Straight Friend’s Dry Spell

Everyone is 18.

Chapter 1: Sophomore Year

We’d been best friends since we were kids.

Backyard wrestling, camping trips, late nights passing a game controller back and forth until the sun cracked through the blinds. Our lives had run side by side like train tracks — same classes, same teams, same night we both lost our virginity during senior year (mine to a girl from speech and debate, his to one of her friends that he never texted again).

Freshman year of college, I came out as bi. Quietly, over fries in the dining hall. He didn’t flinch. Just nodded, asked if I was gonna start dressing better now. That was his way of saying he didn’t care — and that nothing between us would change.

Last year, our sophomore year, we got an apartment together. Two bedrooms. Thin walls. Comfortably messy. His hookups came in streaks — droughts and deluges — but most of the time, it was just us, eating takeout and watching trash TV, like nothing had shifted since childhood. We still walked around in our underwear together like bros. Morning wood was a regular guest, and neither of us were shy about it in front of the other. It was so commonplace that it wasn’t even noteworthy to joke about it.

Then came his first long dry spell.

Three months, maybe more. He got weird. Restless. Tense. I'd catch him with headphones in, eyes closed, jaw clenched. He'd disappear into the bathroom for twenty minutes, come out with damp hair and a towel around his waist, saying nothing. I caught him looking at me when he thought I wouldn’t notice.

It built slowly. Quietly. Until one night, it broke.

He came into my room without knocking. Just a soft click of the door, a shadow in the hallway light. He didn’t say anything—just stood there, barefoot in sweatpants, hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands.

I sat up in bed.

He didn’t ask. He just looked at me, jaw working, breath shallow. Then he took a step forward.

I didn’t move. Just watched as he pulled his hoodie over his head, tossed it to the floor, revealing more muscles than I realized he had. Had he started working out more? His hands went to his waistband. He hesitated.

I nodded, understanding where this was going, and he let them fall.

He didn’t touch me, didn’t speak. Just climbed into my bed, lay down on his stomach, and waited. I pulled back the sheet, letting my fingers drift across his bare back. His skin was warm, twitching under my touch. He didn’t tense—he just breathed, slow and heavy. An old memory came to my mind, from a year prior, when he confided in me what his biggest fantasy with a woman was. He wanted a rimjob. He had only had one in his life, and “she didn’t do a good job”.

I kissed the ridge of his spine. Ran my hands over his waist, across the soft curve of him.

When I parted his cheeks, he shifted slightly, letting his legs fall open, his dick rock hard and pointing downward against the mattress. I moved slowly. Gently.

My tongue met his skin and he gasped—barely audible, but it was enough. His fists clenched in the blanket. I took my time, working my tongue in his hole in smooth, wet circles.

His whole body was heat. His breath hitched with every flick, every press. He stifled any sounds that would’ve come out of his mouth, but he didn’t stop me.

|–[]–|

I stayed low, tongue working softly in slow, careful motions. His hips began to rock gently, instinctive but hesitant. He gripped the edge of the mattress like it grounded him.

When I pulled away, he leaned back into a doggystyle yoga pose, his ass basically chasing my tongue, and my hand acted on its own to reach for his rigid, long and girthy cock. I stroked slowly, deliberately, with one hand on his lower back to keep him steady. He didn’t say a word. But his body said everything. I returned to pleasuring my straight, lifelong friend’s ass with my tongue.

His breathing grew short, and he started whimpering, completely letting go. His thighs trembled slightly and his hole quivered on my tongue. I felt his back muscles tighten and spasm under my palm.

When I tightened my hand around his hefty meat pole, and jerked him in rapid, steady strokes, his breath caught in his throat. I didn’t rush. I just kept going, feeling his heat grow, his grip on the sheets tighten, his rhythm lose control.

He came with a squeak from this throat—shoulders tense, head down, one soft exhale of my name that barely made it out. “Cody–”

After, he slumped forward, and lay still for a long time.

