Steve stood holding his laundry basket at his back door, wearing only his classic white briefs. The sun was shining, and it was very warm with a gentle breeze, a perfect way to dry his briefs on the line in the garden, he thought.
Standing by the line, he clipped each pair carefully, making sure the waistbands were straight. The breeze caught them, filling the cotton like little sails. Steve liked things neat. He liked the way the sun bleached them over time, leaving them soft and bright. He’d been wearing this brand since he was a child, but age didn't matter, as he found them comfortable, reliable, and fuss-free.
Across the fence, Tom wrestled with his own laundry basket. He’d forgotten detergent yesterday, so today’s wash was urgent. He shook out his white briefs, Hanes this time, and pinned them hastily. One slipped from his grip, landing half-over the shared fence. Tom leaned over to grab it, feeling slightly embarrassed that his neighbour might see.
Steve heard the rustle and glanced up. He froze mid-clip. There, tangled in Tom’s fingers, was a pair identical to his own drying pairs, except they were Hanes, he saw, the tag peeking out near the waistband. Tom followed Steve’s gaze, then looked down at his own fistful of white cotton. A slow flush crept up his neck as he’d always assumed his preference for underwear was… old, unusual and unique. Now he realised, he might not be so weird after all, as he saw that his neighbour was hanging similar briefs that matched his exacting demands.
The breeze fluttered Steve’s FOTLs, and Tom’s Hanes mirrored the effects of the wind, but neither spoke until Tom cleared his throat, fumbling the briefs back onto his line.
"Sun’s good today," he offered weakly, avoiding eye contact. Steve nodded, suddenly fascinated by a loose thread on his own pair. "Yeah. Dries ‘em fast too."
Tom risked a sideways glance at Steve, admiring the fact that Steve was only wearing his underwear and flip-flops. "They’re just… practical, right?" Tom said, trying to make light of the setting, two guys hanging their tighty whities out at the same time, but in different gardens.
Steve met his eyes then, a flicker of relief in his own. "Definitely comfortable, neighbour," he agreed quietly. "Never see the point in anything fancy."
A shared chuckle escaped them, tentative but real. Tom gestured vaguely at their lines. "Guess we’ve got… similar taste, and I only recently found out after all this time living next door to you."
Steve smiled properly now. "Guess we do," as he picked up his empty basket, hesitating for a moment. "Coffee’s hot inside, if you…" Tom didn’t let him finish. "Yeah. Coffee sounds good. Just let me go inside and put some clothes on."
"No need, Tom, blokes together and all that, just pop round as you are. The side gate is unlocked."
Tom quickly straightened the Hanes on his line and then made his way round, skirting the joint fence, walking through the side gate to find Steve in his kitchen pouring two mugs of coffee.
"Hey neighbour, sugar and milk, Tom?
"Just black, please, mate, like all the men I meet," chuckling at his bad joke from Airplane.
Steve grinned, handing Tom a steaming mug, leading the way to the weathered patio chairs, the late morning sun warm on their skin.
Steve glanced down at his Fruit of the Loom waistband, then over at Tom’s Hanes, both stark white against their tanned legs. A sudden bubble of laughter escaped him, low and genuine. "Christ, Tom," he managed, shaking his head. "Never pictured myself sharing a coffee break like this. Two grown blokes sat here in their underwear." He gestured between them with his mug. "A weird, isn't it?"
Tom took a sip, the heat of the coffee grounding him. He looked at Steve, really looked, the comfortable ease in his posture, the way the sunlight caught the faint silver in his stubble. Tom’s own initial embarrassment melted away, replaced by a surprising warmth that had little to do with the sun or the coffee.
"Weird?" Tom echoed, a slow smile spreading. "Nah. Weird is talking about Tupperware with a bunch of ladies. We are talking about men’s stuff, practical, comfortable, and honestly? Kind of liberating, I think," as he stretched his legs out, the cotton soft against the worn wood of the chair. "Feels like... finding out you're not the only bloke at the pub who secretly likes different and unexpected things."
