My Top Fantasy

I have a fantasy about my best friend.

We've been close since high school, bros doing bro stuff together, and as the years have gone on and we've gotten older our bro stuff has gotten older too. But we've always maintained the core of our relationship, the bro-dude template that defines everything about who we are. He's the alpha, the bigger, stronger one, the guy who's done more and seen more, and the confident player who has had sex with more women than he can count (eyeroll); and I'm the beta, the skinnier weaker one, the guy who's done little because he worries too much about stuff he can't control, the meek one that can count on two hands the number of women he's slept with because landing every one was a tactical, overthought, hand-wringing conquest.

He's always been bold, outgoing and in-charge -- the top. And I've always been agreeable, influenceable and willing to follow -- clearly, the bottom.

In my fantasy I travel to spend the weekend with him, and it's been years since we last saw each other face to face. I crash at his place, and we easily fall back into our friendship. We hang out, smoke pot, play video games, and chill the day away the way we've always done. We hit the frisbee golf course. We eat fast food in his living room and talk about playing some tabletop games later.

Throughout it all our activities are peppered with the back-and-forth verbal banter and chiding of our broship. We talk about the things we enjoy, our past together and how we got to where we are -- but never without the subtle ribbing and sometimes overt insults that only friends can share.

And like we have never been apart, we easily fall back into the silly and stupidly homophobic game we have always played with one another: gay chicken. The game almost exclusively involves my friend -- Top -- making a graphic sexual overture toward me, so graphic that ideally it will elicit a reaction of disgust from me. Then Top will laugh uproariously and, more than likely, call me gay.

My secret weapon in this long-running game, however, is that I have always been comfortable with homosexuality, and even as a teen when I considered myself straight I harbored frequent gay fantasies. Top's overtures, while graphic, can never affect me the same way such an overture might affect him: a proud, strong man's man that does very little to hide his own homophobia. Although he makes these crude references to creep me out and make himself laugh, he is very, very straight. He will very seriously correct anyone who implies otherwise -- with his fists, if necessary.

It has always been a strange dichotomy, these lurid gay overtures -- but just kidding! -- combined with this sense of frail masculinity and macho, no-homo bravado. A suspicious dichotomy, at that.

So when he fires a volley -- a lurid description of me sucking his dick and him cumming in my hair -- I answer back in cold deadpan. Cum in my hair would be pretty degrading, but I'd rather have it in my mouth.

Then comes the laugh, the belt of over-the-top guffaws, and the surrender. I win this one, unsurprisingly.

My secret weapon is that I don't lie. If he came on me, I

would

want it in my mouth. I'd want to taste it.

That night we drink. I don't generally drink socially, although Top does. I prefer to smoke, but there are times where I would prefer a good drunk. Namely, when I'm getting ready to fuck. And so tonight, when he asks if I want to get some alcohol and get drunk, I say yes.

I'm nervous. Even in my fantasy I am jittery and anxious. Because I know what I want to happen tonight, and I'm pretty sure it's going to happen. These homosexual-explicit games he's been playing with me all these years aren't just Mad Lib, throwaway punchlines to him. They can't be. They're too specific, too detailed, and they've lasted for too long to be just idle banter. Those comments, I'm sure of it, are a secret side of him slipping out, or maybe a choice by his conscious mind to share his deep secret with me.

That's what it has always been. A way of expressing his secret desire, and then back-pedaling from it with laughter, safely avoiding the perceived shame of admitting that he harbors a lust he has been programmed to hate. It's not a line he's casting in the water to see what bites -- because he backs away regardless of how seriously I respond, allowing both of us the "only joking" out from the conversation.

But that's my secret weapon. I never back away from it. I've always played the ambiguous card, the "I might actually be telling you the truth" attitude. With a coy grin, I do it every time.

And tonight the game is going to lead us somewhere. Tonight

it

is going to happen. Liquor is going to break down the barrier, and the porn that we watch together -- which he suggests, as if on cue -- is just going to oil the wheels of the battering ram.

