The first message I got from him saturday got me confused:
Mason: “Yo, which cinema we going to?”
I stared at my phone for a solid thirty seconds.
Because in my head, very clearly, there had never been a cinema. There had been my couch, TV and some junk food around. Somewhere along the way I had apparently forgotten to communicate that part.
I typed. Deleted. Typed again.
Me: “I was actually thinking we could watch it at my place? If that’s okay for u?”
Three dots appeared instantly.
Mason: “Oh sick. Even better. Kinda broke right now honestly.”
Even. Better.
Mason: “Way more comfortable than sticky cinema floors. I’ll bring snacks?”
I exhaled like I’d been holding my breath underwater fo too long. Shit, this guy kept surprising me:
Me: “Sure. Bring anything u like. I'll bring pizza.”
Mason: “Awesome. Send address. I’m hyped.”
Hyped.
I was terrified.
I spent the next hour doing things just to clear my head from any intrusive thoughts: rearranging pillows, straightening movie posters that had never been crooked, debating whether owning this many DVDs made me look cultured or elitist to him. At one point I genuinely considered hiding half of them in a closet.
Then the doorbell rang.
I opened the door and Mason was there in gym shorts and a hoodie he immediately took off because:
"Damn, your place is so warm, dude, you should stop the heater, leaving him in a grey tank top stretched tight across his chest. He smelled clean, faintly of soap and deodorant:
“Ur alone here dude?” he asked, smiling easy. “Nice place.
"Yeah, thanks."
He immediately started looking all around. Not politely glancing, he was going full-on tour mode:
“Oh damn, posters!” he said, pointing. “You’ve got, like… real movie posters. And I don't know any of them! That’s sick.”
Before I could stop him, he walked closer, leaning in to read the titles. I could see the bulge under his shorts going forward. His soft dick was already tenting under the fabric:
“Okay hold on... you’ve got DVDs and Blu-rays? Man, I didn’t even know people still owned these.” He turned to me, grinning. “Respect.”
“Yeah, I know it's pretty old-fashioned. I like physical media,” I said, suddenly a bit defensive. "I like taking my time looking at the covers and picking them."
“That's awsome man,” he said instantly. “Shows commitment. Like, you really care about movies and all.”
He started pulling DVDs off the shelf, holding them up:
“What’s this one? Port of Shadows? Oh there's Jean Gabin in it, I know this actor. Such a classic looking guy.”
“You watched it?”
“No, actually I don't remember watching any black and white shit for a whiiile. Does that mean I'm just a poser?”
I laughed, nerves easing just a little:
“No man, it's fine. I mean, I could show you some old flick. You wanted film noir,” I reminded him.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I trust you. Pick me some good film noir. I want some classy actors. Something with a femme fatale and a grumpy guy!”
Then, without letting me a second to rest, he added:
“Can I see the rest of your place?”
My brain short-circuited.
“The rest…?”
“Yeah,” he said, already moving. “I like seeing where people live. Tells you a lot about them you know.”
I followed him as he peeked into my tiny kitchen, commented on my coffee mugs, asked why I owned three different lamps and generally acted like this was the most natural thing in the world to wander in my flat as I was right behind his large frame trying to keep up.
"Nice setup dude, you've got a killer bed." He immediatly landed on it, and looked around. "Damn your place is so clean, you didn't need to hide everything you know. I'm not some hot chick you want to bang."
Damn, if only he knew...
Meanwhile I was acutely aware of how close he stood. How warm he was. How every time he laughed, his whole body got involved and his big sholders were jolting. Eventually, we returned to the living room and he flopped down onto the couch, legs spread.
“Alright,” he said, stretching his arms out like he owned the place. “Movie time.”
I sat down next to him, leaving a very deliberate gap between us that lasted approximately two seconds before he shifted comfortably closer, knee brushing mine just a bit.
“Comfy couch too, ”he said. "Wish I had something like this at home."
My heart started doing cardio. I reached for the remote, hands slightly shaky, and queued up the movie. The room dimmed, the opening credits flickered on the screen, and Mason leaned back, completely at ease.
