u/StoriesByMattVane

Everyone is over 18

Quick recap: Cody's date was getting closer, and somehow I had become part of his preparations. After measuring him, helping him shave, and finding the right condom size with him, a test that ended with him coming, the line between a simple favor and something much more intimate was getting harder to ignore.

That evening, Cody and I sat on the couch pretending to watch TV.

At least I was pretending.

After everything that had happened over the past few days, simply sitting beside him no longer felt simple. I had already seen far too much of him, held him in my hand, shaved him, rubbed lotion into his skin, put a condom on him, and made him come while he was wearing it. And now he was supposed to sit beside me in a T-shirt and shorts as if he were just my roommate?

That was impossible.

Cody checked his phone every few minutes. At first, he smiled to himself, but then his expression changed slightly. The smile remained, though something more nervous appeared beneath it.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Nothing."

"Cody."

He looked at me, then back at the screen.

"She wrote something... direct."

I immediately felt my stomach tighten.

"How direct?"

Cody rubbed the back of his neck and laughed quietly.

"She said that if the date goes well, she's definitely going to give me a blowjob."

For a second, I didn't answer.

I should have made a joke. Told him he was lucky. Acted like a normal roommate cheering his friend on before a date.

Instead, I immediately pictured his cock.

Cody must have noticed my silence, because he quickly added, "I know, it sounds good. It's just that now I've started wondering."

"About what?"

"Whether everything will be... okay."

I raised my eyebrows.

"Okay?"

"You know. The taste. The smell. Whether it'll be weird."

He watched me more carefully, and by then, I already understood where the conversation was going.

Cody put his phone down on the coffee table.

"Since you've already helped me with my size, the shaving, and the condoms... could you check one more thing?"

For a moment, I stared at him without speaking.

He didn't need to explain. After all those "practical" requests, I already knew that tone. Cody always began as if he were asking about something sensible, technical, almost innocent. Then it ended with me having his body in my hands and trying to pretend I wasn't completely hard.

"Cody," I said slowly. "Are you really asking me to... taste you?"

His face turned slightly red, but he didn't look away.

"Just check."

"Just."

"What?" He shrugged, although this time he looked less confident. "I just want to know if everything will be okay. I don't want it to be weird during the date."

I should have told him he was taking this too far. That we had already crossed too many boundaries.

But the truth was that my body responded faster than my common sense.

"All right," I said quietly.

Cody blinked as if, despite everything, he hadn't expected me to agree so quickly.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. If you want to be sure, I'll check."

For a moment, he sat completely still. Then he stood from the couch and moved in front of me. This time, there was no measuring tape, trimmer, lotion, or condom. There was nothing we could use to pretend this was ordinary technical help.

Cody hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his shorts and slowly pulled them down over his hips.

He was already half-hard.

The sight hit me harder than I wanted to admit. His cock hung heavily in front of my face, as if it already knew that this time, it wouldn't end with looking or touching.

I swallowed.

"It looks good," I said.

Cody smiled faintly.

"That's not the same as tasting it."

He was right.

I moved closer to the edge of the couch and looked up at him. He was beautiful in that shamelessly natural way of his.

"Come closer," I said.

Cody took a step toward me, and I realized I genuinely couldn't wait to take him into my mouth.

I started carefully.

At first, I only brushed my lips over the tip, as if I really intended to perform a quick test and pull away after a few seconds. Cody stood tense in front of me, one hand resting on my shoulder, looking down as if he couldn't decide whether he should watch or turn away.

I didn't have that problem.

I wanted to see all of him.

I touched my tongue to the spot where a small drop had gathered and felt his body react immediately. Cody twitched slightly, but he didn't pull away.

"Well?" he asked more quietly than usual.

I moved back only far enough to answer.

"You taste good."

His lips parted slightly.

"Is that all?"

I smiled briefly.

"Clean. Mild. Very masculine."

Cody swallowed, and I watched him grow even harder.

That was when I stopped pretending it was only a quick check.

I wrapped one hand around the base and took him deeper into my mouth. Slowly and confidently, letting him feel the difference between an accidental touch and someone who genuinely knew what he was doing. Cody let out a low, surprised sound and tightened his fingers on my shoulder.

"Fuck, Matt..."

I didn't answer. I didn't need to.

I took my time with him, moving slowly and steadily, making every motion feel like an answer to his earlier question. Yes, he tasted good. Yes, the girl would have no reason to complain. Yes, he was exactly the kind of man who couldn't be ignored.

His hips moved gently toward me, then stopped as if he were trying to control himself. I looked up at him and ran my hand along his thigh, letting him know it was all right.

"You really know what you're doing," he forced out.

This time, I pulled away for a second.

"I told you. She won't have any reason to complain."

Cody stared at me, dazed.

Then I took him into my mouth again, deeper and with more confidence.

He stood completely hard in front of me, his body tense with a level of pleasure he probably hadn't expected to feel so strongly.

I could sense it in every movement he made.

In the way his hips began responding to my mouth. In how difficult it was becoming for him to stand still. In the way he looked down at me, stunned, as if he were only now realizing that my "help" was something completely different from a test before his date.

I gripped him more firmly near the base and sped up. Not roughly, but with more confidence and precision, guiding him with my mouth and tongue until he stopped thinking about anything except what he was feeling.

"Matt..." he gasped, his voice tightening.

I didn't move away.

I only looked up at him.

Cody understood.

"I'm going to come," he forced out. "I'm really going to come."

I nodded slightly, still holding him in my mouth. That was my answer. My permission. And I think that was what made him lose the last of his control.

His body tensed harder, his fingers tightened on my shoulder, and a moment later, he came in my mouth with a short, muffled moan that went straight through me and settled deep inside me. I took it calmly, still holding him until the final tremors slowly began to fade from his body.

When I finally pulled away and looked up at him, Cody seemed to have no idea what to say.

For a moment, he simply stood above me, naked, relaxed, and completely shocked by how far the "test" had gone.

"Fuck," he finally said quietly. "If she does that even half as well as you, I'll be lucky."

That sentence should have made me laugh.

Instead, it sank too deeply into me.

Cody pulled up his shorts and sat beside me on the couch, still looking slightly dazed. I stared straight ahead, the taste of his climax still in my mouth and my own hardness hidden inside my pants.

There were still a few days left before the date.

But after that evening, I was no longer sure whether Cody was really preparing for her or becoming more and more accustomed to me.

Everyone is over 18

I arrived a little late at the apartment where the party was being held.

Someone yelled my name when they saw me. Someone else immediately handed me a beer before I even had time to take off my jacket.

The living room was loud, stuffy, and familiar. Around ten guys from our college days were sitting on couches, chairs, and the floor, beers in their hands, laughing too loudly at stories every one of us had already heard at least three times.

They weren't all close friends of mine. Some were more like guys I knew from the dorms, parties, late-night walks back through the city, or those stupid bets that had seemed like the most important thing in the world back then.

But it didn't matter.

That evening, we were all acting a little like we were still twenty years old and had no responsibilities beyond who could tell the best story, who could drink the fastest, and who could remind someone of their most embarrassing moment from college.

The conversations jumped from one subject to another. Work, apartments, old parties, girls whose names half of us could no longer remember, and bets no sane person should ever have accepted. The longer we sat there, the more that old atmosphere returned. That stupid, masculine kind of competition where nobody wanted to seem boring, cautious, or too grown-up.

At first, it was innocent. We laughed about who had once fallen asleep in the hallway, who had broken the bathroom door, and who had tried to pick up a girl but ended up talking to her boyfriend for an hour.

Then the jokes started getting bolder.

Someone brought up the old dorm challenges. Someone else said that students today wouldn't have the courage to do half the things we had done back then without a second thought. Naturally, that immediately led to protests, laughter, and bragging.

I sat on the edge of the couch with a beer in my hand, watching all of them with a faint smile.

Even then, I knew the night wasn't going to end normally.

I don't remember who mentioned Ryan first.

Maybe it started with some stupid dorm story. Maybe with a bet nobody could tell the same way anymore. All I know is that at some point, someone laughed louder, pointed his bottle toward the armchair by the window, and said:

"Okay, but nobody here can beat Ryan."

We all looked in that direction.

Ryan was sprawled in the armchair as though the entire apartment belonged to him. One arm rested on the armrest, while the other loosely held his beer. He wore that shameless grin of his, the one that immediately reminded me of college.

He had already been handsome back then, but now he looked even better. His T-shirt stretched across his shoulders and chest, making it impossible not to notice how much broader he had become.

"Ryan?" someone scoffed. "Why? Because he's going to start talking about his legendary trick again?"

Ryan raised his eyebrows.

"I don't need to talk about it. Everyone remembers."

Several of the guys immediately started laughing. I smiled too, although I didn't completely know what they were talking about. I had once heard fragments of the story, something involving a shower, a bet, and a "volcano," but I had always assumed it was one of those college legends that became more absurd with every passing year.

"Wait," one of the guys said. "Can you seriously still do that cum volcano trick?"

Ryan slowly set down his beer.

"Of course," he said. "Even better than I could back then."

The room immediately became louder. Someone swore, someone laughed, and someone said there was no chance.

Then one word was spoken.

"Prove it."

For a moment, Ryan simply stared at the guy who had challenged him. Then he gave a short laugh, as though he had just heard something ridiculous, but I could see in his eyes that this was exactly what he had been waiting for.

"You really want to see it?" he asked.

Several of the guys immediately responded with laughter and swearing. Someone said that after all these years, Ryan was probably all talk. Someone else said that anyone who had a problem with it could go into the kitchen.

Nobody left.

Ryan stood up from the armchair and moved a chair into the middle of the living room. That simple movement suddenly changed the entire atmosphere. A moment earlier, it had only been a joke, another piece of college bragging dragged out after years.

Now everyone was watching him.

And he liked it.

I could tell by the way he removed his T-shirt. Slowly, without rushing, without the slightest trace of embarrassment. The fabric slid over his stomach and chest, revealing a body that looked almost perfect. He was built in a way that was genuinely difficult to ignore. Broad shoulders, a hard chest, a flat stomach, powerful thighs.

People were still joking, but the laughter had changed.

It sounded more nervous now.

When Ryan unbuttoned his pants, someone whistled. Someone else muttered something under his breath.

I didn't say anything.

I watched.

When he finally exposed his cock, the room became quieter for a second. It was long, heavy, impressive, and already partially hard.

Ryan sat down on the chair, relaxed and confident, as though he knew exactly what kind of impression he was making.

