My Trusted Friend

I'd love to lie and tell you I did this all on my own, but if you read the original version you can easily see where

LarryInSeattle

, my editor, did some heavy sanding and painting.

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My Trusted Friend Ch. 04

The concert was great. The three of us drank and danced, partying hard. My friend bought me drinks for my birthday and my wife rubbed up against me in ways that promised other birthday treats.

She'd surprised me, making all of the arrangements for our trip in secret. One of my favorite bar bands was playing in the city where my friend lived. She'd found out about the concert, invited my friend, bought the tickets, and arranged for us to crash at his place—all with me none the wiser. She was sly, my wife, and she'd pulled off quite the trick. We had a damned fine time.

The band's last set ended at one, but the party was still going strong as we made our way outside and into a cab. The two of them entertained the hell out of the taxi driver, singing along drunkenly with the music on his radio. Following our alcohol-garbled directions, he dropped us off at my friend's townhouse, got his fare, and took off into the city night.

My friend turned on a small lamp and in its dim light, looked ready to pass out from his part of our overindulgence. He sat, then slumped down onto the sofa and mumbled, "Nite."

My wife and I stumbled through the living room and into the townhouse's only bedroom, where we'd be spending the night on the big waterbed.

Closing the door behind us, she started to drunkenly unbutton her shirt before getting frustrated and, with a bit of struggle, pulled it over her head. "Does the birthday boy see anything he likes?" she asked, weighing her bra-encased breasts in her hands, offering them to me.

"Oh, baby," I told her, "you know I do."

She stepped over and threw her arms around my neck and kissed me. When we came up for air she reached behind her back and unhooked her bra, releasing her full tits. I bent over and sucked each of her puffy nipples while pressing my palm to the crotch of her jeans. My hand was wider than her thigh gap, so she widened her stance and humped my hand.

"Let's get into bed," she said and she half-sat/half-fell onto the waterbed.

My bladder reminded me that I needed to give priority to another bit of business. "I am gonna fuck you so good," I told her, "but I gotta pee first. Be right back!"

"When you come back I'll let you take my pants off, just like you did on our second date," she promised, her speech slurred only a little.

I stumbled on over to the bathroom, bruised my shoulder on the door frame, and managed to release some portion of the many, many beers straining for release from my bladder. I pulled off my clothes and returned to the waterbed, finding my wife lying in its middle, eyes closed, jeans unsnapped and unzipped.

"You still want me to take off your pants?" I asked.

"Mmmm," she responded.

She was a skinny girl but she wore skinny jeans. It took some effort to get them off and basically I had to pull down from the waistband and turn them inside out until they popped off of her feet. I gave a lewd, intoxicated chuckle and climbed atop my nude, intoxicated wife.

Pushing her knees up to her chest, I placed my hard member against her surprisingly wet slit.

"Mmm," was all she said and I plunged my un-sober self into her in one, long stroke. I moved around inside her a bit to limber us both up, then I began a slow in-and-out rhythm. The familiar erotic sensations of her pussy impelled me to savor this special woman even after six years of marriage. I leaned down to kiss her.

There was no response. She was unconscious.

I quietly said her name. Then, I said it a little louder. No response.

For the sake of accuracy, of telling the truth as it occurred, I must make a confession. Even when I had confirmed that she was in an absolute state of unconsciousness, I didn't stop stroking my cock into her. It felt so good! I was too drunk to care. All my beer-addled brain wanted to do was make me move my hips back and forth. My impaired faculties of self-examination didn't raise issues of consent or propriety; I somehow convinced myself in that moment that I was doing what she'd want me to do. Letting the motion of the waterbed help me move within her, I settled in to enjoy this strange ride.

Soon enough I approached orgasm, but somehow, in my inebriation, I passed right by it without actually cumming. Alcohol does funny things to a man. I withdrew from my wife and eased off of her. It was a tricky thing to make my way to the edge of the waterbed and dismount. I found my boxers and shirt and made my way as quietly as I could to the front of the townhouse, planning to step outside into the courtyard and get some air.

The lamp was still on in the living room and my friend was sitting up in his underwear and a T-shirt, rolling a joint.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," he said. "I closed my eyes and passed out on the couch when we got here. Twenty minutes later I popped up, wide awake. I need my sleep, man, so I figured I'd smoke a little doobie. Want some?"

