Does anything say "erotic" like Valentine's Day? Well, it's February 14th as I submit this to the fine people at Nifty (to whom you should donate, because it's not only the ACLU that needs your money these days). You told me how much you were enjoying my story "Hayden" so I did the obvious thing and started a completely different story. This is "I Guess I Like To Watch" and it's what happens when a gay bro and a straight bro get drunk and do bro-stuff.
Bro-stuff. Yeah. Nice.
If you like it, tell me at alexp336@gmail.com. If you really like it, check out other things I've written, either here Nifty (I'm under prolific authors as "alexp336") or at http://dirtyanon.tumblr.com/
If you don't like it, or are under the age of legal consent, or are terrified and shivering with a loose sexual rage, rethink your priorities.
-A
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"I Guess I Like To Watch" by Alex Pendragon
"I guess I like to watch. And... god, I don't know. Give instructions?"
My fingers had turned white around the steering wheel. It wasn't that Ash and I had never talked about sexual stuff before, but frankly it was much more usual that he'd be doing the talking and I'd be listening. Maybe throwing in a wisecrack or two to keep things at least vaguely light.
Ash definitely has a vivid imagination, and sometimes that spirals into him getting carried away when he's regaling me with tales of his sexual adventures. I'd be lying if I said that I didn't get a kick out of hearing about them - well, not all of them, perhaps, though I do admire his enthusiasm - but it can definitely get heavy if he loses himself in a story.
So that's how it usually goes. I leave work at maybe 11, or 11:30 in the evening, whenever we've managed to coax the last of the customers out and lock up the shop, and then swing past the bar that Ash is general dogsbody at. Sometimes, if we're really tired, I'll drop him off at home and then keep driving to the shitty little rent-controlled apartment I can't really afford to give up.
Most of the time, though, we end up picking up a pizza and crashing at his place. Just shooting the shit until 1am, 2am maybe. Ash doesn't need to be back at the bar until the next afternoon, and I'm usually on the late shift, so it hardly really matters if I fall asleep on the ratty old couch his mom gave him, and then drive back mid-morning when we both surface again.
If I was going to sit down and think about it, I guess I'd say we were caught in a rut. Not an unusual one given the deadbeat town we grew up in, the meager selection of jobs, and the general atmosphere of "why fucking bother when you're going to die eventually" that our parents instilled in us so effectively. The same as so many "little America" places spread across the country in flyover state after flyover state.
Funnily enough, I try not to sit down and think about it.
Small towns get a shitty reputation, and only some of that is deserved. I know the city folk think we're all straw-chewing, cow-screwing country bumpkins. Red-voting and gun-shooting and generally backward. I won't argue with you that big-city thinking hasn't made much headway here, but it's not because we outright hate anybody. Just that it's hard to consider something different when you don't hardly see it.
If you're shaking your head, and you don't believe me, here's my one example. I told my parents I was gay when I was fifteen. Proper, full-on bawling in my mom's arms, hating myself for telling her and half-expecting it to be the last hug she ever gave me before throwing me out on my ass. Instead, she rubbed a dishcloth across my face, squeezed my shoulders, and told me "ain't much anything you could do to surprise me, y'know."
My pops looked up from behind his newspaper, shrugged, and said something along the lines of "at least you won't be bringing home pregnant girls like the deadbeats at that school of yours." Hardly original, but I'll take that over hate any day of the week.
Even among my friends, I was never "gay Philip"; maybe that's because they saw me every day, knew me growing up, and that the fact I dug guys instead of girls was just some side note to that history. Perhaps when your social circle is that small, you realize that you can't afford to get hung up over stuff like sex, because if you did you'd end up with hardly no friends at all.
Whatever the reason, they didn't care, and I knew it because they'd make jokes about it. Just like we all made jokes about how Ash got boned up after his first girlfriend held his hand and everybody noticed, or how our other friends did dumb stuff on the regular. Nobody tiptoed around it.
So we were kinda poor, and kinda dumb in what I guess would be the traditional way, but kinda clever in our own ways too, and while there were always some kids who'd pick up and ship out to the nearest city as soon as they could, the most of us just kept ticking along. Not because we didn't think about it, or even that we couldn't see the benefits, but the cold hard truth of it is that not everybody can leave. Somebody always stays.
