Date: Thu, 13 Aug 2015 00:55:43 +0000 (UTC)
From: Hairy Jacques <hairy.jacques@yahoo.com>
Subject: "Anything you want," Part 1

This is a true story, modified to protect the anonymity of those involved
and simplified to enhance the narrative's flow.

Reader feedback is encouraged, and the author will do his best to answer
questions and respond to comments. Contact him at
hairy.jacques@yahoo.com.

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"Anything you want," Part 1

I had a good buddy when I was in college. He was straight. I was
"straight." For about two years we were just best friends. But I had to
admit to myself that I had the hots for him. He was really good looking.
Golden blond hair, hazel eyes, a square jaw. He was fit and toned with
broad shoulders and nice pecs. He had the build of a former high school
basketball player, which he was. When he raised his arms I'd catch
glimpses of his pit hair peeking out of his t-shirt or, as his shirt
lifted up, the blond treasure trail that went from his belly button down
into his shorts. Once, when he greeted me after having played a sweaty
pick-up game, he lifted his left arm and, before I could react, pressed
his sweaty pit into my face. I feigned disgust but could have cum right
then and there. For him, however, this was just fratty horseplay.

He dated a lot. I didn't, much. Sometimes he'd come back to our dorm
after meeting a girl and, before I could turn my head, thrust his middle
finger under my nose so I could smell the pussy he'd just fingered and
fucked. Part of me felt jealous. Another part of me just loved having a
friend who was willing to share such intimate details. I'd never been
this close to another guy. And I was happy to pretend I was totally
straight. Back then, it made life a lot easier. In addition, it provided
me with an incredible amount of access.

One time I was sitting at my desk. He wanted me to go with him to a
party. I had a test the next day and said that I couldn't. I had to
study. "I'm not joking," he said, moving right in front of me. "If you
don't get up right now I'll pull down my shorts and flash you my junk."

This was supposed to be a threat instead of a promise. I played it
straight. "Whatever, dipshit. I have to study. And you don't have the
guts to show me your nuts." Of course he couldn't refuse the dare. He
hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his gym shorts and quickly pushed
them down. It all happened in a split second. I glimpsed his cock, his
balls, and the light thatch of short blond pubes above his dick.
Immediately after, almost as a reward, I said "Okay, I'll go with you."

When we went out we'd set our sites on different girls. He gravitated
toward the slutty ones. I was more drawn to the ones who seemed open to
an actual conversation. He got laid more, but somehow it didn't bother me
much. I'd cheer him on because I knew he'd give me a full report
afterwards. He'd tell me how he talked her into it, how she sucked him,
how she tasted, how tight she was or wasn't, how much and how hard she
made him cum. I loved these play-by-plays. They turned me on.

Pretty soon it hit me that our conversations could be even more direct
and intimate. I could go after the girls he'd already fucked. We could
compare our experiences and share every detail. I always felt just a
little bit guilty about this. The girls had no knowledge of my agenda.
It's clear to me now that when I screwed these young women I was really
trying to experience things through my friend's eyes. Sometimes, when
fucking them, I'd imagine that I was on the bottom and that, on the top,
it wasn't me. It was my best friend, sweating and panting and straining
and working up to an explosive orgasm. These girls might have been hot in
and of themselves, but what made them seem even hotter was that fact that
they'd already been fucked by my friend. Their mouths had tasted his
cock; their pussies had been pounded by his dick. I'd compare notes with
him afterwards. I learned all sorts of things. He liked playing with
their nipples. He also liked it when they played with his. He loved
eating pussy. He loved the taste and the consistency of their juices. He
loved titty-fucking. He loved it when they sucked his balls. He loved
cumming in their snatches or in their mouths. Best of all, he liked
cumming on their faces. He was so straight. And by engaging him in these
conversations, I assured him (and me, for the most part) that I was
straight, too.

But that wasn't the truth. I guess I'd now say that I'm bi. Believe it or
not, this fact only began fully to dawn on me when I got into a
relationship with one of his former hookups. She was a cute girl. More to
the point, she was very liberal, very experimental, and very avant-garde.
After a couple of weeks I asked, hypothetically, if she'd be open to a
three-way between me, her, and another woman. She said yes. About a week
later I asked, confidentially, if she'd be open to a three-way between
me, her, and my best friend. Again she said yes. She was eager for it, in
fact.

I broached the subject with him. I decided I'd have some fun doing it:
"She raves over your cock, dude. Says it fits her just perfectly. She
says mine is the perfect size to continue training her pussy, but yours
is perfect to be the first in her ass." This was a bit of an insult. I
implied that my dick was bigger than his. I added that she and I had been
having some problems. We had been arguing a bit, so this was true. If he
was in for the three-way, he'd be doing me a big favor and helping me to
keep things going with her. He was my best friend. I had correctly
predicted his response.

