He Bred Me In the Basement While His Parents Were Home
I bottomed for my best friend during a sleepover while his parents were home and it was the best night of my life.
I can still remember every detail from that night at Matt’s house—the nervous, giddy energy as we settled in for his birthday sleepover, the familiar clutter of his basement, the glow from the TV, the two of us sprawled side-by-side on sleeping bags and old couch cushions. We were both sophomores, and while neither of us would have called ourselves innocent, the truth was we’d never done anything real with anyone. We’d only read about it, joked about it, or wondered what it might be like.
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It started like every other sleepover. We played video games until our thumbs ached, scarfed pizza, and challenged each other to see who could chug more Mountain Dew. By midnight, the games weren’t as interesting, so we switched to YouTube, scrolling through meme compilations and old sports highlights. I could feel the fuzz of sleep creeping in, but there was an undercurrent of something else—a tension I’d felt between us all year, but never dared to name.
Matt was the first to break the pattern, typing “weirdest videos ever” into the search bar, grinning as we braced ourselves for jump scares and gross pranks. But somewhere down the rabbit hole, we stumbled onto a clip of two college guys making out in a dorm room. It was quick, awkward, and honestly kind of funny. But we didn’t laugh. For a moment, neither of us moved.
Matt cleared his throat. “You ever seen that before? Like, two guys … kissing?”
I hesitated, heart thumping. “Not really. Not in real life. You?”
He shook his head, but he didn’t look away from the screen. “No. I mean, I wondered what it’s like. I guess.”
I felt warmth rush to my cheeks. “Me too.”
He looked over at me, his blue eyes shining in the TV light. “You ever… think about it? Doing that?”
I nodded, voice barely there. “Sometimes.”
There was a long pause, both of us suddenly hyper-aware of how close we were, how the space between us felt electric.
Matt swallowed. “Do you wanna try? Like, just to see?”
I almost said no, just out of reflex, but the curiosity was stronger. “Okay. If you want to.”
He shifted closer, his shoulder touching mine. I could smell his deodorant—cheap and citrusy, mixed with the faint tang of sweat and pizza. We both giggled nervously, and for a second neither of us moved. Then Matt leaned in, eyes half-closed, and our lips met.
It was nothing like movie kisses. Our noses bumped, it was a little wet, and we both started laughing, but something about it made my heart flip. I felt a jolt run through me—half embarrassment, half adrenaline. We tried again, slower this time, and I felt Matt’s hand fumble for mine, squeezing tight.
He pulled away, eyes wide. “That was … weird. But kinda cool?”
I nodded, speechless, grinning like an idiot. “Yeah. Weird but good.”
We didn’t say anything for a while. Just sat there, knees mashed together, a whole world of possibility humming in the slice of space between us. I could feel my heart pounding in my throat, the echo of his lips on mine. My cheeks were hot, and my skin prickled all over. I wanted to say something—anything—but the words got stuck behind the ridiculous, ear-to-ear grin I couldn’t keep off my face.
My pajama pants were tented, obscenely obvious, and I was ninety-nine percent sure Matt’s were too. The realization gave me another kind of rush, a dizzy, out-of-body thrill that made me want to look and not look at the same time. I felt wild, unmoored, like we’d crossed some invisible line and nothing that came after would ever be quite the same.
Matt was fidgeting beside me, winding and unwinding the drawstring on his shorts, sneaking glances at the TV even though the video had ended minutes ago. He kept licking his lips, like he was still tasting the kiss, and every time he shifted his weight our thighs pressed harder together. I thought about the guys in the video, how clumsy and honest it looked, and wondered if it had felt this intense for them. I wondered if they’d sat in silence too, bursting with questions and heat and confusion.
A random YouTube autoplay cycled through a new clip—some animated sheep screaming at each other—and we both snorted at the same time, and for a second, everything felt light and easy again. But underneath, the tension buzzed. I was hyper-aware of every place our bodies touched, hypersensitive to the accidental (or not-so-accidental) brush of his hand against mine. I replayed the kiss in my mind, the way his lips pressed, how he’d pulled me closer, how he’d squeezed my hand like he was afraid to let go.
I felt this ache, low and insistent, and realized I wanted to do it again. Maybe more.
Matt was the first to break the silence, his voice barely above a whisper. “Did it feel… good? For you?”
I turned toward him, our faces just inches apart now, and nodded. “Yeah. A lot.”
He let out a tiny breath and finally looked down at our laps. The tent in his shorts was obvious, and the sight made my own pulse even harder. He glanced down, then back at me. “Is it bad that I… I mean, I got hard?”
I felt a surge of relief and excitement. “Me too. I think it’s normal.”
He grinned. “Wanna… see?”
My heart hammered. “Okay.”
It’s awkward at first—we both hesitate, eyes darting from each other’s faces down to our hands, like neither of us can believe we’re really about to do this. Matt is braver than me, or maybe just too keyed-up to care, and he tugs his waistband down just far enough to let his dick spring free. For a second he just sits there, staring at it like it belongs to someone else, and then glances over to see if I’ll do the same. My heart is hammering so hard that I can hear it in my ears, but I follow suit, pushing my own pajama shorts down and feeling a ridiculous rush of pride when I see how stiff I already am.
The air between us feels different—thicker, heavier, charged with something I don’t have words for yet. I can’t tell if the heat on my face is embarrassment, or excitement, or both. We’re both sitting cross-legged, knees almost touching, and looking down at ourselves like we’re trying to memorize what’s there before it disappears. Matt’s is longer than I’d guessed, slender and almost elegant, pale with a pink, smooth head poking out from his foreskin. He’s got a little patch of blond hair above it, softer and finer than the dark, curly mess above mine. I’m thicker, cut, and my cock is shiny with precum, a fat bead swelling on the tip.