Maybe it's because you know your parents aren't going to leave with you, and someone has to be around to make sure they're okay when they're getting older. Maybe there's a family business, or a farm, that needs to be looked after. Or maybe it's just that what pisses you off about your small town isn't quite enough to make you stomach what's undoubtedly shitty about a big city.
It'd been a late one for both of us, anyway, and I'd picked Ash up at close to midnight. He threw his backpack on the rear seat and slammed the door, making me cringe because one day the hinges on this beat-up old rust bucket are going to give way altogether. It was a hunk of crap even when my pop bought it twenty years ago, third-hand even then.
"Fuckin' hell," Ash sighed, settling down next to me on the broad bench seat. I grit my teeth as the gearbox crunched its way into first. "Tonight wanted to bite my fuckin' nuts off."
Nobody could accuse Ash of not having a particular turn of phrase.
"Drunks or whores this time?" I asked. It tended to be one or the other.
He rubbed his face in his hands, scrubbing at his eyes. "Bit of both. Fuckers, the lot of them."
"Did the Ashenator have to come out and play?"
He chuckled into his palms, then uncovered his face and grinned at me. "Not tonight. Lucky for them."
Ash's nickname for the trusty baseball bat tucked under the bar wasn't exactly creative, but a few feet of wood didn't really need to be witty in order to be effective. Usually just seeing it in the grip of a pissed looking guy, six foot and change and stalking out from behind the counter, was enough to settle any regular disputes.
I guess it's because I know Ash so well, grew up with him and all, that I don't find him intimidating. If I was seeing him for the first time, tall and moody looking, with untidy dark blond hair and cold blue eyes, I might think he was more scary than he actually is. It's not that he doesn't smile, it's just that he has the sort of face that suggests actually seeing it smile would somehow be even worse.
If you're wondering, yes, it also makes him a hit with girls. At least, the ones who like the cool, emotionally distant guys. I get to hear about exactly what they'll do for a guy like that fairly regularly. Like I said, Ash has a good imagination and a taste for stories.
Usually he's content to regale me with them until I can't handle any more innuendo and descriptions of women doing what sound to me like fairly unimaginative things, but which to Ash apparently are the peak of excitement. At that point I generally change the subject, normally onto pizza toppings because it's something he has about as strong opinions on as he does sex.
I don't know what was different about tonight, but maybe my exasperation about his long and fairly uninspired story about a girl who was flirting with him all night was obvious enough to break through his reminiscing. First I knew of it, though, was when he suddenly asked me a question.
"So if my sex life is so boring, what have you been getting up to, bro?" He punctuated it by punching me in the bicep, playfully, but still with enough force to make me clamp down on a wince. "You can't be the only dude who's into dudes around here, so you must be getting some somewhere, am I right?"
I shrugged, gaze fixed on the road ahead and wishing I'd kept my comments to myself and just let Ash fill the silence with his saga of seduction.
"What's the matter, you into something so kinky nobody will get down with you?" He smiled, broadly, clearly thinking he was onto something. "What is it, you like them to put huge stuff up your ass, or piss on you or something?"
Rolling my eyes, I spared what I hoped was a withering glance across at my friend. "So imaginative."
Ash pulled a face. "Well excuse me if I didn't pass gay guy 101, mister expert. Feel free to educate my dumb ass."
"It's not like I do anything that weird, y'know." My attempt to placate him wasn't going to work.
"Oh come on, I've told you everything I do with chicks." I resisted the urge to point out that I'd never actually asked what he did with chicks, and that instead Ash was more than happy to volunteer that information. "We're buds, come on. Just tell me what you're into."
He wasn't going to shut up. I knew that - I knew how tenacious he could be, once he got worked up about something. And that meant I'd have to give him at least a little tidbit, else he'd never let it drop.
And so...
"I guess I like to watch. And... god, I don't know. Give instructions?"
Ash smiled at me. A big, knowing grin, like I'd just admitted to something majorly salacious.
"What, like a voyeur? You got some binoculars or a telescope or something?"
I couldn't stop myself from rolling my eyes again. "No, idiot. I just mean... I guess I like to watch guys - like, in the same room as them - and tell them to do stuff."
His frown told me he didn't get it, not that I'd really expected him to. I didn't think of it so much as a fetish of mine as it was just an urge to keep my boundaries in place. Maybe something of the porn I'd illicitly looked at growing up seeping into what got me off, too: the real-world equivalent of guys online, right there in front of me.