He wrapped his hand around himself and smiled.

"Okay," he said. "Watch closely."

Ryan started slowly, as though he had no interest in reaching the finish too quickly.

First, he moved his hand lazily along his shaft, more for the benefit of his audience than because he was seriously trying to get himself off. His cock twitched between his fingers, long and heavy, growing harder with every passing second. Ryan leaned back more comfortably in the chair, spread his thighs wider, and flashed that shameless grin of his, as though the entire room had become his audience.

"You still think I was just talking?" he asked.

Someone answered. Someone laughed, but I barely heard them.

I was watching his hand.

He held himself confidently, slowly sliding his palm from the base all the way to the tip. He wasn't nervous. He wasn't rushing. Every movement was controlled, almost arrogant, as though Ryan knew perfectly well that everyone was waiting for the moment when he finally lost control. He rubbed his thumb across the wet tip, spreading the first drop over his skin, then moved his hand down again and gripped the shaft more firmly.

At first, people were still making jokes. Stupid comments, nervous laughter, curses spoken more out of disbelief than disgust.

But the longer Ryan touched himself, the quieter the room became.

Because it no longer looked like a joke.

His cock was completely hard now. Long, tense, and heavy in his hand. Ryan's breathing grew deeper, and the muscles of his stomach tightened with every slower stroke. Again and again, he moved his hand along the full length, tighter around the base and slower near the tip, as though he were deliberately delaying the moment when everyone would find out whether the legend was really true.

At one point, he stopped smiling.

That was the first thing that truly struck me.

Ryan, who only moments earlier had been turning it into a show, suddenly looked focused. His jaw tightened slightly, his head tipped back, and his hand began to move faster. He was no longer merely putting on a performance.

Now he was genuinely pushing himself toward the edge.

That was when I realized something nobody else seemed to notice.

Ryan wasn't getting hard only because of his own hand.

He was getting hard because everyone was watching him.

The attention turned him on. Every stare, every nervous laugh, every quiet "fuck" from the other side of the room only made him more aroused. He sat there naked and shameless, his cock in his hand, looking like a man who truly believed he was about to prove something nobody else would have the courage to attempt.

His movements became shorter and firmer. His hand moved faster, his skin grew wetter, and his breathing broke more frequently. His thighs tightened on either side of the chair.

His stomach trembled.

"Okay," he gasped suddenly. "Now watch."

He slowed down.

One more stroke.

Then another.

And then he stopped.

He released his cock.

For a second, nothing happened. Ryan sat with his legs spread wide, breathing heavily, his cock standing hard and wet, as though his entire body were suspended in that one moment.

Then his cock pulsed, and the first thick spurt burst from the tip.

Someone beside me swore immediately, but Ryan wasn't finished. His cock continued to pulse untouched, without any movement of his hand.

I was shocked by how much cum was pouring out of him.

It wasn't one quick shot followed by nothing. It kept spilling from him, thick and white, running from the tip, down the shaft, and over his balls. It gathered there for a moment, sticky and heavy, before beginning to drip onto the floor.

One drop.

Then another.

The room erupted in laughter and disbelief. Someone shouted that Ryan really hadn't been lying. Another guy half-rose from his seat, as though he couldn't decide whether to keep watching or turn away.

I remained completely still.

Because to them, it was a party trick.

To me, it was something entirely different.

I stared at his tense body, his trembling thighs, and the long cock from which the final white streaks were still slowly dripping.

Then a thought appeared in my mind so clearly that heat rushed through my entire body.

I wondered what something like that would feel like in my mouth.

I swallowed, forced myself to smile, and before I could truly think about what I was doing, I said:

"Party at my place next week. Everyone's invited."

Everyone is over 18

I arrived a little late at the apartment where the party was being held.

Someone yelled my name when they saw me. Someone else immediately handed me a beer before I even had time to take off my jacket.

The living room was loud, stuffy, and familiar. Around ten guys from our college days were sitting on couches, chairs, and the floor, beers in their hands, laughing too loudly at stories every one of us had already heard at least three times.

They weren't all close friends of mine. Some were more like guys I knew from the dorms, parties, late-night walks back through the city, or those stupid bets that had seemed like the most important thing in the world back then.

But it didn't matter.

That evening, we were all acting a little like we were still twenty years old and had no responsibilities beyond who could tell the best story, who could drink the fastest, and who could remind someone of their most embarrassing moment from college.

The conversations jumped from one subject to another. Work, apartments, old parties, girls whose names half of us could no longer remember, and bets no sane person should ever have accepted. The longer we sat there, the more that old atmosphere returned. That stupid, masculine kind of competition where nobody wanted to seem boring, cautious, or too grown-up.

At first, it was innocent. We laughed about who had once fallen asleep in the hallway, who had broken the bathroom door, and who had tried to pick up a girl but ended up talking to her boyfriend for an hour.

Then the jokes started getting bolder.

Someone brought up the old dorm challenges. Someone else said that students today wouldn't have the courage to do half the things we had done back then without a second thought. Naturally, that immediately led to protests, laughter, and bragging.

I sat on the edge of the couch with a beer in my hand, watching all of them with a faint smile.

Even then, I knew the night wasn't going to end normally.

I don't remember who mentioned Ryan first.

Maybe it started with some stupid dorm story. Maybe with a bet nobody could tell the same way anymore. All I know is that at some point, someone laughed louder, pointed his bottle toward the armchair by the window, and said:

"Okay, but nobody here can beat Ryan."

We all looked in that direction.

Ryan was sprawled in the armchair as though the entire apartment belonged to him. One arm rested on the armrest, while the other loosely held his beer. He wore that shameless grin of his, the one that immediately reminded me of college.

He had already been handsome back then, but now he looked even better. His T-shirt stretched across his shoulders and chest, making it impossible not to notice how much broader he had become.

"Ryan?" someone scoffed. "Why? Because he's going to start talking about his legendary trick again?"

Ryan raised his eyebrows.

"I don't need to talk about it. Everyone remembers."

Several of the guys immediately started laughing. I smiled too, although I didn't completely know what they were talking about. I had once heard fragments of the story, something involving a shower, a bet, and a "volcano," but I had always assumed it was one of those college legends that became more absurd with every passing year.

"Wait," one of the guys said. "Can you seriously still do that cum volcano trick?"

Ryan slowly set down his beer.

"Of course," he said. "Even better than I could back then."

The room immediately became louder. Someone swore, someone laughed, and someone said there was no chance.

Then one word was spoken.

"Prove it."

For a moment, Ryan simply stared at the guy who had challenged him. Then he gave a short laugh, as though he had just heard something ridiculous, but I could see in his eyes that this was exactly what he had been waiting for.

"You really want to see it?" he asked.

Several of the guys immediately responded with laughter and swearing. Someone said that after all these years, Ryan was probably all talk. Someone else said that anyone who had a problem with it could go into the kitchen.

Nobody left.

Ryan stood up from the armchair and moved a chair into the middle of the living room. That simple movement suddenly changed the entire atmosphere. A moment earlier, it had only been a joke, another piece of college bragging dragged out after years.

Now everyone was watching him.

And he liked it.

I could tell by the way he removed his T-shirt. Slowly, without rushing, without the slightest trace of embarrassment. The fabric slid over his stomach and chest, revealing a body that looked almost perfect. He was built in a way that was genuinely difficult to ignore. Broad shoulders, a hard chest, a flat stomach, powerful thighs.

People were still joking, but the laughter had changed.

It sounded more nervous now.

When Ryan unbuttoned his pants, someone whistled. Someone else muttered something under his breath.

I didn't say anything.

I watched.

When he finally exposed his cock, the room became quieter for a second. It was long, heavy, impressive, and already partially hard.

Ryan sat down on the chair, relaxed and confident, as though he knew exactly what kind of impression he was making.

He wrapped his hand around himself and smiled.

"Okay," he said. "Watch closely."

Ryan started slowly, as though he had no interest in reaching the finish too quickly.

First, he moved his hand lazily along his shaft, more for the benefit of his audience than because he was seriously trying to get himself off. His cock twitched between his fingers, long and heavy, growing harder with every passing second. Ryan leaned back more comfortably in the chair, spread his thighs wider, and flashed that shameless grin of his, as though the entire room had become his audience.

"You still think I was just talking?" he asked.

Someone answered. Someone laughed, but I barely heard them.

I was watching his hand.

He held himself confidently, slowly sliding his palm from the base all the way to the tip. He wasn't nervous. He wasn't rushing. Every movement was controlled, almost arrogant, as though Ryan knew perfectly well that everyone was waiting for the moment when he finally lost control. He rubbed his thumb across the wet tip, spreading the first drop over his skin, then moved his hand down again and gripped the shaft more firmly.

At first, people were still making jokes. Stupid comments, nervous laughter, curses spoken more out of disbelief than disgust.

But the longer Ryan touched himself, the quieter the room became.

Because it no longer looked like a joke.

His cock was completely hard now. Long, tense, and heavy in his hand. Ryan's breathing grew deeper, and the muscles of his stomach tightened with every slower stroke. Again and again, he moved his hand along the full length, tighter around the base and slower near the tip, as though he were deliberately delaying the moment when everyone would find out whether the legend was really true.

At one point, he stopped smiling.

That was the first thing that truly struck me.

Ryan, who only moments earlier had been turning it into a show, suddenly looked focused. His jaw tightened slightly, his head tipped back, and his hand began to move faster. He was no longer merely putting on a performance.

Now he was genuinely pushing himself toward the edge.

That was when I realized something nobody else seemed to notice.

Ryan wasn't getting hard only because of his own hand.

He was getting hard because everyone was watching him.

The attention turned him on. Every stare, every nervous laugh, every quiet "fuck" from the other side of the room only made him more aroused. He sat there naked and shameless, his cock in his hand, looking like a man who truly believed he was about to prove something nobody else would have the courage to attempt.

His movements became shorter and firmer. His hand moved faster, his skin grew wetter, and his breathing broke more frequently. His thighs tightened on either side of the chair.

His stomach trembled.

"Okay," he gasped suddenly. "Now watch."

He slowed down.

One more stroke.

Then another.

And then he stopped.

He released his cock.

For a second, nothing happened. Ryan sat with his legs spread wide, breathing heavily, his cock standing hard and wet, as though his entire body were suspended in that one moment.

Then his cock pulsed, and the first thick spurt burst from the tip.

Someone beside me swore immediately, but Ryan wasn't finished. His cock continued to pulse untouched, without any movement of his hand.

I was shocked by how much cum was pouring out of him.