He paused, smiled, and said "Fuck yes!"

His answer made my dick throb. I was going to get to see him fuck my
girl. Better yet, I'd be fucking her, too. We'd be naked and hard
together. Getting off together. Sharing intimacies with each other. I
wondered what it would feel like to fuck her standing up, with me in
front nailing her pussy and him behind nailing her ass. Would I be able
to feel his dick inside her? Would he pant and moan? Would he talk dirty?
Would our balls rub together between her legs? As we fucked her, would we
stare into each others eyes as we worked up to our orgasms?

I never found out. Before we got to execute our three-way, she broke up
with me. At this point I don't remember why, but I do remember feeling
very disappointed--and also very horny.

In the dorm where we lived I had a job collecting money from the laundry
machines. This allowed me to do my laundry for free. My friend started to
"let" me do his laundry for him. He had a presumptuous way of imposing on
me, but I didn't mind. I'd do pretty much anything for him. And of course
I sniffed his workout clothes and underwear, searching especially for
pubes, damp spots, stains, and man smells. Part of me felt like a total
pervert. Part of me felt like a grownup kid in a store filled with
man-candy. I had some of the best orgasms of my life sniffing his boxers,
his jock strap, and the pits of his t-shirts. I'd do it again. No regrets
whatsoever.

He graduated and moved to another city with his girlfriend at the time.
She had a job. He didn't. Their relationship ended abruptly and he moved
back to our college town. He lived with me in my dorm room for about a
month. He slept on the floor. By then, somehow, I got into the habit of
popping his back for him. This was pretty innocent. I enjoyed the
physical contact even though he usually had his shirt on. One night,
after popping his back, he thanked me. "I needed that," he said, adding,
"I don't know what I did to myself, but my back has never felt so sore."
Still straddling him, I started to knead his shoulders. This led to a
full back rub. A couple of minutes into it, he said, "hold on, I might as
well make your job easier." He took off his shirt. I loved touching his
skin and working his muscles. My hands dipped into his pits a couple of
times and, since he was face-down, I could surreptitiously sniff the tips
of my fingers.

He moved into his own apartment off campus and got a job as a waiter. He
worked pretty late, but it became a habit for me to roll by his place for
a beer or two once he was off. It also became a habit for me to give him
a back rub most nights. He'd rub mine, too, but it was always quick and
just enough to return the favor. My shirt usually stayed on. His always
came off. Sometimes he'd lay face-down on the floor of his living room.
Other times it was the floor of his bedroom. As time passed, the routine
changed slightly. We'd go to his bedroom. He'd tell me to get on the
floor and he'd pop my back and give me a quick massage. Then he'd get on
the floor, shirt off, so that I could pop and massage his. One time, as I
moved from popping his back to rubbing it, he told me to stop for a
second. I lifted off and did my best to hide my hard-on. He got up,
removed his shorts and socks, and wearing nothing but his boxers faced
down on top of his bed.

"Might as well give me my back rub up here," he said. "That way, when
you're done and you've got me all relaxed, I can go straight to sleep."

I didn't mind this one bit. "Anything you want," I told him.

He mentioned that his feet were sore from waiting tables all night. I
could take a hint. I not only massaged his back and his arms but also his
feet. I'm still not sure why, but his feet turned me on almost as much as
the rest of him. I also massaged the muscles of his legs. I started with
his calves and moved up to his hamstrings and quads. I had always admired
his legs. They were strong, long, and covered with a nice dusting of
blond fuzz. I stopped before my fingers reached the fabric of his boxers,
but he didn't complain when I worked the muscles of his inner thighs.
Actually, he did more than not complain. Very softly, he sighed. Then, he
whispered: "God, that feels so good."

We never discussed what was going on in our friendship. It was pretty
much left unsaid that I got to please him and he got to be pleased. I
went over to his place pretty much every night. Sometimes I'd have to
study or get work done. Sometimes he'd hook up with a girl and bring her
home. But standard procedure had been established. We'd watch TV and
drink some beers. Then we'd head upstairs. I got pretty good at giving
massages. I learned not only to work over his back, shoulders, arms,
legs, and feet but also his neck. I'd massage his scalp, too, working my
fingers through his blond hair. I'd even massage his eyebrows and
forehead. He was my very best friend. Of course I prioritized pleasing
him. We shared something difficult to describe, but it was real and it
was really special.

We went camping in the spring. Just the two of us. We were well-equipped
with beer, corn on the cob, and t-bone steaks. We drank too much, but it
wasn't as if we had to drive home. As the fire burned down, we headed
into the tent.