Not that I didn't like to touch. It's just it was more hot to watch them touch themselves, y'know?
But Ash - who was seldom happier than when describing how a girl's tits felt when he was squeezing them - was struggling to understand what I was telling him.
"So what, you watch guys jerking off?"
I shrugged and nodded at the same time.
"And you tell them to, like, jerk off in a certain way?"
I sighed. How to explain the dynamics of power play in twenty words or less?
"It's about being in control, I think," I tried. Paused for a moment. "Some people like to get told what to do. Especially if they're a guy and they usually have to be in charge all the time. Y'know?"
I could almost hear the cogs in his head turning.
"I mean... like when a girl wants to be on top and all in charge? Like that?"
Was this the closest analogy I was going to get? Maybe. And yet I couldn't help but try to shape Ash's description of "girl power" a little more in line with what I was thinking.
"Sort of. But imagine you're a woman who has to be tough and in charge 24/7. Like the female equivalent of you with the Ashenator." He nodded. "Now, that woman might like the idea of letting someone else be in charge once in a while. She might spend so much time being in control, that the thought of letting another person take control is really, really appealing to her. Or maybe even sexy."
The grin slowly spreading across Ash's face suggested he was getting it, or at least whatever version of my explanation had soaked into his brain. It wasn't the most elegant description of the motivation someone might have for being submissive, but it was nearly 1am.
I was saved any more questions by our arrival at the pizza place, thankfully one which didn't close until the early hours. Grumbling, Ash got out of the car to go order and wait - our arrangement was that I paid for gas and he got the pizza.
Any more talk of sex was tabled on the remainder of the drive to Ash's place, mainly because the smell of the pizza was filling the car and it was taking regular shouting to prevent him from opening the box and chowing down before we'd even got halfway home. By the time I pulled his door closed behind us, my mouth was literally watering.
Conversation was in short supply while we feasted, too. There was nothing like a day on your feet, trying to help dumb customers without cussing at them like you might want to, to give you an appetite. I guess Ash had a similar reaction to dealing with drunks. Both of us focused on the terribly serious business of eating.
By the time the box was empty, I was feeling a lot more human - not to mention damn full. The three cans of cider I'd knocked back along the way didn't hurt, either. Ash's couch may have been his mom's hand-me-down, but it was feeling pretty comfy at that point.
Sat across the room from me, slumped down low in an equally shabby Lay-Z-Boy that refused to do anything but recline, Ash was playing with the tab on what was probably his fifth can. He smiled contentedly at me, one hand lazily rubbing his stomach.
"Hit the spot, am I right?"
I nodded my agreement, raising my can in a silent toast. Ash mirrored it, then upended the can over his mouth and drained the last of it. Sometimes I wasn't sure whether working at the bar was giving him a ground-floor view of the perils of being a drunk or an expedited course in how to become one.
Honestly, I should've guessed he'd bring the conversation back to sex - Ash had a habit of doing that - but I'd had enough to drink that I didn't see it coming until his first question.
"So what do you get them to do, then?"
Rubbing my face, I tried to think of an answer that would shut down any further conversation on the topic. Eventually, I decided a scorched-earth policy was the best option.
"Usually get them to jerk off while they finger their ass or something."
For a moment Ash looked vaguely stunned, but that quickly gave way to a huge belly laugh.
"Dude, you fuckin' pervert. 'Finger their ass.' Man, you are one nasty fucker."
I shrugged. "If you didn't want to know, you shouldn't have asked."
He gave me a "no shit, Sherlock" kinda look, then shook his head.
"Nah, bro, you be you. Even if that is one nasty-ass perv. Man, and there are dudes who want to do that in front of you?"
I finished my can, half-crushed it before answering.
"Sure. I mean, there are people into everything, right? And I guess I'm pretty good at it."
As soon as the words had left my mouth, I regretted them. Sure enough, Ash picked up on it straight away.
"What's there to be 'good' at? Like, you're good at telling some guy where his asshole is?"
"It's not an anatomy lesson, idiot."
Ash laughed. "So what, you're all sexy-voiced like some chick on a dirty chat line?" He pantomimed pawing at his crotch through his well-worn blue jeans. "Oh yeah, touch your big dick for me, feel it real good." He grabbed a fistful of his junk through the denim.