It wasn't one quick shot followed by nothing. It kept spilling from him, thick and white, running from the tip, down the shaft, and over his balls. It gathered there for a moment, sticky and heavy, before beginning to drip onto the floor.

One drop.

Then another.

The room erupted in laughter and disbelief. Someone shouted that Ryan really hadn't been lying. Another guy half-rose from his seat, as though he couldn't decide whether to keep watching or turn away.

I remained completely still.

Because to them, it was a party trick.

To me, it was something entirely different.

I stared at his tense body, his trembling thighs, and the long cock from which the final white streaks were still slowly dripping.

Then a thought appeared in my mind so clearly that heat rushed through my entire body.

I wondered what something like that would feel like in my mouth.

I swallowed, forced myself to smile, and before I could truly think about what I was doing, I said:

"Party at my place next week. Everyone's invited."

Everyone is over 18

Part 1

Quick recap: Matt meets his straight college friend Kyle and accidentally finds an old list of intimate things Kyle secretly wanted to do with him. Kyle admits that his feelings for Matt began back in college, including one night when they were lying in separate beds fantasizing about each other without realizing the other was doing exactly the same thing. Years later, they finally act on the first item on the list, opening the door to everything they were once too afraid to try.

Kyle texted me the next evening.

There was nothing bold about the message. No flirting, no reference to what we'd done on his couch. Just a few ordinary sentences that, before all of this, I probably would have read without thinking much of them.

"I'm going to the gym tomorrow. Remember how we used to work out together? You can come by if you want."

I read it twice.

At first glance, it sounded like a message from an old friend. A simple invitation, a little nostalgia, nothing more. But after what had happened recently, ordinary invitations didn't sound ordinary anymore.

I told him I'd come.

The next day, I spotted him by the weight rack, and suddenly college didn't feel nearly as far behind us as I'd thought. Kyle looked more mature now. Stronger, more confident, already sweaty from his first few sets. His shirt clung to his back and chest, and every movement of his arms reminded me why it had once been so hard to work out beside him and pretend I was actually focused on training.

I tried not to stare for too long.

Kyle noticed, of course.

He smiled slightly, with the same glint in his eyes that used to be enough to make me forget what I was about to say.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"You're an even worse liar than you were in college."

I laughed, but I felt the reaction low in my stomach. Back then, I would have looked away.

Now we both knew too much.

Near the end of the workout, Kyle suddenly winced and grabbed his thigh, close to his hip.

"You okay?" I asked.

"I think I just pulled something."

I stepped closer before I could think about it.

"I can massage it for you. It used to help."

Kyle went still.

For a second, he just stared at me.

"At my place?" he asked quietly.

I nodded.

"If you want."

He glanced down at his thigh again, as if he were still trying to convince himself this was only practical.

"I want to," he said.

We walked back to Kyle's apartment almost entirely in silence.

It wasn't awkward silence. It was more the kind where every possible sentence felt too obvious. He walked beside me with a slightly shorter stride, still holding on to the practical excuse, while I tried not to think about how much weight there had been behind his quiet, "I want to."

As soon as the door closed behind us, Kyle went straight to the bathroom. He came back a moment later holding a small bottle of massage oil.

"You still use the same stuff?" I asked.

He looked at the bottle and gave me a faint smile.

"It worked back then."

He didn't have to say anything else.

Kyle took off his shirt. Slowly, a little too deliberately for someone who supposedly only needed a post-workout massage. For a moment, I had a clear view of his back, his shoulders, and his skin still warm from exertion. Then he turned toward me as if he was waiting for the next instruction.

"If your thigh hurts, it'll be easier if you take off your shorts too," I said.

He hesitated, but only for a moment.

He slid them down and stood there in just his boxers. Then he lay facedown on the bed, his head turned to the side and his arms resting near the pillow.

It looked practical.

Almost.

I sat beside him and poured some oil into my hands. I started normally, with his shoulders and neck, pressing my fingers into the tight muscles. Kyle let out a quiet sound of relief, and his body slowly relaxed beneath my touch.

I worked my way lower. His shoulder blades, lower back, hips. Then the backs of his thighs, where he really could have strained something.

My hands slowed.

Kyle noticed that too. His fingers tightened slightly around the sheets.

"I remember the next item," I said quietly.

His body tensed beneath my hands.

"Which one?"

I ran my fingers over his thigh, slower than before.

"The one about the massage."

He was quiet for a moment.

Then he swallowed.

"It wasn't just the massage," he said.

My hands stopped against his skin.

"No?"

"It really did hurt a little back then," he said more quietly. "But that's not why I remembered it."

"Then why?"

Kyle closed his eyes for a second.

"Because they were your hands, Matt."

For a moment, I didn't move.

Kyle was lying facedown in front of me, his head turned to the side, but his voice sounded different than usual. Quieter. More honest. Like every sentence was coming from something he'd kept buried for years.

"We'd just finished working out," he said. "Back in college. Remember? I'd pulled my thigh."

"I remember."

"I lay down exactly like this," he continued. "On my stomach. You sat beside me, rubbed oil into my back, then my thighs. It was supposed to be normal. Two friends after the gym. Nothing more."

"But it wasn't like that for you?"

Kyle shook his head without looking directly at me.

"No. The longer you touched me, the less control I had."

I ran my thumb over his hip.

"What happened?"

He was quiet for a moment.

"I got hard."

He said it almost in a whisper.

My hand stopped on his thigh.

"Were you scared I'd notice?"

"Yeah," he said. "But at the same time, I wanted you to."

That sentence stayed with me.

"I wanted you to understand what was happening to me," he added quietly. "I wanted your hand to move lower and help me finish."

For a moment, I tried to stay composed.

Then I finished the stroke along his thigh and said,

"If you really pulled a muscle, I should massage the front too. Can you turn over for me?"

Kyle didn't move right away.

"Kyle?"

Slowly, he rolled onto his back.

And that was when I saw everything.

His boxers were stretched tight over his erection, and the fabric at the front was slightly damp. He lay there in front of me, flushed and embarrassed, but this time he didn't cover himself.

I rested my hands on his thighs.

"You're hard again."

Kyle looked into my eyes.

"Yeah."

Nothing else needed to be said.

Kyle lay on his back beneath my hands, wearing nothing but his boxers, his thighs still warm from the workout and the oil. A minute earlier, he'd been telling me about that evening in college, about how badly he'd wanted me to notice.

Now he didn't have to tell me.

I could see it.

"Do you want me to finish what I started with my hand this time?" I asked.

He swallowed.

"Yeah. Really bad."

I didn't reach for what he wanted most right away. First, I ran my hands over his thighs, slowly and firmly, as if I were still only working the tension out of the muscle. My fingers were slick with oil, and his body reacted to every movement. Kyle watched me without looking away, no longer pretending this was only about the pain.

When my fingers brushed the waistband of his boxers, he shivered slightly.

"Was this what you wanted back then?" I asked.

He nodded.

"Yeah."

I pulled the fabric down slowly. Kyle lifted his hips to help me, and when he was finally lying naked in front of me, I paused for a moment. He was completely hard, wet at the tip, as if his body had been waiting for this moment ever since that massage years ago.

I wrapped my hand around him.

Kyle let out a quiet, broken sound and gripped the sheets.

I started slowly. Not like I was just trying to get him off, but like it was still part of the massage. My hand moved from the base upward, then slid back down, changing the pressure every time his body reacted more strongly. The oil and the moisture at the tip made each movement slick, smooth, almost too easy.

"This is exactly what I wanted," he whispered.

I ran my thumb over the tip, spreading the moisture, then tightened my grip. His hips moved instinctively toward my hand.

"Don't stop."

I didn't.

I let him get close, then slowed down just enough to draw the moment out. I wanted him to feel the difference between wanting it in secret back then and finally getting it now without having to hide. Kyle's eyes moved between my face, my hand, and his own body beneath my touch.

"Yeah, Matt... just like that."

Then I sped up. My hand moved with more confidence, smoother and firmer. Kyle tensed his thighs and grabbed my forearm, not to stop me, but just to have something to hold on to.

"I'm gonna come."

"I know."

I didn't move my hand away. I kept going until his whole body tightened beneath my touch. He came hard over my hand and his stomach, the relief so obvious it was as if something he'd been holding inside for years had finally let go.

Only then did I slow down. I kept my hand on him a little longer, gentler now, as if I really was finishing a massage that had started years ago.

Kyle lay still, his face flushed but peaceful.

He didn't have to tell me that this was exactly what he'd wanted.

His body, his expression, and the silence afterward said it for him.

I looked at the piece of paper lying beside the bed.

The second item was checked off.

Everyone is over 18

Quick recap: Matt meets his straight college friend Kyle and accidentally finds an old list of intimate things Kyle secretly wanted to do with him. Kyle admits that his feelings for Matt began back in college, including one night when they were lying in separate beds fantasizing about each other without realizing the other was doing exactly the same thing. Years later, they finally act on the first item on the list, opening the door to everything they were once too afraid to try.

Kyle texted me the next evening.

There was nothing bold about the message. No flirting, no reference to what we'd done on his couch. Just a few ordinary sentences that, before all of this, I probably would have read without thinking much of them.

"I'm going to the gym tomorrow. Remember how we used to work out together? You can come by if you want."

I read it twice.

At first glance, it sounded like a message from an old friend. A simple invitation, a little nostalgia, nothing more. But after what had happened recently, ordinary invitations didn't sound ordinary anymore.

I told him I'd come.

The next day, I spotted him by the weight rack, and suddenly college didn't feel nearly as far behind us as I'd thought. Kyle looked more mature now. Stronger, more confident, already sweaty from his first few sets. His shirt clung to his back and chest, and every movement of his arms reminded me why it had once been so hard to work out beside him and pretend I was actually focused on training.

I tried not to stare for too long.

Kyle noticed, of course.

He smiled slightly, with the same glint in his eyes that used to be enough to make me forget what I was about to say.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"You're an even worse liar than you were in college."

I laughed, but I felt the reaction low in my stomach. Back then, I would have looked away.

Now we both knew too much.

Near the end of the workout, Kyle suddenly winced and grabbed his thigh, close to his hip.

"You okay?" I asked.

"I think I just pulled something."

I stepped closer before I could think about it.

"I can massage it for you. It used to help."

Kyle went still.

For a second, he just stared at me.

"At my place?" he asked quietly.

I nodded.

"If you want."

He glanced down at his thigh again, as if he were still trying to convince himself this was only practical.

"I want to," he said.