"I'm pretty sore," I said. "Can you pop my back?" He did, and then he
gave me the regular perfunctory rubdown. Then it was my turn. I popped
his back and then started my massage. It was pitch black. I spent maybe
30 minutes working on his body. Halfway through I was kneading the
muscles of his legs. I couldn't really see where they ended and where his
ass began. It was the perfect pretense for pushing limits. My fingertips
got to the bottom of his ass. Ever so gingerly, they ventured toward the
top of his balls and the outskirts of his pucker. He didn't complain and
neither did I.

In fact, after I'd finished, when we were lying side by side in our
sleeping bags, he said something I'll never forget. "Can I tell you
something?" he asked. Of course I said yes. "Promise you'll never tell
anyone?" Yes, of course. He hesitated, but then he started to speak
again. "I don't know how to say this, but when you rub my back, it always
makes me hard." There was a pause. He was thinking of a way to make
himself crystal clear. "It makes my dick hard."

I didn't know what to say at first. This was my big chance, but after a
few seconds I gave him a very narrow avenue of retreat. "Come on," I said
incredulously.

But he persisted. "Seriously," he said, "it does." He paused. I don't
think either one of us was breathing. "Don't believe me? Touch my dick. I
dare you."

How could I refuse a dare? My hand trembled at first. It steadied itself
and then landed on his bare chest. Slowly it traveled down his torso
until it arrived at his tented boxers and felt his hard cock. At that
point I could have pulled my hand away. I could have acted like feeling
his dick freaked me out. But I didn't. Instead, I closed my hand around
his erection. "That's right," he said, "go for it." I started to stroke
him through the fabric of his underwear. A minute later, he pulled down
his boxers, tossed them aside, and spun around so that I was face to face
with his dick and he was face to face with mine. He reached for my cock,
which by this point was throbbing. He squeezed it, then pulled at the
waistband of my boxers and said, "lose 'em." I pulled them off and tossed
them aside.

"So listen," he said. "We're not gay and we're not going to make a habit
of this. We're not ever going to tell anyone we did this and after
tonight we're never even going to talk about it. So that's all this is.
Just two guys in the woods getting each other off."

I signaled my agreement by reaching for his cock and moving my head
toward his crotch. I touched my tongue to the tip of his dick. "Suck it,"
he whispered. So I did.

The tent was so dark I couldn't see anything, but this only intensified
my other senses. His dick tasted amazing. I can't really compare it to
any other flavor. Maybe it was just a little bit salty and sweaty. Mostly
it just tasted like him. His crotch smelled like him, too, but maybe just
a little bit stronger than the rest of him. And it felt so good in my
mouth. So warm. So wet. So hard at its core but with skin so pliant, so
smooth and so soft. It was responsive, too. As I moved my mouth up and
down, working the shaft with my tongue, his dick would twitch and throb.
And he would moan, softly, but I could feel it more than I could hear it
because by this point, he was sucking me, too.

I was so focused on his dick, I almost didn't notice. But now I paused,
released his cock from my mouth to catch my breath, and let myself enjoy
the sensations I was feeling down below. My dick felt incredible in his
mouth, but even more incredible was the fact that it was there, that he
was doing this for me, that he was sucking me off.

I went back down on him, this time less tentatively and more
aggressively. I wanted him, badly. I wanted to bring him over the top. I
wanted to taste his cum. Instead, I soon tasted something else. Something
awful. When I tried to take him all the way down my throat, I gagged and
threw up just a little. Instead of just his dick in my mouth I could also
taste the acid remains of dinner. I tried to push through the problem by
swallowing it back down, which I did, and returning to my normal sucking
rhythm. But he noticed. He pulled off my cock, pulled away from me, and
asked a question to which he already knew the answer. "Did you just throw
up on me?"

"It's okay," I said, "I swallowed it down. I cleaned you off."

"This was a mistake," he said. "This is wrong." He grabbed for his
boxers, pulled them on, got back into his sleeping bag, and faced away
from me.

"Come on," I pleaded. "Please. We don't have to stop."

"Just go to sleep," he said, dismissing me. "We shouldn't have done it."

The next morning when I woke up he was already breaking down our
campsite. I couldn't find my boxers. I did find his. I put them on,
knowing he'd accidentally taken mine. I got out of the tent, nodded, and
went to the tree line to take a piss. Over my shoulder I heard him say
that we needed to head home, that he had to work in the evening. The car
ride was awkward. We were both kind of quiet. Neither one of us spoke
about what happened, but it obviously had happened. We were wearing each
other's underwear.