Straight Friend's Dry Spell: Chapter 2

Everyone is 18.

Chapter 2: Junior Year

The apartment felt heavier since he’d returned from summer break. Not in a bad way—just different. The air smelled faintly of his cologne, which was a new thing. It was woodsy and masculine, and his presence seemed to linger in every corner. He’d changed. His body was leaner, but more defined, the result of his continued gym routine. His energy was sharper, almost electric, like he was carrying something he couldn’t quite put down.

The first few weeks were normal. We fell back into our rhythm—takeout on the couch, late-night gaming sessions, belly laughing as we shared gossip from campus and had mutual friends over for drinks, the occasional hookup for me when the mood struck. He didn’t come to my room anymore. Not once. And I didn’t need to acknowledge it really. I figured maybe he’d moved on. Maybe he didn’t need me like that anymore.

But there was also the girlfriend.

I’d only seen her in glimpses—her face on his phone screen during their nightly video calls, her voice carrying through the thin walls when he’d retreat to his room. They met during his summer internship in Chicago. She was pretty, sure, with a bright smile and a laugh that seemed to light him up. But she was also… distant. Literally. She was a four-hour drive away, and the way he talked about her—like she was the only thing keeping him grounded—made me hope for the best for him, hoping she wouldn't break his heart. But then came the tension.

It started small—little things I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t known him so well. The way he’d pace the apartment after their calls, his jaw tight, his hands restless. The way he’d disappear into his room for hours, only to emerge with the same edgy energy. The way he’d look at me sometimes, like he was testing something in his head.

I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know any more than what he wanted to tell me. But I could feel it building—the same way it had sophomore year. Only this time, it wasn’t about him. It was about her.

“She’s… frustrating,” he said one night, unprompted. We were sitting on the couch, the glow of the TV casting shadows across his face. His voice was low, almost a mumble, like he wasn’t sure he wanted me to hear.

I waited.

“She’s got this… hallmate,” he continued, his fingers drumming against his knee. “He’s always there. Every time we try to… you know. It’s like he's watching or something.”

I raised an eyebrow. “So she hasn’t—?”

“No,” he cut me off quickly, his cheeks flushing. “She hasn’t. Not in weeks.”

I didn’t know what to say. Part of me wanted to laugh—at the absurdity of it, at the way he was squirming like a cucked teenager desperate for some snapchat action. But the other part of me felt it—the weight of his frustration, the way it seemed to cling to him like static.

He didn’t say anything else that night. But the tension didn’t go away.

It built, day by day, until it was almost unbearable. He’d sit on the couch, his leg bouncing, his eyes distant, like he was trying to will himself into some kind of release. He’d disappear into the bathroom for longer stretches, the shower using up all the hot water while he did whatever he did in there. It brought me back to his dry spell from last year. And he’d look at me—more often, more pointedly—like he was waiting for me to do something. But I didn’t.

One night, when I went to bed, I heard him on the phone with her. His voice was low and masculine. Strained. I could hear some tension in the conversation, including a provoked response from her of "He's just a friend!"

I stayed up for a long time playing on my phone, having a feeling he might drop by.

But, around 1am, I got a text instead, "You wanna order food?"

"I ate," I responded.

No response.

A few days later he came back to my room.

It was late—later than usual. I was lying in bed, half-asleep, when I heard the soft click of my door opening. He didn’t knock. He didn’t say anything. He just stood there, silhouetted in the hallway light, his hoodie pulled low over his forehead. My eyes only half opened. I expected this would come eventually, but I didn't know when.

“Cody,” he said quietly.

I sat up, my heart pounding. He didn’t wait for a response. He stepped into the room, pulling off his hoodie and tossing it to the floor. His chest was bare, his muscles taut, his skin flushed. He was hard—already—the outline of his cock pressing against his sweatpants.

“I can’t—” he started, his voice breaking. “I can’t fucking think.”

He never used to say anything when he came to my room last year, and I didn't know how to respond in the moment, so I just pulled the blanket up on my bed, inviting him in. He left his sweatpants on and stepped into the bed, melting into the warm pocket I had created, like it was made just for him. I watched him release a heavy breath of relief just from being close to me, and saw all the stress that was churning in his body. He lay there for a long time, and I nearly fell asleep next to him, before he reached over and grabbed my hand. It was the kind of intimacy I had only shared with him after sex the previous year, but tonight this was what he needed. I slowly moved over to him, and he turned away from me, scooting back against my nearly nude body, pulling my arm across his chest. I pulled him tight against me, and for the first time in my life, fell asleep in the spooning position.

I awoke sometime in the night, when he rose from the bed, tossled my hair like we were still kids playing video games, and slowly left my room.