We walked back to Kyle's apartment almost entirely in silence.

It wasn't awkward silence. It was more the kind where every possible sentence felt too obvious. He walked beside me with a slightly shorter stride, still holding on to the practical excuse, while I tried not to think about how much weight there had been behind his quiet, "I want to."

As soon as the door closed behind us, Kyle went straight to the bathroom. He came back a moment later holding a small bottle of massage oil.

"You still use the same stuff?" I asked.

He looked at the bottle and gave me a faint smile.

"It worked back then."

He didn't have to say anything else.

Kyle took off his shirt. Slowly, a little too deliberately for someone who supposedly only needed a post-workout massage. For a moment, I had a clear view of his back, his shoulders, and his skin still warm from exertion. Then he turned toward me as if he was waiting for the next instruction.

"If your thigh hurts, it'll be easier if you take off your shorts too," I said.

He hesitated, but only for a moment.

He slid them down and stood there in just his boxers. Then he lay facedown on the bed, his head turned to the side and his arms resting near the pillow.

It looked practical.

Almost.

I sat beside him and poured some oil into my hands. I started normally, with his shoulders and neck, pressing my fingers into the tight muscles. Kyle let out a quiet sound of relief, and his body slowly relaxed beneath my touch.

I worked my way lower. His shoulder blades, lower back, hips. Then the backs of his thighs, where he really could have strained something.

My hands slowed.

Kyle noticed that too. His fingers tightened slightly around the sheets.

"I remember the next item," I said quietly.

His body tensed beneath my hands.

"Which one?"

I ran my fingers over his thigh, slower than before.

"The one about the massage."

He was quiet for a moment.

Then he swallowed.

"It wasn't just the massage," he said.

My hands stopped against his skin.

"No?"

"It really did hurt a little back then," he said more quietly. "But that's not why I remembered it."

"Then why?"

Kyle closed his eyes for a second.

"Because they were your hands, Matt."

For a moment, I didn't move.

Kyle was lying facedown in front of me, his head turned to the side, but his voice sounded different than usual. Quieter. More honest. Like every sentence was coming from something he'd kept buried for years.

"We'd just finished working out," he said. "Back in college. Remember? I'd pulled my thigh."

"I remember."

"I lay down exactly like this," he continued. "On my stomach. You sat beside me, rubbed oil into my back, then my thighs. It was supposed to be normal. Two friends after the gym. Nothing more."

"But it wasn't like that for you?"

Kyle shook his head without looking directly at me.

"No. The longer you touched me, the less control I had."

I ran my thumb over his hip.

"What happened?"

He was quiet for a moment.

"I got hard."

He said it almost in a whisper.

My hand stopped on his thigh.

"Were you scared I'd notice?"

"Yeah," he said. "But at the same time, I wanted you to."

That sentence stayed with me.

"I wanted you to understand what was happening to me," he added quietly. "I wanted your hand to move lower and help me finish."

For a moment, I tried to stay composed.

Then I finished the stroke along his thigh and said,

"If you really pulled a muscle, I should massage the front too. Can you turn over for me?"

Kyle didn't move right away.

"Kyle?"

Slowly, he rolled onto his back.

And that was when I saw everything.

His boxers were stretched tight over his erection, and the fabric at the front was slightly damp. He lay there in front of me, flushed and embarrassed, but this time he didn't cover himself.

I rested my hands on his thighs.

"You're hard again."

Kyle looked into my eyes.

"Yeah."

Nothing else needed to be said.

Kyle lay on his back beneath my hands, wearing nothing but his boxers, his thighs still warm from the workout and the oil. A minute earlier, he'd been telling me about that evening in college, about how badly he'd wanted me to notice.

Now he didn't have to tell me.

I could see it.

"Do you want me to finish what I started with my hand this time?" I asked.

He swallowed.

"Yeah. Really bad."

I didn't reach for what he wanted most right away. First, I ran my hands over his thighs, slowly and firmly, as if I were still only working the tension out of the muscle. My fingers were slick with oil, and his body reacted to every movement. Kyle watched me without looking away, no longer pretending this was only about the pain.

When my fingers brushed the waistband of his boxers, he shivered slightly.

"Was this what you wanted back then?" I asked.

He nodded.

"Yeah."

I pulled the fabric down slowly. Kyle lifted his hips to help me, and when he was finally lying naked in front of me, I paused for a moment. He was completely hard, wet at the tip, as if his body had been waiting for this moment ever since that massage years ago.

I wrapped my hand around him.

Kyle let out a quiet, broken sound and gripped the sheets.

I started slowly. Not like I was just trying to get him off, but like it was still part of the massage. My hand moved from the base upward, then slid back down, changing the pressure every time his body reacted more strongly. The oil and the moisture at the tip made each movement slick, smooth, almost too easy.

"This is exactly what I wanted," he whispered.

I ran my thumb over the tip, spreading the moisture, then tightened my grip. His hips moved instinctively toward my hand.

"Don't stop."

I didn't.

I let him get close, then slowed down just enough to draw the moment out. I wanted him to feel the difference between wanting it in secret back then and finally getting it now without having to hide. Kyle's eyes moved between my face, my hand, and his own body beneath my touch.

"Yeah, Matt... just like that."

Then I sped up. My hand moved with more confidence, smoother and firmer. Kyle tensed his thighs and grabbed my forearm, not to stop me, but just to have something to hold on to.

"I'm gonna come."

"I know."

I didn't move my hand away. I kept going until his whole body tightened beneath my touch. He came hard over my hand and his stomach, the relief so obvious it was as if something he'd been holding inside for years had finally let go.

Only then did I slow down. I kept my hand on him a little longer, gentler now, as if I really was finishing a massage that had started years ago.

Kyle lay still, his face flushed but peaceful.

He didn't have to tell me that this was exactly what he'd wanted.

His body, his expression, and the silence afterward said it for him.

I looked at the piece of paper lying beside the bed.

The second item was checked off.

Everyone is over 18

I had known Kyle since college.

We weren't just two people who passed each other in the hallway or occasionally sat next to each other in class. We lived in the same dorm, spent evenings together, went to parties and the gym, studied for the same exams, and sometimes talked late into the night when the rest of the floor was already asleep, or pretending to be.

To most people, Kyle was simply that handsome straight guy everyone liked.

To me, he was a problem.

He had broad shoulders, a flat stomach, and the kind of body that didn't seem to require much effort to look good. All it took was for him to take off his shirt after a workout or stretch beside his bed in the morning, and I had to pretend I wasn't looking. But the worst part was his smile. Sweet, a little cocky, sometimes completely innocent. The kind that could disarm me faster than seeing his naked body after a shower.

I never told him.

Back in college, I was convinced Kyle was completely straight. He dated girls, joked around with the guys, seemed perfectly comfortable with himself, and never gave me any reason to think he might want anything more. And I wasn't willing to risk our friendship just because I caught myself looking at him for too long far too often.

So I buried it.

At least, I thought I did.

Years later, I reached out to him for a stupid reason. I remembered an old college textbook I'd once lent him for a class. I messaged him and asked if he might still have it, and Kyle replied almost immediately.

"I think so. Come over and we'll look for it."

When he opened the door, he smiled exactly the way he used to.

And suddenly, college came rushing back.

For a few seconds, we stood there in the doorway, both a little older, a little different, and yet strangely the same.

Kyle was wearing a plain T-shirt and sweatpants, but he still had the kind of body that made even ordinary clothes look good. He looked more mature than he had in college, broader through the shoulders, calmer in the face, but when he smiled at me and said my name, something inside me went right back to the place where I'd tried to bury it years ago.

"It's good to see you, Matt," he said.

"You too."

He let me inside. His apartment was ordinary, a little messy, with shelves full of books, boxes of old stuff, and a college photo leaning against one of the walls. I noticed the two of us in it immediately. Kyle had one arm thrown over my shoulders, grinning widely, while I stood beside him pretending the gesture didn't affect me at all.

"I can't believe you still have that," I said.

Kyle glanced at the picture and laughed quietly.

"Hard to throw away proof that we were once young and stupid."

"You were stupid. I was responsible."

"Sure. That's why you always came to parties with me."

The conversation was light, but underneath it, I could feel something heavier. Every joke pulled a memory behind it. Every smile reminded me how many times I'd stared at him for too long back in the dorm.

Kyle walked over to the bookshelf and started going through some old books.

"It was the one from Professor Harrison's class, right?"

"Yeah. The huge boring one nobody except us actually read."

"Speak for yourself. I'm pretty sure I only pretended to read it."

A moment later, he pulled a book from the bottom shelf and handed it to me.

"Here. Somehow, it survived."

I took it from him with a small smile. The cover was worn, the corners bent, and a few old sticky notes were still sticking out between the pages. I opened it automatically, more out of nostalgia than anything else.

That's when a folded piece of paper fell out.

I bent down and picked it up before I even had time to think.

At the top, written in Kyle's familiar handwriting, was a title:

Things I Wanted to Do With Matt in College

I froze.

I read the first item twice.

Jerking Off With Matt

Then I saw the next ones beneath it.

Matt's Massage and His Hand

Matt Blows Me

I Blow Matt

My heart started pounding. There were even more intimate things farther down the list, but before I could really process them, I became aware of Kyle standing beside me.

When I looked up, he was staring at the paper in my hand.

His face immediately turned red.

He didn't snatch it away. He didn't shout. He just stood there, completely still, looking so embarrassed it was as if I'd just seen something he'd been hiding inside himself for years.

I slowly looked up at him.

"Kyle... was all of this about me?"

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then he lowered his eyes and answered quietly.

"Yeah."

"I thought you were straight," I said.

Kyle gave a quiet laugh, but there was no amusement in it.

"So did I. I always liked girls. But with you, it was different."

I looked back at the paper. At the first item.

Jerking Off With Matt

"Where did this come from?" I asked.

Kyle rubbed the back of his neck. His face was still red, but he wasn't running away. He stood there like someone who had carried a secret for years and suddenly didn't have the strength to hide it anymore.

"Do you remember that night after Brandon's party?" he asked.

I remembered.

We had come back to the dorm really late that night. The hallway was almost empty, the lights in our room were off, and we were both too exhausted to talk. We each got into our own bed. Kyle on one side of the room, me on the other.

"I thought you were asleep," I said.

Kyle smiled faintly.

"I wasn't."

For a moment, he stared at the floor, as if it was easier to talk to that than to me.

"I heard you moving under the covers. I didn't know for sure what you were doing, but... I figured it out. And I was hard too."

