Anything You Want

At some point he moved his hands from behind his head to his nipples. He pinched them and pulled them as he started to thrust into my mouth. I took a break and moved to the crinkled skin of his drawn-up balls. They were hairless and contracted and so easy to engulf. And damn it, they tasted good. I could feel my own cock, hard and throbbing, leaking inside my shorts. I worked his nuts with my tongue, circling and pulling, gently, until finally they spilled out from my lips. I returned to his cock. I felt his hand on the back of my head. "Keep it up and you'll make me cum," he said. That was precisely my goal, so I kept on sucking. I loved everything about what was happening. I loved the feel of it; I loved the warmth of him inside me. I loved his taste and his hardness. I got lost in his dick.

At some point I regained my bearings. Both his hands now clutched my head. He started to buck his hips. It didn't seem possible, but his dick got even stiffer. He grunted, he whimpered, he panted. He whispered "fuck, fuck." Then his cock started to pulse. One, two, three, four shots. Then five. Then six. I did my best to swallow it all. That was what he wanted. That was what I needed. That was what it took to make the evidence of what we'd done together disappear.

I kept sucking, more gently now, as his dick began to deflate in my mouth. I was milking out the last remaining drops. I had worried I wouldn't like the taste, but instead I loved it. It's hard to describe because it's pretty much incomparable. Maybe a little bit like almonds, but richer. And there was more to it than just flavor. It was the warmth, the consistency, and the viscosity. And it was his. I loved it.

I pulled off his dick and wiped my mouth as I glanced up at him. His eyes were closed. "Thank you," he whispered. "Feeling relaxed now?" I asked. He was already half asleep. "Feeling amazing," he said. "You're amazing."

That comment made me feel about ten feet tall. I got up, found my shoes, and turned around to notice that he had gotten himself under the covers of his bed. I let myself out and headed home. I didn't brush my teeth that night. I could still taste him. I replayed what had just transpired as I was lying in bed beating off. My orgasm was intense.

This began a new pattern. Nearly every night I'd go over to his place. We'd drink beer and watch TV. When it started to get late, he'd stand up, stretch, and say how sore his back felt. I'd take the hint and say let's go upstairs. Sometimes he'd tell me to get on the floor and he'd pop my back and give me a quick back rub. Other times he didn't. Always he'd get on the floor. I'd pop his back, he'd stand up, strip down to his underwear, and get on the bed. I'd give him a really great, really long massage. When I was done, I'd say "let me get your front." He'd flip over, revealing his tented underwear. I'd rub and caress his arms, his pits, his pecs, and his nipples. I'd run my hands up his legs to his thighs. I'd massage his muscles there, working up slowly to his groin. As I got to his upper thighs I'd get closer to his cloth-covered cock. I'd tease it a bit, brushing over it as if by accident. Sometimes I'd see a wet spot in his underwear at the tip of his dick. Always I'd tell him to lift up. Always I'd pull his underwear down.

There were a few unspoken rules. The first was that there'd be no reciprocation. I always sucked him. After the camping trip, he never sucked me. I'm not entirely sure why. Maybe he wasn't interested, but that first night he gave me a blow job entirely on his own initiative. I think mostly he thought it would be too gay. It was one thing for me to suck him. He liked it-and who doesn't like a good blow job? That wasn't gay. But to go down on another guy? That was. If this was his reasoning, I understood and accepted it.

The second rule was that we never discussed what we did. Every once in a while he'd say how drunk he was. He wasn't, but the pretense that he was gave him an out. When he let me suck him, he could pretend he wasn't responsible for his actions. And the next day, he could pretend he didn't remember them. It was probably a good rule. We didn't have to intellectualize anything. One time he almost brought it up. The question came out of nowhere. "How can you...?" He stopped himself. "How can I what?" I replied. "Nothing," he said. "Just thinking out loud." But the truth was that it was a fair question. How could I serve, night after night, as his dedicated personal cocksucker? How could I massage him, caress him, play with his nipples, lick his balls, suck his dick, and drink his cum-getting nothing in return but the privilege of access to his body? I'm glad we didn't talk about what we did because I didn't want to have to face up to the very obvious fact that, instead of being straight, I was somewhere on the spectrum between straight and gay. If I did face this fact I'd have to admit I was in the wrong relationship. But that was impossible, because there was something else, something I could at the time own up to. I loved him. I loved him as a friend and I loved him as more than a friend. Ninety percent of the time we were just best friends, going to bars, watching sports, hanging out, biking, fishing, whatever. The other ten percent, his dick was in my mouth.