I pulled the blanket over him and didn’t say anything. Neither did he. Just the soft sound of his breathing slowly leveling out, the tension in his body melting as he dozed off beside me.

In the morning, he was gone. But something had changed.

He was lighter for the next few days. He laughed more. Ate better. His restlessness faded. I’d catch him humming to himself, tapping his fingers against the countertop. Almost like he’d rebooted from the inside.

We didn’t talk about that night. I didn’t expect us to. And I didn’t press.

But a week later, he came back.

It was a Friday night in September. The kind of evening where the air felt thinner, cooler, and the apartment had that faint smell of laundry and old takeout. We didn’t have plans, didn’t need them tonight.

He came into my room just after 11. No knocking. Just the soft sound of the door clicking shut behind him.

Same hoodie. Same look in his eyes. A little sheepish, a little buzzed from whatever he'd been thinking about all day. He pulled off his shirt and pants, his thick and long rod standing like a steel sausage. He looked at me, and waited. He didn’t need to say anything.

He needed more.

Only this time, when he lay down in my bed, he didn’t lie on his stomach. He lay on his back, like he’d already made up his mind about what he needed. When I climbed in beside him, he looked at me for half a second—like he was checking to see if I was still okay with it.

I was.

I kissed his chest. Ran my fingers across his ribs, then his waist, the place where his breath always caught.

When I lowered myself, I moved slow. I kissed the base of his shaft first, the way you might kiss someone’s shoulder or collarbone—gently, without needing a reaction.

He twitched.

So I kissed it again.

Then I used my mouth—slowly, with patience, with purpose. My lips wrapped around the head of his cock as I held the base in my hand. I could feel every shift in his hips, every quiet inhale. He kept his eyes closed.

He didn’t say anything, but his body told me everything. The way his hand brushed my shoulder for a second, then pulled away. The way his thighs flexed beneath me. The way he tried—and failed—to stay quiet. Seeing that he was not going to be rough with my head, I took the onus upon myself. I forced my head down until his long, thick rod was buried in my throat, and my bottom lip was putting pressure directly on his balls. I could feel the bulge in my neck pressing out—it was a good pain.

I could tell it was his first time in a long time being touched like that. The way he held his breath. The way he lost it.

He came quickly. A quiet gasp, a long exhale, his hand gripping the sheet beside him as he throbbed in my throat, sending all the ennui and touchlessness in his body straight to my stomach to be digested away. I was the willing receptacle for my buddy’s stress.

I pulled out to cough, then stayed still, my head resting on his stomach afterward. I could hear his heartbeat in my ear. After a few minutes, he sat up and got dressed. Still no words. He just ruffled my hair, like we were still kids playing video games.

Then he left.

It wasn’t weird. It didn’t feel wrong. Just… quiet. Familiar. Horny. Like something that had been waiting in the background for years, and finally stepped into the light.

I remember thinking: This won’t be the last time.

And I was right.

|–[]–|

That second night must’ve meant something to him.

Afterward, it was like a switch flipped—not just in how he acted with me, but in how he moved through the world. He carried himself differently. Looser. Lighter. The stress that had weighed down his shoulders for months was gone, like he’d finally exhaled something he didn’t know he’d been holding. He started quietly using my mouth a couple times a week, even grabbing my head sometimes and making me feel giddy with submission.

He started working out more. Like, seriously. Gym every day, sometimes twice. I teased him about it at first, but I couldn’t lie—he looked good. He was filling out, arms tighter, chest broader. His confidence returned in full force.

And honestly? I was impressed with him. With the way he owned it. With the way he kept coming back to me, like this quiet arrangement we’d built was something natural, something that made sense. Because for us, it did.

His dick—always large, hefty, weighty in my hands—became familiar. Like a routine. Something I knew how to treat, how to handle, how to make feel good.

We had our rhythm.