Heat rushed through me.

Kyle looked up.

"I was lying a few feet away from you, trying to pretend nothing was happening. But what I really wanted was to ask if you were doing it. And if I could too."

I didn't answer right away.

Because I remembered that night too. I remembered not being able to sleep. I remembered Kyle in the other bed, his quiet breathing, the shape of his body beneath the blanket, and my own hand doing something it shouldn't have been doing while I thought about him.

"I was thinking about you that night," I finally said.

Kyle went completely still.

"Seriously?"

I nodded.

"Yeah."

For a moment, we just stared at each other, as if we'd suddenly discovered that for years we'd been lying on opposite sides of the exact same fantasy.

My eyes returned to the first item.

"Do you still want to do it?"

Kyle swallowed.

"Yeah."

I put the book down on the coffee table, but I left the list beside it, out in the open.

I didn't want it disappearing between the pages again. Not after what I'd just heard. For years, I'd thought that night in the dorm belonged only to me, to my quiet thoughts and my hidden hand beneath the blanket. And now Kyle was standing in front of me telling me that he'd been lying only a few feet away, hard, thinking about exactly the same thing.

"You really want to do this?" I asked.

Kyle nodded.

"Yeah."

We started undressing slowly, as if every movement mattered. Shirts first. Then pants. When I was down to my boxers, I could see that Kyle was already hard too. The fabric stretched clearly over him, giving him away before he could say anything.

He looked at me and saw the same thing.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then Kyle hooked his fingers under the waistband of his boxers and pulled them down.

My breath caught in my throat.

He was beautiful. Not just handsome, not just well-built, not just the same Kyle I remembered from post-workout showers and mornings in the dorm. He was standing in front of me naked and hard, real, with the body I'd once only been able to fantasize about.

"Matt," he said quietly.

Only then did I realize he was looking at me the same way.

I pulled off my boxers.

Kyle swallowed, and his eyes stayed on me longer than he ever would have allowed himself back in college.

We sat beside each other on the couch. At first, we didn't touch each other. Each of us was only supposed to touch himself, exactly the way Kyle had imagined it all those years ago in the dorm.

He started first.

He wrapped his hand around himself slowly, almost uncertainly, as if he was still testing whether he was really allowed to do this in front of me. I watched his fingers move over his hard cock, the tension in his thighs, the way he tried to keep himself composed.

Then I wrapped my hand around myself too.

Kyle reacted immediately. His hand stopped for a second, and his eyes lifted to mine.

"Is this how you imagined it?" I asked.

"Almost," he replied.

"What was different?"

His hand moved more slowly.

"It was dark back then. I couldn't see you. I could only hear you. Now I can watch."

The words made me tighten my grip and slide my hand from the base all the way to the tip. Kyle watched every movement I made, and I watched his. With every passing second, we became more confident, the rhythm of our hands beginning to match as if we were really going back to that night and fixing everything we'd been too afraid to do.

We moved closer. Our knees almost touched. Kyle's face was flushed, but he didn't look away.

"Did you think about me when you did this in college too?" I asked.

His hand sped up.

"More often than I should have."

I couldn't help it. I sped up with him. For a while, there was nothing but the wet sound of our hands moving and the looks between us that said more than all those years of caution ever had.

Kyle moved his hand faster, less uncertain now, finally giving in to what he'd denied himself back then. I did the same, watching him, his body, his hand, his face caught somewhere between embarrassment and relief.

He came first with a quiet, broken moan, never taking his eyes off me. The sight of it pushed me over the edge only seconds later. I came right after him, tightening my grip as it felt like years of buried tension finally spilled out of me all at once.

Afterward, we sat naked on the couch, dazed and far too quiet.

Kyle looked at me, his face still flushed but calmer now.

"Yeah," he said softly. "That's exactly how I wanted it back then."

I reached for the list and looked at it one more time. The first item had only been jerking off together, and yet it had already broken open something we'd both kept buried for years.

If that was only the beginning, I couldn't stop thinking about what the rest of the list was going to do to us.

Everyone is over 18

I had known Kyle since college.

We weren't just two people who passed each other in the hallway or occasionally sat next to each other in class. We lived in the same dorm, spent evenings together, went to parties and the gym, studied for the same exams, and sometimes talked late into the night when the rest of the floor was already asleep, or pretending to be.

To most people, Kyle was simply that handsome straight guy everyone liked.

To me, he was a problem.

He had broad shoulders, a flat stomach, and the kind of body that didn't seem to require much effort to look good. All it took was for him to take off his shirt after a workout or stretch beside his bed in the morning, and I had to pretend I wasn't looking. But the worst part was his smile. Sweet, a little cocky, sometimes completely innocent. The kind that could disarm me faster than seeing his naked body after a shower.

I never told him.

Back in college, I was convinced Kyle was completely straight. He dated girls, joked around with the guys, seemed perfectly comfortable with himself, and never gave me any reason to think he might want anything more. And I wasn't willing to risk our friendship just because I caught myself looking at him for too long far too often.

So I buried it.

At least, I thought I did.

Years later, I reached out to him for a stupid reason. I remembered an old college textbook I'd once lent him for a class. I messaged him and asked if he might still have it, and Kyle replied almost immediately.

"I think so. Come over and we'll look for it."

When he opened the door, he smiled exactly the way he used to.

And suddenly, college came rushing back.

For a few seconds, we stood there in the doorway, both a little older, a little different, and yet strangely the same.

Kyle was wearing a plain T-shirt and sweatpants, but he still had the kind of body that made even ordinary clothes look good. He looked more mature than he had in college, broader through the shoulders, calmer in the face, but when he smiled at me and said my name, something inside me went right back to the place where I'd tried to bury it years ago.

"It's good to see you, Matt," he said.

"You too."

He let me inside. His apartment was ordinary, a little messy, with shelves full of books, boxes of old stuff, and a college photo leaning against one of the walls. I noticed the two of us in it immediately. Kyle had one arm thrown over my shoulders, grinning widely, while I stood beside him pretending the gesture didn't affect me at all.

"I can't believe you still have that," I said.

Kyle glanced at the picture and laughed quietly.

"Hard to throw away proof that we were once young and stupid."

"You were stupid. I was responsible."

"Sure. That's why you always came to parties with me."

The conversation was light, but underneath it, I could feel something heavier. Every joke pulled a memory behind it. Every smile reminded me how many times I'd stared at him for too long back in the dorm.

Kyle walked over to the bookshelf and started going through some old books.

"It was the one from Professor Harrison's class, right?"

"Yeah. The huge boring one nobody except us actually read."

"Speak for yourself. I'm pretty sure I only pretended to read it."

A moment later, he pulled a book from the bottom shelf and handed it to me.

"Here. Somehow, it survived."

I took it from him with a small smile. The cover was worn, the corners bent, and a few old sticky notes were still sticking out between the pages. I opened it automatically, more out of nostalgia than anything else.

That's when a folded piece of paper fell out.

I bent down and picked it up before I even had time to think.

At the top, written in Kyle's familiar handwriting, was a title:

Things I Wanted to Do With Matt in College

I froze.

I read the first item twice.

Jerking Off With Matt

Then I saw the next ones beneath it.

Matt's Massage and His Hand

Matt Blows Me

I Blow Matt

My heart started pounding. There were even more intimate things farther down the list, but before I could really process them, I became aware of Kyle standing beside me.

When I looked up, he was staring at the paper in my hand.

His face immediately turned red.

He didn't snatch it away. He didn't shout. He just stood there, completely still, looking so embarrassed it was as if I'd just seen something he'd been hiding inside himself for years.

I slowly looked up at him.

"Kyle... was all of this about me?"

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then he lowered his eyes and answered quietly.

"Yeah."

"I thought you were straight," I said.

Kyle gave a quiet laugh, but there was no amusement in it.

"So did I. I always liked girls. But with you, it was different."

I looked back at the paper. At the first item.

Jerking Off With Matt

"Where did this come from?" I asked.

Kyle rubbed the back of his neck. His face was still red, but he wasn't running away. He stood there like someone who had carried a secret for years and suddenly didn't have the strength to hide it anymore.

"Do you remember that night after Brandon's party?" he asked.

I remembered.

We had come back to the dorm really late that night. The hallway was almost empty, the lights in our room were off, and we were both too exhausted to talk. We each got into our own bed. Kyle on one side of the room, me on the other.

"I thought you were asleep," I said.

Kyle smiled faintly.

"I wasn't."

For a moment, he stared at the floor, as if it was easier to talk to that than to me.

"I heard you moving under the covers. I didn't know for sure what you were doing, but... I figured it out. And I was hard too."

Heat rushed through me.

Kyle looked up.

"I was lying a few feet away from you, trying to pretend nothing was happening. But what I really wanted was to ask if you were doing it. And if I could too."

I didn't answer right away.

Because I remembered that night too. I remembered not being able to sleep. I remembered Kyle in the other bed, his quiet breathing, the shape of his body beneath the blanket, and my own hand doing something it shouldn't have been doing while I thought about him.

"I was thinking about you that night," I finally said.

Kyle went completely still.

"Seriously?"

I nodded.

"Yeah."

For a moment, we just stared at each other, as if we'd suddenly discovered that for years we'd been lying on opposite sides of the exact same fantasy.

My eyes returned to the first item.

"Do you still want to do it?"

Kyle swallowed.

"Yeah."

I put the book down on the coffee table, but I left the list beside it, out in the open.

I didn't want it disappearing between the pages again. Not after what I'd just heard. For years, I'd thought that night in the dorm belonged only to me, to my quiet thoughts and my hidden hand beneath the blanket. And now Kyle was standing in front of me telling me that he'd been lying only a few feet away, hard, thinking about exactly the same thing.

"You really want to do this?" I asked.

Kyle nodded.

"Yeah."

We started undressing slowly, as if every movement mattered. Shirts first. Then pants. When I was down to my boxers, I could see that Kyle was already hard too. The fabric stretched clearly over him, giving him away before he could say anything.

He looked at me and saw the same thing.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then Kyle hooked his fingers under the waistband of his boxers and pulled them down.

My breath caught in my throat.

He was beautiful. Not just handsome, not just well-built, not just the same Kyle I remembered from post-workout showers and mornings in the dorm. He was standing in front of me naked and hard, real, with the body I'd once only been able to fantasize about.

"Matt," he said quietly.

Only then did I realize he was looking at me the same way.

I pulled off my boxers.

Kyle swallowed, and his eyes stayed on me longer than he ever would have allowed himself back in college.

