We had been living together for over a year, and I knew Mike's body better than many of the girls he slept with. Not because I touched it, not then. But I saw it every day. In the kitchen, when he came in after a shower with only a towel around his hips. In the living room, where he did his stretching as if he had forgotten he wasn't alone. In the bathroom, when he opened the door, steaming up everything inside, and then rubbed his neck and shoulders in front of the mirror like in some deodorant commercial. His body was... functional. Made for running, strength, provocation. Athletic, but not exaggerated. Muscular where it needed to be, chest, shoulders, thighs, stomach like from a training plan.
I also knew his sounds.
The creak of the bed when he changed position. A quiet moan that sometimes broke the silence of the night. Shallow breathing that quickened until it suddenly stopped, and then I knew he was done. And that one sound I knew all too well, the wet rustle of his hand against his skin, repetitive, rhythmic, almost hypnotic.
I never crossed the line. But sometimes I sat in my bed and thought: how is it possible that such a body walks around this apartment and doesn't know that it is like a treasure? That for me it is like a constant tension in the air, a presence that fills the space even when it is silent?
Mike didn't try to be erotic. He just was.
Every movement he made, the nonchalant wiping of his neck, the stretching of his shoulders as he yawned, the adjusting of his towel, remained behind my eyelids. As if his body spoke more than his mouth. As if his presence was an invitation that no one had spoken.
I didn't do anything. I just watched. I studied him. I felt like someone who had found something valuable and knew it wasn't time to reach out yet. Not yet.
Mike returned to the apartment in the middle of the day, which was suspicious in itself. He was supposed to be away until Sunday. I heard him slam the front door, then the shuffling of his shoes, and a moment later his bag hit the floor with a dull thud. I came out of the kitchen and immediately saw that something was wrong. His left arm was stiff, wrapped in a rigid bandage, his fingers slightly swollen. His expression: furious. And those eyes that gave me a "don't ask" look.
"What happened?" I asked, even though I knew I was about to hear the censored version.
"I sprained my wrist. During warm-up. I slipped on a fucking rubber piece of the track." He sighed and threw himself on the couch. "I'm out. I need to rest. I can't train for a long time."
I could see that his pride hurt more than his hand. His body needed movement, and he needed control over that body. Now he had neither.
"Did you get any painkillers?"
"Yeah. But they're shit. It all pisses me off," he grumbled, then added more quietly, "You know what's the worst part?"
He raised an eyebrow. I waited.
"I can't even touch myself." He showed me his left hand. "Try jerking off with your right hand when you're left-handed. Or vice versa."
I snorted, but quickly became serious. There was real frustration in that. And something more. Vulnerability.
I walked over to him slowly. I sat down next to him. I saw him tense his thighs, as if he was expecting a joke. But I wasn't joking.
"Hey. We live together. I won't let you struggle with something like this." I looked him in the eyes. "If you need... help. With anything. I'll take care of it."
He pressed his lips together. He didn't laugh. He didn't say anything like, "Really?" He just nodded slightly. Without a word. As if he had just stopped defending himself.
I already knew it wasn't just an injury. It was an invitation to a new role. A caregiver. One who really cares.
We sat in silence for a moment. He, with his head resting against the headrest, his breathing a little deeper than before. Me, next to him, with my hand resting on his thigh. An innocent, caring gesture, seemingly. But we both knew it wasn't accidental. I waited. Not for words, but for what the body would say first.
And it did.
I looked down, slowly. The fabric of his pants stretched slightly in the crotch. Not dramatically, but noticeably. His cock was no longer indifferent to the situation. I felt a subtle twitch of his thigh muscle under my hand. And his breathing, slower, as if heavier.
He looked at me with a mixture of uncertainty and surrender. There was no fear there. Just hesitation, as if he were checking to see if this was really happening.
"It doesn't have to be weird, Mike." My voice was calm, soft. "I'll not only understand you. I'll take care of you. Just like it should be."