Steve barked a laugh, loud and unexpected, startling a sparrow from the nearby hedge. "Unexpected things! Bloody hell, Tom." He leaned back, the tension in his shoulders dissolving completely. "Alright, point taken. Though," he added, raising an eyebrow, "if you start talking about model railways, I might have to reconsider this neighbourly détente."
They lapsed into comfortable silence for a moment, the only sounds the distant hum of the countryside that surrounded their end of the lane, a hamlet of two houses, and the gentle flap of their drying briefs on the lines nearby.
Tom traced a finger around the rim of his mug. "Seriously though, Steve," he said, his voice quieter now, thoughtful. "All these months living next door... it never crossed my mind that we had something in common, and it's kinda nice, not feeling like the odd one out now the secret is out"
Steve nodded slowly, his expression softening. "Yeah. Exactly,” as he took another sip, then gestured towards his line with his chin. "See that pair second from the left? Bit frayed at the elastic? Had those since my promotion at the depot, five years back. Comfortable bastards." Steve chuckled softly. "Never thought I'd be discussing the lifespan of my briefs with anyone, let alone the bloke next door."
Tom grinned, following Steve’s gaze. "Five years? Respect. My record’s about three before the waistband gives up the ghost," he paused, a thoughtful look crossing his face. "You know, the men's store down on Elm Street? They’ve got a sale on multipacks..." He trailed off, leaving the suggestion hanging in the warm air between them, the shared understanding settling deeper than just underwear preferences.
"I've often wondered what the difference between the two brands is," Steve declared, sharing the question with an established Hanes wearer.
"That's simple if you believe the marketing blurbs you see. Tom responded. "Apparently, Hanes often emphasises superior softness, advanced moisture-wicking technology, and eco-friendly options, while Fruit of the Loom is recognised for exceptional affordability and value, offering a more budget-friendly choice. Hanes excels in premium comfort features and sustainability, whereas Fruit of the Loom focuses on providing durable, comfortable basics at a lower price point."
"Wow, you really do know your underwear marketing, don't you, Tom. How come?"
Tom chuckled, swirling the last of his coffee. "Had a phase where I tried switching brands. Read every comparison online." He gestured toward Steve's line. "Turns out I'm a creature of habit. Like you with those five-year veterans."
Steve leaned forward, elbows on knees. "So, Hanes feels softer?"
"Like worn-in cotton sheets," Tom confirmed. "But yours..." He nodded towards the Fruit of the Loom fluttering nearby. "They hold their shape better. Less sag in the seat after years."
A comfortable silence settled as they studied each other's drying laundry with newfound appreciation. The rhythmic flap of cotton filled the space between them. Steve finally broke it, his voice low and conspiratorial. "Ever tried... You know... going without?"
Tom nearly choked on his coffee. "Once! Bloody disaster. Felt like I'd forgotten my trousers all day."
Steve grinned. "Same! Felt naked in the worst way." He paused, tapping his mug. "You know what's weird? We've lived next door for eight months since you moved in. Borrowed sugar, complained about bin days... but never once did we clock this shared interest."
Tom watched a ladybird crawl up Steve's forearm. "Would you have said anything if we had?"
Steve considered this, scratching his stubble. "Probably not, bloody awkward and weird a subject to have an off-the-cuff conversation about," as he met Tom's eyes. "Glad it happened like this, though."
The afternoon sun shifted, casting long shadows across the patio. Tom stretched, the worn wood of the chair creaking beneath him. "Right. Time’s passing, and I should probably tackle that hedge at some point. It's going mad on both sides."
"Perhaps you should tackle the hedge wearing a pair of these," as Steve pulled a pair off the line, handing them to Tom. "They should be dry, and you never know, you might like them."