I sat there next to him, hyper-aware of every inch of space between us, thinking:
Okay. Breathe. It’s just a movie. It’s just Mason. It’s just the couch.
So the movie starts. I picked the very one dvd he had fished earlier from my collection. 1938, black and white, foggy port and criminals. Very classic french flick with famous faces. I love this film and it would have been a perfect confort moment for me if I wasn’t sitting six inches away from a human furnace in a sleeveless tank top.
His grey muscle shirt hung loose around the arms and clung just enough everywhere else. His large shoulders were bare and now a bit sweaty, his arms relaxed but heavy-looking, veins faintly visible under warm skin. Every time he shifted, the fabric slid, exposing a little more chest, a little more side and sometimes you could spot his left nippple for a second.
I was painfully aware of all of it.
He sprawled comfortably, one arm stretched along the back of the couch, the other resting on his thigh. His knee bumped into mine again, this time staying there. Solid. Warm. Casual. He didn’t move it. He started eating, engulfing large portions of pizza without noticing how close we were.
I tried not to move either. Maybe he thought it was a natural thing to do between bros and that removing my leg would be showing disrespect?
I became extremely aware of my own body in a way I had not planned for. My heart was beating too fast, my breathing felt loud and I also began to sweat. Sitting this close to him, feeling his heat radiate through my jeans, this was turning into a dangerous screening.
I focused very hard on the movie. Every so often, he would recognize an actor and shout his/her name out loud:
"This movie has like everyone in it!"
Sometimes he would comment on the characters, he actually looked invested in the story:
“Bro,” he whispered, “this dude sounds tired already.”
His voice was low, relaxed, close to my ear.
“Yeah,” I whispered back. “That’s… kind of the genre.”
“Love it,” he said. “Very dramatic.”
He leaned back again and his left armpit got a bit close to my head, like if he was making me sniff his musk on purpose.
At some point, during a very tense scene, he shifted again, adjusting his position, and his knee rested against mine. Full contact this time. Skin on skin. Warm, solid, completely unbothered.
I froze.
He didn’t notice. Or if he did, he didn’t think anything of it. He just stayed there, watching the movie, occasionally nodding along like he was genuinely invested:
“Hey,” he murmured suddenly, pointing at the screen. “Is that the bad guy or the guy who becomes bad?”
I swallowed: “Both,” I said. "
“Nice,” he whispered. “Relatable.”
He laughed softly, shoulders shaking a little, releasing more intoxicating musk. I felt small and vulnerable around him. I was not longer his yoga teacher. I was only here to please him. All I wanted was to sink into his arms and let him hug me.
I told myself a dozen things at once: He’s straight, he’s just comfortable, this means nothing, do not read into this...
And yet my body was absolutely not listening.
We sat like that, close, warm, quietly sharing space while the movie unfolded. Mason commented occasionally, always in that gentle, amused tone. I nodded, answered, pretended my brain wasn’t slowly dissolving.
At one point, he stretched his legs out and accidentally hooked his foot against mine.
“Oh sorry dude,” he said, barely looking away from the screen.
“It’s fine,” I said immediately, too quickly.
But he didn’t move his foot.
A few minutes passed. Maybe more. Jean Gabin on screen was monologuing about how beautifull the femme fatale's eyes were. Mason was quiet, focused. And then, without looking at me, he started absentmindedly moving his knee.
Just a slow, lazy shift. Back. Then forward again. Not rubbing. More like he was losing patience in his leg. I stared straight ahead at the TV, my brain screaming questions it did not want answered.
Is this on purpose? Is this just how he sits? Do gym bros casually do this??
I didn’t move. Which probably answered something, but I wasn’t brave enough to think about what. Mason sighed softly:
“Man… my legs are killing me again.”
“From the class?” I asked, my voice doing its best impression of normal.
“Yeah,” he said. “Feels like my muscles are mad at me personally.” He glanced down at his thighs, then back at the screen. “You’re really good at that massage thing, by the way.”
Shit.
“I mean...” he added quickly, chuckling, “no homo. Just saying but you’ve got magic hands bro.”
I almost choked on air.
