I strained my shoulder at the gym. Deadlift. Grabbed the bar wrong, something snapped. I could barely get undressed. Even taking a shower seemed impossible. When I tried to reach behind my back, I groaned. I leaned against the wall, cursing under my breath. I had no choice.
“Jon?” I called out. My voice trembled. Not just from the pain.
After a moment, he appeared in the bathroom door, wearing a white T-shirt and boxer shorts. He looked at me, slightly confused.
“What's wrong?”
“I can't wash myself,” I hissed. “It hurts a lot.”
He fell silent. He just stared for a moment. Then he smiled with a kind of half-ironic calm.
“Since I'm sleeping at your place, I might as well be useful for once.”
Before I could say anything, he pulled off his T-shirt in one swift motion. His body was perfect, his arms, chest, stomach. Then his boxers. Without hesitation. He was naked. His cock hung limply between his thighs. Thick, darker than the rest of his skin. And I just stood there with my hand against the wall, trying not to look, not to imagine the things that had been in my head for so long.
He followed me into the shower. Water ran down our bodies. Jon reached for the gel and stood behind me. I could feel his warmth. His breath. He didn't touch me right away. But I already knew that this wasn't going to be just a simple favor.
He didn't touch me until a moment later. His hand started at my shoulder. Gentle but firm. Then the other one. They began to move down my back. The movements were slow. My body reacted faster than my mind.
And he didn't say a word. Neither did I.
His hands slid lower. He moved them down my sides, then back to the middle, my chest, my stomach. He worked carefully, as if every inch was important. Or maybe he just wanted to touch him. Me. My breathing quickened when his fingers brushed my hip line.
“Give me your hand,” he said quietly.
I gave it to him. He took my forearm, lifted it slightly, and turned me to face him. I could feel his body rubbing against mine. His chest was touching my back.
Then he knelt down. He rinsed off the foam, but he didn't rush. When he reached my buttocks, I held my breath. With one hand, he spread them apart, and with the other, he rubbed in the gel. His touch was slow, slippery, palpable. He stopped. For a split second, he did nothing.
And then I felt it.
A finger. A single finger, sliding in slowly. Not deep, but enough to make me tremble. He didn't ask. He didn't warn me. He just... did it.
My hands clenched the wall. I didn't move away. I didn't pull back. There was something about his calmness, the way he did it, as if he knew I needed it. Or that he needed it.
He took his finger out and his hand returned to massaging my buttocks. As if nothing had happened. As if it were just routine.
But it wasn't.
I stood there with my heart pounding like crazy, my cock half hard, my thoughts so fucked up that I didn't know if I wanted it to continue or end.
And Jon... he kept washing. As if he hadn't just put his finger inside me.
As if it was normal.
When he stood up, his chest touched my back again. And then... something else. Something hard. Something big. I felt his cock rubbing against my ass. Not by accident. He wanted me to feel it.
I didn't say anything.
I didn't move away.
His hands moved lower. Down my hips, then between them. He grabbed my dick like it was something that needed to be thoroughly cleaned. And maybe that's what it would have looked like, if not for how long he held it. How slowly he moved his hand from the base to the tip. How he spread the soap with his finger, as if it were a game, not help.
I rested my head against the tiles. My breath caught in my throat, quiet, broken. I felt like I was about to explode. And he didn't stop.
His other hand slid under my scrotum. He grabbed my balls and held them in his hand. He didn't squeeze. It didn't hurt. But he was in control. And he knew it.
Water poured down from above. Steam covered everything that was invisible. But I could feel it. Every inch of his skin. Every movement. Every shift of his fingers.
I was hard. So hard that even the touch hurt.
So was he. What I felt before wasn't an illusion. His cock was digging into my ass, throbbing. And he still hadn't said a word. Not once. As if it was the most normal thing in the world for a straight friend to hold my cock and balls while standing naked behind me in the shower, with a hard cock against my body.
It wasn't just help.
It was a decision. On his part. And on mine.
In a moment, I would have asked him not to stop.
But then he leaned over and whispered in my ear.
“If you ever need anything else... or my hand... just let me know.”
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