Tom took the briefs, the cotton still warm from the sun. "Thank you, I will," he said, turning the Fruit of the Loom waistband between his fingers. The fabric felt denser than his Hanes, the elastic firmer. A slow grin spread across his face. "Right then. Practical field test." He stood, the borrowed briefs dangling from his hand. "Back in five when I've changed. Don't let that coffee go cold."
Steve chuckled. "Change here if you wish. No one'll see, we're the only houses down this lane," as he leaned back in his chair, "Unless you're shy?"
Tom hesitated only a second before kicking off his sliders, right there on the patio. He dropped his Hanes unceremoniously, the white cotton pooling around his ankles. The cool breeze hit his bare skin for an instant before he stepped into the Fruit of the Loom briefs Steve had handed him.
As Tom tugged them up, adjusting the waistband with a thoughtful frown, Steve managed a glance at his neighbour's tackle, liking what he saw, albeit fleeting. "Tighter fit across the thighs," Tom noted, twisting slightly. "Stiffer too. Like new jeans."
"Mind if I try your Hanes, mate? Steve asked.
Tom nodded, "Of course, mate."
Steve shed his own briefs swiftly, picking up the Hanes that lay on the patio. "Bloody hell," Steve breathed, "They feel like clouds of softness," as he stood there naked.
Tom looked at Steve and his naked form for a moment. "I can see why you wear tighty whities, for the support, mate. Very impressive is all I will say."
Steve blushed slightly at the comment, "Cheers mate, and yeah, they do offer support where needed," as his body started to react to Tom's observation.
Tom watched in real-time as Steve's cock started to tent the cotton fabric of the Hanes briefs he was wearing now. The soft material stretched taut over the growing bulge, outlining every contour.
Tom had never seen such a big cock before, thick and heavy-looking even half-hard, the prominent head straining against the cotton without any foreskin to obscure its impressive shape. Tom swallowed, his own borrowed Fruit of the Looms suddenly feeling tighter as he stared, transfixed by the sheer masculine display right there on Steve's patio.
Steve shifted his weight, acutely aware of Tom's gaze burning into him. The Hanes briefs felt impossibly soft against his straining erection, but it was Tom's unabashed attention that truly ignited him. He glanced down at Tom's borrowed Fruit of the Looms, noticing the impressive length pushing against the sturdy cotton. "Christ, Tom," Steve breathed, his voice rough. "A bit more than just support happening now, eh?"
They both laughed out loud at the situation they found themselves in. Both erect and both leaking precum.
Tom broke the silence first, his voice thick. "I might have to knock one out later," he admitted, shifting uncomfortably in the unfamiliar Fruit of the Looms. His gaze remained locked on the prominent outline tenting Steve's borrowed Hanes. "Seeing you like this... bloody hell, Steve."
Steve didn't look away. He traced the straining outline in Tom's briefs with his eyes. "Same here, mate." The admission hung heavy between them, charged with the afternoon heat and the rhythmic flap of drying cotton on the lines. "Do you ever... You know... cum in your briefs?" Steve asked abruptly, the question raw and unexpected. "You know, just rub yourself through the cotton material until you just... You know.... let it happen?" as he resumed sitting on the patio chair.
Tom leaned against the warm patio table, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge. "Sometimes," he confessed, the word escaping like a secret as he sat down too. "Do you?"
Steve shifted in the chair, the Hanes straining further. "Aye," he rasped. "Especially during stressful days at the office." His thumb brushed unconsciously over the damp spot darkening the cotton tent over his lap. "Feels... honest. Like admitting you need it."
Tom watched the movement, transfixed. "You have to hear this, mate, honest story," he echoed softly. He leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Got a mate... Dave, from rugby. He told me once..." Tom paused, a flush deepening his tan. "...he likes pissing in his. Says he enjoys the warmth spreading through the fabric, soaking into the cotton and how it runs down his leg when he stands." Swallowing hard. "I’ve never tried that myself."