"That is not a

little

doobie," I chuckled. "That's a fucking cigarillo! But it's my birthday and my wife's passed out, so why not?"

"That's the spirit, birthday boy," he said as he put the flame to his creation and inhaled.

We probably should have only smoked a little. We definitely shouldn't have smoked more than half. Acting like the bad influences we each knew we could be, we egged ourselves on and finished the whole thing—and at some point drank a few more beers as well.

I didn't feel that heart-hammering-in-my-chest, fly-trapped-in-amber sensation with him this time. We were too wasted. Our bare legs had been touching as we sat side-by-side on the sofa and I wasn't nervous at all. I was horny.

My friend sat there, looking off into space as finished saying something about... Shit, I don't know. Then he turned to look me in the eye and asked, "Do you wanna suck my dick?"

"Yesss," I said with conviction.

He reached over and touched my cock through my boxers. I hadn't even realized I was hard until I felt his gentle grip. "It's plain to see you like the idea," he quipped.

Soon, we both had our underwear off and our cocks freed. We were kneeling on the sofa, facing one another. Each of us had one hand on the other's cock and one hand on the other's balls. Cocks were stroked and balls massaged. I leaned down and put my head on his shoulder; he put his head on mine. We leaned against each other; our entire focus was on stroking and being stroked, massaging and being massaged.

It might be a bit of a cliché to say something like "I inhaled his manly scent", but he smelled good and I kissed his neck a little as I rested my head on his shoulder. This caused our stroking to approach a fever pitch.

"Oh, dude," he quietly gasped after a while. "I so want for you to suck me!"

"Damn, man," I whispered. "You know I want your dick in my mouth. You know I want to suck you," I said, feeling like the biggest faggot on earth and not caring. He was making my cock feel so good that I'd say whatever it took to wrap my lips around his meat.

I could feel the clear liquid leaking from the end of his cock when he asked, "Could you suck me now?"

"Yes," I affirmed, then added, "and I want you to suck me too." And that was when I got a little scared. My friend had allowed me to suck him on our first time together but didn't touch me at all. He'd vocalized what we were both feeling on our second time and stroked my cock during the activities. He totally initiated our third time. Each of those three times he'd cum in my mouth, but I had no clue what he thought about putting his mouth on my cock.

He said nothing for a moment and we leaned together and kept stroking. His whisper was almost inaudible, "Okay."

We negotiated our way to the carpet and lay on our sides. My head near his cock and his near mine. I'd sucked him three times, but never from this angle. We'd turned off the lamp and it was dark, but for a bit of light creeping in through cracks in the curtains. My lips found the side of his shaft. From there, I navigated my way up to his crown. I began to slowly nurse on his cock, sucking it in and slowly bobbing up and down on two of his five inches.

I froze in shock for a moment when the feel of his hot breath on my cock turned into a wet heat. He'd opened his mouth as wide as it would go and put his open mouth around me before closing down around my head. I could feel his tongue moving.

He pulled off me before reaching out with just his tongue and licking the shaft. "I remember that flavor," he said. It was too dark to see him smiling, but I could tell by the tone of his whisper that he was.

My friend had been the one to introduce me to my wife, his ex-girlfriend from college. Only about an hour ago my cock had been deep inside her and been coated with her juices. He could taste her on me. I believe that there's some part of the brain that never forgets the particular taste of a particular pussy—at least that's been my experience. We'd compared sexual notes regarding her at various points in the past and he'd certainly known her taste. My mind was blown with lust that he was enjoying licking her flavor off of my cock.

I felt him put me back into his mouth and realized that I'd been so focused on what he'd said and he was doing to me that I'd stopped doing anything to him. I got to work.

I don't think either of us would have won any prizes for excellence at what we were trying to do to one another, but that's one of the great things about sex. If you're both horny and it feels good, it's usually good enough. Our lengthy stroking session on the sofa had us both primed and nearly ready to burst. I luxuriated in the feel of his hard little cock as I played my lips and tongue all over it and started taking it deeper and deeper. I had to partially raise myself up on one elbow to take him all the way down to the root, but we both were happy I did.