We both kind of laugh, but it isn’t a mean laugh—more like amazement or relief. “Dude,” Matt says, voice barely above a whisper, “yours is, like, huge.” He sounds almost admiring, but also nervous, like he expects me to make fun of him for saying it. Instead, I grin and feel my cheeks flush even hotter, not knowing what to say, so I just shrug.
For a moment, that’s all it is—two friends, pants around our thighs, staring like it’s a science experiment or a magic trick. I expect Matt to chicken out, to lose his nerve and yank his shorts back up, but instead he just sits forward and really looks. He leans in, like he wants to see every detail, and I do the same. The air feels cold on our skin; every movement, every sound, feels amplified. I catch the scent of Matt’s deodorant again, and beneath it, something rawer—something that’s just… him.
Matt looks up and meets my eyes, his own wide and a little wild. “Can I…?” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but I know what he means. I nod, not trusting myself to speak. His hand comes up slow, almost trembling, and he reaches across the narrow gap between us. He touches me with just his fingertips at first, feather-light, tracing the ridge of my shaft like he’s afraid it’ll bite him. The sensation is electric—so much more intense than when I touch myself, like all my nerves are suddenly awake and hungry.
I gasp, and Matt’s lips twist in this half-smile, half-grimace, as if he’s surprised he got that reaction. He keeps going, his confidence building with every second, the edge of hesitation dropping away. Still holding my gaze, he wraps his hand around my shaft, fingers trembling but determined, and gives it a slow, careful squeeze. It isn’t perfect—his grip is too loose at first, then almost too tight—but the sensation is so startlingly new and good that I can’t help the way my hips jump at his touch. My whole body feels on fire, every inch of me prickling, every nerve ending awake and aware.
Matt lets out a low, nervous laugh, like he can’t believe what he’s doing, and then he starts to stroke me in jerky, uncertain motions. It’s nothing like how I do it to myself—he stops and starts, sometimes barely moving, sometimes too rough. But the fact that it’s him, and not me, makes the whole thing feel wild and electrifying. His hand is warm and a little clammy, and I can see how fascinated he is, watching my cock swell and throb in his grip.
“Jesus,” he whispers, almost to himself, and I choke back a laugh. He pumps me experimentally, exploring the way the skin moves, the way my whole body reacts to every clumsy tug. My breath hitches, and I look down to see the glisten of precum smearing across his knuckles. Matt’s eyes widen, zeroing in, and he lets go for a second to examine the clear fluid beading at my tip. He looks up at me, curious and a little awed, then swipes his thumb across the head, smearing the slickness with a slow, deliberate swirl that makes my knees go weak. My hips twitch in response, and I feel another gush of precum bead at the tip, slicking his hand. He watches it with fascination, running his thumb through the clear fluid and rubbing it in slow circles over the head.
My whole body is buzzing. I want to touch him back, to see if he feels the same way, but I’m afraid of ruining the moment. But Matt’s not shy anymore—he’s staring at my cock like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. For a long, electric moment I just stare at Matt’s hand on me, memorizing every movement, every flick of his wrist, every line of his fingers as they squeeze and glide and experiment. I can tell he’s fascinated—not just by what he’s doing, but by my reactions, like he’s collecting data for some top-secret science project. He keeps glancing at my face to see if he’s hurting me, or if I’m about to say something, or maybe just to check if I’m real. I don’t think either of us has ever done this before, with anyone else, but there’s a logic to it, a shared curiosity that overrides the awkwardness.
I want to do something back, to show him what I’m feeling, but I’m almost scared to touch him. What if I do it wrong? What if he hates it? My mind races through a thousand different ways this could go, but every possibility ends with me chickening out and regretting it forever. The tension builds and builds until I finally decide—fuck it, I have to know.
So I reach out, my hand shaky and cold, and for a second I just hover over his lap, afraid to ruin the spell. But he doesn’t pull away; if anything, he moves closer, knees bumping mine. I wrap my fingers around the base of his shaft, mirroring the way he’s holding mine. Immediately I can feel how hard he is, how fast his heart must be going, because mine’s doing the same thing. The skin is unbelievably soft—way softer than I expected—and hot, like he’s running a fever. There’s this pulse under my palm, alive and urgent, and the way the head slides out of the foreskin when I move my hand makes my brain short-circuit.
Matt lets out a noise—a kind of whimper, but not sad—like he’s just taken his first breath underwater and can’t believe how good it feels. His grip on me tightens, and he copies the way I move, slow and careful, testing what gets a reaction. It’s like we’re locked in a feedback loop: every time I stroke him, he does the same to me, and the sensation doubles back, building on itself until my nerves are sparking out of control. I can hear our breathing, ragged and loud in the small room, and I realize that we’re moving in sync, like we’ve rehearsed this a hundred times even though we’re both making it up as we go.
I focus on the details—how the head of his cock is slick with clear fluid, how the skin bunches behind it and then glides forward, how each soft stroke makes his hips jerk just a little. He’s longer than I thought, but not as thick, and it feels almost delicate in my hand, like I could break him if I wasn’t careful. Every time I twist my wrist around the sensitive part, he makes another one of those sounds, like he’s fighting to keep quiet but can’t hold it in. It’s addictive, seeing him lose control. I start to speed up, just a little, and he matches me, the pressure mounting with every stroke.