I sighed, exasperated. "If you don't get it, you don't get it, dude."
He wasn't giving up, though. Not that easily.
"But I want to learn, bro." His voice was breathy, a joking exaggeration of sexy. "I want you to teach me. Tell me how to jerk my big, hard, cock."
I considered throwing the empty can at him. I'd probably have hit him in the face, too, given Ash was so distracted with his writhing in the recliner, running his hands up and down his thighs like an unimaginative stripper. It was too comical to be anything close to alluring.
"Yeah, that's really not doing it for me, buddy," I told him. "Nice try, though."
He frowned. "But that's because you're not telling me what to do, bro. If you gave me instructions like you're supposed to, I'd be doing it right, wouldn't I."
I marveled at his drunken logic. Across the room, his hands were now running up and down his chest, squeezing the muscles under his wife-beater.
Now look, I'm not going to say Ash isn't a good looking guy. He was on our high school's football team before he dropped out, but he still has the broad shoulders and the tight upper body. Even in our backward-ass town it takes more than pretty eyes and a slick way with chat-up lines to pick up girls.
So I'd be lying if I said I hadn't looked at him before with... let's say "less than entirely friend-based interest", okay? It wasn't like I filled my nights jerking off over him, or even that I was really that interested at all, but I could admire a hot guy, even if that guy was also my deadbeat best bud.
And here's the thing, even with his ridiculous posturing, and the fact that this clearly was all one big joke to him, there was something in watching him play with his big, meaty chest that was strumming something inside me. Nothing I was proud of, or would ever admit to, but something there nonetheless.
"It only works if you're topless," I told him. I could hear the slight catch in my voice; the tiniest burr that - to me at least - made it so painfully apparent that I wasn't quite as blasé about this as I was trying to make myself out to be. Even went to the effort of looking around the room as if I wasn't bothered at all. Oh no, sir, not me, I'm not interested one bit.
Ash didn't even notice. Just barked out a laugh - one loud guffaw - and then quickly peeled off his shirt. I couldn't help but watch as he stretched out his arms, flexing them above his head as his muscles fought against each other. Fuck, he was cut.
"Like this, bro?" he asked me, all feigned innocence, as his fingers ran long strokes down from his pecs, across the ripples of his abs, and then back up again. Fingertips squeezing at his nipples, lewdly. I knew I shouldn't look, but I couldn't not.
"Yeah, that's better," I told him, trying to force as much indifference into my feedback as possible. Sure that, any moment now, Ash would crack up laughing and call me the king of all perverts. Which, frankly, I couldn't really say was a title I didn't sort of deserve right now.
It wasn't helped by the fact that his slightly drunken expression could, at a pinch, be mistaken for the half-lidded eyes of the lust-filled. I could see his nipples were hardening now, under the touch of his roughened fingertips.
"Come on, bro," Ash prompted me, "don't leave me hanging." My mouth was suddenly dry. "What would you be telling me if I was one of your dudes?"
It was ridiculous, I knew that. Ash knew it too, I had no doubt. Yet I still found myself responding.
"Pinch your nipple." My voice was thick, almost glottal. Words catching in my throat as the sentences struggled to emerge. His fingers caught the firm nub of flesh, teased it into greater hardness. "Pull on it. Pinch it harder."
A sharp hiss through gritted teeth. Maybe Ash didn't know his own strength; maybe it was more than that. In that moment I wasn't sure of anything. His abs stood out firmer as his stomach clenched, body twisting with his swollen, tortured nipple as its fulcrum.
"Rub your stomach with your other hand." His fingers strummed down across the flinching muscles, catching on the ridges. A trail of dark blond hairs funneled down from his belly button, into the waistband of his jeans, and as I stared he gently stroked down the path. Was I seeing things, imagining them, or had the bulge in his worn old jeans gotten fuller?
Suddenly, in a moment of clarity, I knew I could find out for sure.
"Squeeze your dick," I told him. Still expecting him to laugh at me again, tell me I was sick in the head, and yet he didn't. Instead, that roaming hand moved even further, gripping his crotch and outlining what I could see now was a clear thickness there. I didn't need to think to know what to say next.
"Unbutton your jeans."
Eyes closed, lips parted, Ash fumbled at the button fly. Tugging at the denim until the clasp gave up, the grey of his underwear just visible. My imagination running wild, I imagined him pulling his cock out and jerking it, pictured my best friend frantically tugging himself as I stared from across the room.