Steve's gaze snapped to Tom's face. "Christ," he breathed, shifting in the chair. The Hanes clung damply. "Done it a couple of times," Steve confessed. "It's always... intense," as his heart missed a beat. "But... the warmth?" Steve murmured, almost to himself.
Tom nodded slowly, staring at the damp patch darkening Steve's lap. A heavy silence descended, thick as the afternoon humidity. Neither looked away. The rhythmic flap of drying briefs on the lines seemed impossibly loud.
Tom cleared his throat, rough and sudden in the stillness. "A bit mad, this chat," he managed, gesturing vaguely between them. "Eight months... as neighbours and never talking and then today, about... this."
Steve watched a bead of sweat trace down Tom's temple. "Mad?" needing to shift his position in the chair, his borrowed Hanes becoming tighter. "Feels like stripping wallpaper off a wall you didn't know was there." His thumb rubbed slow circles over the damp patch forming at the front.
Tom followed Steve's finger movement while Steve was silently wondering, should he demonstrate to his new mate, or would that be a step too far? "Fuck it he thought. I've seen him naked, and perhaps my new friend is open to..."
Steve shifted deeper into the weathered patio chair, the wood groaning softly beneath him. He locked eyes with Tom, a reckless spark igniting in his gaze. "Watch this, mate," he murmured, voice thick with intent.
His knuckles gently gripped the chair arms. Tom leaned forward, breath catching, as Steve visibly relaxed his muscles.
A low groan escaped Steve's lips as the first hot surge escaped him, darkening the pale cotton of the borrowed Hanes in an expanding bloom. The wetness spread rapidly across his lap, soaking through the thin fabric, the distinct scent of ammonia sharpening in the warm air. Steve's head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut as warmth flooded the briefs, trickling down his inner thighs, creating a mini waterfall through the chair.
"Christ... that's... intense," Tom gasped, hips lifting slightly as the stream pulsed stronger, soaking the waistband.
Tom stared, transfixed, as the wet patch engulfed Steve's lap. The damp cotton clung obscenely, outlining every contour beneath. Tom's own borrowed Fruit of the Looms tightened painfully as he watched rivulets snake down Steve's tanned legs onto the weathered patio slab. The rhythmic patter against the patio slab filled the charged silence. "Bloody hell, Steve," Tom breathed, voice ragged. His fingers dug into his own thighs, knuckles white. "You weren't joking about... the intimacy."
The sheer intimacy of it, watching Steve surrender so completely, sent a jolt through Tom. He shifted, acutely aware of his own straining erection trapped in unfamiliar cotton.
Steve finally sagged back, spent, the soaked Hanes plastered to his skin. He met Tom's wide-eyed stare, a shaky grin spreading. "Liberating, Tom," he panted, gesturing at the dark, dripping mess. "Like shedding bloody armour."
"Your turn if you fancy?" The challenge hung between them, raw and electric. Tom swallowed hard, gaze darting from soaked lap to his own tented briefs. The invitation was terrifying, exhilarating. He could almost feel the phantom warmth spreading across his own thighs in that moment.
Tom stood abruptly, chair scraping loudly on the patio slabs as he walked over towards Steve, standing, legs apart, allowing Steve's legs underneath his crotch to benefit from the pending flow, but he hesitated, his eyes locked on Steve's expectant face, the afternoon sun hot on his bare shoulders.
The rhythmic flap of their drying briefs on the lines seemed to quicken, like a pulse counting down. Tom took a sharp breath as he allowed the flow to commence from his cock.
A low hiss escaped Tom's lips as the first hot surge hit the borrowed Fruit of the Loom fabric. The pale cotton darkened instantly where the stream struck Steve's thigh, the warmth radiating through Steve's skin. Tom groaned, hips pushing forward unconsciously as the flow intensified, soaking through the briefs in a spreading stain that cascaded down Steve's leg in rivulets. The sharp tang of ammonia cut through the garden air, mingling with the scent of sun-warmed grass.
