Ryan
18 Years Old
“Shit, bro, you need to teach my girl your deep throat skills.”
I groan around Terrell’s cock. I'd respond, but like he said, my throat is currently stuffed with my best friend, the high school basketball team captain's huge dick.
T is seated on the edge of my bed, and I'm on my knees between his muscular dark-skinned thighs. His hand rests heavy on the back of my head, not pushing, just there. Present. Owning my throat in that casual way he owns the court.
I close my eyes and try to focus on the weight of him, the taste, the way he fills my mouth so completely I can barely breathe. It's perfect. It's exactly what I need.
When I got back from my little exploration trip to Florida—where I had my guts rearranged and my sexuality sorted out—I've been cock-starved. Ravenous. I wasn't sure how I'd survive avoiding hookups with guys for the last half of my senior year. Every practice, every game, every class was torture. I'd see a guy with broad shoulders or thick thighs and my mouth would water, my palms would sweat, and I'd have to duck into a bathroom to jerk off just to make it through the day.
That is, until I was gaming with T after school one day. I looked over after my guy had just died and saw he was bricked as fuck in his basketball shorts.
It was a mouthwatering sight. The tent was so big I couldn't stop staring. My brain went fuzzy. All I could think about was what was underneath that fabric, how it would feel against my tongue, how it would taste if he came in my mouth.
When I looked up and saw T looking at me, I knew I'd been busted. My stomach dropped. I saw my whole life as I knew it flash before my eyes. The scholarship offers. The NFL dreams. My father's political career. All of it, up in smoke because I couldn't keep my eyes off my best friend's dick.
I prepared to get my ass kicked. I braced for the fist, for the slurs, for the whole school to find out by Monday morning.
Instead, T simply said, “Don't just stare at it. Help a bro out.” Then he stood and dropped his shorts, and his huge dick bounced in front of my face, heavy and dark and already leaking at the tip.
I leapt at the opportunity. Didn't even hesitate. I wrapped my lips around him and gave him the best head I knew how to give at that point—which, admittedly, wasn't much, but I was eager. I was desperate. I wanted to learn every inch of him.
Since that day, I've been blowing my best friend a couple times a week when our practice schedules don't get in the way. Sometimes it's quick and dirty, a rushed ten minutes before his mom gets home from work if we’re at his house. Sometimes it's slow and lazy, like tonight, with nowhere to be and hours to kill.
T grabs my hair and yanks back until I'm looking up at him, just the head of his dick still in my mouth. His eyes are dark, blown wide with pleasure, and his chest heaves with every breath.
“Look at those pretty green eyes,” he says, his voice rough. I moan around the head of his cock, the vibration making him shudder.
“Fuck,” T breathes. “Best head I've ever had.”
I pop off, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and look up at him. “You like that, T?”
He doesn't answer with words. He just stands, grabs the back of my head, and shoves his cock to the back of my throat again. I gag around him, eyes watering, and reach up to grab twohandfuls of his ass. His cheeks are firm under my palms, and I love feeling them flex as he tries to push impossibly further.
“Hang on tight, bro,” T grunts, his hips starting to move in shallow thrusts. “Gonna nut down that throat.”
I splutter around his dick, drool spilling down my chin, and just wait for my reward. I can feel him swelling, getting harder, his rhythm getting erratic. He's close. So close.
But before T blows his load, the door to my bedroom suddenly swings open.
“Ryan—”
The voice cuts short, and I hear T shout, “Oh fuck!” as he quickly pulls his dick out of my mouth and scrambles for his shorts.
I whip my head around, heart hammering, and see both my parents standing there. My father's face is emblazoned red, a vein popping out on his forehead. My mother is literally clutching her necklace, her mouth hanging open in horror.
I panic. “Dad. It's not—”
“Not what?” my father interrupts, his voice dangerously low. “My son isn't a cocksucker? Because that's not what it fucking looked like from here.”
My mother just stands there, wide-eyed, not saying a thing.
“Get off your fucking knees, Ryan,” my father barks.
I scramble to my feet, my legs shaky, my face burning with shame. I can't look at them. I can't look at T. I can't look anywhere.