He didn't, though. If anything, he seemed to pause. Even without words, I felt the sense of expectation fill the room.
I knew then he was waiting for me.
"Rub your dick through your boxers," I instructed. "Use both hands."
With visible reluctance Ash released his nipple, the flesh looking angry and red, then pushed both hands down into his jeans. One cupping the swell where I knew his balls would be; the other feeling up and down his shaft, long strokes up toward his left hip. His breathing was deeper now, chest expanding broadly with each inhalation.
"Show me." I expected my nerves to betray me, but there was a core of steel behind each word. Even so, I held my breath as Ash nudged his jeans down with the backs of his hands, never letting up on stroking himself. Gradually, framed with his splayed legs, his crotch came into view. Hands pumping, he raised his hips, forcing the jut of his erection at me, straining against the threadbare cotton of his shorts.
"That feels good, doesn't it," I murmured, voice only just audible. Ash nodded, biting his lip. "Now get rid of the jeans."
An almost pitiful sigh, then, as he was forced to let go of his dick to force the denim down his thighs. A final few kicks sending them to slump on the floor. I let my gaze travel up, from his sneaker-sock clad feet up toned calves and meaty thighs. Ash's boxers were a faded blue check, so worn as to be almost translucent in places. It should've been pathetic, but the clear hardness of his dick pushing against the material was more than enough to distract me.
I noticed, though, that his hands were down by his sides. Muscles in his arms tensed, fists clenching and unclenching, as though every neuron was telling him to move but he was forcing himself to stay still. And then I realized: he was forcing himself. He was waiting for me.
"Play with your cock again," I instructed. Ash's hands sprang back as though on wires, one immediately gripping his shaft while the other cupped his balls. I smirked as I watched him. His eyes were half-closed, lips slightly parted. It should've felt wrong, watching my best friend do this - no, not just watching, but making him do it - but I couldn't stop. Didn't really want to.
"Lose the boxers." Now or never time, right?
No change in his expression, just his hips levering up off the tired chair as he shoved his underwear down. It landed on top of his jeans in an unruly heap. And then Ash sat back, legs spread, and I saw my friend as I'd never seen him before.
Look, it's not like I haven't seen Ash naked. When we were both at school, it was just a matter of fact thing: we'd have showers after gym class. And then there was skinny-dipping in the old creek, and dumb games of truck or dare which invariably ended up in running down the road at 2am in nothing but your sneakers, screaming blue murder and hoping nobody called the cops. What I'm saying is that I'd seen Ash stripped down more times than I could count.
This, though, was different.
I mean, the fact that he was totally hard was different, obviously. Cock almost angrily red between those tree-trunk thighs, jutting up toward his belly button. It was more than that, though. Something about the fact that his nudity wasn't just some side-story in the grand scheme of things - you're going to shower, so you have to be naked; you're going to swim, so you can't be wearing clothes - but the whole point of it. I was looking at my best buddy as he sat across the room from me, buzzed and boned up, and I knew he was waiting to hear me tell him what to do next.
So I told him what I wanted to see.
"Play with your dick." His right hand snapped to his shaft again, fingers wrapping with practiced familiarity and beginning a even stroke up and down. I knew he was big - you didn't live in a small town and have such a small circle of friends, girls included, and not hear dumb details like those - but it was something different seeing it there in front of me. I'd expected an unruly mess of hair, too, but Ash was surprisingly tidy. His mom would've complained less if he'd extended that consideration to his room growing up.
"Tug on your balls with your other hand," I added. His fingers were slyly pulling in an instant, other fist still making long, measured passes up and down his erection. I wondered if this was how he usually jerked off. If there was something else he normally did, or some other place he liked to touch himself.
As I watched, he nudged his thumb over the head of his cock, pressing the broad pad of his fingertip against the swollen red flesh. Eyes pinching shut at the rush of sensations that caused.
"Are you drooling?" I asked him. Ash pushed his cock forward, never letting up on his movements, but forcing it down and away from his crotch until the tip was pointed straight at me.
"Mmm'hmm," he grunted. I could see the glistening precum there, could imagine it slicking his fingers. Wondered in that moment how he tasted: sharp, and sweet, and musky, no doubt.