Steve held perfectly still beneath the unexpected deluge, eyes wide. He saw the water soak through Tom's briefs first, then the startling wetness as Tom's piss streamed freely onto his crotch, pooling between his legs, only to fall on the patio slab. Tom's knuckles whitened where he gripped Steve's shoulders for balance, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he emptied himself onto his neighbour.
"Christ, Tom..." Steve breathed, watching the dark stain bloom across Tom's crotch while feeling the hot trail snake down his own leg. The intimacy was staggering, Tom's release soaking through borrowed cotton onto Steve's skin, marking them both with the raw evidence of surrender.
Tom finally sagged, spent, the borrowed briefs clinging heavy and soaked. He met Steve's gaze, pupils blown wide. "Liberating?" Tom echoed Steve's earlier word, voice trembling. He didn't move his hands from Steve's shoulders. The damp heat between them felt like a live wire.
Steve glanced down at the dark, dripping mess plastered to Tom's hips, then back up at Tom's flushed face. Without a word, Steve reached out. His fingers brushed the soaked waistband of Tom's borrowed Fruit of the Looms, tracing the wet cotton where it clung to Tom's hipbone. Tom shuddered at the touch.
"Fuck it, Steve, whispered out loud, as he pulled Tom's borrowed briefs down, releasing his still erect cock.
Steve leaned forward, inhaling deeply. The scent was primal, ammonia sharpness mingled with Tom's musky skin and the damp cotton clinging to his lower thighs. Without hesitation, Steve wrapped his lips around Tom's glistening cockhead, tongue swirling through the warm residue. Tom gasped, fingers tangling in Steve's hair, hips jerking forward instinctively.
"Oh god, Steve...." he choked out, but made no move to pull away. The taste flooded Steve's senses. Salt, heat, and the earthy tang of release, making him groan around Tom's length as he took him deeper.
Tom's thighs trembled. "Been... bloody years since..." he managed, voice cracking as Steve's mouth worked him with hungry urgency. The suction, the wet heat, the sheer shock of it.
Tom threw his head back, sunlight catching the sweat on his throat. His knuckles whitened in Steve's hair, not pushing, not pulling, just holding on as Steve swallowed him down to the root. The rhythmic bob of Steve's head, the slick sounds echoing in the quiet garden, felt obscenely right.
Tom gasped, "Christ... Steve..." His hips jerked forward involuntarily, driving himself deeper into that wet heat. Years of solitary release vanished in the face of this raw connection. Steve hummed around him, the vibration travelling straight to Tom's spine, sparking something primal. Tom's thighs trembled, his breath hitched into ragged gasps. "Gonna... oh fuck..." The warning tore from him, raw and desperate.
Steve didn't pull back. He pressed forward, swallowing Tom deeper, his nose buried in the coarse hair at Tom's base. The suction intensified, relentless, drawing Tom inexorably towards the edge. Tom’s fingers clenched tighter in Steve’s hair, anchoring himself as the world narrowed to the slick pressure and heat engulfing him.
A strangled cry ripped from his throat as the first violent pulse surged through him. Hot jets flooded Steve’s mouth, thick and urgent. Tom bucked wildly, each thrust met by Steve swallowing him down, taking every drop as wave after wave of blinding pleasure crashed over him. It felt like his spine was melting, years of pent-up tension exploding in a white-hot rush that left him shuddering, weak-kneed, and utterly spent.
Steve pulled back slowly, lips glistening, a smear of white at the corner of his mouth. He wiped it with his finger only to put it in his mouth, eyes locked on Tom’s dazed face. Tom staggered backwards, collapsing onto his own patio chair. The borrowed Fruit of the Loom briefs slid down his legs, pooling on the warm slabs as he sat there naked, chest heaving.