We’re still staring, eyes locked, and there’s something wild and desperate in Matt’s expression, like he’s trying to burn this into his memory forever. I can see the flush spreading up his neck and into his cheeks, the way he bites his lip to keep from gasping, the way his thighs tense every time I squeeze a little harder. The room feels too small for everything that’s happening, like the air itself is charged and vibrating. I can’t believe I’m doing this—can’t believe how right it feels—but the proof is in the way my own hips are rocking, the way my whole body is straining toward his, the way I can’t stop staring at the place where our hands are moving together.
“Is it supposed to feel this good already?” he asks, a tremor in his voice.
I laugh—really laugh, not just a nervous giggle. “I think so. I mean, it does for me.” I give him a playful squeeze, and he jerks in my grip, gasping again. I feel so alive, so connected, like we’re in on the world’s best-kept secret together.
We both start stroking, slow and experimental at first, then matching each other’s rhythm. It’s clumsy and beautiful all at once, our hands brushing together, sometimes bumping knuckles, and every mistake just makes us laugh harder. There’s no shame, no fear, just this wild, new energy that feels like pure freedom. Our bodies are different—mine darker, thicker, with veins standing out; Matt’s pale and sleek, the pink head peeking shyly from its hood—but our reactions are the same: shivers, moans, breaths held and released in unison.
At one point, Matt leans his head on my shoulder, still pumping my cock with his right hand. I do the same, and for a moment we’re just two boys, side by side, touching and being touched, awestruck and grateful for every new sensation. I want the moment to last forever.
I let out a shuddering breath, and then reached for him. We explored each other’s bodies, laughing at how different and the same we felt—rough skin, smooth heads, the sticky beads of precum pooling at the tips.
Matt whispered, “It feels so good.”
I nodded, breathless, letting the newness wash over me. “I know. I never thought it would feel like this.”
We’re both using our hands, copying the moves we’ve practiced in private a thousand times, but it’s nothing like doing it alone. My wrist bumps his, our knuckles bash together, and every time it happens we both break out in nervous laughter, then clutch tighter, like we’re afraid to lose hold of this impossible, insane moment. My cock pulses in his grip, and Matt’s hand is slick—either from the sweat on his palm or the constant slick of precum dripping from my tip. I’m not sure which, and right now I don’t care.
Matt’s eyes are glued to what he’s doing, his brow furrowed like he’s solving a math problem, but every now and then he’ll glance up at my face, searching for any hint that I want him to stop. I don’t. I want nothing to ever interrupt the spell that’s holding us here, on this lopsided futon, with the blue glow of the TV painting shadows on the far wall. I can smell him, and me, and a sharpness that’s new and primal and makes my head float.
We keep going. My hand fits easily around Matt’s shaft; he’s long and slim, the skin so soft it feels like velvet under my fingers. I thumb over his slit and catch a drop of precum, smearing it around the head just to see how he’ll react. His hips twitch and his breath stutters out, and I realize with a jolt that I could make him cum if I wanted. Right here. Right now. The thought tightens something inside me, makes my stomach drop and my balls draw up, as if I’m already halfway there myself.
Matt shifts, rolling his ankle underneath his other leg, and our thighs are pressed even tighter. He’s biting his lip now, hard enough to leave a mark, and I see the muscles in his forearm tense as he picks up the pace on my cock. Every stroke is full, from the base all the way to the tip, then down again, like he’s determined to see what happens if he doesn’t stop. He’s still shaky, nervous, but the curiosity in his eyes is melting into something hotter—hunger, maybe, or greed, or just the same desperate need I feel.
Suddenly, Matt pauses. He looks at me, his lips parted and a faint blush spreading up his cheeks. “Can I try something?” His voice is a whisper, so tentative it almost doesn’t reach me over the pounding in my ears.
For a second I freeze, the air thick with the weight of the question. I want to say yes, but I’m so turned on I can barely find my voice.
“Yeah,” I whispered.
He leans down, a little too quick, like he’s not sure if he’ll lose his nerve if he hesitates. For a second, his cheek brushes my thigh and I feel his breath, hot and shallow, ghost over my skin. Then, all at once, he takes me in. It’s awkward—he doesn’t know what to do with his lips, his jaw, how much to use his tongue—but the sensation is so new, so intense, I almost lose my mind. I bite my tongue to keep from making some dumb noise, but a groan still slips out, and Matt flinches, looking up at me in surprise.
“Is it okay?” he whispers, lips shining.
“Yeah,” I mutter, “it’s amazing.” I let my hand rest gently on the back of his head, combing through the fine blond hair at his nape. He tries again, a little slower this time, and I can feel him experimenting, figuring out what makes me gasp, what makes my hips jerk. The prickle of stubble on his chin scrapes my inner thigh, and for some reason, that’s almost as good as the rest. I want him to never stop—I want to freeze this moment forever.
But then something inside me wakes up, a need to do the same for him, to see if he’ll feel the shockwave that’s making my whole body tremble. I give his head a gentle nudge and he gets it, coming up red-faced and grinning, then flopping onto his back beside me. “Your turn?” he says, and I nod, suddenly desperate to taste him.
His cock looks even more intimidating up close, the pink tip glistening, veined and slender and so different from mine. I start slow, licking a bead of precum off his slit, savoring the salt and sharpness. Matt shudders—actually shudders—and I feel a swell of pride. I wrap my lips around the head and ease down, taking as much as I can, not caring if I look dumb or if I’m doing it wrong. His hands find my shoulders and just rest there, fingers flexing with every bob of my head.