"Are your fingers wet?" Ash nodded, forehead creased in a frown; eyes still closed and a slightly dreamy smile plastered across his face. "Lick them."
His eyes opened at that, expression confused as he stared across the room at me. Perhaps expected me to laugh, or at least give some indication that it was all a joke. I gazed back at him, stony faced.
"Do it," I intoned. Watched him swallow. "Now."
Gingerly, Ash brought his hand up to his mouth. Paused, fingertips an inch from his lips. Attention flicking from slimy digits to me, and back again.
A wince, and then his fingertips were between his lips and he was visibly sucking on them. Tongue flicking between each finger until they were wetter than when he'd just had precum on them.
"Taste good?" He grimaced again. I scowled. "Then try again."
He reached down once more, and rubbed his now slippery fingers across his cock. Other hand gripping around the base of the shaft, holding it upright, with a couple of trailing fingers hooked around his balls. There was a pause, a moment where maybe he was reconsidering, and then he was sucking again, mouth guzzling down to the second knuckle.
In that moment, I knew exactly where those wet fingers could go next.
"Lift up your legs."
I think, deep down, I knew it was the tipping point. Ash was either going to do it, or he was going to cuss me out, call me the daddy of all perverts and give me hell about it for the rest of time. And if you'd asked me to place a bet on it, one way or the other, which way he'd go, I don't think I'd have known where to put my money. Not without a coin toss, anyway.
As I watched, though, my horned up best buddy pulled his knees back. Legs spreading, framing his cock as he wagged it in his fist. Staring at me - glaring, almost - through the gap between his thighs.
"I know you like to get your ass eaten," I told him. Ash had made that detail clear on one of our midnight drives, regaling me with tales of freaky girlfriends and one-night-stands. It was, quote-unquote, "mind-blowing" to get your salad tossed.
So it wasn't like he could really argue that point, though I guess even in my haze I knew it was a step from that to fingering yourself in front of your bro. That wasn't going to stop me trying, mind.
"Show me how you can touch your hole," I said, voice low, but with a hardness to it. About as close to a "take no prisoners" tone as I can do. Refusing all along to break eye-contact with him, as his expression silently ran from disbelief to disgust to glazed-over lust.
And there it stayed.
Ash reached down, fingers of his left hand still wrapped around the base of his cock while his right gingerly eased between his firm, muscular cheeks. The room was dim, just a couple of mismatched lamps with old bulbs, but it was enough to make out the moment his fingertip pressed gently onto his ass. Ash scowled again, but didn't move his hand away. In fact, I could see his wet finger carefully tracing tiny circles on the sensitive flesh.
"More," I told him, and he obliged, a second finger squeezing between his spread buttocks and grinding against himself. His eyes had closed, I realized, sometime in the gap from when I'd first instructed him and when I'd become memorized by his increasingly confident touch. Forehead creased with a frown; lips slightly parted. "Push," I hissed.
A flinch as the first finger broke through the muscle and eased inside. I expect him to pause, to recoil perhaps, but he didn't; instead, before my eyes, he pushed the spit-lubed digit further and further, until his knuckles were up against his skin.
Ash gasped, then, eyes opening in a face painted with surprise. As I watched him, I could swear his cock was visibly throbbing at the new sensations. Balls pressed against his forearm as it snaked down between his legs.
"Dude..." he whispered, voice hoarse. I indulged myself with a smirk. Raised one eyebrow.
"Feel good?" Ash nodded, somehow an innocent expression despite the circumstances. I nodded back at him in silent reply.
"Then show me a second."
I'd still expected reticence, some sort of push-back, but there was none. Just the magic trick of Ash's finger easing out of his hole and then, a second now pressed closely against it, two fingertips digging back at his tightness. He frowned, clearly encountering more resistance than the first time around, then quickly lifted his hand, spat on his fingers, and returned them.
A push, then, and a hiss of air from between his clenched teeth, and then both were inside him. Punctuated by a thick bubble of precum oozing out of his cock and rolling, lazily, down his shaft to puddle on his fist. It was like it reminded him that his dick was there too, because suddenly he was stroking it again, carefully almost, as though half afraid of how it might feel.
"You like that, don't you." Ash gave a half-grunt, half nod reply. I could see his fingers were gently pushing at his ass; tiny, fractional movements, not enough to pull them out but more than sufficient to tease the sensitive flesh there. "Show me what you're doing."