"Christ, Steve..." he gasped, voice raw. "That was... bloody hell. Unexpected. And so fucking hot," as he stared at Steve, wide-eyed, the reality of what just happened settling over him like a physical weight. "Didn't see that coming when I hung my washing out this morning."
Steve grinned. "Me neither, mate. But..."You are very welcome, mate," Steve responded, his voice rough but warm. "But perhaps we should get these briefs into the washing machine ASAP before they stain, and afterwards, we can do the hedge together."
Tom chuckled, still catching his breath. "Right. Practicalities." He gestured vaguely towards the washing lines where their briefs fluttered, now almost dry. "Shall we grab fresh pairs?"
Steve shook his head, a slow, deliberate grin spreading across his face. "No," he murmured, stretching languidly in his chair. Sunlight glinted off the damp trails still drying on his thighs. "Haven't ironed them yet," as he met Tom's gaze, so, "Let's remain naked."
"You iron your briefs?" Tom exclaimed.
"Yes," Steve responded. Don't you?"
"To be honest, no," Tom replied. "Never even thought about it before."
"Well, it's something to think about now, isn't it, Tom?" as Steve picked up Tom's borrowed briefs and walked into the house pulling off his borrowed Hanes ready for the wash.
Tom followed Steve into the kitchen, the cool linoleum a shock against his bare feet after the sun-warmed patio slabs. They tossed the soaked briefs into Steve’s washing machine, the damp cotton landing with a soft thud. Tom leaned against the counter, watching Steve measure out detergent with surprising precision. The absurdity of it all – standing naked in his neighbour’s kitchen after that, hit him afresh, and a disbelieving chuckle escaped him.
Steve glanced up, a matching grin spreading. "Practicalities first, mate," he said, slamming the machine door shut with finality. "The hedge won't trim itself."
They grabbed Steve’s hedge trimmers and secateurs from the shed, the metal cool in their hands. Walking back towards the overgrown boundary hedge separating their gardens, the afternoon sun felt warmer on their bare skin than before, carrying the scent of cut grass and damp earth. Both men were comfortably flaccid now, the raw intensity of earlier replaced by a buzzing, easy camaraderie. Tom ran a hand through his hair, squinting at the unruly privet. "Right," he declared, hefting the clippers. "Where d'you reckon needs it most?"
Steve pointed to a particularly dense section near the gate. "That bit’s been blocking the light on my roses for months." He moved to the other end, secateurs poised. "I’ll start thinning this side."
They fell into a rhythm. The sharp snick-snick of Tom’s clippers biting through thick branches filled the air, punctuated by the softer snap of Steve carefully removing deadwood. Sweat beaded on their brows and trickled down their spines as they worked, muscles flexing with each deliberate movement. The physical exertion felt grounding, necessary after the emotional whirlwind. Tom paused to wipe sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a smudge of green on his temple. He glanced over at Steve, who was intently focused on a stubborn branch, the concentration clear on his face. "Need a hand with that?" Tom called out.
Their joint nudity did nothing to prevent their efforts, and both men appeared oblivious to the scene of two naked men, trimming a hedge as if it were normal behaviour.
Steve grunted, wrestling with the branch. "Nah, nearly got the bugger..." With a final twist, it snapped free. He held it up triumphantly, grinning at Tom. "See? Patience."
They piled the cuttings neatly near the compost bin, and standing jointly together, they surveyed their progress, as Tom nodded approvingly. "Looks miles better already."
The hedge was visibly tidier, letting dappled sunlight spill onto Steve’s flowerbed. The silence that followed wasn't awkward; it was companionable, filled only by their steady breathing and the distant chirp of a robin. Tom stretched, feeling the pleasant ache in his shoulders as his cock became semi-hard. "Coffee’s gone cold," he observed, nodding towards the forgotten mugs still on the patio table.
Steve had noticed Tom's physical appearance, his own cock reacting with a mind of its own to his neighbour's growing arousal. "Fancy a beer, Tom?"
"Yeah, why not. I could do with one, I’ll tell you."