As the shots flow more quickly, the porn we watch begins to shift as well. At first he simply queues through his favorites, showing off girls he finds particularly attractive -- most of which, unsurprisingly, are of the blonde bimbo variety -- and scrubbing through highlights of each video. As we start getting tipsy and talkative, he finds himself distracted and leaves the videos playing. When conversation lulls he turns back to the tv and grows quiet for a bit, his focus on the scene playing out in front of him. Sometimes I say something to break the silence, and sometimes he suddenly realizes he's being quiet and starts talking nervously.

The tension building in the room is building in my chest as well. I'm practically shivering with nervous anticipation.

More shots. He gives control over the porn to me, and I switch to my queue of favorites. I'm not picking scenes featuring my hottest babes, though. The videos I start playing are selections I'm curating with quivering hope for what will happen to me tonight. They are scenes where men aren't just fucking women; they are owning them. Sometimes there is just one man, but those scenes quickly bore me and I click on, looking for the videos I've favorited where groups of men take fervent turns passing around one woman, filling every orifice in grunting, almost angry passion.

Top is watching the screen, one hand absently moving against his lap. After a long silence -- one interrupted only by the groans and screams of the woman on screen, who seems to both hate the men around her and desperately want them inside her -- he finally asks an idle question. It is one I didn't expect, and it catches me off guard.

"You ever think about being her?"

He doesn't look at me when he asks, his gaze locked on the screen ahead. I don't know how to answer. Not because I genuinely don't

know

the answer, but because the question is so pointed and specific and

on-target

. In an anxious flash I wonder if Top is working me just as much as I am working him. Does he know? Just as I have long suspected he is the type of closeted bisexual who would like to top other men in a show of dominance and submission, does he suspect I fantasize about being a woman and being dominated by strong men? Or is it simply a fantasy of his to dominate me, regardless of my own proclivities, in the same way I fantasize about him holding me down and penetrating me?

I am silent for a long moment, my mouth open. He stares at the tv a while longer, his absent fiddling in his lap now more concentrated and determined as he cradles a growing shaft under his jeans. And then he turns his head to look at me. When he does, the only thing I can think to say is the truth.

"Yes."

I am stone serious, and I don't break eye contact with him. Top smiles, one corner of his mouth pulling up, and then he turns back to the tv. The woman onscreen is now accommodating as many of the cocks around her as possible, with two men grunting below her, one straddling her chest with his crooked cock between her tits, one standing over her face and dipping himself in her mouth, and one on either side standing at attention and watching her pull absently at their cocks with her hands.

"You like this kind of porn?" Top asks.

"It's my favorite," I say.

He pours two shots, which we drink, and then rests back again, facing the tv.

"And you think about being her?" As he asks me this he reaches down with both hands and unbuttons his pants. Then he opens the zipper and slides one hand in. A patch of pubic hair is visible in the open V of his jeans: he's not wearing underwear.

I want to reach down to my lap as well, but something stops me -- nervous anxiety, maybe, or maybe it's because I haven't been given permission. Again it's the truth that spills from my lips, pushed forward by drunken lack of inhibition.

"It's all I think about," I say, looking at the woman now, the center of so much primal, visceral attention, completely naked and exposed and being pincushioned by these men that so desperately want her. "Everytime."

My desire is building. I look down and one of my hands is at my chest, a finger swirling against the fabric and the nipple below. I look up, and Top is looking back at me.

"When you think about being her, do you think about cock?" When he says that last word he moves his hand briskly under his jeans, as if to punctuate the sentence.

This time I can only nod.

"Do you think about tasting cock?" He's no longer paying attention to the screen, despite the climactic sprays of semen and the groaning announcements of orgasm coming from the men standing over the drenched woman.

I nod again, strongly. "Yes."

He pushes down his jeans. In his hand he holds something I've fantasized about for years, something I've long known is larger than average and, in Top's mind, is the subject of every woman's dreams. I've never seen it, though, and in my mind I have built it up to be perfect -- perfectly shaped and sized, a straight, rigid shaft that veinily climbs to a plump, purple mushroom head, the kind of cock that will get you hired as a porn actor but won't earn you any nicknames like Bubba or Mandingo.