Fingers still pressed inside himself, cock still gripped in his other hand, he slid his body further down on the battered recliner. Legs spreading even further, feet flat on the faded arms and pelvis tilted up, until all I could see of his face were his eyes, either side of his throbbing, glistening shaft. His balls drawn up tight as his arm reached down between his thighs and around to his taut cheeks.
"I bet you'd like to cum, wouldn't you," I asked him. Ash whimpered a reply, but the thick stream of precum oozing out of his cock was more of an answer. It slid across his fingers. "Lick that up."
No hesitation this time, just the quickness of his fist against his mouth, long tongue snaking across his knuckles. Eyes closed, dreamily.
I stood up, walked across the untidy room to stand over my best buddy as he lapped pre-jizz from the back of his hand like a kitty-cat. When he looked up at me, lust clouded his gaze. I had to resist the urge to smile.
"Show me how a big tough straight bro finger-fucks his ass, Ash."
He blushed, but he did it all the same. Twin digits pounding at his hole to the soft, squelching soundtrack of over-stimulated flesh. "Please," he mouthed at me, soundless but no less desperate for it, and after a moment of torturing thought I nodded shortly. Ash's hand whipped down to his cock and began jerking eagerly.
Casually, I settled down on the arm of the chair next to him. Watched as his abs flinched with each surge of pleasure. He was beautiful and, for all his straight-boy arrogance, hardly realized it. Seeing him now, so totally exposed and lost in the heat of it, it took all my restraint not to reach over and touch those shuddering muscles.
I didn't, though, and instead watched as - unprompted - a third slippery finger worked its way inside him. Ash's breathing was a series of short pants now, the veins in his arms like sharp ridges as he frantically pumped at his cock.
"Open wide," I instructed and he complied, mouth as agape as his eyes. Just in time for the first hot, thick volley of cum to surge across his face, splattering in heavy loops against his tongue. Ash gasped, mouth still open as the second and third blasts coated his lips and hung, glistening from his chin.
And then, just as it looked as though the force of it was easing, and that the final spurts would lash over his sweat-slicked pecs and ooze down the ridge that creased his stomach, I gripped his wrist and slammed his fingers deep into his ass. Held them there, as the fourth gush of cum proved the most powerful yet, a bullseye against his tonsils. My friend's shocked exclamation a wordless noise while his balls did their level best to turn themselves inside out.
I released him, but he was frozen like that regardless. "Stick out your tongue," I requested and he complied, dazed. Damn, that was one big load.
Only one thing to do with it, mind. "Swallow." Ash gulped, distracted still, then gave a half-grimace. "Now clean yourself up." Carefully, he released his now half-hard dick and ran his index finger around his jaw, gathering a thick wave of cum that slowly trickled down. He eyed it, hovering inches from his mouth, uncertain, then glanced across at me almost fearfully.
I narrowed my gaze, and it was enough. Taking a breath to steal himself, he slipped the greasy digit between his lips and suckled on it, then gathered up more of his mess and sent it down to follow the first two. I nodded, approvingly.
"Fuck," he half-whispered, when the last dregs of spunk were gone, face shining with spit. It was the first recognizable word - and, I knew, one of Ash's favorites - from him in some time. His fingers had already slipped cautiously from his ass, but his arm was still draped down between his legs. He looked up at me; he had to crane his head back to do it, what with how low he was slumped in the chair. "Dude..."
For a split-second I feared what his reaction might be. A tight clench of uncertainty in my stomach. But as soon as it was there, I realized Ash was grinning - a big, broad smile that split his face.
"That was..." he started, then shook his head. I filled in the gap.
"Intense?"
Ash laughed. "Yeah, and the rest. I mean... holy fuck." Gradually he stretched out his legs, the muscles in his thighs tensing as he unfolded his body. His cock was still an angry red as it rested across his left thigh. Absentmindedly, he rubbed his belly. "Well that's my mind fucking blown, you dirty bastard."
There was no anger there, nothing but amusement with an edge of tiredness. I mussed his hair, expecting him to protest but all he did was chuckle again. And then, without really meaning - or even wanting - to, I somehow found myself asking the sixty-four thousand dollar question.
"Regrets?" Tensing for the answer, and really not knowing what my best friend would say.
Ash smacked his lips, eyes widening momentarily as he looked up at me. And then that grin again.
"Never, bro. Never."
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