That part we had to ignore because of the third unspoken rule. At no point did we ever drop the pretense that each one of us was 100% straight. For a while I had a long-distance girlfriend I saw about once a month. She was fun enough and a decent lay, but I was just going through the motions. He'd still bring girls home sometimes, but not nearly as often as he used to. I took pride in this fact. My cock sucking skills were good and getting better. It wasn't just that I was a sure thing. It's that with me he had a good thing. Every once in a while he'd say something that stroked my ego. One time he knocked my socks off: "I can't believe I'm saying this. I guess I'm just drunk"-which is not really possible when you're 6' 2" and have had only three beers. "No one has ever taken care of me the way you do. It feels so good, and when I cum it's so incredible, so intense." Every once in a while, however, he'd go out of his way to assert his heterosexuality. I'd come over. We'd drink beer and watch TV for an hour. He'd pick up the phone and make a booty call. The girl would always come over to his place. And I'd always have to stay because I'd "had too much to drink." I drove home every other night, and it's not like I was ever actually drunk. But he'd insist, so I'd be downstairs on the couch in a sleeping bag while immediately above me the bed squeaked, the headboard banged against the wall, and the girl had her world positively rocked.

The fourth and final rule was to respect his limits. Again, this was a clear but unspoken requirement. Obviously there was no kissing. My hands could touch his chest, but not my lips. The one time I went to suck his nipples, he pushed my head down. "Not above the waist," he said. Okay, I thought: Line drawn. Another time, while sucking him, I started to play with his hole. I was just tickling it, really, lightly circling his pucker. He didn't complain, so I licked my middle finger and slowly worked it into his hole. I was two knuckles deep for a good minute. I'm pretty sure he was enjoying it. But then: "Is that your finger in my ass? Take it out." Other times he'd invite me to expand my repertoire. One night, while I was sucking his dick, he spoke up: "Lick the base." I went down to the bottom of his dick. "No," he said, "below my balls." So I pushed his legs up and started to lick and suck the firm chord of flesh between his balls and ass. "Oh wow," he moaned. I spent most of my time near his asshole. He was clean down there. Musky, but in a good way. There was just a little bit of dark blond hair around his rose bud. He tasted amazing. I liked it and, if his soft moans were any indication, so did he. In future encounters I got more daring. I didn't know the word for it at the time, but I was rimming him. It seemed like a really twisted and weird thing to do. Perverted. But it was also incredibly intimate and erotic. It was a guilty pleasure—probably for both of us.

Only one time did we stray from our standard routine. For once, he was drunk for real. I had stuck with beer, but he, for some reason, thought it would be fun to do tequila shots. After his back rub, I sucked him and rimmed him and then sucked him some more. I'd been feasting on him for close to 90 minutes, which was amazing. Sucking him, tasting him, pleasing him, and hearing his sighs could never get old. But my lips were getting sore and my jaw was starting to ache. "Are you getting close?" I asked him. "No," he admitted. "Tell me what to do," I replied, "want me to try jacking you?"

"No," he said, rising up on his elbows. "I know what will work. I'm gonna let you feel what it's like to get fucked."

He got up and walked to the bathroom. He returned with a condom. "Take your shorts off and get down on the carpet," he said. "Bend over on your hands and knees."

On one level this was presumptuous. On another it was degrading. But mostly I felt flattered. My hot best friend wanted to take things up a notch. He had always been very passive, lying back while I did the work. Now he wanted to sink his dick in my ass. It was unscripted. Believe it or not, I'd never considered the possibility. I never imagined he'd want to fuck me. I'd never really even thought about getting fucked. Now it was going to happen, and it was happening so fast. I was nervous but I was also excited.

I did as he asked. I took off my clothes and assumed the position on the floor. I felt vulnerable and exposed. Usually I wasn't the one on display. And then there was the fact that I was a real rookie. "Don't we need lube or something?" I asked. "We're good," he said. "It's a lubricated condom."

He kneeled on the floor behind me. "Spread your legs more," he told me. "Lower," he commanded, pressing down on the small of my back. I felt the tip of his cock nudge my pucker. I was nervous. Would this work? Didn't we need lube?