I caught him crying the next day in his room. The door was slightly ajar and he must have thought he was home alone, so I went to the library to get some work done. On my way back I texted him.

"I'm bringing home Dante's." It was our favorite takeout food.

"Ok."

While we were eating, I went out of my normal comfort zone, and talked him up a bit. I reminded him casually that girls on campus were eyeing him all the time, and they'd love a ride on his muscle stack.

"They would totally eat your ass too. The girls are getting freaky this year," I stated with confidence. He shot me a knowing glance.

"I've still only had that one," he admitted, opting not to mention the one I gave him last year.

I watched his genuine smile start to return by the time we were full of tacos and playing some of our favorite competitive video games. I was tempted to let him win once in a while, but I never went easy on him. I didn't want him to think I was being disingenuous.

When I called it a night, I stood up and adjusted the waistband of my sweatpants, and headed for my room.

"Cody," he called after me. I turned back to him.

"Thanks," he said, keeping his eyes on the screen. He wasn't just thanking me for dinner, and I knew it. I knew everything about my bro. He would get over this slump, and I would support him along the way. But, if history suggests anything, there was one more thing he needed from me.

–[]–

That night, I was deep in sleep when I heard the door handle click. I woke up to see his classic silhouette, the streetlights illuminating him through my window. I didn't say anything, letting him decide what he needed.

He didn't wait long to start undressing, and he did it quickly. In a second his hoodie and pants were on the floor, and I could see his massive pole that I had gotten used to the previous year. My lips curled involuntarily at being reintroduced to his nude form. The shadowed version of my friend that communicated only through physical contact and hushed groans.

He didn't fall back into the exact routine from before. There was an assertiveness to the way he walked up to my side of the bed and stood there, as if he were assessing the situation and making a decision. I was a buffet for him, and he was choosing his first course. I got hard as I waited for him to proceed, and reached under my blanket to remove the underwear I had been sleeping in.

Taking a breath, as if taking a leap before he decided against it, he hopped on top of me, facing away. His muscular ass was in my face, with the slightest amount of increased fuzz from what I remembered. He bent forward and exposed his intimate pink hole to me, and I knew what he wanted. I leaned forward to give him the tongue bath that he craved. With a hand on each of his hips, I dug my head into his cheeks and slurped and slobbered in a sloppy mess of saliva until he started to groan involuntarily. He pressed against me, pushing my head into the pillow as he smothered me with his ass. He pressed down for a long time as my oxygen supply depleted, until my heart raced in a short panic. He rose off of me and I sucked in a breath, before he slammed back down firmly. He continued to bounce on my face, enjoying my tongue for seconds at a time before lifting up and slamming back down.

I pulled his hips into me with force, enjoying the dazedness of being slammed in the face with a male ass. He was taking what he needed from me, and it was a joy to give it to him.

He stopped suddenly to put his balls over my eyes, letting his dick rest over my mouth. I reached up to his meat pole standing proudly over me. My hands had not felt a cock like his in months. He was huge—thick and heavy, the veins standing out against his flushed skin. I wrapped my hand around him, feeling him twitch in my grip. He gasped, his hips jerking forward, his ass sliding against my face.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his head falling back. “Fuck, Cody—”

When he said my name, I couldn't wait any longer. I scooted down on the bed as he squatted over my pillow. I took him into my mouth, my lips stretching around his shaft. I could feel the joy in his body as he leaned forward, groaned, grabbed me by the neck and thrust his hips forward, gagging me instantly.

He didn’t hold back. He fucked my throat like he’d been waiting for it—hard, desperate, his grip on my neck tightening with every thrust. I could feel him losing control, his rhythm faltering, his breath coming in short, broken gasps.

“Jesus,” he choked out, his hips slamming into me. “Cody—“

My throat burned, my jaw ached, but I kept my hands on his ass, pulling him into me, taking him deeper, feeling him pulse against my tongue. His thighs trembled around my head, his grip cutting off my blood flow, his cock throbbing as he froze in my throat, spasming an orgasm directly into me.

He let out a strangled moan, his hips jerking forward, pulling his heavy meat in and out of my throat without rhythm, his cock pulsing in my mouth. I swallowed, feeling him twitch, his release hot and heavy against my tongue. He didn’t pull away. He just stood there, his hands clutching my body, his breath ragged, as I worked him through it using my throat muscles and tongue.

When it was over, he let go, his body sagging, his hands falling to his sides. He looked down at me, his chest rising and falling, his eyes dark.

He stood up slowly, tossling my hair, his standard thanks. He turned and walked out, leaving me there, my throat raw, my heart racing.

I gave myself a quick release onto my stomach, and then another slow one before I could sleep. He was going to be ok. He knew–he didn't need to carry around stress, he could rely on me.