I try to match what he did for me, but quickly get lost in it. The room shrinks: there’s nothing but the heat of his skin, the throb of his pulse under my tongue, the way he bucks up when I go deeper. I can feel him watching me, breath catching in his throat, and when I glance up, his eyes are glassy, wide, totally unguarded.
We get into a rhythm, switching off whenever our arms or necks get tired, sometimes just lying side by side, jerking each other slow, teasing, then diving back down to taste, to explore. It’s messy, clumsy, and absolutely perfect. Every now and then we’ll stop and laugh, cheeks burning, then kiss, tasting ourselves on each other’s tongues. I never knew it could be like this—so intense, so funny and intimate and real.
After a while, Matt props himself up on an elbow, still stroking me lazily. His cheeks are blotched red and sweat dots his temple. “Dude, how are you not cumming already?” he asks, a mix of awe and frustration in his voice.
I grin, teeth bared. “Kinda don’t want it to end?”
He laughs, then grows serious. His hand moves slower, almost thoughtful. “Can I…try something?” He says it with the same small, scared voice he used before.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
He sits up, motions for me to scoot forward, and settles between my legs. This time, when he takes my cock in his mouth, it’s different—deeper, a little more confident. His tongue swirls and he hums, and suddenly I’m clutching the back of his head, gasping like I’m drowning. It’s almost too much. I want to warn him, to tell him I’m close, but he doesn’t back off. He just looks up, daring me.
The pressure builds, wild and electric, and when I finally let go, it’s like an explosion—bright and blinding, my whole body shaking. Matt tries to keep up but coughs, pulling back, jizz dripping from his lips. We both burst out laughing, doubled over, not even a little embarrassed, just amazed.
We traded back and forth, giggling and moaning, both overwhelmed and hungry for more. When I pulled away, Matt was blushing fiercely. “I want to try… more.”
“You mean…?”
He nodded, grabbing a bottle of lotion from the nightstand. “I read online you can use this. You sure?”
I was nervous, but more curious than scared. “Yeah. I trust you.”
He squeezed some lotion onto his fingers and touched my entrance, slow and cautious. I gasped as he slipped one finger in, the sensation strange but good. Matt moved carefully, watching my face, asking if it was okay. I nodded, relaxing into the feeling, even as my heart hammered in my chest.
When he lined up behind me, I twisted around to see him—his face open, scared, so sincere. “Are you ready?” he asked, nearly whispering.
“Yeah,” I said, fighting my nerves. “Go slow.”
He pushes in, just the tip, and everything stops. My lungs seize tight, half in shock, half in anticipation, as the pressure at my entrance sharpens, then blooms outward. The sting is real—a spike of pain that makes me grit my teeth and clench the cheap fleece of the sleeping bag—but it fades almost as quickly as it comes, replaced by a hot, weirdly electric fullness that’s nothing like I expected. Matt’s arms are braced on either side of my waist; I can feel his whole body trembling as he holds himself back, forehead pressed to the bunched fabric by my hip.
“Is it okay?” he whispers, voice trembling and high. He’s barely in at all, just the tip, but his dick feels enormous. I try to laugh, but it comes out as a shaky sigh.
“Yeah, it’s good. Better than good.” I reach back, gripping his wrist to let him know I mean it, that I’m not just being brave for him. My body’s still trying to decide if it loves or hates the feeling, but the curiosity—like a live wire—thrums through my insides, making my heart beat so loud I’m sure he can hear it.
He rocks deeper, a millimeter at a time, both of us holding our breath after each tiny push. Every new inch stretches me, burns a little, then fades into this warm, slippery glide. My mind flashes through every bad porno and after-school warning about how this is supposed to go, but none of them ever said it would be like this: intense, messy, terrifying, but also awkwardly sweet. Matt keeps up a constant stream of whispered questions—“Is it okay?” “Should I stop?” “Do you want more?”—and I keep nodding, yes, yes, please, more, until I can’t remember when the pain stopped and the pleasure started.
By the time his hips press flush against my ass, I’m lightheaded, sweat prickling down my ribs and onto the sleeping bag beneath us. I don’t feel broken or exposed, like I always imagined. Instead, I feel powerful, like I’ve just let someone into the most secret, locked-down part of myself and dared them to break it—and he hasn’t. Matt’s breath is hot on my back, uneven, and when he finally stops moving, I realize I’m squeezing his hand so hard my knuckles hurt.
We breathe together, in sync, letting the moment settle. He’s still, almost reverent, like he’s afraid any movement might ruin everything. But I want more. The fullness inside me has turned into a needy throb, a deep, pulsing ache that begs for friction, for rhythm. I clench around him, just to see what it feels like, and Matt groans—a sound so raw and animal it makes my toes curl.
He pulls out a little, slow and cautious, then pushes back in, deeper this time. I gasp, the world tunneling to a pinprick of sensation; every nerve ending in my body is on red alert. I can feel the shape of him, every pulse and twitch, all the way inside. My dick, mashed against the crumpled sleeping bag, leaks precum at every thrust, and each tiny movement from Matt sends a crackle of pleasure straight through my core.
He keeps asking if I’m okay, desperate for reassurance or maybe just needing to hear my voice. I lose track of how many times I say yes, how many times I urge him on. The pain is gone now, replaced by something burning and bright, and I want it harder, faster, all at once. I want this to be real, to remember every second. I push back against him, meeting his thrusts, and the bed squeaks, the air thick with sweat and the sharp, sweet smell of sex.