It is not as I imagined -- not exactly. It is indeed large -- Top's macho insistence that his penis size scares women is not entirely unfounded, I discover -- but it isn't ungainly. Rather than being a straight shaft pointing forward like an arrow, however, the cock in Top's hand faintly curves upward, so that its fat tip -- a head more swollen and full than I expected -- vaguely points toward the ceiling. The shaft isn't a uniform column, either, and rather bulges slightly in the middle, such that the widest point of the shaft is nearly as wide as the head above. It tapers back as it climbs, however, creating a thinner base that allows the purple head to overhang around it.

He pushes his hand down to his abdomen, stretching out the skin of his cock and giving the rigid member a shake.

He's still looking at me.

"Does this cock scare you?"

I am quiet, mesmerized by the sight of his upright, swollen cock. It's the first cock I've seen like this in person -- the first time I've been in a room with a penis erect in passion and desire, the first time such a cock has been presented as a potential offering for me. The surge of restless sexuality in me is electric.

I open my mouth hesitantly, not sure what I'm about to say, when he interrupts me with laughter. A full-throated, obnoxious guffaw.

"Dude, you're so gay!" he yells, still laughing. There's something else in his voice, though, that tone I've always suspected meant "joking not joking."

Still laughing he moves a hand to his pants and starts tucking away his cock -- still erect. I don't actually say anything -- more of an intention to, a quick lean forward, an intake of breath, the first syllable of a word formed on my lips. "Wait," maybe. Whatever it is, it's urgent.

He sees it, and his laugh dries up. He looks at me for several seconds, and then he pulls his hand away from his pants. His cock still firmly in the other hand, he leans back in his chair, turns toward the tv, and starts softly stroking himself.

The video ends. I frantically reach for the remote to pick a new one, the next one, not caring what it is. I'm watching him, not the video. He's breathing more heavily, and his hand moves in more concentrated strokes.

After a time -- as I breath heavily watching him -- he starts speaking.

"I had sex with a man once. In the army," he says. "I never told anyone."

He grows quiet again, but I'm hanging on his words. Is he ...

"It was with that guy we were hazing at base," he says. "You remember the video I showed you?"

I do. It was a video someone shot with a phone, and in it Top and several other guys -- all hooting and laughing in drunken voices -- take turns snapping another guy with towels. The guy is tied at his hands and feet, and he's yelling for them to stop, but in a familiar way, as if he knows them and is used to this.

"It was later, after all that," he says. He still has his cock in his hand, still stroking it with intent, his eyes still on the porn onscreen. "The other guys had had enough and went back to their rooms, but this one guy, Mike, he had an idea. He wanted to put Ben-Gay on this guy's ass. Like, because it was going to burn, you know, but also because, you know, Ben-Gay? I was still pretty amped up, so I said sure. Mike took the guy and tossed him on the bed, made him get up on his knees. I grabbed some Ben-Gay, and Mike pulls the guy's pants down, so his ass is right there, pointed up in the air at us. And he's clean. Like, shaved clean. He was a manscaper, I guess. And Mike gets this look in his eyes and gets all quiet. Then he slapped his ass, you know, but not in a mean way. More like you would slap a girl's ass, like he was checking to see how firm it was. Then he did it again, but this time he kept his hand there, rubbing his ass and squeezing."

He gets quiet again. I've turned down the volume on the porn, and the room is still.

"We never said anything to each other. We just did it. Right there. Randy -- the guy we were hazing -- he struggled at first, like he didn't want it, but that ... that just made us more frantic. But then he started moaning."

Quiet again. Hand stroking.

"I never told anybody about it. Never tried to do it again, either, not even after I came home. But I think about it a lot. Because ... because I liked it. I mean, we were hazing this guy, showing him that we were in charge and he was beneath us, you know? And maybe I didn't know it or want to admit it, but that ... that turned me on. I guess maybe it just took Mike to bring it out, like he made it okay. But it was ... it was so hot. I wasn't attracted to him, like to look at. But holding him down and owning him like that, like a woman ... I've never felt like that with girls. It's never been as hot as that."

He looks at me now, his eyes serious, no hint of humor or lie. It's a deep, penetrating look, one filled with longing, and I've never seen it on him before. It's his sex face.

"I fucked a man," he says to me. His cock is a rigid rod in his hand, the tip bright red.

