My Trusted Friend Ch. 06

By ten o'clock he was lying on his back atop the coffee table, his erection arcing upwards and his head hanging over the edge. My cock was in his mouth and he was trying to get me to slide into his throat. He'd wanted to see if he could still deep-throat a cock and we had recovered enough from our earlier exertions that I was game to let him try. Fucking his throat, however pleasant, wasn't going to do it for me to make me cum that night.

We returned to the bedroom and I positioned him on his hands and knees before taking him again from behind. He protested that he was still sore from earlier, but as soon as he felt the lubed head of my cock pressing against his sphincter, he began pushing back into me, trying to force more into his ass. It was the first time I'd watched the head of my cock find its way into the ass of anyone but my wife and I was struck by the similarities between my two lovers. I felt the tightness of his hole and compared it to my wife's rubbery ring. Both made similar coos and grunts as I penetrated them. Neither would likely tell anyone but me that receiving anal penetration was, in many ways, their favorite sex act.

I took hold of his hips, more to keep my balance on the wildly undulating waterbed than to force myself inside him. Even with the extra support it was not smooth going. Finally, he lay all the way down on the bed with his legs together and held his buttocks open for me with his hands. I lowered myself atop him with my legs straddling his, and plugged myself into him again. Lower on the bed, able to grip him with both my arms and legs to pull myself into every thrust, I established a rhythm. Soon, he was thrusting his ass back up onto my cock to meet my every downward stroke. It seemed like he was riding the waterbed's internal waves to augment his motion. I screwed up the rhythm a couple of times, unused to, well, all of it, but he helped me re-establish things to keep the motion going.

I love all forms of sex with my wife and I can't say that anal sex with my best friend was better than anal sex in my marriage bed, but I will admit that my wife has an ass that I would have to describe as relatively flat and unpadded. Riding my friend's ass, my pelvis crashed into the twin muscular globes of his buttocks with each thrust. I won't say it was better than with her, but I could appreciate the difference. All I could hear were the smacking noises of my flesh on his, the liquid sounds of the agitated waterbed, and the grunts he and I were making simultaneously on each thrust.

He started repeating "take me" over and over, one word each time our bodies crashed together. "Take! Me! Take! Me! Take! Me!" And I came hard inside him again.

I woke up next to him near dawn the next day.

I was on my side as he spooned warmly behind me. I could feel his stiff little cock between the cheeks of my ass, tickling my hole. I'm not usually the most coherent person upon waking up, but I knew exactly where I was, exactly what was happening, and exactly what I wanted. I pushed back, my hole against the head of his cock. It wouldn't go in. I tried pressing back again, half-crazy with excitement, but it wouldn't go. I spotted the bottle of lube on the nightstand and rolled over to get it, making the bed move up and down substantially.

I heard him yawn and groan. "'Morning, dude," he said, yawning again and rolling to his back.

Shit. He'd been asleep. What was it about this waterbed that made me want to fuck unconscious people?

I rolled back over to face him, lube in my hand. "I see what you've got," I said, indicating his morning wood. "Look at what I've got," I said showing him the lube. "Could I talk you into taking my virgin ass this morning, sir?"

Long story short, he tried. I teased and lubed his cock and he assumed a position behind me as I got to my hands and knees, but he went limp before he could even get all of the head in. I made my peace with the fact that this wasn't going to happen. I'd given it my best shot to trying to make my final sexual fantasy happen, but it was a no-go.

Neither of us bothered to get dressed. I'd woken up far earlier than I'd intended and I didn't feel the usual time crunch I would ordinarily have felt to get out the door and on the road. He helped me gather my belongings and then we ate Lucky Charms and made stupid jokes about leprechauns in bad Irish accents.

I wondered if he'd join me in the shower, but that coach had already turned into a pumpkin. I was okay with that. I dressed and found that he'd dressed while I'd been in the shower. We chatted a bit and he helped me carry my stuff to the truck then he helped me find the sunglasses I'd dropped next to his recliner when I'd fallen asleep in it. We embraced again as I prepared to step out of the front door again. It was a fierce embrace, filled with love. I couldn't tell you what kind of love it was. It wasn't romantic love or brotherly love. It certainly wasn't the love a cowboy felt for his trusty horse.

We held each other at arm's length and said, "I love you, man." I like to think that we both knew what the other meant and felt the identical thing. We hugged again and I walked out of the door, climbed into my truck, and only waved once as I drove away. I saw him wave back and close the front door.

The trip home was blessedly uneventful, marred only by lengthy construction delays on the interstate. I pulled up to our small house just after ten that night. My wife greeted me at the door and the wonderful five-year-old girl I'd adopted as my daughter—who was supposed to have been asleep—bounded out of her bedroom and shouted, "Daddy's home!" and hugged my legs. This woke the baby and a warm reunion was had by all.

+ + +

I've said before that I always wind up telling my wife everything and eventually I told her about this. About a month after I returned, I came clean about all I'd done. She took it in stride, saying that she thought something seemed a little different with my best friend, but that in light of our three-way experiences she hadn't been sure how to interpret it. She told me that she loved me and that she didn't even think she needed to forgive me. She wasn't offended by what I'd done with him.

