Oh My Hunky Friend Pt. 01

Author's note:

Thanks for clicking on my story. Please bear in mind that this is a slow burn story and that part one includes no sex.

Pt. 01

I sat in the car while chewing my thumbnail off. I checked my watch: it was six o' clock. I was meant to be at Connor's house at five and Google map said there was still forty-five minutes to go. The confines of my heart thudded with hot blood which made my skin go all cold and clammy with icy sweat.

Frustrated, I swiped a careless hand through my silky black hair. What was the matter with me? I was no stranger to lateness and yet my body reacted with such violence. Engaged in my inner turmoil, I accidentally bit deep into my thumb and drew blood. A stinging pain hit me. I grunted. I was a hysterical mess and my pent up frustration was about to spill.

"Can't you drive any quicker?" I shouted at my Mother.

"Don't you speak to me like that Lawrence Carter! Why don't you take the wheel yourself young man? You're eighteen and supposedly an adult although you certainly don't act like one. God forbid that you have lost all those manners that me and your Father have instilled upon you," my Mother retorted.

From the front mirror, I saw my Mother's face contorted with anger. She was usually such a sedate woman of peerless integrity but due to my childish antics, her moral balance was corrupted. Dark guilt filled my soul.

With age, I was travelling further and further away from the path of God. A couple of weeks ago, I had accidentally ventured into one of the most twisted avenues of the internet: PornHub. Though I turned it off immediately, overwhelmed by shame, my penis had still stirred and became frighteningly erect, leaking precum into my pants.

My soul had winced at my own depravity and I deleted the tab from my search history in an shameful attempt to hide the sin. But even if my parents never found out, God knew all. Eternal punishment in the fiery pits of hell at the hands of Satan was awaiting. Mother was right. I was changing and my swiftly changing moods were proof of this corruption.

Nonsense. This melodrama was because of my excitement to meet an old friend and nothing more. To reassure myself, I kissed the dangling cross on my necklace and instantly felt the warm embrace of Christ. With my newfound calmness, I apologised to my Mother and fished out The Magician's Nephew - the first book in the Chronicles of Narnia. Whenever the tensions of life strangled me too tight, Narnia was always there to take me home to a world of magical escape.

With care, I flipped over the first page and began to read, waiting for my soul to melt among the words and achieve a blissful trance. But I couldn't. The words danced and swayed before my eyes. It was the first time Narnia had ever betrayed me. My frustrations built up again and my thumb ventured back towards my mouth.

I took two deep breaths. Just as my therapist told me, I immediately felt calmer and was able to recollect myself. Filing through my frantic mind, I found that at the centre of all of my thoughts, tinted with the sweet hue of nostalgia, was the figure of Connor. My best friend.

There's a common saying in England to describe two inseparable friends: "two peas in a pod". That was what we were. We had shared countless sleepovers with each other in which we binge watched all the Jurassic Park movies, duelled each other in the wii sports olympics and engaged in general loitering. We were essentially the same: two scrawny, little kids with a passion for mischief. Little did we know that such a tight bond would be loosened.

We hadn't met in person for three years. Connor had gone to a specialist boarding school for Rugby. He had suddenly become a very talented sportsman out of nowhere. Meanwhile I was stuck in the same comprehensive and was now in the final year of college. However, we still kept in regular touch over Whatsapp.

My parents were going on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem this summer (like we did every year) but my doctor advised me not to go due to my skin infection so Connor invited me over to his new house in Somerset for the holiday. After a year full of exam tension, this was a generous offer and one I simply couldn't refuse.

For the rest of the journey, I fantasised about Connor and the old days to distract from my eager nervousness to build something new. Even after so many years, I still loved Connor like a brother and desperately hoped he felt the same.

My Mother shouted at me to wake up. I had fallen asleep. She told me that we had arrived. I looked out of the window and was surprised as it was clear that this was a very rich neighbourhood. I stepped out of the car and my Mother placed a quick kiss on my cheek and drove away.