Matt buries his face in my shoulder, breath hot against my skin. “You feel amazing,” he says, so soft I almost miss it. I tip my head back, eyes fluttering shut, and just bask in the sensation: my best friend inside me, the two of us tangled and desperate and more alive than ever.
Matt started moving, short, hesitant thrusts. I moaned, my cock grinding into the sleeping bag, the friction sending sparks up my spine. “It feels… really good,” I breathed, surprised by how true it was.
Matt didn’t last long. I could feel his whole body trembling, his hands gripping my hips. “Caleb—I think I’m—”
For a split second, my senses short-circuit—every nerve ending on fire, hands clawing at the sleeping bag, eyes squeezed shut as the world dissolves to nothing but heat and pressure. The sensation doesn’t build like I expect; it detonates, sudden and cataclysmic, wringing a ragged scream from my throat as I explode, hands-free, into the bunched-up fleece beneath me. My whole body convulses—once, twice, again—the pleasure so raw it feels like a punch, like I’m being hollowed out and remade at the same time. My legs kick; my fingers scrabble for something to grip, and all I find is Matt’s wrist, tight and real and anchoring me to the here and now.
I feel him inside me, thick and pulsing, stuttering with every clench of my body. His breathing gets ragged, animal, and then he’s gasping my name—actually saying it, not some porn-star moan, but my actual fucking name—and he loses it, too. For a split second, we’re frozen like that: me clenching around him, him buried as deep as he can go, both of us suspended in that weird, perfect space where time stops and nothing exists but the two of us, fused together, bodies slick with sweat and desperation.
Then Matt falls forward, crushing me, forehead grinding into my shoulder blade as he lets himself go. I feel it inside me, a hot rush, the sudden mess and flood of him spilling over. He tries to keep moving, instinct taking over, but it’s all over but the shivering and the aftershocks. He pulls out quick, awkward, and his cum spills in a sticky heat across my lower back and ass, slicking the mess of the sleeping bag and my skin. The sensation is so overwhelming—so gross and intimate and real—that it makes me laugh, giddy and out of breath. I roll onto my side, sticky and shaking, and Matt flops down beside me, both of us gasping like we’ve just run a mile.
We don’t talk. There’s nothing to say, at least not yet. Our laughter is shaky, almost hysterical, dissolving into little hiccups and wide, delirious grins. I wipe my face on the back of my hand, still breathless and high, and Matt does the same, staring at the ceiling as if it might give him answers. We’re both a total mess—sweaty, glazed, marked up by each other’s teeth and hands. I look at him and he looks at me, and there’s no embarrassment, no panic, just this dazed, warm wonder.
For a few minutes, we just lay there, catching our breath, staring at the ceiling.
“Wow,” Matt whispered. “That was…”
“Amazing,” I finished, turning to him and grinning. “You okay?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Are you?”
“Yeah.”
He reached out and squeezed my hand, his thumb stroking my wrist. “Do you think we… I mean, could we do it again sometime?”
I smiled. “Definitely.”
We try to clean up, but the mess is too much to handle—two sets of sticky hands, a bunched-up sleeping bag, half a roll of toilet paper torn into crumbling squares. Every attempt to wipe ourselves down just makes us laugh harder, Matt snorting and nearly falling off the edge of the mattress as he tries to dab at my back, both of us shushing each other even though there’s nobody around to hear. At one point he grabs a stray sock—blue with white stripes, definitely not mine—and pretends to polish my shoulder with it, his face a rictus of horror and delight. “Dude, this is so gross,” he says, voice thick with that post-orgasmic, punch-drunk giddiness. I just grin, stretching out boneless on the bed, not even caring that my skin is slick and sticky and probably reeking of sex.
When the worst of the cleanup is done, we slip into the nearest clothes—boxers for me, the saggy old basketball shorts for Matt. It’s still awkward, our bodies orbiting each other in the close quarters of the guest room, but the tension is gone, replaced by a kind of weightless, fizzy lightness that makes me want to jump on the mattress until the bed frame shatters. Instead, we flop onto the sleeping bags, head-to-head, and stare up at the glow-in-the-dark stars glued to the ceiling from when we were kids. Some things never change.
For a while, we don’t talk—just breathe, hearts still racing, limbs tangled in that loose, accidental way that’s more intimate than any conscious embrace. I listen to the sound of Matt’s breathing, the way it slows and synchronizes with mine, and I feel this wild, irrational urge to reach over and touch his face, just to make sure he’s really there. The silence is heavy, but not uncomfortable. I want to say something important, something that will mark this moment as the start of a new era, but all I manage is a stupid, “I’m still hard. You wanna jerk off again?”
Matt’s laugh could light a fuse. “Dude, are you serious? We just—” He cuts himself off, glancing down at the bulge already returning in his shorts and shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re such a perv.”
I prop myself up on one elbow, grinning. “It’s not my fault you’re hot.” It comes out too sincere, and for a second I wonder if I’ve ruined everything, but Matt just blushes harder and shoves me. The push is playful, but his thigh stays pressed to mine after, both of us pretending not to notice.
A charged silence hovers, then Matt leans over, nudging me with his shoulder. “If we do, you have to—” He hesitates, biting his lip. “You have to taste it. I dare you.”
The idea sends a jolt of nervous energy through my gut, but I don’t even hesitate. “Fine. But only if you do, too.”
We settle back into our sleeping bags, the night outside dense and velvet-black, the soft glow of streetlights leaking through the curtains. This time, it’s different—less frantic, more exploratory, the pressure of what happened earlier diffused by the giddy, whispered dares. Our hands wander under the covers, knuckles brushing, skin on skin, each of us trying to match the other’s pace. Matt’s eyes are liquid and huge in the dark, tracking my every move, and I’m weirdly flattered by how much attention he’s giving me, like I’m a puzzle he’s desperate to solve.
