of his shirt under my hand when I steered him off the kerb, the way his breath hit my neck when he laughed at nothing. I got him home. I got the key in the door. I got him as far as the bed and he sat down hard and asked if I was coming to bed or standing there like an idiot.
I told him I was coming. I meant I was going to get him comfortable and then lie there and not touch him. That was the plan.
I crouched in front of him first. His trainers were still knotted from the walk. I worked the laces loose with my thumbs and eased the left one off. His foot came free hot in my hand. I held the heel longer than I needed, thumb on the ankle bone, feeling the pulse under the skin, then set it down on the rug and did the other. He made a sound when I lifted that one and did not pull away. His socks were damp. I rolled them down and off and my knuckles brushed the hair on his shin. He laughed at that for no reason and tipped backward onto his elbows.
“Harry. Jeans. I can’t do the button.”
I did the button. My knuckles sat against the warmth of his stomach for a second while I got it through the hole. The zip stuck against the shape of him. I saw it then, the outline under the cotton of his boxers: not hard, just there, a heavy rest of cock along his left thigh, the head a blunt press in the cloth. I got the zip down without putting my hand on it. He lifted his hips when I asked. I worked the jeans down over his ass and off his legs, dragging the denim inside out at the ankles, and left the boxers where they were. The cotton was thin enough that I could see the line of him, the dark of the hair at the waistband, the way the fabric had gone a little tight over the head. I did not hook my fingers under it. I had told myself I would not.
The shirt was last. He raised his arms because I told him to. The fabric dragged up over his chest and my fingers followed the lift of it over skin I had only ever seen in changing rooms. His stomach jumped when I passed it. I got the shirt off over his head and my hand came down on his shoulder to keep him sitting. He dropped back onto the mattress in the boxers only, one arm over his eyes, breathing through his mouth. I kept that hand on him a moment, thumb in the hollow above his collarbone, then made myself let go.
“Don’t put me on my side,” he said. “I hate that.”
“I won’t.”
I stood there in my jeans and my shirt and my own trainers, looking at him. The lamp was still on. He was the length of my bed, pale where the shirt had been, the boxers rucked a little at one thigh, that four and a half inches of him lying thick in the cotton, the kind of flaccid cock that still made a shape. I had measured him in my head for years off glimpses in locker rooms and the way he sat on sofas. Four and a half soft. Seven when he was hard. I had never had him like this to confirm it. I confirmed it now and it made my mouth go dry.
I got into the bed clothed. Trainers off, that was all. I lay on my back beside him on top of the sheet with my jeans still fastened and my shirt still on and my cock trapped so hard against the zip I could feel the teeth. Tristan rolled toward the heat of me without waking properly, his forehead against my shoulder, one heavy arm thrown over my stomach. I could smell the night on his hair. I could feel the damp cotton of his boxers against my hip where his thigh had come over. I put my own arm around him because that was allowed. Friends did that. I stared at the ceiling and counted his breaths and did not put my hand anywhere it wanted to go.
I lasted like that for a stretch of minutes that felt like an hour. Then I could not stand the clothes. I worked my shirt up between his arm and my chest and got it off over my head without making him move much. The air on my skin was a relief. I undid my jeans next, one-handed, and had to lift my hips. The zip coming down was loud in the room. My cock shoved forward in my underwear at once, a wet patch already dark on the front. I pushed the jeans down and kicked them off the end of the bed. Socks after. I lay there in just the underwear with Tristan’s arm still across me and my cock leaking into the cloth, the head trapped down, every beat of my pulse making it jump.
I got those off too. I had to. I hooked the waistband and dragged them down and my cock sprang up flushed and thick against my stomach, the head dark, a string of precum already connecting the slit to the hair below my navel. I wiped it with my thumb and it came back. I left the underwear on the floor and pulled the duvet up over both of us and lay there naked beside him in his boxers and tried to sleep.
I did not sleep.
