Getting Into His Pants
Note: All of the characters in this story are over the age of 21. Trigger warning: this story involves non-consensual sex.
Let's start by saying that, in the eyes of the world, inside and out, the guy was a fucking mess. He'd always struggled with various challenges -- a little bipolar, a little depressive, a lot OCD. Then he'd quit his job to take one that looked better, only to get fired within a few months because he couldn't "compromise his standards" and do what his bosses told him to do. So now he was out of work, almost out of money, and spending way too many evenings at my house drinking himself into a stupor on my booze. He would show up at my door in the early evening, looking a bit hang-dog and a lot thirsty, a goofy and guilty smile on his lips.
We'd been friends for years, so I didn't have a choice. Every time I invited him in and asked him if he wanted a beer. Every time he'd nod his shaggy head up and down a few times and grin at me as I headed off to the kitchen to get him his first drink of the night. Every time he'd wander around my living room looking for the remote, and flip the TV on to whatever ball game was available. By the time I got back from the kitchen, his shoes would be off and his big feet would be propped up on my coffee table, toes waggling as he settled his body deep into my couch.
So why did I put up with this? Why did I give in every time to his freeloading and unasked-for presence? What was wrong with me that I was willing to enable him? It was a simple formula -- about 20% habit, 30% affection, and 50% lust. Unrequited lust, of course. He was as straight as they come. If he was awake, he was talking about women. He constantly complained about the lack of a female in his life, and completely failed to understand why no woman ever wanted to go out with him more than once. I understood their reasoning completely. He dressed like a complete slob, there were holes in all his socks, he couldn't eat without creating a mess of discarded food on the table all around his plate, and he didn't have any money to spend on anything. Of course, the other reason I knew he was completely straight was because I couldn't manage to seduce him, no matter how hard I tried. Don't ask me why, but I found the big goof deeply sexy in a twisted way. He was odd-looking, but I liked it. His head was oversized and his dark hair was shaggy. He didn't get it cut very often, and when he did he must've had it done for free by an inexperienced barber-in-training. His nose was huge and his complexion wasn't good. He was tall -- about 6'4" -- and he had a lanky body dominated by sloping shoulders and a little pot belly. He shambled along when he walked, and he usually forgot to shave. But. His height totally turned me on. I've always melted over men built like skyscrapers, the kind whose torsos are so high up that my head hits their chests when they hug me. I love reclining against a big tall bear of a guy who can wrap his body around mine. Beyond that, he had killer eyes -- huge, a beautiful shade of brown, and as soulful as a puppy's. And most important -- at least, as best I could guess from the bulge often showing in his baggy pants -- he had a fucking monster of a cock. Sometimes when he'd lay back on my couch, or walk across the room, the fabric of his stained pants would bunch up in just the right way, and I'd catch a hint of the gigantic hog that I knew he kept hidden in his shorts. Often while he was staring at some pro ballers on the TV screen, I'd discreetly direct my eyes down at his crotch and salivate over the anaconda I knew was sleeping in his lap.
I did everything I could to get inside those pants. When we first met, I listened sympathetically to all his befuddled complaints about the women he couldn't score with. Eventually, after hinting around for a while, I finally came right out and directly asked him how he managed to channel his sex drive. His answer was to tightly grip the lump in his crotch, leer at me, and say, "when the big fella can't find any other playmates, he lets me play with him all I want. Sometimes we play for hours."
I can't say for sure that his dick was fully awake for this conversation, but I can say that the bulge between his legs looked even more prominent than usual for a while.
But he didn't unzip, and no more was said. For weeks. So I doubled-down on my efforts. On the nights when he didn't volunteer the information himself, I developed a habit of asking him how his dating life was going. Had he gone out since the last time I'd seen him? And if so, had he managed to score? The answers made it clear that he was only hitting the bullseye once or twice every few months, and that the successes were separated by long dry spells of failure. I started to hint at the fact that he had other options he could explore. I pointed out that there were lots of gay guys out there who would be willing to give him a blow job (or more) without expecting him to spend the time and money required for regular "dates" -- and stressed to him that guys tend to be a lot better than women at giving blow jobs anyway. He could get triple the reward on a much more frequent basis if he'd just -- flex a little. He smiled, slowly shook his head, and said he "wasn't up for that." But he still kept showing up at my door, and I noticed that he was whining more openly now about how horny he felt all the time. I didn't have to bring up the subject of sex anymore. Out of the blue, while leaning back on my couch with a beer (or a scotch) in his hands, he'd regularly say something like, "Man, am I boned up tonight!" My eyes would flick down below his waist, he'd tug at his pants, and then he'd laugh. "Too bad there aren't no ladies here tonight," he'd say, as he fumbled at the growing lump in his crotch.
After a few weeks of this, I got bolder. I opened up more than I ever had before about my own sex life (which was far more active than he knew). I told a few stories about a couple of guys I'd seen repeatedly for months. Then I told him about some of my one-night-only, blow-and-go experiences. Bullseye. Those made him sit up straight and open his eyes. But he still didn't open his pants. So I started "dressing down" more. He'd show up at my door to find me wearing just loose running shorts and a t-shirt. Before long, the shorts didn't have any underwear under them and the tee's got smaller and had more holes in them. I thought I saw his eyes drop below my waist a few times, but the glances were momentary at best -- and led to the same old nothing. So one Saturday night, I left some porn on the coffee table for him to see when he arrived. I made sure there were a couple of straight mags on top -- and some mild gay stuff underneath. When he arrived and started to put his feet up, from my vantage point in the kitchen I could see him pick up the top one. He leafed through it, groped himself a little, set it aside, and picked up the next one. I stalled some more, talking to him from the other room as he leafed through the pages. By the time he got to the third one (the gay one), I was fully hard and couldn't wait to see his reaction. Which was -- mixed. He did leaf through it. But it wasn't long before he set it aside on top of the others. Disappointing, but not surprising.
I joined him on the couch, handed him his beer, and settled down beside him. His eyes stayed glued to the screen, and he didn't say a word about the porn. After a few minutes, I said, "Hey Stew, I see you found my stash! What did you think?"
"Eh. I've seen better. There's one blonde in there that the big guy wouldn't mind making friends with, though! But what are you doing with straight porn? I didn't think you were into that stuff."
"Aw, you know, gotta see what the competition has to offer!" He smiled and his attention went back to the game. And my eyes stayed on his pants. He had to know where I was looking. But he didn't say a word.
In the weeks that followed, I tried everything I could think of. I'd tell him he was "looking good" and ask him if he'd had any special fun with "the big fella" lately. Nothing. I'd fold my feet up beside me on the couch and let them rest against him. Nothing. I'd bring him his third or fourth drink of the night and massage his shoulders a little. Nothing. My balls were turning blue. So finally I came right out and made him a direct offer. It was a Friday night, his latest date had asked him to take her home early, and he was complaining about his horniness more than usual. Sometime around his fourth or fifth drink, I thought I saw his eyes drop down to my crotch again, and I decided it was time to make the next move.
"Tell you what, old buddy," I said. "If you wanna get some relief tonight, I'd be happy to, uh... help you out. No strings attached. You don't need to do anything except sit there and let it happen -- and if you don't want to, we'll never talk about it again. But Stew, if you