We sat beside each other on the couch. At first, we didn't touch each other. Each of us was only supposed to touch himself, exactly the way Kyle had imagined it all those years ago in the dorm.

He started first.

He wrapped his hand around himself slowly, almost uncertainly, as if he was still testing whether he was really allowed to do this in front of me. I watched his fingers move over his hard cock, the tension in his thighs, the way he tried to keep himself composed.

Then I wrapped my hand around myself too.

Kyle reacted immediately. His hand stopped for a second, and his eyes lifted to mine.

"Is this how you imagined it?" I asked.

"Almost," he replied.

"What was different?"

His hand moved more slowly.

"It was dark back then. I couldn't see you. I could only hear you. Now I can watch."

The words made me tighten my grip and slide my hand from the base all the way to the tip. Kyle watched every movement I made, and I watched his. With every passing second, we became more confident, the rhythm of our hands beginning to match as if we were really going back to that night and fixing everything we'd been too afraid to do.

We moved closer. Our knees almost touched. Kyle's face was flushed, but he didn't look away.

"Did you think about me when you did this in college too?" I asked.

His hand sped up.

"More often than I should have."

I couldn't help it. I sped up with him. For a while, there was nothing but the wet sound of our hands moving and the looks between us that said more than all those years of caution ever had.

Kyle moved his hand faster, less uncertain now, finally giving in to what he'd denied himself back then. I did the same, watching him, his body, his hand, his face caught somewhere between embarrassment and relief.

He came first with a quiet, broken moan, never taking his eyes off me. The sight of it pushed me over the edge only seconds later. I came right after him, tightening my grip as it felt like years of buried tension finally spilled out of me all at once.

Afterward, we sat naked on the couch, dazed and far too quiet.

Kyle looked at me, his face still flushed but calmer now.

"Yeah," he said softly. "That's exactly how I wanted it back then."

I reached for the list and looked at it one more time. The first item had only been jerking off together, and yet it had already broken open something we'd both kept buried for years.

If that was only the beginning, I couldn't stop thinking about what the rest of the list was going to do to us.

Everyone is over 18

Part 1

Quick recap: Cody's date was getting closer, and somehow I had become part of his preparations. After measuring him and helping him shave, the line between a simple favor and something much more intimate was becoming harder and harder to ignore.

That evening, I sat in the living room, trying to watch a movie I wasn't really paying attention to.

All day, my thoughts had kept returning to the bathroom. To the trimmer. To the lotion. To Cody standing naked in front of me as if everything we had done was the most ordinary thing in the world. The worst part was how normal he acted afterward. He made himself breakfast, went to the gym, then came back as if he hadn't left me hard and completely wrecked beside the sink.

I heard a key turn in the door.

Cody walked into the apartment carrying a small plastic bag. He had that half-smile on his face that immediately told me he was planning something.

"What did you buy?" I asked.

"Nothing special."

He sat beside me on the couch and played with the handles of the bag for a moment, as if he had suddenly become embarrassed. Then he sighed, reached inside, and emptied several boxes of condoms onto the coffee table.

I looked at them, then at him.

"Seriously?"

"What?" Cody asked with a shrug. "The date is getting closer. I need to be prepared."

"That actually sounds sensible."

"I know. There's just one problem."

I could already feel my stomach tighten.

"What problem?"

Cody picked up one of the boxes and turned it between his fingers.

"After you measured me, I started wondering whether I should test the fit. I don't want to find out during the date that something feels too tight or doesn't fit properly."

I tried not to react to the words "you measured me," but it was too late. I immediately remembered the weight of him in my hand.

"You can test them yourself," I said.

Cody looked at me with a faint smile.

"I can."

He paused for a second.

"But you already know my size. And you were pretty thorough."

I stared at him, realizing we were heading down the same path again. The one that always started with a practical problem and ended with his body far too close to mine.

"I need your opinion," he added calmly. "I can't tell on my own whether they fit properly."

"Fine," I said after a moment. "But if we're going to test them, let's do it normally."

Cody smiled as if that was exactly the answer he had expected.

"Sure. Normally."

I didn't know why that word sounded so false between us.

We stayed in the living room. Cody gathered the condom boxes from the table and arranged them beside each other as if he were genuinely preparing a technical test. Then he stood, hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his shorts, and pulled them down without much hesitation.

After the shaving, he looked even more exposed than before. The smooth skin made everything seem clearer, more deliberate, as if his body really was being prepared step by step for that date.

Or for me.

I sat on the couch with the first packet in my hand, trying not to stare for too long.

Cody stood in front of me already hard.

"Well?" he asked. "Which one are we starting with?"

I tore open the wrapper and took out the first condom. My fingers moved with more confidence than they had during the measurement, but inside, I wasn't any calmer. I touched him carefully, held him near the base, and started rolling the condom down.

Cody looked down.

"A little tight."

"See?" I said, trying to sound practical. "It's not just about length. The width matters too."

"So it's a good thing we're testing them."

"Unfortunately, yes."

Cody gave a quiet snort.

I removed the first one and reached for the second. This time, it went on more easily. I still had to hold him, roll the latex all the way down, run my fingers along it, and check whether it felt too tight anywhere.

It was supposed to be a fit test.

And yet my hands were on him again.

The second one fit better, but Cody still shook his head.

"I still feel like it's squeezing me a little."

"Then we'll try the larger one."

By the third box, Cody was more aroused. I could see it in his expression. When my hand moved over him to roll the condom all the way down, his body reacted before either of us could hide it.

This one fit best.

It wasn't too tight. It didn't look loose. It stayed exactly where it should.

Cody looked down at me.

"You need to test it more carefully," he said more quietly. "I don't want anything to go wrong during the date."

For a moment, I stared at him without speaking.

Because we both knew this was no longer only about the size.

Cody was right, and that was the worst part.

If we were really going to test whether the condom fit properly, simply putting it on wasn't enough. I had to see whether it became too tight with movement, whether it slipped, or whether it rolled up near the base. It all sounded reasonable. Technical. Safe.

Except my hand was still wrapped around his cock.

"All right," I said. "But tell me if anything feels uncomfortable."

Cody nodded.

"I will."

I began moving my hand slowly over him through the thin latex. At first, only once, carefully, as if I were genuinely testing the material. Then a second time, with a little more confidence. The condom stayed in place, didn't shift too much, and didn't look as if it might tear or squeeze him.

Cody watched my hand.

"Well?" he asked. "Does it work?"

"Technically, yes."

He smiled.

He stood hard in front of me, and beneath my palm, I could feel him growing fuller, heavier, and more tense. I moved my fingers from the base to the tip, then back again, making sure the condom stayed in place.

"Still comfortable?" I asked.

"Yeah."

His voice was lower than before.

I sped up slightly, supposedly to see how it held up under stronger movement. But the truth was that I wanted to see how he would react. I wanted to feel him tighten beneath my hand and watch him stop pretending this was only a test.

Cody tilted his head back and let out a short, broken sound.

"Matt..."

"What?"

"I think this one is good."

"You think?"

He looked at me with the same smile that was beginning to mean trouble more and more often.

"Maybe you need to test it a little longer."

I should have stopped.

Instead, I tightened my grip slightly and moved my hand more slowly and thoroughly, watching his stomach tense with every stroke. The condom worked perfectly.

The problem was that Cody worked perfectly on me too.

I thought that after a few strokes, Cody would decide the test was finished.

But he looked at me as if he were only now beginning to understand how comfortable the condom really was. And how completely the situation had stopped being about checking the size.

"There's one more thing," he said.

I stopped my hand.

"What?"

Cody swallowed and glanced down at himself, completely hard inside the well-fitting condom.

"We need to make sure it holds up until the end."

For a moment, I sat completely still.

It almost sounded logical. Reasonable, even. The condom wasn't supposed to feel too tight, tear, slip off, or get in the way. But we both knew it was another excuse. Only this time, Cody wasn't even trying to hide the fact that he wanted me to keep going.

"Until the end?" I asked quietly.

He nodded.

"Just to be sure."

I should have told him he could test that himself. I should have stood up, handed him the box, and ended this strange lesson in responsibility.

Instead, I moved my hand over him again.

Cody reacted immediately. His hips jerked slightly toward my hand, as if his body had answered faster than his common sense. I began moving my hand faster and more evenly, no longer pretending every stroke was only about testing the fit. The condom stayed perfectly in place, while Cody became less and less focused on the technical side of things.

"Still comfortable?" I asked.

"Yeah," he forced out. "Fucking comfortable."

That was enough to make me speed up.

This time, there was nothing accidental about it. My hand moved with steady, controlled strokes from the base to the tip, testing not only the material, but his reaction too. Cody gripped my shoulder with one hand, and his body tensed so hard that for a second, he looked as if he were trying to hide how close he was.

"Matt..." he gasped. "I'm close."

I didn't stop.

"I know."

A few strokes later, Cody came inside the condom with a short, muffled moan that made me press my thighs together to keep from shifting restlessly on the couch. I kept my hand around him for a few more seconds, until his body slowly relaxed.

Cody looked down, then at me, dazed and satisfied.

"All right," he said with a faint smile. "At least now I know which one to choose."

I helped him remove the condom, still trying to pretend it had only been a practical test. But while Cody gathered the boxes from the table, I was so hard that the throbbing in my pants wouldn't stop.

There were still a few days left before the date. Cody had already had his size measured, his body shaved, and the right condom chosen.

And I was beginning to wonder how personal his next problem would be.

Everyone is over 18

Quick recap: Cody's date was getting closer, and somehow I had become part of his preparations. After measuring him and helping him shave, the line between a simple favor and something much more intimate was becoming harder and harder to ignore.

That evening, I sat in the living room, trying to watch a movie I wasn't really paying attention to.

All day, my thoughts had kept returning to the bathroom. To the trimmer. To the lotion. To Cody standing naked in front of me as if everything we had done was the most ordinary thing in the world. The worst part was how normal he acted afterward. He made himself breakfast, went to the gym, then came back as if he hadn't left me hard and completely wrecked beside the sink.

I heard a key turn in the door.

Cody walked into the apartment carrying a small plastic bag. He had that half-smile on his face that immediately told me he was planning something.

"What did you buy?" I asked.

"Nothing special."

He sat beside me on the couch and played with the handles of the bag for a moment, as if he had suddenly become embarrassed. Then he sighed, reached inside, and emptied several boxes of condoms onto the coffee table.

I looked at them, then at him.

"Seriously?"

"What?" Cody asked with a shrug. "The date is getting closer. I need to be prepared."

