I honestly just want to fuck my best friend’s brains out.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this… we’re just friends, I was never supposed to like him, or think about him like that, but… it just kinda happened, i guess.
I want to fuck Jean so hard he screams.
I want to fuck him right through the mattress, so good that he’s delirious for hours after. I want to fuck him until I have to carry him to each and every one of his classes because he can’t walk himself.
Sometimes, when we’re lying in bed together, side by side, I imagine what it would be like to just roll over and pull him close and kiss him. Softly at first, and then rough, wet, sloppy, his soft whimpers turning into guttural growls, until I roll us over and settle down on top of him. I would slide between his thighs, grind down against him, his gasps only making me grind harder.
Sometimes I like to imagine what it would be like to just wrap my hand around his (surely beautiful) cock and jerk him off, just to watch his face contort into expressions of ecstasy and bliss, and hear him whimper and beg for more. What kinds of faces would he even make?
I’ll probably never know…
I want to hear him moan my name, and I want to be the reason he pants and moans and gasps and whimpers and comes.
I want him to feel my mouth on his cock, and I want to feel his fingers in my hair, and I want to hear the strangled whimper he makes when I take all of him into my mouth and down my throat and swallow and swallow andswallow and his eyes roll back and he tenses and arches his back.
Jean’s face when he comes… I try and imagine it.
Sometimes, I think he’d come silently, mouth gaping open with a shuddering gasp while his eyes scrunch shut.
Sometimes— and this may just be wishful thinking on my part— I think he’d come loudly, broken cries and whimpers and maybe even a scream erupting from his drool-coated lips, shaking with the force of his orgasm, his eyes open and unseeing and glassy with satisfied lust.
Sometimes…. and this is definitely wishful thinking on my part… I think he’d come not quietly, not loudly, but softly. I think he’d come clinging to me, his eyes closed but his face hidden in my shoulder, gentle and soft and quiet chants of “Marco… Marco… Marco” while his back arches and I take him high and bring him back down again.
There are times when I’m not just thirsty for the taste of his precome. Not even the taste of his saliva. But rather, sweat… skin…
I want to bite softly into his flesh. His neck. His shoulder. His thin collarbones that he doesn’t know I stare at when we’re watching movies together on my bed and he wears those loose t-shirts and I look down and the shadows they cast across his pale skin makes me delirious.
Pale skin I want to mark up with bite marks and bruises, until he’s writhing beneath me, chest rising and falling rapidly, and he begs me to just fuck him already.
I can’t even imagine what those words would sound like in his voice. I can’t imagine him begging for anything, really, he has too much pride. Pride that I want to break down, until he’s a sweaty, horny mess, flushed and practically drooling, on the verge of tears as he pleads with me to just give him my cock.
I want to make a mess of him. I want his hair to be mussy, I want every few inches of his skin to be bitten and bruised, I want him to be leaking aninsane amount of precome while I tease him, tremors shooting up and down his spine, his cock twitching every time my mouth comes close. I want his legs to shake and his toes to curl. I want to feel his throat warm on my lips, his long legs wrapped tight around my waist, and his long, lithe, thin fingers slipped effortlessly between mine.
I’d have to hold him down, pin him to the bed, I already know. Jean would have to be held down while I fucked him senseless, simply because he would writhe and squirm and shake and lurch so much, his muscles tense with pleasure.
I would quiet his moans with sloppy kisses, and whenever I would pull away to fuck him harder, he would try to chase after me, panting, wanting more, only to fall back and arch tight and scream while I nailed his sweet spot over and over and over again. And right as he nears the brink, I would take my hand, stroke him rough, and stop his orgasm.
I would hold him tight around the base while I fucked him almostimpossibly harder, and he would scream and moan and beg for release. He would curse me at a later time, but right then he would be at my mercy, begging me to please please let him come, he needs to come, please. And I would fuck him faster.
I would lean forward, press my sweaty forehead to his, and kiss him. Soft and gentle and chaste, a promise.
And then I would release him, biting my own lips as I’d stroke him off and fuck him deep and not so much watch as feel him come, around me, hot over my fingers, his scream in my ears.
We would shake together, the force of our orgasms traveling between us, and the next thing I’d know, I’d be looking down at the most blissful expression I’d ever seen my best friend wear, despite the streaks of precome and jizz up and down his pale torso.
"I lo….. you.”
I think it’s funny that sometimes, I can’t even imagine him saying words I’ve heard him say before. Just because they didn’t mean what I wanted them to mean.
I come hardest when I think of Jean splayed out in front of me, legs spread and cock weeping, or knelt down in front of me, looking back in embarrassment and arousal, completely submissive and begging for it.
But I’m happiest imagining him interrupting my homework, throwing one leg over me to straddle my waist, wearing that same cocky smirk he always wears, the one that secretly turns me on sometimes. I’m happiest when I think of his fingers softly cradling my jaw and pulling me into a kiss and narrow hips rocking gently against me. I’m happiest when he wants me just as much as I want him, if not more.
I want so… fucking desperately for all the above to be a reality, but instead I find myself whimpering into my palm and coming all over myself and fifteen minutes later, opening the door for my best friend so that he can walk into the air that I’d moaned his name into countless times.
So laying there next to my best friend, I don’t kiss him. I don’t even hold his hand, even though I reach out slowly and my fingers shake and he’s asleep and he wouldn’t know but I can’t, and I pull away. Because he could wake up. He could know. And he would probably be disgusted with me.
Laying in bed next to Jean, my blood pounds between my groin and my heart, thudding, throbbing, and I almost can’t breathe. And swirling around inside me are three feelings that keep me frozen in place.
Jean would hate me if he knew.