I promised you more, and a good pervert always keep his promises (or breaks them in entertaining ways). Thank you to everyone who sent me messages, it's great to reconnect.
Wondering where I've been? This should explain: https://medium.com/@alexp336/what-i-didnt-realize-until-i-was-a-published-erotica-author-929a36080af1
As ever, consider me hungry for feedback at alexp336@gmail.com or via my deeply-NSFW tumblr, http://dirtyanon.tumblr.com/
Play safe, and remember - fictional boys don't get STIs but that doesn't mean you shouldn't use a condom. Oh, and donate to Nifty, okay?
-Alex
Hayden - Part 2
In a way it's like looking at a model on an underwear store. Focus locked on the crotch, occasionally straying up to abs or down to thighs, but always returning. Hayden's Calvins are bunched slightly at one thigh, a little higher on one side than the other, and the waistband - shiny, the branding picked out in huge letters - is askew. If it was a photo, they'd have to edit it before it went on the site, or probably just reshoot it altogether. But it's not.
It's my friend, and I'm staring at his cock as it bulges against the hugging grip of the stretchy blue fabric.
Hayden's not hard. Obviously, he's not hard - I mean, I'm the one who is boned up to the max right now, my dick straining so hard against my hip that I worry it might snap. But there's still an obvious tube of his shaft running to the left, and the swell of his balls underneath. The ridge of the head of his dick cleanly outlined.
"So...?"
I swallow, throat suddenly dry, tongue feeling thick in my mouth. So. So...
"They look good," I tell him, lamely. Hayden drops his t-shirt - it falls, covering the waistband with its chunky lettering, but the thickness of his junk still visible beneath the hem - and tosses his head, exasperated.
"Good? That's all I get?"
"What were you hoping for?" I shoot back. He's looking at me with a mixture of frustration and playfulness, and to be honest I'm not sure which emotion is winning.
"You could at least tell me I look better than whatever fucking Calvin Klein model it is you've been jerking off over lately."
The laugh escapes me before I realize it's coming. I should probably protest, but it would be hardly believable.
"Fine, you look much hotter than the professional Calvin Klein model who gets paid to be on ten-story-high billboards in New York City," I say.
"Better," Hayden replies, lifting his t-shirt again and tilting left and right, as though posing for the attentions of a photographer. I use the opportunity to check out the curve of his ass, a high, firm-looking bubble pushing neatly at the back of the trunks.
He sees me looking. "So, hotter than Marky Mark, then?"
I laugh at that. "Dude, Marky Mark was modeling this stuff when we were just little kids."
Hayden's eyebrow arches. "Doesn't stop you from having photos of him on your laptop, though, does it."
"Fuck off," I tell him, but I can't maintain an angry face after he grabs his crotch and pulls a face that I guess is meant to look like that famous Mark Wahlberg ad campaign.
"Too late," he laughs, "I'm an underwear model now. Fuck going to school, this is what I'm going to be."
Still laughing, I shake my head. "Nah, if you were going to model something, that's not the underwear I'd put you in."
Hayden looks indignant for a moment, but it soon gives way to curiosity.
"Oh, so you'd have me wearing a thong then?"
Now it's my turn to roll my eyes, melodramatically. "God, this isn't the eighties, dude."
He turns around, lifting his shirt again and looking over his shoulder as he shakes his butt at me. A butt which, it's really dawning on me now, is pretty damn perfect. "You're telling me you don't think this ass could pull off a g-string?"
I flip him the finger. "The world of fashionable underwear has advanced considerably, I'll have you know," I tell him, loading my voice with fake seriousness.
A hand on each cheek, he squeezes to punctuate each syllable. "I'm so terribly sorry, Puppy."
After a moment he reaches down and pulls up his jeans, having to do a little half-jump on the spot to crank them up his legs and around his hips. Hayden slumps back on the couch, not bothering to zip or button the fly, one leg bent beneath the other and supporting his weight on his elbows.
"So go on," he teases, "out of your mighty collection, master pervert, what am I meant to be wearing?"
I dragged my gaze from the invitingly open gape of his jeans - the flash of strong blue clearly framed - and gave him a hard look. "Quit making fun of me."
His grin in reply was lazy. "Who's making fun? I figure I have an expert around, I may as well get some good advice."
Reaching for the vodka bottle, I poured myself a healthy double-shot. Hayden watched me as I drained the glass in two gulps, separated only with a wince.
It was not great vodka.
"Fine," I told him.
I said my apartment was ridiculously small, but really it's just a studio. Living room and kitchen, bending into an L-shape for the bedroom; there's a curtain to pretend at some semblance of division between them, but frankly I never bother drawing it. A tiny bathroom occupies the remaining chunk of space, along with a small closet, and it was the latter which - after levering myself up out of my slouch - I headed to.