"Get ready," he said.

"Go slow, okay? Be gentle," I begged.

What he said next was cold but clear: "This isn't about you. This is about me getting off."

He used one hand to grab my shoulder and another to line up his dick. He pressed forward. Hard. At first my ass didn't give. He pushed harder. Then came the pain. He was probably only an inch into me, but my ass was on fire. I exhaled with a noise that was halfway between a moan and a sob. "Take it," he demanded. He pushed harder. The pain was indescribable. He pulled out a little, then thrust forward, skewering me. He was in. All the way in. Both his hands gripped my shoulders now. He started to fuck me, hard and fast. The searing pain faded into a dull ache. I could feel his balls flapping against me. His heat inside me. His big hands gripping me. Drops of his sweat started landing on my back.

He lowered himself onto me and the warmth of his body covered me like a blanket. I was engulfed by him; I was impaled on him. The new angle changed the way his dick felt inside of me. My ass wasn't resisting as much. The ache receded into a feeling of fullness. I could feel his hot ragged breath on my neck. He was mumbling, mostly to himself: "Fuck. So fucking tight. So fucking good. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck." I realized my dick was still hard. He lifted up again, hovering over me on all fours. I was bucking backward to meet his urgent thrusts. It was so hot, so animalistic. I felt his cock throb as he said "FUUUUUUUCCCK!" and unloaded inside of me. His thrusts were slower now. He pulled out. He kind of pushed me down as he used me for balance when standing up. He tossed the very full condom on the floor next to my face as he climbed into bed.

I laid there for a minute, recovering. My dick was still hard, so hard it was aching. I got up, grabbed the condom, and walked into the bathroom. The outside of the condom was pretty gross. But inside was his cum. I sat on the toilet to wipe my ass and see if there was any blood. There wasn't. I started to jack my cock while I held the condom upside down over my mouth. As soon as I tasted him, my dick erupted. My cum hit my chest and splattered all over shower curtain. I cleaned myself up a bit, flushed the condom, and walked back into his bedroom to retrieve my clothes. He was passed out on the bed.

The next day things went back to normal. We met up for lunch. "Shit, I was drunk last night," he said.

"You were plastered," I agreed. "Do you remember anything?"

His answer made me chuckle: "I don't think I want to."

That night I was back at his place. I wondered if he'd try to fuck me again. He didn't. We stuck with the old pattern: We went to his room after TV and a few beers. I took off my shirt and faced down on his carpet. He popped my back and gave me a quick back rub. He stood up, stripped to his underwear, and got back down. I popped his back. He got up and rested face down on his bed. I massaged him all over and then asked him to flip. I massaged his front side, working the muscles of his chest and abs. I went down to his feet and worked my way up to his tented briefs. "Lift up," I said, and slid his briefs down. I sucked his dick, ate his ass, and drank his cum that night and nearly every other night all the way up to graduation. It never got old.

Midway through my final semester, I had landed a great job about 500 miles away. He was still waiting tables but toying with the idea of applying to grad programs. The good thing we had going was coming to an end. He was my best friend. I really loved him. I was excited about the future, but I was going to miss him something awful.

My family was set to arrive on Tuesday night, four days before graduation. He had Mondays off and made it clear he had something special lined up. He said he'd pick me at 6 p.m. and that I should dress nicely. Around 5:30 I showered, shaved, and decided to wear my best pair of khakis and a nice dress shirt. I even put on a little cologne. I saw his car outside and went out to greet him. He had on dress pants and a form-fitting silk golf shirt that really showed off his pecs. "So what's going on?" I asked as I lowered myself into his passenger seat. "Tonight," he said, "is your graduation present."

We pulled into the parking lot of the best steak house in town. He gave his name to the maître d', who found our reservation. We were seated in a quiet corner of the restaurant. I couldn't believe it. We didn't often eat out together, and when we did it was usually Wendy's or the local Mexican place. But now we were seated at a table for two, complete with cloth napkins, a candle, and more utensils than I'd seen since my high school prom.

