This is a work of fiction. All characters are over 18 years old.
You know the type of guy that walks into a room and all eyes are instantly on him?Everyone staring at him, men and women alike, out of respect, admiration or, more often than not, out of sheer lust? Well, Jason was just like that. And it wasn't just because of his looks - sure, blond hair, blue eyes, and a chiseled jaw will get you far in life - but because of his a-type personality. Confident and affable, loud and good-natured, he was a guy everybody felt they could trust but at the same time only dared admire from afar; he was too good, in a league of his own.
At eighteen, we had been friends for over a decade, all throughout primary, secondary and now high school. He was my best friend you could say, which frankly surprised many people. I wasn't wildly unpopular or a freak or anything, but the truth was that while Jason was the all-American jock, the athlete, the ladies man, the 6 foot 5 muscleman, I was - well - completely average. Average height, average grades, and average penis, if you must know. I had a fairly forgettable face, a monotonic voice, and the tendency to fade into the background and watch the action unfold; always an observer, never the main character. I made it through school with barely anyone noticing me. Except for Jason, I guess. For as long as I could remember, he was there for me. Always hanging out after school, studying together, playing video games, talking about girls, listening each other yap about our dreams and aspirations for the future. I knew him better than anyone, and I'm sure he would say the same thing about me. If I had to explain why he picked me to be his best friend over the popular kids, the jocks, the freaking child actor that was in our school, I'd say it was because I genuinely cared about him, and he knew that. But maybe that is only half the truth. Because, I didn't just care about him. I was madly in love with him.
For the longest time, I was in a state of denial. Whether I caught myself stealing glances at Jason while he changed out of his shorts or I felt my heart rate rising when he playfully smacked my ass when I walked past him, I just blocked it all out, buried it deep in my subconscious, hoping it would go away, like some virus my body would eventually expel. But by the summer before college, I was done lying to myself. Maybe it was the realisation that we would soon be going our separate ways - different colleges, different states, different lives - or maybe it was that after years of suppressing my feelings, something inside me broke, my capacity for self-denial and self-deception completely exhausted. So I started looking at him. Really, actually, watching him. His indigo blue eyes, his pink lips, his light blond hair, a bit curly, always messy, and, of course, his body. My God. His body. His huge, smooth pecs topped with his hard, pink nipples, the chiselled abs, the sculpted back, the perfect bubble butt, always draped with loose-fitted basketball shorts, the big, round bulge between his legs. My God.
And soon, I found myself doing things I wasn't particularly proud of. It started innocent enough, like stealing glances while Jason changed after basketball practice. I remember him shirtless in the locker rooms, his chest shiny with sweat, talking loudly, playfully bragging about outperforming everyone else on the team. He dropped his shorts and tossed them aside, standing there in his underwear. I could see the outline of his dick through his boxer shorts. Even though I had always avoided looking at his dick, I had caught fleeting glimpses of it, a flash of smooth pink skin with the slightest dusting of blond hairs. I knew it was big, because he often talked about it. How girls struggled to take it, how if basketball didn't pan out he could always start an OnlyFans. Jokes of course, but still, there was never any doubt about it. And yet, nothing could have prepared me for what I saw when he dropped his underwear and stood in front of me butt naked, completely oblivious that his best friend was devouring him with his eyes. It was big. It was huge. A heavy, meaty dick that hung maybe 6 inches flaccid and a pair of balls that were round and big and completely hairless. His pubes were light and blond, and I could tell they were drenched in sweat. I was instantly hard. The lightest stroke and I'm pretty sure I would've shot my load right there and then in front of the entire basketball team. When Jason finished his figurative dick swinging about his performance at the court, he grabbed his towel and headed to the showers. "Next time aim the ball at the basket, Micky," he told one of the betas with a grin. "Quit being an ass, man," the beta shouted after him. Without turning around, Jason smacked his own asscheek and laughed. I watched his muscular ass bounce with every step he took, until he disappeared into the showers. I replayed the scene in my head later that day and every day for the rest of the week. I jerked off frantically, like a mad man. Each time, I blew a huge load all over my stomach, thick and sticky, and for a minute I'd just lay there and let it drip down my side, imagining that it wasn't mine, but Jason's.
But then, fantasies weren't enough. I started craving the real thing. To touch, to smell, to taste. One day, I was chilling in Jason's bedroom, playing a game on his Xbox while he lay on his bed smoking weed and texting with this girl he was seeing, some Jen. I remember her name because he often complained that she wouldn't touch his dick, never mind suck it or let him fuck her. Imagine having the option to play with Jason's dick and saying no. Can't relate. After a while, he got up to go to the bathroom. I was alone in his bedroom. There was a faint smell of musk lingering in the air, from his unchanged sheets maybe or Jason's own body - I had noticed his pits were a bit sweaty that afternoon. I normally hate body odour. It disgusts me. But with Jason, it was different. Something about his natural smell turned me on and, equally, unsettled me. Like smelling his body made it even more real, more tangible, and therefore I could, maybe one day, touch it. In the few minutes he was gone - I could hear him pissing in the bathroom next door - my eyes fell on a small pile of clothes that lay on the foot of his bed. A pair of jeans. A couple of worn t-shirts, basketball shorts. And then, a pair of boxer shorts. Black, loosened, worn. My heart rate shot up. I could hear the toilet flushing inside. Could I do it? It felt like a step too far.