I go first, fingers wrapping around myself, already half-hard from the anticipation. Matt mirrors me, his hand moving in slow, measured strokes, his breath hitching every time our knuckles meet. In the thick hush of the room, I can hear every slick sound, every gasp and muttered curse. It’s so much more intense than before—maybe because now we know exactly what the other likes, or maybe because the stakes have shifted, the whole thing transformed from a dare to a mutual promise.
When I get close, I slow down, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from finishing too fast. Matt notices and nudges me. “Don’t hold back,” he says, voice low and urgent. “Just do it.” He sounds almost desperate, and that’s all the permission I need.
I come first, the orgasm rolling through me in tight, hot waves, and I don’t even think—I just reach down, catch the first spill on my fingers, and bring it to my mouth, keeping my eyes locked on Matt. The taste is sharp, bitter and salty, not at all what I expected, but I don’t flinch. Matt’s jaw drops, half in awe, half in revulsion.
“Holy shit, dude, you actually did it.” His voice is a hushed whisper, as if we’re breaking every rule in the universe.
I swallow, shuddering, and stick my tongue out at him, smug. “Your turn.”
Matt hesitates only a second, then jerks himself faster, his face twisted up in concentration. When he comes, it’s explosive—he fists the sleeping bag with one hand, the other catching his own load as it pulses out. He studies it in his palm, then grins and licks a stripe across his finger, eyes wide with disbelief and glee. “That’s… actually not bad?” He laughs, bright and boyish, and I can’t help but laugh, too.
We keep going, passing the dare back and forth, each round a little braver, a little more ridiculous. By the third time, we don’t even bother hiding it; we jerk each other off, side-by-side, cackling at the absurdity, marveling at the wet, sticky mess we’re making. At one point Matt scoops a drop off my lips with his thumb and wipes it on my cheek, giggling at the way I yelp and wipe it away with the back of my hand. “War paint,” he says, and I know he means it as a joke, but it feels like… something more.
Afterwards, we’re wrecked—physically, mentally, emotionally. I lie sprawled on my back, sweat cooling on my skin, unable to move. Matt is draped over me like a heavy blanket, his face buried in my shoulder, arms loose around my stomach. I can feel every breath he takes, every shiver that runs through him. The mattress is damp and disgusting, but I don’t care. For the first time in my life, I feel totally, completely seen.
We talk, but only in whispers—about school, summer, whether this is what it’s always going to be like between us from now on. We make each other laugh, swap dumb stories, poke fun at each other in a way that feels less like teasing and more like worship. The whole time, I’m hyperaware of the new gravity between us, the way it pulls us together, refuses to let go.
Later, we lay in the dark, texting dumb memes to each other, the secret between us both strange and perfect. I felt changed—more myself than ever, and eager to find out what happened next.
Eventually, we drift off, limbs tangled and sticky, the sleeping bag cocooning us together so tight it’s impossible to tell where one of us ends and the other begins. At some point in the night, I wake up to find Matt’s hand resting on my chest, his thumb tracing lazy circles over my heart. I pretend to be asleep, just so I can savor it.
In the morning, the world is lavender-blue and blurry at the edges, and I wake to the feeling of Matt’s arms wound around me—his breath hot and damp against the back of my neck, his hard cock wedged between my cheeks with shameless adolescent insistence. We’re still naked, sticky from everything that happened last night, the guest room heavy with the subtle tang of sweat and sex and sheets that haven’t been washed since the start of summer. For a second, I can’t tell where I end and he begins; we’re one hybrid animal, tangled up in a cocoon of sleeping bags and his old college comforter, both of us half-conscious and horny, the way only boys can be when the world is fuzzy and nothing bad has happened yet.
Matt’s hand is splayed across my chest, fingers curled in the shallow space above my heart. Every time he breathes, his cock throbs against me, leaking pearls of slick up and down my crack, leaving wet, sticky trails that cool in the morning air. I shift my hips just a little, feeling him twitch in response, and a sleepy moan vibrates in his throat. He’s not even awake—just operating on some kind of primal, post-pubescent autopilot that tells him to hump whatever’s in reach. I grin into my pillow, shiver, and go still, trying to memorize every microsecond of this before the moment runs out.
I glance at the clock: 7:13 a.m. Outside the window, the sun’s barely up, and everything on the street is muted and holy. I can hear Matt’s parents moving around the kitchen, the familiar clink of dishes and the low rumble of morning talk radio, a soundtrack to every sleepover since elementary school. If they knew what we were doing down here, they’d probably drop dead of shock—or at least, Matt’s dad would. His mom would just cluck her tongue and ask if we wanted pancakes. It’s a comforting thought. It’s all so normal, and somehow, that makes it even more intimate.
I roll my hips, just a fraction, and Matt’s cock grinds up the split of my ass. He moans again, this time louder, and his grip on my chest tightens. He’s got a gash of hickies down his neck, purple and red, like battle scars. I run my finger across one absentmindedly, and he shivers, still not quite awake. The tip of his cock is slippery with precum, and each time he moves, a new bead paints my skin. I want him to wake up with his cock inside me. I want to wake up like this every day.