He’d knock softly—always late. I’d already be waiting. No words needed. He’d lie back. I’d take him in my mouth. He’d finish, clean up, and ruffle my hair on the way out.

Until one night… he changed the pattern. Again.

He came into my room, same quiet energy, same hoodie pulled low. I was already sitting up, expecting the usual. But this time, he didn’t lie down.

He climbed onto the bed, reached out, and pushed me down gently onto my back.

I didn’t say a word. I just looked up at him, curious. He moved over me, steady and quiet. His hands pulled off my shirt, then worked lower. When he got to my ass, he hesitated just a second, like he was checking with himself.

Then he took a step I didn’t expect.

He grabbed the lube off my nightstand, lifted my ass with one strong hand, and poured the lube liberally on my hole as I lifted my legs for him. More quickly than I was ready for, he pushed himself into me—deep, deliberate, like he’d made up his mind before he even walked in the room.

My breath caught. His grip was firm. He didn’t look at me, but I could feel the focus in his body. Luckily I was warmed up from a dildo sesh a few minutes prior, so accepting him into me was just a matter of mindset, and he was turning me on like crazy.

He moved with purpose—his own rhythm, his own pace—like he wanted to feel all of it. It was different. It was him taking what he wanted, not just walking in to let me de-stress his cock. And not just using me, but claiming something. And even in the quiet, even in the dark, I could feel it: something between us had shifted again.

And I wasn’t sure it would ever shift back.

His grip tightened on my hips. I moaned with the ecstasy of the spontaneity. He leaned forward, and I could feel his breath on my neck, hot and uneven, as he settled deeper into the rhythm he’d found—slow at first, then faster, more urgent, pumping away at his longtime friend. My heels dug into his ass, pressing him further into me with he’s heavy thrusts. Each motion pressed him deeper, the weight of his body anchoring mine to the mattress. He was a muscular, hunky jock now, with a big rod that he knew how to use. He was pistoning me down.

He didn’t speak. But he groaned—low, involuntary, barely restrained.

My fingers clutched at his back. Every movement sent a jolt through me, a rush of pressure and warmth that built without release. I felt every inch of him, every deliberate push, the way his hips rocked into me with more force than I expected.

One of his hands slid beneath me, lifting my lower back, adjusting the angle. The next thrust hit deeper—sharp, full. I gasped. He was literally pulling my body into him in mid-air as he forced his body weight down onto me. I felt like a weightless toy in his strong arms. Is this the same guy I grew up with?

He held there for a second, buried inside, chest rising and falling against mine. His lips brushed my shoulder once—softly, like he didn’t mean for it to happen.

Then he started to move faster again, his tensing body signalling an impending climax.

His hips slapped against my ass, my legs flopping wildly in the air, the sound echoing in the still room, each motion more desperate than the last. He was near the edge—I could tell by the way he lost his rhythm, by the way he gripped my body with a tightness that would turn coal to diamonds, pulling me into him with every thrust.

He let out a broken breath. One final push, deeper than before, opening up a deep second hole that was rarely touched in me.

He throbbed, finally giving me his release.

His body seized, hips pressed flush against me, his rod pulsing as he emptied himself inside. A heavy exhale fell against my neck. He stayed there, motionless, the only sounds our breathing syncing back into something quiet.

When he pulled out, slowly and with a wet plop sound, he collapsed beside me—silent, flushed, spent.

Neither of us moved, for a long time.

After that night, it was different yet again—subtle, but unmistakable.

It never became routine, with surprises popping up frequently, but he still came to my room late, still didn’t say much. The way he touched me changed. Slower. More sure. He started pulling me in after, letting our bodies rest together under the covers, even if we never talked about it the next day.

We never called it anything. Not love. Not sex. Not even a favor.

But it kept happening. Whenever he needed something, he came to me. And I let him. Every time. Because he was still my best friend.

And the boys look out for each other.