I stand. As I move to step in front of his chair he follows me with this gaze, that desperate yearning in his eyes, but now there's a sparkle there, as well -- a gleam of anticipation that the yearning will be sated. When I'm at his feet he pushes his pants down off his thighs and down to his ankles, then kicks them away. He spreads his knees, his hand still on his cock.

I kneel, looking up and meeting his gaze, his erect penis now standing like a pillar between us. He stops stroking, instead laying his hand on his pubis and pushing the base of his cock toward me, so that it stands upright.

I lay my arms on the tops of his thighs, and I gasp at the electric-like shock of our skin touching. This is it. We're here. After all these years as friends, and after so many years of fantasizing about what this would be like, it's finally happening.

He is manscaped, his balls and everything below the top of his cock shaved clean. I stare for a while, marveling at the bottom-up view of his genitals -- his tight, shrunken ball sack, the hard ridge running up the underside of his cock, the pointed tip in plump red at the top.

I reach out with a hand and let my fingertips caress his balls. I lightly brush at them, pulling at the skin softly. He gasps, and my own cock bulges against my jeans.

"We shouldn't do this," he says, breathily. But I'm too close to the thing I've desired for so long -- literally inches away.

I move my hand up and wrap it around his cock. It is hot, a furnace, and it's harder than I imagined it would be. I hold it firmly and shake it a little before I start stroking him.

He opens his mouth in an expectant moan, and his eyes beg me. He's My Top now, and I will let him do whatever he wants to me, but no matter what he does it will be because he belongs to me.

Putting his cock in my mouth is the single hottest thing I've ever done. After years of practicing and playing with cold, silicone dildos, the feel of this flesh-and-blood penis against my lips, my cheeks and my tongue is decadent. I purse my lips and run it up and down his shaft; I put his head in my mouth and pop it out over and over; I slap the heavy head against my face and lips.

And I take it in, as much as I can, until his pulsing cock is radiating heat on the back of my tongue and deep in my mouth.

He moans and gasps, and in hitching breaths he begs me to do more, to suck his cock, to put it in my mouth, to lick it and love it. He thrusts his hips up at me when I open my mouth for him, and his length chokes me. I gag involuntarily, my abdomen hitching, and real back, spit stringing from my mouth. He smiles at that, and I do to, and I put him in my mouth again.

I suck his cock -- God I love saying it -- I suck his cock for as long as I fucking want. I get stupid with it, sucking it long after any sensible person would have stopped. I keep going because I love it, every second and every inch. It's my first time, and I fucking can't stop.

But then I'm stroking his shaft while I flick my tongue back and forth across his frenulum, and his moans suddenly change. He says, "Oh, God. Oh, God," and I realize what's happening. My heart quickens but I don't stop, if anything increasing the frequency of my tongue flicks and the vigor of my stroking.

"Oh, shit, oh, shit, I'm gonna cum!"

And then he does. There is a first blast, a shot of semen that fires out and splashes directly back down. I feel it hit my face, and I pull back and start full stroking him. He's past the point of no return now, the orgasm barreling out and picking up speed.

Suddenly it happens, his penis bulging in my hand with each spray of cum. I let the first one shoot high, up toward his chest, and then I take his cock in my mouth, letting every drop of cum shoot full onto my tongue. The shots are hard and strong, and I let out a shocked gasp, but I don't back away.

When the pulsing stops I start bobbing on him, letting my lips grip his shaft while his coppery cum coats my mouth and his cock. I suck until he sighs in relaxation, and then I squeeze him until every fat drop of semen left in him drips from his red tip. I collect each in my mouth, and once he's finished I show him the load in my mouth, heavy on my tongue, before I swallow it.

It is wonderful.

My Top closes his eyes, catching his breath, and I sit back down on the couch. He rubs his face, cradling his head in one hand while we sit in silence. Eventually he stands.

"I'm, uh, pretty drunk," he says, slowly. "I think I'm going to go to bed."

And with that he does, disappearing into the apartment's back half. I sit for a moment, replaying everything in my mind, then gather up my sheet and pillow and stretch out on the couch. I don't masturbate, however. Because we have all weekend.