I stroked his shoulder as I tried to focus on and mentally coordinate the sensations of giving and receiving pleasure simultaneously. He wasn't getting very much of my shaft into his mouth, but it felt wonderful. I tried to encourage his hips to move more, to get him to pump himself between my lips. Last time, in the shower, I'd cum incredibly hard from him just fucking my face and I hoped to make it happen again.

Two of the three times we'd been together, my friend had produced a massive load when he came and he had indicated that he typically did so. I usually produce a much more modest amount of ejaculate than what I'd swallowed from him. Tonight, however, with my wife teasing me and keeping me hard at the bar for most of the evening, and then with the sex with her unconscious, there was all kinds of build-up but no release. I started to feel like a potential Krakatoa.

He never did start to fuck my mouth, but I began to feel that telltale jerking of his hips that I associated with his impending release. I started working my mouth over his cock with more determination, more lust. My explosion was approaching fast, rising as he grew more uncoordinated and struggled to keep me in his mouth.

I was just about to crash through my last mental barrier before climax when he grabbed the back of my head and arched his back, pulling his mouth off of me as his orgasm swelled up.

No! I was so close to cumming in his mouth!

Yes! He was so close to cumming in mine!

I buried him in my mouth so that the head of his little cock was actually in my throat and then, with my nose in his balls, I waggled my head from side to side, shaking my head as if to say 'no'. At the same time I reached down and, my cock screaming for release, started stroking my rock-hard shaft. My attention was divided between his orgasm and mine as I felt his cock throb wildly in my mouth. But I only received a tiny amount of liquid to swallow before it stilled.

My own orgasm took the shape of a driving beat in rhythm to the hard strokes I gave my shaft. My cock danced to that beat, shooting forth blast after blast of juice. It just kept going and I just kept pumping. My mouth was still firmly attached to his cock, but all of my focus was on completing the insane orgasm that moved through me. I lost the rhythm and started to stroke faster and more juice burst forth on each stroke. I paused, thinking it was over, that I was done—but then it felt incomplete and I started stroking again. More cum showered forth and I kept pounding my cock until the last tiny drop had been released.

When I finally opened my eyes, I looked at my friend. A security light outside shone through a crack in the curtain. He lay there in a post-orgasmic haze. His face, his hair, and his shoulders were speckled with droplets of cum. More was sprinkled on the carpet near his face. I'd never cum that much before. It had showered him and it decorated his skin.

I wanted to laugh and call him my faggot.

I wanted to take his picture.

I wanted to kiss him, to taste my flavor on his lips.

I wanted to do this again.

I wanted get that little cock of his hard and put it in my ass.

I wanted to make him my bitch.

I wanted to be his bitch.

I wanted to watch him fuck my wife and eat his cum from her steaming hole—and I wanted him to watch me fuck her and have him eat mine from that same steaming hole.

I wanted to stretch his tight little ass with my cock and pound him until he came.

I wanted things I didn't know how to put into words and other things I'll be too insecure to tell another living soul until I pass from this earth.

Some of these things I wanted would, eventually, happen—but that night I settled for helping him clean up the mess I'd made, finding my way back to the bedroom, and diving into the waterbed next to my wife.

The next morning, err, early afternoon, the two of them were a sorry sight, hungover past the point of misery. Somehow I had survived unscathed. We cancelled our reservations for brunch at a fancy restaurant and, after my wife and I had packed up and were driving back home, I opted for a drive-thru burger. My wife groaned in discomfort at the smell and told me it'd be my fault if she vomited in the car.

When she'd recovered that night, we had dinner and talked about the great time we'd had at the concert. I thanked her for that and, with no little guilt, confessed to how I'd abused her unconscious body on the waterbed.

"No, baby, no no," she corrected me. "I wanted you to have me for your birthday. You knew that. I'd told you that. I'm sorry that I didn't get to share it with you, but you did just the right thing—exactly what I would have wanted you to do."

So I scratched one of last night's guilty secrets off of my list, but the other one still loomed large. From my perspective, my dalliances with by best friend were not competing with what I had with my wife, but I didn't know how she'd take it. I didn't know at what point I would tell her, but I knew that someday I would. I wind up telling her everything.

Until that time came I would just have to play things by ear.

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I hope this chapter was good for you.

The feedback has been wonderful and I appreciate every word—especially those of you who have pointed out my mistakes in the previous chapters. Those of you who are re-reading this will note that I have found an editor and will see how smoothly he's made things flow.

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