Before stepping towards the massive house in front of me, I checked my clothes. I was wearing a ratty old t-shirt and some very loose tracksuit bottoms. There was a reason for this unremarkable fashion sense: I was going through puberty very late and had grown considerably from a midget to a person with slightly-below average height.

However, for most boys, puberty had gifted them broad shoulders and rippling abs. Instead I was cursed with an over-developed lower body. To be specific, a fat ass and thick thighs. Because my parents were short on money, they couldn't afford to buy the ridiculously expensive uniform. So, my uniform trousers were far too small for me. The fabric clung to my voluptuous curves, threatening to rip and expose the immodesty of my pale ass.

When I walked through the school, my hips would sway with a feminine gait, making my ass and thighs jiggle and thud this way and that way in a hypnotic rhythm that attracted the mocking gazes of girls and boys alike.

I was always paranoid and even tried to tiptoe through the school, head bowed downwards, in an attempt to control my unintentionally sexual aura. But Kyle and his band of big strong bullies always saw and they always had something cruel to say. With a sarcastic tone, they call me mean names like "whore" and "slut". All the girls would laugh and I would grow red with embarrassment.

Such verbal abuse was a daily occurrence and yet I never got used to the cutting stab of shame. I learnt to hate my body. Wearing my dad's worn and torn tracksuit bottoms outside of school at all times was my way of salvaging any shred of dignity I still had left.

Trying to leave my history behind me, I ventured towards the door while dragging a suitcase. The house was not a house. It was a mansion. It was a sprawling complex of modern design. Sleek and efficient, it was a structure of sharp edges and yet it maintained a brutal elegance.

One thing was for sure, Connor was now incredibly rich. I felt happy for their family. They had always welcomed me with open arms and such immense fortune was bound to reward the good people who deserved it. Such was the grace of God.

I rang the bell. The neighbourhood was silent except from the sweeping whoosh of the wind. My mind swam with nerves. I swiped a frantic hand over my hair. I needed Connor. The door opened. A tall but stern man emerged.

"Lawrence. You've grown."

"Hi there Mr Richards. It's been a while, how are you?"

"Good, good. Connor has been very excited to meet you. It's been so many years. However, you won't see me around too often because of work. Have fun," said Mr Richards before turning around abruptly.

"Wait Mr Richards. You haven't told me where Connor is."

"Of course. Take that staircase and he's in the gym on the first floor."

Mr Richards strided away, leaving me full of questions. A gym? Was this house truly that big? And why was Connor in the gym? He had always been a nerdy gamer type although he did play rugby.

A pessimistic part of me accepted that he was a serious athlete now and it would be foolish to hope that he would be the same old Connor. Being realistic would prevent sinking disappointment. But still, foolish as it was, I continued to hope.

I sprinted through the vast living which seemed only sparsely littered with furniture; a gigantic TV was implanted on the wall. Most of it was empty space. I assumed that this was the conventional home decor for rich people and quite frankly, it was bland. It lacked the wholesome comfort of the Richards' old apartment.

This reminded me that Mrs Richards was nowhere to be seen. At the time, I thought nothing of it and presumed she was away. I hurried up the twisting staircase for what felt like an age, my head going delirious with anticipation. Finally, I made it to the first floor.

Before me, I saw an opaque glass door with a poster with dumbbells emblazoned upon it. This had to be the gym. As I edged closer to the door, I heard a muffled noise that grew louder and louder. Curiosity overwhelmed me, causing me to sweat in unknown regions. I kicked open the door with uncharacteristic hunger. What I saw left me paralysed.

The noise was a husky grunt that echoed across the spacious gym. The noise tickled my eardrums and evoked an indescribable reaction within me. It was so raw. So primal. As the grunt grew louder, I got goosebumps and couldn't stop shivering.

In the middle of the gym l stood Connor. He was performing an exercise that my gym teacher called the "deadlift". I had never built up the courage to try one in gym class as I preferred to do tons of easy goblet squats in the corner. But Connor was a different matter. He heaved the barbell upwards with flawless form.