"That actually sounds sensible."

"I know. There's just one problem."

I could already feel my stomach tighten.

"What problem?"

Cody picked up one of the boxes and turned it between his fingers.

"After you measured me, I started wondering whether I should test the fit. I don't want to find out during the date that something feels too tight or doesn't fit properly."

I tried not to react to the words "you measured me," but it was too late. I immediately remembered the weight of him in my hand.

"You can test them yourself," I said.

Cody looked at me with a faint smile.

"I can."

He paused for a second.

"But you already know my size. And you were pretty thorough."

I stared at him, realizing we were heading down the same path again. The one that always started with a practical problem and ended with his body far too close to mine.

"I need your opinion," he added calmly. "I can't tell on my own whether they fit properly."

"Fine," I said after a moment. "But if we're going to test them, let's do it normally."

Cody smiled as if that was exactly the answer he had expected.

"Sure. Normally."

I didn't know why that word sounded so false between us.

We stayed in the living room. Cody gathered the condom boxes from the table and arranged them beside each other as if he were genuinely preparing a technical test. Then he stood, hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his shorts, and pulled them down without much hesitation.

After the shaving, he looked even more exposed than before. The smooth skin made everything seem clearer, more deliberate, as if his body really was being prepared step by step for that date.

Or for me.

I sat on the couch with the first packet in my hand, trying not to stare for too long.

Cody stood in front of me already hard.

"Well?" he asked. "Which one are we starting with?"

I tore open the wrapper and took out the first condom. My fingers moved with more confidence than they had during the measurement, but inside, I wasn't any calmer. I touched him carefully, held him near the base, and started rolling the condom down.

Cody looked down.

"A little tight."

"See?" I said, trying to sound practical. "It's not just about length. The width matters too."

"So it's a good thing we're testing them."

"Unfortunately, yes."

Cody gave a quiet snort.

I removed the first one and reached for the second. This time, it went on more easily. I still had to hold him, roll the latex all the way down, run my fingers along it, and check whether it felt too tight anywhere.

It was supposed to be a fit test.

And yet my hands were on him again.

The second one fit better, but Cody still shook his head.

"I still feel like it's squeezing me a little."

"Then we'll try the larger one."

By the third box, Cody was more aroused. I could see it in his expression. When my hand moved over him to roll the condom all the way down, his body reacted before either of us could hide it.

This one fit best.

It wasn't too tight. It didn't look loose. It stayed exactly where it should.

Cody looked down at me.

"You need to test it more carefully," he said more quietly. "I don't want anything to go wrong during the date."

For a moment, I stared at him without speaking.

Because we both knew this was no longer only about the size.

Cody was right, and that was the worst part.

If we were really going to test whether the condom fit properly, simply putting it on wasn't enough. I had to see whether it became too tight with movement, whether it slipped, or whether it rolled up near the base. It all sounded reasonable. Technical. Safe.

Except my hand was still wrapped around his cock.

"All right," I said. "But tell me if anything feels uncomfortable."

Cody nodded.

"I will."

I began moving my hand slowly over him through the thin latex. At first, only once, carefully, as if I were genuinely testing the material. Then a second time, with a little more confidence. The condom stayed in place, didn't shift too much, and didn't look as if it might tear or squeeze him.

Cody watched my hand.

"Well?" he asked. "Does it work?"

"Technically, yes."

He smiled.

He stood hard in front of me, and beneath my palm, I could feel him growing fuller, heavier, and more tense. I moved my fingers from the base to the tip, then back again, making sure the condom stayed in place.

"Still comfortable?" I asked.

"Yeah."

His voice was lower than before.

I sped up slightly, supposedly to see how it held up under stronger movement. But the truth was that I wanted to see how he would react. I wanted to feel him tighten beneath my hand and watch him stop pretending this was only a test.

Cody tilted his head back and let out a short, broken sound.

"Matt..."

"What?"

"I think this one is good."

"You think?"

He looked at me with the same smile that was beginning to mean trouble more and more often.

"Maybe you need to test it a little longer."

I should have stopped.

Instead, I tightened my grip slightly and moved my hand more slowly and thoroughly, watching his stomach tense with every stroke. The condom worked perfectly.

The problem was that Cody worked perfectly on me too.

I thought that after a few strokes, Cody would decide the test was finished.

But he looked at me as if he were only now beginning to understand how comfortable the condom really was. And how completely the situation had stopped being about checking the size.

"There's one more thing," he said.

I stopped my hand.

"What?"

Cody swallowed and glanced down at himself, completely hard inside the well-fitting condom.

"We need to make sure it holds up until the end."

For a moment, I sat completely still.

It almost sounded logical. Reasonable, even. The condom wasn't supposed to feel too tight, tear, slip off, or get in the way. But we both knew it was another excuse. Only this time, Cody wasn't even trying to hide the fact that he wanted me to keep going.

"Until the end?" I asked quietly.

He nodded.

"Just to be sure."

I should have told him he could test that himself. I should have stood up, handed him the box, and ended this strange lesson in responsibility.

Instead, I moved my hand over him again.

Cody reacted immediately. His hips jerked slightly toward my hand, as if his body had answered faster than his common sense. I began moving my hand faster and more evenly, no longer pretending every stroke was only about testing the fit. The condom stayed perfectly in place, while Cody became less and less focused on the technical side of things.

"Still comfortable?" I asked.

"Yeah," he forced out. "Fucking comfortable."

That was enough to make me speed up.

This time, there was nothing accidental about it. My hand moved with steady, controlled strokes from the base to the tip, testing not only the material, but his reaction too. Cody gripped my shoulder with one hand, and his body tensed so hard that for a second, he looked as if he were trying to hide how close he was.

"Matt..." he gasped. "I'm close."

I didn't stop.

"I know."

A few strokes later, Cody came inside the condom with a short, muffled moan that made me press my thighs together to keep from shifting restlessly on the couch. I kept my hand around him for a few more seconds, until his body slowly relaxed.

Cody looked down, then at me, dazed and satisfied.

"All right," he said with a faint smile. "At least now I know which one to choose."

I helped him remove the condom, still trying to pretend it had only been a practical test. But while Cody gathered the boxes from the table, I was so hard that the throbbing in my pants wouldn't stop.

There were still a few days left before the date. Cody had already had his size measured, his body shaved, and the right condom chosen.

And I was beginning to wonder how personal his next problem would be.

Everyone is over 18

Part 1

Quick recap: My roommate Cody had a date with a girl in a week and asked me to help him prepare, starting with measuring and describing his cock. What was supposed to be a simple favor quickly turned into an increasingly intimate situation between us.

The next morning, I sat in the kitchen with a cup of coffee, trying to convince myself that the previous evening really had been nothing more than a strange favor.

Just a measurement.

Just an answer for a girl.

Just helping a roommate who was getting ready for a date.

The problem was that my hand still remembered his weight, his warmth, and the way Cody had let me hold him longer than necessary. And whenever I closed my eyes, I saw his smile again and heard him asking what he should tell her.

I took a sip of coffee just as Cody walked into the kitchen.

I nearly choked.

He was wearing nothing but a towel. It was wrapped low around his hips, so low that it looked more like a deliberate provocation than an accident. His chest was bare, broad, and perfectly built, his stomach flat, his arms relaxed, as if he had no idea what he was doing just by walking into the room.

Or maybe he knew exactly what he was doing.

I froze with the cup near my lips.

Cody waved a hand in front of my face.

"Matt. I'm over here."

I blinked and quickly looked him in the eyes.

"Sorry. I was thinking."

He smiled as if he knew exactly where I had been looking.

"Sure. About your coffee, obviously."

I set the cup down and tried to look normal.

"Do you need something?"

Cody leaned one hip against the counter. The towel shifted slightly, and I had to use every bit of willpower I had not to look too far down again.

"Actually, yes," he said. "I need some help."

I immediately became alert.

"With what?"

For a moment, Cody looked like he was trying to find the most casual possible way to say it.

"I tried doing it myself, but it's hard to see everything properly. And I don't want to cut myself before the date."

"Okay," I said slowly. "But what are you talking about?"

He looked at me without a hint of embarrassment.

"Could you help me shave my cock?"

For a second, the kitchen went completely silent.

"What?"

Cody shrugged.

"Please. It's just shaving."

Just shaving.

After what had happened yesterday, I already knew that "just" was a very misleading word when it came to Cody.

Even so, I nodded.

"Fine. I'll help."

I followed Cody into the bathroom, trying to convince myself that I was actually capable of acting normal.

An electric trimmer, a small towel, and a bottle of lotion were already sitting on the sink. Everything had been prepared, as if Cody had planned the whole scene in advance and I was simply the final piece he needed.

"It'll be easiest here," he said.

I stood beside the sink and looked at the trimmer, because staring at anything else seemed safer.

Cody didn't give me much time.

Without hesitation, he untied the towel and let it drop to the floor.

Suddenly, he was standing in front of me completely naked.

For a second, I forgot why we were there. After measuring him yesterday, I thought I would be prepared to see him again, but I wasn't. Cody looked even better under the bright bathroom light. Broad chest, strong stomach, hips, thighs, and his cock, half-hard, heavy, exposed, as if the memory of my hand from the night before was already enough to make his body react.

Cody handed me the trimmer.

"Here. Just be careful."

I took it and felt tension run through my fingers.

I switched it on. A quiet buzzing filled the bathroom.

"All right," I said. "Stand a little wider."

Cody did as I asked.

I knelt in front of him and moved closer, placing one hand on his hip to steady him. With the other, I guided the trimmer toward the base of his cock. I started slowly, using short strokes to trim the hair close to the skin.

I had to hold his cock out of the way to do it properly.

At first, only with my fingers.

Then with my whole hand.

Cody looked down at me.

"You're pretty good at this."

I didn't answer right away, because only part of my attention was still on the trimmer.

But most of my attention was fixed on the warmth beneath my fingers.

The longer it went on, the harder it became to pretend this was only practical help.

The trimmer moved slowly around the base of his cock, and I had to keep the skin taut with my fingers so I wouldn't hurt him. Cody stood in front of me with his legs spread, one hand resting on the sink, while I knelt so close that I could see every small reaction in his body.

At first, he was only half-hard.

Then, with every touch, he grew bigger.

I tried to focus on the trimmer, on the area I was shaving, on anything except the growing weight against my hand. But it was impossible. I had to hold him. I had to move my fingers around him. I had to touch him as if all of this were still normal.

"Everything okay?" Cody asked.