When I got home, I locked my bedroom door, pulled out Jason's dirty underwear from my pocket and lay it on my bed. I buried my face in it and groaned. The salty smell of his balls assaulted my nostrils, fucked with my brain, made me dizzy. I started licking, and for a second there, I fully believed that I wasn't licking a piece of fabric, but Jason's big round balls that were bathed in his sweat from basketball practice, his horse dick, veiny, and rock hard, his hairless taint, and, finally, his asshole, which I could bet you anything was pink, and, sure, it was clean, but I now knew it was musky and sweaty. The ass of a man.
I jerked off with his boxers draped over my face. I slipped a finger in my ass, and then, even though it hurt, I added two more. I pictured Jason walking in and grabbing me by the hair, spitting in my mouth, then making me worship his body, from his size 10 feet to his smelly pits. I pictured him pinning me down, spitting on his monster cock just once, and then shoving it in my virgin hole and splitting me open. I fantasised about him pounding into me with no mercy, ruining my hole, making me cry, his hand holding me by the throat, his blue eyes staring gleefully into mine, a sadistic grin on his face. He'd cum inside me, coating my insides with his thick sperm. "Take my cum, pussy boy," he'd say. "Please," I'd say, "please." Destroy me.
There was one time when I thought I almost had him. We were in my house, watching TV. My parents were out of town that weekend, and Jen was at home sick, so it was just the two of us. Jason was smoking one blunt after the other, and I could tell from his bloodshot eyes and slurred voice that he was high as a kite. He was very mellow when he was stoned. He'd sit back, watch the dumbest thing imaginable, from Adam Sandler movies to cat videos, and just giggle like an idiot. But, I had also noticed that he talked about sex a lot more than usual. Inevitably, when we smoked, at some point he'd start narrating to me his steamy encounters with various girls in graphic detail, which one blew him where, how that one girl sucked the tip of his dick and tickled his balls, how this other girl nearly choked because he shot a huge load down her throat. Always about him, though, and his big cock, never about the girls. As if he knew exactly what I wanted to hear. That evening was no different. Jason suggested we watch some porn on my laptop and unashamedly searched Pornhub for "BBC", "Latina", "petite", "anal", so comfortable in his heterosexuality, he never thought searching for big dick porn would raise any alarms. "Who watches porn with small dicks," he once said casually after I randomly came across "monster cock" in his browser history. So we sat there in the dark and watched women getting destroyed by massive dicks. Chocking on it, taking it up the ass, thong pulled to the side, a muscly man treating them like shit. At some point, I noticed Jason's hand had moved to his crotch. He was staring at the screen, his mouth hanging open, a tiny bit of saliva pooling at the corner of his lips, and he was rubbing his boner. I could see the outline of his huge cock, a beer-can thick pipe extending sideways all the way up to his stomach. It throbbed. Fuck. I felt my mouth go dry. Jason, rock hard, rubbing his boner, only a few inches away from me. I could just reach out and grab it if I wanted to. I could tell him that I was just doing him a favour. Helping a buddy out. Other guys do it. We've all heard the stories. But I didn't. I waited for the right moment, and then I waited some more, and then - as I was beginning to think that I could actually find the balls to do it - my laptop died. "Ah fuck," Jason said, "and they were getting to the good part." I mumbled that I could go get my charger, but Jason said he had to get going. He was meeting Jen the next morning, and who knows, maybe this time she'd finally put out. I barely slept that night, and when I did, my hazy brain forced me to rewatch Jason feeling his massive dick right there next to me, while I sat there frozen, unable to reach out and take what I wanted the most.
In some ways, I wish the story ended there. I wish these were the only memories I had of Jason. The beautiful hung jock I could never have, who remained my straight best friend and went on to marry a beautiful woman, have kids, live the American dream, while I secretly lusted after him from a safe distance. But as luck would have it, things took an unexpected turn.
You see, there were three of us. While Jason and I had been best friends for as long as I could remember, in the last year of high school, we started hanging out with Miguel, who'd transferred from a private school. He was a rich kid who drove a Benz to school, wore expensive brands, bragged about his dad's business, the size of his "mansion". He was a bit obnoxious, but at the same time, you couldn't help but want to impress him. His snobby attitude, his dismissive remarks about people he'd met, places he'd travelled to - "New York is so overrated" - dazzled us, amused us. He quickly became very popular, and there was always an empty seat waiting for him at the cool kids' table. I remember being surprised by his meteoric rise in the school hierarchy. He was impressive sure, but at the same time, he was clearly, well, gay. He wasn't out, and no one asked, but I could just tell: his pouty smile, the flick of his wrist, his bitchy comments, the occasional "honey" he used in conversation, the tight jeans, obviously intended to showcase his big ass. There was something effeminate about him, which I had to admit at the time really annoyed me. I was obsessed with Jason, sure, and I was gay, sure, but I never rubbed it in other people's faces. The first time I met him, I remember I was stunned to see him dab his lips with vaseline - the fruitiest thing I'd ever seen - before leering at me with this sleazy smile. I remember stammering a bit, going red. Then these guys from the football team walked past us and I could've sworn I heard him hum, like I'd seen creeps do when trying to get the attention of the hot girls. He looked over his shoulder and watched them go, checking out their ripped bodies like they were pieces of meat.