He ordered a really nice bottle of Cabernet. "You're getting whatever you want tonight," he told me after the waiter had departed with our drinks order. We split calamari as an appetizer and we both decided on some really nice filets. The conversation flowed as smoothly as the wine. Every once in a while I caught myself staring into his eyes for a bit too long, or noting the outline of his nipples through the silk of his shirt. He was wearing cologne, too. It smelled so good. Get a grip, I told myself: we're not on a date. But that's what it felt like. When I got lost in his eyes, he held my gaze. His foot was gently touching mine under the table—maybe nothing, maybe something. Also, he kept paying me compliments. Not just about the job I landed or how well I'd done on my senior thesis, but about me as a person. My favorite was this one: "I want you to know that you're the most giving, most unselfish friend I've ever had."

After dinner, he started driving back to his place. "Won't I need my car?" I asked. "I figured I'd let you stay over tonight," he said. There was a pause, and then he chose different words: "If you don't mind, I'm happy to drive you home tomorrow. Twenty-four hours from now your family will be here and a week from now you'll be gone. Let's make the most of the time that's left."

"That sounds good," I said. It didn't take long to get his place. I was glad because I didn't know what else to say. Was tonight going to be different somehow? It didn't have to be. I loved our routine. Part of me didn't want anything different. But maybe there'd be more. I didn't want to get my hopes up, but I couldn't help getting lost in thought about the things we might do.

We got to his place. He'd clearly spent some time cleaning. It hadn't looked so good since right after he moved in. "I picked up some beer," he announced, opening the refrigerator door. Usually at his place I contented myself with Bud Light, but now he was fully stocked with six packs of all my favorites. "Tell me what you're drinking and then have a seat on the couch." That's where I usually sat. He usually sat in his favorite armchair, but after uncapping two bottles he sat right next to me on the sofa. It was a big piece of furniture, but he was sitting less than a foot away.

I thanked him for the beer. Then I looked him in the eyes. "Why all the fuss?" I asked. "You didn't have to do all of this." He smiled. "Like I said, you're my very best friend, and tonight's your graduation present."

It was clear that my present wasn't just the great steak dinner. It was the whole evening. I probably could have moved things forward right then and there. He looked so hot. I loved his face, his eyes, and his strong jaw. His tight golf shirt really showed off his torso, and now there were sexy damp spots at his armpits. He was tall, and right next to me he seemed even bigger. But it was still early—only about 8:30 p.m. And I was enjoying all the attention. "What do you want to watch?" he asked. It didn't take long to come up with an answer. "A River Runs Through It," I said. We'd seen it before together, he owned it, and it was one of my favorite buddy movies. He popped the tape into his VCR. The next time he got up to bring us beers he dimmed the lights a little bit. He went from sitting close to me to sitting so that his body was touching mine. He put his right arm over my shoulder, hugged me, and left it there, maintaining the physical contact. I could feel his warmth and the subtle but intoxicating scents of his sweat and his cologne. Of course my cock was throbbing.

I got up to use the bathroom. It took me a while to piss through my erection. When I returned to the couch I noticed two fresh bottles of beer on the coffee table. I also saw that he was sitting sideways. His back was against the armrest and his leg was extended across the length of the couch. He'd kicked his shoes off. I decided to do the same. "Have a seat," he said, patting the sofa between his legs. I did. "Lean back," he said. I relaxed against his chest. His strong arms closed around me as my head rested on his shoulder. For a long while we sat like that. I loved the feel of the stubble of his cheek touching and tickling my ear. A few minutes later, his hands landed on my shoulders. He started to knead them and rub my neck. "Let's get this off," he said while unbuttoning my shirt. I got goose bumps feeling his fingertips brush the skin of my chest. He pressed me forward as he massaged my back. It felt so good.

"That feels amazing," I said, "but you don't have to."

"I know I don't have to, but you deserve it." Then he repeated what he'd said earlier in the evening: "Tonight is your graduation present. You're getting whatever you want."

It was a night I'll never forget.

He rubbed my back all the way through the end of the movie. I was putty in his hands. We stood up to toss away the empty beer bottles. In the kitchen, I asked "Whatever I want?" He pulled me close to him and looked into my eyes: "Anything you want. Everything you want." I hesitated for a second, then turned my lips up toward his. He leaned down to kiss me, gently first but then with more intensity. I parted my lips and his tongue slid between them. I know it was "just" kissing, but to me this felt like the most intimate thing we'd ever done. I could feel the stubble of his chin brushing against my own as our tongues made love inside our mouths.