Mike swallowed and said quietly,
"Matt... please. Do it. Take care of me."
I stood up slowly and crouched in front of him, between his legs. I gently placed my hand on the elastic of his pants.
"I'll help you undress, okay?" I asked quietly.
He nodded. Almost imperceptibly. But it was enough.
I slid his T-shirt off, then his pants from his hips with care, as if they were more delicate than a bandage. His boxers followed right after. His cock was already semi-erect, thick, heavy, pulsing calmly. He didn't hide it. He wasn't ashamed. It was as if his body knew exactly where it was and why.
"That's better, isn't it?" I whispered, looking into his eyes.
Mike took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, as if with relief. No jokes. No cynicism. Just him and me. And his tense body, which had just begun to surrender to my hands.
He was already undressed from the waist down, but I took my time. Mike sat on the couch, his thighs slightly apart, the elbow of his good arm resting on a pillow, his gaze fixed somewhere between me and the ceiling. He wasn't embarrassed. He was... exposed. And maybe a little curious about what I would do next.
I allowed myself a moment of admiration. His stomach, perfectly defined six-pack, working with every breath. His chest, broad, smooth, tense as if after a workout. His skin, still slightly damp from his earlier shower, smelled of freshness mixed with sweat. A mixture that hit my head like the strongest aphrodisiac.
I ran my hand over his thigh, first with just my fingertips. I could feel the tension in his muscles, his reaction to my touch. He wasn't looking at me, but his cock moved again. Heavy, slow, as if it didn't want to rush.
Finally, I touched it. Without haste. My hand wrapped around his member at the base, warm, pulsing, getting harder and harder. I felt the weight. The thickness. The skin that tightened under my touch. I slid my thumb along the top, just beneath the head, feeling the first signs of wetness.
"You were right," I said in a low voice. "You'd only tire yourself out on your own."
He smiled gently. His head still resting.
"And this way... you can relax. And let me take care of you."
He didn't answer, but his body did it for him. His hips tensed slightly, then relaxed, as if he had just surrendered control. Completely. And then I knew I could go further.
My thumb traced a slow circle around the tip of his cock, and he sighed softly, as if he hadn't expected it to feel this good.
And I was just getting started.
I gripped him tighter. Mike spread his legs wider, of his own accord. He gave me space, he gave me access. He surrendered to the moment, as if he wanted nothing more than my hand and the breath he felt somewhere above him. I watched his cock throb, the tension growing with every movement of the skin.
"Breathe," I whispered.
And he breathed. Evenly, deeply. And I guided his body like an instrument.
My hand moved slowly, up and down, stopping only to circle my thumb just below the head. I could see his stomach trembling, his thigh muscles tensing with every lift of his hips. I touched him the way I like to be touched, with attention, with control, with intention.
Mike didn't say much. Only occasionally did a short sigh escape him, a stifled murmur, a quiet moan. But his body was loud. It worked under my hand, becoming more and more tense, more and more responsive. My throat went dry when I saw a drop of precum, transparent, shiny, like a sign that everything was going in the right direction.
"You're beautiful, you know that?" I said quietly, leaning lower. "Your cock, your breath, everything about you... tells me I'm doing it right."
His hips rose once more. His hand clenched the pillow. And then I felt he was about to come. I sped up my movements a little, but I didn't lose my rhythm. I wanted him to feel that I was guiding him to the very end.
And then he exploded. Literally.
Cum shot onto my hand, hot, thick, pulsing. He took a deep breath. Then his body relaxed, sinking heavily into the couch.
I stayed close. I didn't wipe my hand right away. I wanted him to know that his pleasure wasn't something to be quickly hidden. That there was nothing to be ashamed of.
Mike looked at me with a half-smile.
"Thanks, Matt... that's what I needed."
I nodded quietly. No more words were needed.
Something had just changed. Between us. In him. In me.
And I knew this was just the beginning.
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