I had thought that my confession would have prompted one of her own about the Christmas Eve I couldn't make it home, but it did not. This lack of a confession made me suspicious, but there was little I could do about it without telling her that I knew. I figured I wanted her to confess when she needed to, not because I wanted her to. It has been twenty years and she hadn't confessed and I've never told her I knew. I've forgiven her many times over and I've mostly forgotten, but I've kept my eyes open.

My friend moved to the west coast and, as luck would have it, our city was an excellent stopover between his new location and the long road trips he'd take to visit his parents once or twice a year. He'd stay with us, but we didn't even come close to anything intimate on these visits. My kids called him "uncle" and he doted on them. Each visit was like a holiday in miniature, a shout-out to the good old days.

Just a few years later, he met and married a girl. I refer to her as a girl because she was only eighteen and he was thirty-four. Her father was a pastor at a tiny fundamentalist church that my friend joined. He'd been religiously observant, as I mentioned before he'd been a deacon, but it had been a tolerant, easygoing kind of observance. He'd always said that he had no room to judge others when he had so many sins on his own plate. This changed.

We got to meet her when they made the trek back east to visit his parents. I remember that she was a trim brunette with an hourglass figure and a tiny little pug nose. And that it seemed like a bug the size of a goliath beetle had crawled up her ass and made itself at home. We tried to engage them both in conversation, but she did a lot of the talking for him, saying "we like this" or "we don't approve of that." I stopped counting how many times she used the phrase "the Lord wants us to" at five. My wife estimated that the total reached fifteen before they left the next morning.

My friend looked nervous and uncomfortable for a while, but he did seem to relax. I teased him about the moustache he had grown, which helped break the ice a little. Unfortunately, when he did start speaking, it was to echo her phrases and agree with some of her judgments about the sinfulness of things I'd always considered commonplace and utterly innocent. He had too, once upon a time.

Hardest of all was that I could see by the look in his eyes how deeply in love they were. I wasn't jealous, mind you. I just realized exactly how much he doted on her and how tightly she had him wrapped around her little finger. I was sad that my friend seemed to have changed so much in just a few short years and that the smaller-minded, more judgmental person he was becoming wasn't someone I would have ever chosen to be friends with in the first place.

They stopped in and stayed with us a couple of times a year for the next two years, but it felt like I was just going through the motions of friendship. I no longer looked forward to seeing him and my wife grew to absolutely loathe spending any time with him or his wife. The straw that broke the camel's back was the vicious argument that started about, of all things, the alleged satanic messages contained within the Harry Potter books. I don't know that I could have stopped the argument before it escalated to the point it finally reached, but I'd had about as much as I could take of their close-minded religiosity.

Harsh words began. I did mention earlier that my wife has a temper, right? So, apparently, did his. By the time the two women had finished, the argument had moved on from Harry Potter through gay rights and into prayer in schools. My wife had stormed out of the room before she said something truly offensive and was slamming a door when his wife shouted that our "beautiful little girls" would be damned to hell if we didn't find Jesus and embrace Him.

I told my friend that they needed to leave. He just nodded. His wife said some more things that I ignored. My friend didn't say anything to me. I think—I hope—he was embarrassed or ashamed about the things his wife was saying. They carried as much of their luggage as they could on the way out of the house. I grabbed the remaining suitcase and tossed it into the yard before closing the front door. I didn't want them coming back in.

I hadn't cried since the seventh grade, but I felt the wetness on my face. I'd been foolish enough to think that he'd always be a part of my life somehow, but life often doesn't work like that. My wife came up behind me and hugged me, her skinny arms wrapping around my chubby torso. She heard me sniffing and turned me around to wipe the tears from my cheeks. She'd never seen me cry before and she cried a little too.

Through her tears, she giggled.

"What?" I asked.

She started laughing harder and could only speak when she finally brought herself under control. "I had to leave the room because at that point all I could think of to say to the uptight bitch was, 'Oh yeah, well my husband fucked your husband up the ass!'"

I laughed until the pain of laughing overcame the pain I felt from the loss of my friend. I knew I'd actually lost him years earlier.

My wife and I cooked dinner and played with our kids. We went to bed and made love. My life felt full to bursting with all the blessings I enjoyed, but I knew there would always be an empty place that had once been filled by my trusted friend.

+ + +

Well, that's it, folks. "My Trusted Friend" has come to its conclusion.

This was my first series of stories for Literotica and writing them while juggling life's other demands has been quite the experience. Thanks again to all of you who were interested enough to send comments and feedback my way. It doesn't matter when you read this note; I'd still like to hear from you. I think it would be terrifically cool to get feedback from someone twenty years from now who'd just read it for the first time. I'm weird that way.

Thanks once more to LarryInSeattle for his beautifully transparent editing. The man must be semi-telepathic to understand and repair some of the phrases I've garbled.

As always, please use the stars in the space immediately below this note to rate this story. (Unless you didn't like it, in which case you may skip this entirely unnecessary step.)