Slowly, careful not to break the spell, I reach down and spit in my hand, rubbing it over my hole. My ass is sore—raw and used—but the ache is good, a reminder that last night really happened. I push a finger inside, and a little squirt of his cum leaks out, warm and familiar, and I can’t help but laugh at the pure, animal grossness of it. I scoop it up and rub it around, making myself slick and ready, then reach back and line Matt’s cock up with my hole. He’s so hard it almost hurts to touch him, and as soon as the head nudges against my rim, he jerks awake with a gasp.
“Fuck,” he mutters, voice rough and confused. “Caleb, what are you—?”
I don’t give him time to finish. I press back, guiding the first inch of him inside me. My hole hugs the head, greedy and welcoming, and he moans, shoving forward with all the shy desperation of a boy who’s never done this sober. He’s thick and hard, and it burns, but the burn feels righteous, necessary—like I could take him all the way to the hilt and still beg for more.
Matt’s arms lock around my waist, his breath hitching in my ear. “Holy shit,” he whispers, like someone’s going to catch us. “Is this okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, and my voice sounds strange, like I’m underwater or orbiting the moon. “I want you to.”
He pulls back, then thrusts in again, slower this time, letting me set the pace. We fit together like puzzle pieces. Every time he bottoms out, my own cock twitches, drooling into the mess of sheets and old sleeping bag. I can feel his heartbeat in the shaft, wild and fast, and every thrust pushes the leftover cum from last night deeper inside me, until I’m so full it feels like I might melt.
For a while, we don’t say anything. We just move together, grinding slow and lazy, the morning light making halos on his collarbone. His hand slips down to my cock, jerking me in time with his thrusts, and the friction sends bolts of pleasure up my spine. I’m not even touching myself—he’s doing everything, and that makes it a thousand times hotter. I let my body go limp, let him use me like a toy, my only job to take it and moan and not let the sheets get too sticky for his mom to wash.
Ten thrusts in, twenty, we’re both shaking. Matt’s hips slap against my ass, his cock flexing with every movement. He kisses the back of my neck, tongue flicking over the sweat pooling at my hairline, and I know he’s close—he always gets affectionate when he’s about to cum. I push back against him, taking him deeper, and he buries his face in my shoulder, groaning out my name.
“Caleb, I’m gonna—” he sputters, barely holding on, “fuck, I’m gonna cum—”
“Do it,” I say, grinding my ass into him, “Fill me up.”
He loses it, slamming forward and emptying himself inside me. The heat of it makes me cum instantly, hands-free, my own load splattering the sheets under us. It’s intense and humiliating and perfect. I clench down, milking every drop out of him, and he whimpers, collapsing on top of me like a dead weight.
We lay there, sweaty and sticky and destroyed, breathing in each other’s air. I can feel his cum leaking out of me already, dribbling between my legs and puddling on the sheets. My cock is still twitching, half-hard and aching for more, but I force myself to just bask in the afterglow. Matt goes soft inside me, but doesn’t pull out. He just hugs me tighter, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.
After a minute, he kisses my shoulder and laughs. “Jesus Christ,” he says, “I didn’t even know I could cum so much.”
I roll onto my back, careful not to lose the mess inside me. “You have many hidden talents,” I say, reaching up to wipe the sweat out of his eyes. “And most of them involve summing,” I joke.
He grins, his face all flushed and bright, and plants another kiss on my lips. This one’s gentle, almost reverent. “Is this weird?” he asks. “I mean… us?”
I shake my head. “No. It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
He nods, serious for a second, then giggles. “God, your ass is gonna be so sore.”
I laugh, and the sound fills the whole room, echoing off the glow-in-the-dark stars. “Worth it,” I say, and I mean it.
We try to get cleaned up, but the damage is done. The sleeping bag is ruined, the sheets are beyond saving, and there’s a trail of cum across the mattress like a slug’s path. Matt grabs a t-shirt off the floor and uses it to wipe the worst of the mess from between my legs. I watch him work, amazed at how gentle he’s being. When he’s done, he tosses the shirt in the laundry basket and helps me climb into a pair of his old gym shorts and a tank top.
Upstairs, his mom calls up, “You boys want pancakes?” like nothing in the universe has changed.
Matt grins at me, his eyes sparkling with some secret knowledge. “We’ll be down in a sec, Mom!” Then he leans in, conspiratorial, lips right against my ear. “Can’t believe I just fucked you with my parents home,” he whispers, and I feel myself blushing, blood rushing to my cheeks and something else stirring to life between my legs. I want him again already. I want him all the time.
We eat pancakes at the kitchen counter, laughing about video games and pretending to insult each other. I can barely concentrate—I’m too busy thinking about how Matt’s cum is still leaking out of me, how I want to taste it, how I want to go back downstairs and do it again. Every now and then Matt reaches under the table and squeezes my thigh, sending spikes of anticipation through my whole body. I catch him staring at me, eyes dark and hungry, and I know this is just the beginning.
We linger over breakfast, refilling our plates until we’re both stuffed, then escape back to the basement under the pretense of “studying” for finals. The second the door closes, Matt pounces, pinning me to the bed with his hands on either side of my head. I can feel his rock-hard cock digging into my balls. He kisses me hard, crushing and sweet at once, and I melt into it, letting him take whatever he wants.
Looking back, that night was a threshold—one I didn’t just cross, but sprinted over, dick-swinging and delirious. The second Matt’s cock slid into me, I discovered a need that, up until then, had lived dormant in the marrow of my bones. Suddenly it was the only thing I could think about: the stretch and ache, the fullness, the sense-memory of being split open and filled with someone else. Even now, hours after, my body still pulses with the phantom sensation, as if his cock is still there, stretching me from the inside, the ache reminding me that I am alive, that I am wanted and real.