The lamp was still on because neither of us had reached for it. I watched the rise of his chest. I watched the way his mouth stayed open. I felt him stir twice, a shift of his hips, a sound in his throat, the arm on my stomach tightening and then going loose again. My cock would not go down. Precum kept welling and running down the underside onto my stomach. I did not touch it. I lay still and hated how hard I was and listened to him breathe.
Later than I could name, he stirred properly. Not awake. Not under either. His hand left my stomach and went down his own front, under the duvet, and I felt the moment his fingers found the waistband of his boxers. He made a small annoyed sound, the sound of a man who is too hot or too twisted in the cloth, and he shoved them down himself. His hips lifted. The cotton dragged over his cock and off. I felt the heat of him come bare against my thigh, the weight of that four and a half inches starting to fill as he kicked the boxers down his legs and off the side of the bed with his foot. He settled again. Naked now. His cock lay against my hip, skin on skin, and I had to shut my eyes.
It did not stay four and a half. His hand found it the way it had found the waistband, absently, like scratching. He held himself. He gave it a slow pull. I felt the shaft thicken in the space between our bodies, felt it lift off my hip as it grew. Five. Six. He kept stroking without opening his eyes, thumb smearing over the head, and it came up to seven inches against my skin, thick, the head pushing out of his fist on every lazy tug. He was hard in my bed and he was touching himself and he still had his face turned into my shoulder like I was only the pillow.
I turned onto my side to look. The duvet had slipped to his waist. I could see all of it: the dark flush of the head, the wet at the slit, the way seven inches of him stood off his belly when he let go for a second and then caught it again. Precum beaded on him and broke onto his knuckle. My own cock kicked against his thigh and left a smear. I was streaming. I had been streaming since he shoved the boxers down. A thread ran from my slit to his hip and I watched it snap.
I put my hand on his thigh. Just the top of it. He did not stop. I slid higher and felt the heat coming off him. His cock jumped in his fist when my thumb brushed the crease at the top of his leg. I squeezed myself and another run of precum slid down my shaft and dripped onto the sheet beside him.
“Fuck,” I said, under my breath.
Tristan made a noise that might have been a question. His hand kept moving. I shuffled closer until my cock hung over his stomach first, then higher, over his chest, the head dark and shining. I told myself I would put it away. I brought it to his face instead and wiped that bead on his cheek.
It left a wet mark. He did not flinch. I did it again, dragging the slit along the line of his jaw, painting him with what I could not keep inside me. The head smeared over the corner of his mouth. Precum shone there, thicker than spit. I traced his upper lip with it and watched it sit on the skin. My other hand came up to his chest, palm flat, feeling the thump of him under the bone. Every wipe sent a twitch through me that pushed out more. I wiped a stripe across his lower lip and held the head there, just resting, wet on wet.
Tristan’s tongue came out. He licked his lips. He took the taste of me off his own mouth without opening his eyes, a slow pass that caught the smear I had left, and his cock jumped in his fist hard enough that I heard the wet sound of it. I reached down and closed my fingers over his, not taking over, just riding the stroke he was already doing on those seven inches. He did not pull away. He licked again, found the wetness at the corner of his mouth, took it. His hips rolled up into both our hands.
“Harry.” His voice was wrecked and close to sleep. “That you.”
“Yeah.”
“Smells like you.” He licked again, tongue catching the head where I had left it against his lip. “Don’t stop doing that. I’m so hard. Put it here.”
His mouth opened. Not wide. Just enough. The invitation was in the way his tongue stayed out against his lower lip, in the way his fist tightened under mine, in the murmur that came after: “Go on. I can taste it. Want it.”
I wiped the head across that open mouth. Precum striped his lip and he took it, tongue working, a sound in his throat that was not protest. His cock leaked against our joined fingers. I painted around his mouth again, slower, the slit catching on the little split in his lip, and he chased it. I thumbed his nipple while I did it and his cock kicked hard enough to wet my wrist.
“Tristan.”
“In.” He barely shaped the word. “In my mouth. Harry. Please.”