“I...” I started. "Thanks. I like massing actually. Maybe that's why."
“Like, if it’s not weird,” he continued, still watching the movie like this was the most casual request imaginable. “Could you maybe… do that leg thing again? Just for a minute?”
I hesitated. I should have hesitated longer. I should have said maybe later, or not now, or suggested stretching instead, instead, I nodded:
“Okay,” I said quietly.
He smiled, relaxed, grateful: “Sweet. You’re a lifesaver, man.”
I shifted closer, because at this point pretending there was space between us was laughable and rested my hands on his left leg, careful, professional (lol, nope).
His thigh was warm. Firm. Solid in a way that made my fingers feel suddenly too light. I started gently, like I had in the office. Slow pressure. Nothing fancy. Just easing the muscle the way I knew how.
Mason exhaled deeply: “Ohhh. Yeah. That’s the spot.”
I focused on the rhythm. On keeping my touch neutral. On the movie. On anything except the fact that he had gone completely still, trusting me with his weight, his space.
His knee stayed against mine, and his cock started growing and growing more in his shorts. It began touching my hand, so much so that I was almost jerking it slowly. It was even warmer than the rest of his body, and it was moving, like a snake, frotting against my cold fingers.
At one point he glanced down at my hands, then back at the screen:
“You should charge for this bro,” he said lightly. “Way better than foam rolling.”
We stayed like that for a while — black-and-white shadows flickering on the wall, his leg warm under my hands, his presence steady and unguarded beside me.
Then I decided to try my luck. My hand worked higher, tracing the inner seam of his shorts, feeling the heat radiating from his crotch. His cock twitched visibly now every now and then, rock-hard and huge, the shaft outlined perfectly, and I kid you not, it was thick as my wrist, veined and pulsing.
I kept my touches light at first, flirting without him catching on, my delicate fingers grazing closer. And I started to whisper things, maybe because I wanted him to focus on the massage and not the sexual tension:
"Just relaxing those tight spots. Breathe deep, like we do in session." He chuckled, eyes still on the screen:
"Bro, this is next-level. Feels like I'm opening up those emotional chakras my ex was yapping about. Keep at it." The casual bro-talk fueled me, his obliviousness making my own dick stir in my jeans, but I focused on him, patient and seductive.
And then his massive cockhead suddenly sprang out from the opening of his shorts, a wet patch blooming at the tip. I let my fingers brush it, deliberate, but disguised as part of the rub, circling the sensitive crown.
He didn't flinch, just spread his legs a fraction wider, sighing:
"Fuck, yeah, that's hitting deep, bro. Your hands are magic. Don't stop, movie's getting good, but this massage is like crushing it."
His voice was steady, casual as ever, but I felt the dick jump under my touch, pre-cum soaking through and landing on the ground at a steady pace now, the raw heat of him making my mouth water.
I pressed firmer on his dick, stroking the tip in slow, teasing drags, watching his face for any sign of akwardness; but his eyes were locked on the action, enjoying every second without a hint of suspicion.
He shifted his hips a bit, legs spreading wider, but his eyes stayed glued to the screen where a guy was just about to murder his worst enemy:
"Bro, this part's epic," he mutters, voice casual, like my hand wasn't teasing his rock-hard cock. The scent of his arousal hits me, it's musky, salty, mixing with the precum that starts to hit my nose. My own dick was starting to leak.
I gripped the base of his junkk lightly, squeezing, feeling the thick girth pulse in response:
"Feels good, right? Just letting go of that tension."
"Yeah, bro, real good," he grunted, chewing on some snacks he had brought like nothing was happening.
Oblivious as fuck, his big arms relaxed on the couch back, tank top getting darker and darker with sweat.
I rubbed faster for a second, then slow, building the pressure, my fingers slick with his leak. My hand worke the full shaft, from the heavy balls up to that flaring head, the shorts doing nothing to hide how huge he is, uncut, thick, leaking like a faucet. The carpet below was catching so much precum right now it was becoming wet.
That's the best "Bro date" I ever had.
Mason is letting me jerk him off? I might as well try something:
I needed more access though...
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