It’s not just the sex—it’s the obsession. I want cock, yes, but it’s so much more than that. I want to service it, to worship it, to make the guys I love lose control because of me. I want to feel every shudder, every desperate, involuntary thrust, every drop of sweat and cum as a kind of proof that I exist to be used and filled and claimed. There’s something sacred about the surrender—about giving myself up to a sensation that swallows every other thought until I’m nothing but a shaking, leaking vessel for someone else’s pleasure. It’s so much better than I imagined. I crave it, constantly. The craving is a ache in my gut, a buzzing in my balls, a constant, low-grade fever that only gets hotter when someone’s inside me.
And the cum. Fuck. The first time Matt buried himself all the way and let go, there was this flicker of panic—what if I got caught, what if this was a mistake, what if I was about to drown in him and never come up for air? But then there was the heat, jetting into me, and the panic turned into a high, a rush, a dizzy, electric kind of joy. I loved it. I loved how it felt, how it dripped out of me afterward, how I could push it out and feel it trickle down my thigh, sticky and disgusting. I loved that my body was still desperate for more, even when my mind was too scrambled to form words. I would have taken another load that same minute if I could have. And I would have thanked him for it.
There’s a word for it: power bottom. I’d seen it online, heard it tossed around in group chats and comment sections, always with a wink or a sneer. Now it made perfect, glittering sense. I wasn’t just a bottom; I was a fucking power bottom. I wanted to be the best at getting railed, the star athlete of being used and filled and ruined by cock. I wanted to be the guy you called when you needed to dump a load and didn’t want to mess around. I wanted to break records, to set new standards, to be the one every guy remembered and compared all others to. I wanted to show up everywhere with a full tank, leaking and shameless, always hungry for more.
And I was already getting good at it.
Since that first load, I started tracking my progress, in a way. How many loads. How long I could keep them inside before they started leaking out. How many times I could cum without touching myself, just by getting fucked. I even started to keep count of Matt’s orgasms, like they were points on a scoreboard, and nothing made me happier than finding new ways to push him over the edge. It became a game, a competition with myself, to see how much I could take and how far I could go. Sometimes, afterward, I’d lay there and finger myself, just to feel the mess inside, the slippery mixture of spit and lube and cum, and grin at how fucking gross and hot it all was.
I’d always thought of myself as a people-pleaser, someone who wanted to make everyone happy, to smooth things over and keep the vibes good. But this was different. This was deeper, more feral, more honest. I didn’t just want to please Matt—I wanted to be his favorite thing in the world, his favorite hole, the one he couldn’t stay away from. I wanted him addicted to me, to my ass, to the way it gripped him and milked him and made him lose his mind. And I wanted that feeling with everyone. Anyone. The idea of being passed around, used, filled up by whole teams, whole crowds, made me crazy with anticipation. I wanted it all.
The best part was, Matt knew. He saw it in me, saw the hunger and the need, and instead of being turned off, it made him want me more. He’d pin me to the mattress, whisper filthy things in my ear, make promises about what he’d do to me next time, and I’d shiver and leak and beg for it. That first night was just the beginning—a seed planted in the dark that would, soon enough, grow into something wild and uncontrollable.
From then on, it was like a switch flipped. We went from nervous, experimental make-outs to full-on, no-holds-barred marathon fuck sessions, sometimes two or three times a day. I couldn’t get enough. Sometimes, after he finished inside me, Matt would fall asleep with his cock still in my ass, and I’d lie there, wide awake, flexing around him, savoring the feeling of being plugged and full. If he slipped out, I’d scoop up the mess and stuff it back in, greedy for every last drop. I wanted to walk around with his cum inside me all the time, leaking it out in the locker room or during gym class, a secret badge of honor that only I got to wear.
The hunger didn’t stop with Matt, either. I started noticing other guys—guys in the halls, at swim practice, even the quiet ones in my AP chem class. I wondered what they’d feel like inside me, what their loads would taste like, how they’d react if I dropped to my knees and begged for it. I started fantasizing about getting fucked in every possible place: the woods behind the bleachers, the janitor’s closet, the back seat of someone’s car. Sometimes I’d jerk off to the thought of being used by a whole team, letting them take turns until I was so sore and stretched out I couldn’t sit down the next day. The fantasy didn’t scare me; it called to me, louder every time I came.
It wasn’t just a phase. It was an awakening. I’d spent my whole life trying to be good, to be normal, to fit into the grooves everyone else carved for me. But now I wanted to mess it all up, to take what I wanted and leave a trail behind me. I wanted to be legendary. I wanted to be the power bottom every other power bottom looked up to. I wanted to be filled, used, worshipped, ruined, and then start all over again.
And if that meant walking around school with my hole still dripping, so be it.
Predictably, things with Matt only got crazier from there. We became completely reckless, fucking anywhere we thought we could get away with it, sometimes not even bothering to lock the door or keep our voices down. We learned how to time it between classes, how to keep a straight face when we were both still flushed and shaky from a quickie in the equipment shed. We got caught, once or twice, but that only made it hotter. It felt like we were living on the edge of something massive, like every orgasm pushed us closer to a new kind of freedom, a new identity neither of us had ever dared to imagine.
I started carrying extra boxers in my backpack, just in case. I got really good at cleaning up with nothing but a handful of wet wipes and a bottle of water. I didn’t even bother pretending to be ashamed anymore. If Matt or anyone else wanted to fuck me, I was ready. All the time, anywhere, any way they wanted.
It was only the beginning, and I wanted to see just how far I could go.