"Great, I will get a couple out of the fridge." Steve declared as he walked towards the kitchen, his cock now almost fully erect, bobbing as he walked.
Steve returned moments later, two frosty bottles dripping condensation in the afternoon heat. He handed one to Tom, their fingers brushing briefly as they now stood admiring the joint efforts of their afternoon toils. Both men had grown erections demanding attention. Both were sticking out in front of their bodies as they sipped the beer from the bottles.
Nestled casually under Steve’s arm was a small, unassuming tube, clear plastic revealing thick, clear gel inside. Tom took a long pull of his beer, eyes flicking to the tube. A slow, confused frown creased his brow. "Lube?" he asked, the word hanging awkwardly in the air. He gestured vaguely with his bottle. "What's... what's that for?" The question sounded absurdly innocent, almost comical, given the raw intimacy they'd shared barely a couple of hours before and the fact that their cocks were ready for action again.
Steve met Tom’s gaze directly, a spark of playful challenge in his eyes. He took a deliberate swig of his own beer, then held up the tube, turning it slowly between his fingers. The sunlight glinted off the plastic. "Well, Tom," he said, his voice low and steady, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Figured it might come in handy. For me... and you, if you fancy carrying on where we left off."
Tom stared at the tube, then back at Steve’s face, searching for any trace of mockery. Finding none, he took another gulp of beer, the cold liquid doing little to quench the sudden dryness in his throat.
"I haven't surrendered to a man in a long time," Tom declared.
"I sort of figured that much from the amount of cum you deposited in my personal bank."
Tom chuckled, “Your personal bank?” and then stared at the tube, then back at Steve’s face. The playful challenge in Steve’s eyes ignited something primal. Tom’s gaze drifted downward, drawn inexorably to the thick protrusion from Steven's groin.
Steve hadn’t been satisfied earlier, Tom reminded himself. The sight of that heavy cock swelling, the prominent head pushing against nothing, was too much. A shudder ripped through Tom as he turned to his neighbour. "Fuck me, Steve," Tom rasped, the words raw and desperate. "Here. Now. I want to feel your cock in me."
Bracing his hands against the patio table, he assumed the position, spreading his legs wide, presenting himself shamelessly on the sun-warmed patio slabs. "Don't wait. Don't think. Just take me."
Steve moved behind him, uncapping the tube with a sharp click. The cool slickness of the lube shocked Tom’s skin as Steve’s thick fingers pressed against him, probing, stretching. Tom hissed, pushing back against the intrusion, craving more. He felt the broad, blunt head of Steve’s cock nudge against him, insistent and hot. "Christ, Steve... just... do it!"
Steve gripped Tom’s hips, fingers digging into flesh. With a low, guttural groan, he drove forward. Tom cried out as the thick shaft breached him, a white-hot lance of pain-pleasure tearing through him, deeper and harder than anything he remembered. Steve buried himself to the hilt in one relentless thrust, the lube doing its job, pinning Tom against the table.
Steve didn't pause. He pulled back almost completely, then slammed home again, setting a brutal, punishing rhythm. Tom gasped with each powerful drive, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing off the garden walls. Tom pushed back frantically, meeting every thrust, lost in the raw, animalistic coupling. "Harder!" he choked out, the words ripped from him. "Fill me, Steve!"
Steve growled, his pace becoming frantic, piston-like. Tom felt the cock inside him swell impossibly thicker, pulsing violently. Steve’s grip tightened like a vice as he slammed deep one final time, shuddering against Tom’s back.
A hot flood erupted deep within Tom, wave after wave of searing release. Tom cried out, his own cock jerking untouched, spilling thick ropes onto the patio slabs beneath him as Steve’s thrusts milked his own climax.
The intensity left Tom trembling, pinned against the rough wood of the patio table by Steve’s weight. Steve’s softening cock slipped free with a wet sound, followed by a warm trickle down Tom’s inner thigh. They stayed like that for a moment, panting, the scent of sex and sweat thick in the air.