I fed him the head. The heat closed around me at once, wet and loose and then tighter when his lips found the ridge and held. His tongue flattened under the slit and I felt the last of the precum go onto it. I had to lock my hips. Years of wanting him and the first inch of him was this: naked because he had taken the boxers off himself, sucking the head of my cock because he had asked for it with his mouth still shiny from what I had wiped there. My hand was still around his, still moving on him, and he was leaking over both of us.
I stroked my own shaft with the hand that would not fit inside him and let only that thick first part sit on his tongue. Spit gathered at the corner and ran down to my knuckles. When I eased back a thread stretched from his lip to the slit and held. I pushed forward and watched the head disappear, darker against the wet of him. His throat clicked. He did not pull off. Every time I gave him another half inch his hips lifted into our hands.
I held the duvet back so I could see it. His mouth stretched around me. The head popped free glossy and sank in again. He sucked in a breath through his nose and the seal tightened. I cursed. The sound of it was close: spit, skin, the wet pull when he took me to the middle of the shaft and came back shining. Precum was constant now, a film he kept stripping off the tip with his tongue. My balls were drawn up. Each time he moved I felt it at the base, a pull that made my cock twitch in his mouth and push out more for him to swallow. I squeezed the head of his cock on the upstroke and felt him pulse against my palm.
“That is it,” I told him. “Just like that. You can stay there.”
He made a muffled sound around me that might have been my name. His lashes moved. He did suck, a real pull, and I watched myself slide in and out of a mouth I had thought about in the shower for years. A thread of spit hung off his chin. His own cock was a wet mess in our fists, seven inches shining, the head dark, his abs tightening when I gave him more. I let go of him long enough to cup his balls, roll them, then went back to the shaft because he pushed up into the air looking for the hand.
I had to stop stroking myself and just hold the base so I would not go off. He took that as a chance to work the head, tongue circling the slit, lips tight on the ridge. I was dripping on his tongue. I started again, fist and mouth on the same length, the head almost purple, the shaft slick from him. I rubbed my thumb over the stretch of his lower lip where it was wrapped around me and felt him take it. My other hand pumped him in time, sloppy with how wet he was. Another sound left him, wrecked and wanting, and that was what did it.
The first pulse hit before I could pull back far enough. I got the head on his lip and the first rope landed across his mouth, thick and white on the shine that was already there. The second caught the corner and slid toward his chin. I stroked through it, hips tight, watching the load stripe him, and my hand on his cock did not stop. A third pulse hit his cheek. I put the last of it on his tongue and held still while my cock kicked in my fist, each pulse pushing more out of the slit onto him. His hips stuttered. He came a few seconds after me, a hot spill over our fingers, his mouth still open around the head, a groan going through him into my cock.
Tristan blinked. Cum sat on his lip and on his chin, a heavy drop hanging before it fell. His own was cooling on his stomach and on my hand. He looked at my cock first: the head still wet, still twitching, a last string connecting the slit to his mouth. Then he looked at me. He licked the mess on his lower lip and did not wipe the rest.
“You were supposed to be asleep,” I said.
“I was.” His voice was shot. “You were dripping on my face. I felt it. Come here.”
I stayed where I was. My cock was still hard enough to shine. Tristan leaned the last inch and licked the slit, taking the last of the taste, eyes on the cock more than on my face. He swallowed what was on his tongue. His hand gave himself one more slow pull through the wet, like his body had not caught up.
“Next time,” he said, “don’t just wipe it on me and hope. Put it in when I tell you. I can take more than the head if you wake me properly.”
I dragged the head of my cock across his lip once more and watched him open for it. The load was still on his face. His mouth was wet and filthy and waiting. The straight friend I had wanted for years was naked on my sheets because he had taken the last of his clothes off himself, with my cum on his chin, and he was not telling me to go...
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Finally, this is a work of fantasy. Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental. Some works may be inspired by other creators, but all work is entirely original and written by me, Harlan Maddox-Powell. All characters are adults and have fully consented to the depicted roleplay scenario. In real life, always practise safe sex and enthusiastic consent.
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