I confess, I still thought Hayden was building up to some big, dumb joke with myself the butt of it, but I still had a shiver of excitement in my stomach. The idea of not only being able to imagine him stripped down to underwear, but being actively encouraged to do so, was enough to keep my cock rigid.
With my back to him I could keep that condition secret, however, though I glanced over my shoulder to find he was - still sprawled out - watching me across the small room.
Even before I pull open the drawer, I'm thinking through the possibilities. There was the Andrew Christian stuff, of course, with its bright colors and usually extreme cuts, together with a pretty wide selection of designer options, including a few pairs of CKs very similar to what Hayden was wearing now. It'd be easy to pick out the most daring pair, but I wasn't sure my friend was quite ready for neon and mesh briefs with the ass cut out.
Then again, thinking of his perky bubble butt bulging against that opening, I second-guessed my reticence, if only momentarily.
"What do you normally wear?" I ask him, calling over my shoulder as I dig through the unruly contents of the drawer.
"God, I dunno, just boxers or boxer-briefs I guess," Hayden replies. "Stuff like these."
Glancing back again, I see he's slipped one hand absent-mindedly in, to cup his crotch through the material of his trunks. It takes more than a little effort to drag my attention away.
"You can't have so many pairs it's taking you this long to go through." Hayden sighs, melodramatically. "This isn't an addiction, it's some kind of syndrome." His voice slurs at the last word, and he giggles, before reaching out to grab the bottle from the table and upend it to his lips.
Suddenly trusting the gods, whichever ones might still be paying attention to a dirty little atheist like myself, I stick both hands into the near-overflowing heap and grabbed at random. Gingerly I examine my spontaneous selection.
Dangling from my left fist is a pair of black Diesel briefs. From the right, a very low-rise, practically non-existent pair of trunks that look like they had ambitions of being swimwear, but only if you were at the sort of resort where sporting unlined, bordering-on-sheer white trunks were acceptable. I wasn't sure on the brand, but I could remember putting them on the day they arrived in the mail and then ending up jerking off in the shower while wearing them.
Hayden looks up as I turn around to him, holding up both options in my hands. "So..." he starts, then trails off.
I waggle the Diesel briefs at him. "So you have black and classy," I explain, "or white and..." I wasn't quite sure how to finish that. "Um, white and interesting. Yeah."
Kneeling up on the sofa, he leans in to get a closer look. It's fair to say his expression is pretty skeptical.
"Yeah, I've changed my mind," Hayden says eventually, sitting back on his heels. I feel, even though it was stupid and I knew that, my stomach drop in disappointment. "I want what you're wearing."
I frown, trying to remember what was in my laundry hamper and what was clean, and doing the instant catalog of colors and styles.
"I don't think I have another pair," I start to tell him, but Hayden shakes his head. A big, knowing smirk plastered across his face.
"No, I mean I want what you're wearing now."
I stare at him, my cock throbbing and my mind spinning. "You want to wear my underwear?"
Hayden nods. "I mean, if it's good enough for you, isn't it good enough for me?"
Lost for words, I just looked at him. Dumbfounded.
"Look, if you like you can wear mind," he offers, "then we're even."
Part of my brain is wondering quite how much of the vodka he's demolished while I was um'ing and ah'ing by my chest of drawers. The rest of me is imagining the soft, smooth, still-warm grip of his Calvins around my junk.
There is, of course, a problem. Well, several of them, but one which is glaringly obvious to me at this exact moment.
I'm hard, that much is obvious. I imagine Hayden would realize that, if he gave it more than a moment's thought. But it's more than that - I'm hard and I'm leaking. I can feel the slick wetness of precum around the head of my cock. Sometimes, when I'm playing with myself, I can soak through the front of my briefs until they're almost translucent.
And there's no way my friend isn't going to notice.
Even so, even with the certain knowledge that just how dirty minded and easily turned-on I am will be 100-percent obvious if I go through with this, my brain - and, okay, my dick too - is screaming 'yes'. Which is why, I guess, I start to turn and move over to the bathroom to get undressed.
"Where are you going?" Hayden stops me. "What the fuck, dude, sneaking off to the bathroom like you're ten?" He laughs, then, though it's not an unkind sound. "Come on, we're all underwear models in here."
Fuck. Fuck.
"Shit, whatever," I say, eventually. I point to the bottle. "Pass me a drink, okay?"
He reaches back and picks it up, then holds it up to my lips. Tips it, my head rocking back automatically in turn, as Hayden carefully pours vodka into my mouth. I feel it burn down my throat, somehow hot and cold at the same time.
It's on my lips, too, exaggerating the cold as he pulls the bottle away and watches me, watching him. I wipe my face with the back of my hand.
"Fuck it," I mutter, under my breath.
I know, I know - another cliffhanger, Alex?! I'm a cruel man and a harsh master. More is on the way, though, as our friends become friends-with-benefits...
-A