Connor was a man now. Even from a distance, I could tell that Connor was a physical behemoth. He had to be well past six feet tall. My eyes were drawn to his straining muscles that seemed to bulge out of his black t-shirt with a divine proportion that resembled a Greek sculpture. His golden skin glistened with sweat.

His dirty blonde hair was closely cropped. Connor's face was angular and harsh; he had a sharp jawline that could draw blood. His nose was slightly crooked and a slashed scar adorned his smooth cheeks. This brutal expression was exaggerated by his facial strain when lifting the weight. A red stud embellished his left ear, adding an edgy glint to his rugged masculinity.

Headphones hid Connor's ears and also isolated him from his surroundings. That was why I could shamelessly stare at him, mouth agape, without the dishonour of being caught. As Connor lifted the weight for the last time, he grunted again. This time the note was a bit higher. Almost a moan. I sighed. Connor's cheeks flushed red with satisfaction as he dropped the weight. I bit my tongue.

He flung off his headphones and looked around. His eyes met mine. For a moment, I was beyond terrified. You must understand me, Connor looked like another one of Kyle's gang of bullies. If anything, he looked even stronger and even badder. I dreaded the possibility that the star of my early childhood had joined the ranks of the heartless monsters that destroyed my present.

But there was no need for apprehension. As I looked closer into his ocean-blue eyes, I saw the depth of his empathy and the variety of his passion. A smile lit his face. He recognised me. His cragged features aligned into that warm, welcoming expression that I had once adored, always adored. This was my Connor Richards.

"Laurie!" Connor shouted, charging towards me.

I was tongue tied. Time slowed as I watched a towering, muscular man stumble and attempt to hug me. I say attempt because due to Connor's unmanning fatigue, he lost control of his body and his hug became a tackle.

The combination of momentum and my own physical weakness meant I was toppled onto the pearl floor. My back cracked against the hard surface. A streak of pain. But that was easily forgotten. Connor lay on top of me, twirled in a tight embrace.

The weight, although suffocating, was strangely euphoric: I absorbed myself in the all-encompassing thrill of being compressed into pulp by a force of raw power. I inhaled the fumes of his sweat-soaked shirt and desired to lick a damp patch. But I dared not. Instead, I drowned in the sweet misery of my thwarted desire. That concoction of imagined taste and smell was intoxicating and filled me with a dirty, gluttonous desire for more.

One of Connor's callused hands clawed and dug deep into the plump flesh of my ass. His long nailed index finger was dangerously close to the dark chasm of my asshole, a neglected oasis of forbidden lust. The sensation danced between the precipice of pain and pleasure. I moaned. I was merely a vessel of desire.

I observed his eyes. They were totally zoned out and from this one could theorise that the deadlifts had drained his energy and made him pass out. The shock of seeing his best friend again couldn't have helped. But for a time, I couldn't focus on my next move. I stared at Connor's eyes even more. Oh, I would have drowned myself in that sparkling ocean.

Then I noticed a bristly stubble around his jawline. I nuzzled my nose against it - I was blind to sanity at the time - and felt a delicate tingling. Goosebumps roamed across me again.

Connor groaned in discomfort. I disentangled myself and assessed the situation. My friend needed water. Looking around, I found a fountain with a stack of cups. I got one cup and filled it to the brim with water.

I rushed back, spilling everywhere, and poured into Connor's mouth. He glugged the water down his throat with needy eyes and a flicking tongue. Refreshed, he stood up and looked at me again. I stared back.

"Laurie."

"Connor."

Connor was too fatigued to do anything else. He told me that he'd get a shower. I told him I'd get refreshed. He nodded with tired eyes. I wandered into a random bedroom and dived into the bed, tears streaming down my cheeks. What had I become?

Connor didn't need to invite me for the summer. He didn't even need to remain friends with me. He was a man and I was still a boy. I betrayed his generosity with my perverse desires. I feared that he knew how I had clung to his accidental embrace. I feared his wrath.

Oh, he had greeted me with such enthusiasm and I ruined it all. Why did I have such immoral thoughts about a friend? Kissing my dangling cross, I attempted to free myself from the swirling spin of confusion while praying for self-control. However, God would not answer that prayer.