"Sorry, I was so quick," Steve said. "It's been a long time since I fucked anyone, and I couldn't control myself properly."
Tom turned around slowly, wincing slightly as he moved. He reached out, cupping Steve's flushed face in his hands. "Don't apologise," he murmured, leaning in. Their lips met, a tentative brush at first, then deepening into something warm and lingering. Tom tasted salt and beer, felt the rough scrape of Steve's stubble against his own. When they parted, Tom kept his hands on Steve's shoulders. "That was... bloody perfect, mate," he breathed, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Fast doesn't mean bad. You felt incredible."
Steve let out a shaky laugh, relief softening the tension in his shoulders. He glanced down at the mess glistening on Tom's thighs and the patio slabs. "Right," he said, clearing his throat. "You see our friendship going somewhere, I guess."
"Well, don't you?" Tom asked.
Steve grinned, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "Suppose I do," he answered as the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the patio, highlighting the clean lines of the privet and the scattered garden tools. "Do you fancy a shower?"
"Why not? I think we deserve one," Tom responded.
Steve grinned, turning towards the coiled green hosepipe snaking near the patio tap. He cranked the tap open, grabbed the fine-spray nozzle attachment, and aimed it squarely at Tom's chest. The sudden burst of cold water made Tom yelp and jump back, laughing. "Bloody hell, Steve! How about a warning the next time?"
"Consider yourself warned!" Steve chuckled as they washed themselves until they stood, water dripping steadily from their hair, glistening on their skin in the lowering sun as Tom playfully pinched Steve’s nipple.
Steve broke the moment by disappearing into the house, returning moments later carrying two large, fluffy towels, with their freshly washed briefs waiting to be hung on the line. They looked white and pristine, softened by the wash cycle, faintly steaming in the cooling air.
"We'd better dry ourselves and also hang these," Steve muttered, handing Tom a towel and his briefs. The cotton felt warm and soft against Tom's palm, smelling faintly of detergent. Tom rubbed the towel over his damp hair, watching Steve briskly towel off his broad shoulders. Water droplets still tracing paths down Steve’s spine.
Tom’s gaze lingered on the curve of Steve’s lower back, the taut muscles shifting as he moved. The memory of Steve’s hands gripping his hips, the driving force of his thrusts, sent a fresh, low thrum of heat through Tom’s belly.
"I'll hang these," Tom said, "but what are we going to wear now while they dry on the line?"
"Easy, Tom," Steve responded, producing a pair of mesh Y-Fronts. "These will be perfect."
Tom took the briefs, the lightweight mesh fabric cool and smooth against his fingers. He held them up, studying the design. The Y-front panel was constructed from a medium, honeycomb-patterned mesh, almost transparent yet surprisingly robust.
The design offered minimal concealment while promising maximum airflow. The waistband was a simple, elasticated band of thicker cotton mesh, devoid of branding. The leg openings were cut high and snug.
"Mesh?" Tom raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Never worn anything like these. They look... very see-through."
Steve grinned, already stepping into his own pair. The honeycomb mesh stretched taut over his groin, outlining everything with startling clarity, his thick shaft resting heavily against his thigh, the prominent head clearly visible beneath the weave. "Exactly," Steve said, adjusting himself with a casual tug. "Breathable. Practical for a warm evening. And," he added, meeting Tom's gaze with a spark of amusement, "very see-through."
"How many types of briefs do you have, Steve?”
"Lots. I like classic underwear, and over the years, I have built up quite a collection. Would you like to see and try them on?" Steve asked his neighbour, the promise of more shared excitement for the evening pending. “I’ve got Jockey, other lesser-known brands and of course the recent new design of Amazon Essentials.”
"Definitely. You show me yours, and perhaps I can show you my collection too. Slightly more classic but collectively, tighty whities all the same."
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