Anything You Want

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.