His voice was calm, but when I looked up, I saw that he was watching me differently now. As if he knew my concentration was beginning to crack.

"Yeah," I replied.

I moved lower, toward his balls. Cody spread his legs a little wider, and I carefully held him with one hand while guiding the trimmer with the other in short, precise strokes. The skin was delicate, so I did everything slowly.

Too slowly.

He was completely hard now. Heavy and even more exposed because of what I was doing. A small drop of precum appeared at the tip. I noticed it immediately, and for a second, the trimmer stopped in my hand.

Cody noticed too.

He didn't say anything.

He only smiled slightly.

That was when I realized how hard I was inside my pants. The pressure was almost painful, but I couldn't pull away. Not now, with Cody standing naked in front of me, freshly shaved, his cock reacting to every touch.

When I finished the last section, I pulled the trimmer away and looked at the result.

He looked far too good.

Cody glanced at himself in the mirror.

"Well? How does it look?"

I swallowed.

"Good."

But the truth was that "good" didn't even come close.

I thought that would be the end of it.

I switched off the trimmer and placed it on the sink, trying not to stare at Cody so intensely anymore. It was almost ridiculous, considering I had just held him in my hand, shaved right against his skin, and watched every reaction his body had. And yet I was still pretending I could simply step away and return to a normal morning.

But Cody nodded toward the bottle of lotion.

"Can you do that too?"

I looked at him.

"You can do it yourself."

He smiled slightly.

"Please. You'll do a better job."

That sentence hit me again, just like it had the day before. More thorough. As if every request he made was purely practical, even though each one gave me permission to do more.

I poured some lotion into my palm. It was cool and slippery. Cody stood calmly in front of me, fully hard, freshly trimmed, and completely exposed, while I stared at my own hand for a moment as if I needed a second to prepare myself.

"Just be gentle," he said.

"I know."

I touched him carefully.

The lotion spread over his skin, making every movement of my fingers slower and smoother. At first, I rubbed it around the base, where the skin might be irritated. Then lower, over his balls, holding them gently in my palm and running my thumb across the freshly trimmed skin.

Cody let out a quiet sound and leaned more heavily against the sink.

"Okay?" I asked, although my voice sounded less steady than I wanted it to.

"Yeah," he replied. "Don't stop yet."

So I didn't.

My hand moved higher, beyond the freshly shaved skin and along his shaft. Cody was slick with lotion and hard beneath my fingers. I didn't need to massage him for that long. We both knew it. But Cody didn't move away, and I couldn't make myself remove my hand.

In the mirror, I caught his gaze. He wasn't watching himself.

He was watching me.

Another drop of precum appeared at the tip. This time, I didn't pretend not to see it.

Cody was the first to clear his throat.

"Thanks, Matt. Seriously. That looks much better."

I pulled my hand away, even though everything inside me was screaming not to.

Cody picked the towel up from the floor, wrapped it loosely around himself, and left the bathroom with that calm smile of his.

I stayed there for another moment, the scent of lotion still on my hands and my cock throbbing painfully inside my pants.

Everyone is over 18

Quick recap: My roommate Cody had a date with a girl in a week and asked me to help him prepare, starting with measuring and describing his cock. What was supposed to be a simple favor quickly turned into an increasingly intimate situation between us.

The next morning, I sat in the kitchen with a cup of coffee, trying to convince myself that the previous evening really had been nothing more than a strange favor.

Just a measurement.

Just an answer for a girl.

Just helping a roommate who was getting ready for a date.

The problem was that my hand still remembered his weight, his warmth, and the way Cody had let me hold him longer than necessary. And whenever I closed my eyes, I saw his smile again and heard him asking what he should tell her.

I took a sip of coffee just as Cody walked into the kitchen.

I nearly choked.

He was wearing nothing but a towel. It was wrapped low around his hips, so low that it looked more like a deliberate provocation than an accident. His chest was bare, broad, and perfectly built, his stomach flat, his arms relaxed, as if he had no idea what he was doing just by walking into the room.

Or maybe he knew exactly what he was doing.

I froze with the cup near my lips.

Cody waved a hand in front of my face.

"Matt. I'm over here."

I blinked and quickly looked him in the eyes.

"Sorry. I was thinking."

He smiled as if he knew exactly where I had been looking.

"Sure. About your coffee, obviously."

I set the cup down and tried to look normal.

"Do you need something?"

Cody leaned one hip against the counter. The towel shifted slightly, and I had to use every bit of willpower I had not to look too far down again.

"Actually, yes," he said. "I need some help."

I immediately became alert.

"With what?"

For a moment, Cody looked like he was trying to find the most casual possible way to say it.

"I tried doing it myself, but it's hard to see everything properly. And I don't want to cut myself before the date."

"Okay," I said slowly. "But what are you talking about?"

He looked at me without a hint of embarrassment.

"Could you help me shave my cock?"

For a second, the kitchen went completely silent.

"What?"

Cody shrugged.

"Please. It's just shaving."

Just shaving.

After what had happened yesterday, I already knew that "just" was a very misleading word when it came to Cody.

Even so, I nodded.

"Fine. I'll help."

I followed Cody into the bathroom, trying to convince myself that I was actually capable of acting normal.

An electric trimmer, a small towel, and a bottle of lotion were already sitting on the sink. Everything had been prepared, as if Cody had planned the whole scene in advance and I was simply the final piece he needed.

"It'll be easiest here," he said.

I stood beside the sink and looked at the trimmer, because staring at anything else seemed safer.

Cody didn't give me much time.

Without hesitation, he untied the towel and let it drop to the floor.

Suddenly, he was standing in front of me completely naked.

For a second, I forgot why we were there. After measuring him yesterday, I thought I would be prepared to see him again, but I wasn't. Cody looked even better under the bright bathroom light. Broad chest, strong stomach, hips, thighs, and his cock, half-hard, heavy, exposed, as if the memory of my hand from the night before was already enough to make his body react.

Cody handed me the trimmer.

"Here. Just be careful."

I took it and felt tension run through my fingers.

I switched it on. A quiet buzzing filled the bathroom.

"All right," I said. "Stand a little wider."

Cody did as I asked.

I knelt in front of him and moved closer, placing one hand on his hip to steady him. With the other, I guided the trimmer toward the base of his cock. I started slowly, using short strokes to trim the hair close to the skin.

I had to hold his cock out of the way to do it properly.

At first, only with my fingers.

Then with my whole hand.

Cody looked down at me.

"You're pretty good at this."

I didn't answer right away, because only part of my attention was still on the trimmer.

But most of my attention was fixed on the warmth beneath my fingers.

The longer it went on, the harder it became to pretend this was only practical help.

The trimmer moved slowly around the base of his cock, and I had to keep the skin taut with my fingers so I wouldn't hurt him. Cody stood in front of me with his legs spread, one hand resting on the sink, while I knelt so close that I could see every small reaction in his body.

At first, he was only half-hard.

Then, with every touch, he grew bigger.

I tried to focus on the trimmer, on the area I was shaving, on anything except the growing weight against my hand. But it was impossible. I had to hold him. I had to move my fingers around him. I had to touch him as if all of this were still normal.

"Everything okay?" Cody asked.

His voice was calm, but when I looked up, I saw that he was watching me differently now. As if he knew my concentration was beginning to crack.

"Yeah," I replied.

I moved lower, toward his balls. Cody spread his legs a little wider, and I carefully held him with one hand while guiding the trimmer with the other in short, precise strokes. The skin was delicate, so I did everything slowly.

Too slowly.

He was completely hard now. Heavy and even more exposed because of what I was doing. A small drop of precum appeared at the tip. I noticed it immediately, and for a second, the trimmer stopped in my hand.

Cody noticed too.

He didn't say anything.

He only smiled slightly.

That was when I realized how hard I was inside my pants. The pressure was almost painful, but I couldn't pull away. Not now, with Cody standing naked in front of me, freshly shaved, his cock reacting to every touch.

When I finished the last section, I pulled the trimmer away and looked at the result.

He looked far too good.

Cody glanced at himself in the mirror.

"Well? How does it look?"

I swallowed.

"Good."

But the truth was that "good" didn't even come close.

I thought that would be the end of it.

I switched off the trimmer and placed it on the sink, trying not to stare at Cody so intensely anymore. It was almost ridiculous, considering I had just held him in my hand, shaved right against his skin, and watched every reaction his body had. And yet I was still pretending I could simply step away and return to a normal morning.

But Cody nodded toward the bottle of lotion.

"Can you do that too?"

I looked at him.

"You can do it yourself."

He smiled slightly.

"Please. You'll do a better job."

That sentence hit me again, just like it had the day before. More thorough. As if every request he made was purely practical, even though each one gave me permission to do more.

I poured some lotion into my palm. It was cool and slippery. Cody stood calmly in front of me, fully hard, freshly trimmed, and completely exposed, while I stared at my own hand for a moment as if I needed a second to prepare myself.

"Just be gentle," he said.

"I know."

I touched him carefully.

The lotion spread over his skin, making every movement of my fingers slower and smoother. At first, I rubbed it around the base, where the skin might be irritated. Then lower, over his balls, holding them gently in my palm and running my thumb across the freshly trimmed skin.

Cody let out a quiet sound and leaned more heavily against the sink.

"Okay?" I asked, although my voice sounded less steady than I wanted it to.

"Yeah," he replied. "Don't stop yet."

So I didn't.

My hand moved higher, beyond the freshly shaved skin and along his shaft. Cody was slick with lotion and hard beneath my fingers. I didn't need to massage him for that long. We both knew it. But Cody didn't move away, and I couldn't make myself remove my hand.

In the mirror, I caught his gaze. He wasn't watching himself.

He was watching me.

Another drop of precum appeared at the tip. This time, I didn't pretend not to see it.

Cody was the first to clear his throat.

"Thanks, Matt. Seriously. That looks much better."

I pulled my hand away, even though everything inside me was screaming not to.

Cody picked the towel up from the floor, wrapped it loosely around himself, and left the bathroom with that calm smile of his.

I stayed there for another moment, the scent of lotion still on my hands and my cock throbbing painfully inside my pants.

Everyone is over 18

I had only been living with Cody for a month, but I had already learned one thing: he was hard not to notice.

He was the kind of guy who could wear a plain T-shirt and a pair of athletic shorts and still look like someone had specifically designed him to distract people. Tall and broad-shouldered, with a muscular chest and that confident way of moving that said he knew exactly how good he looked. And yet, he was a decent guy. Normal. Helpful. He didn't cause problems, act like an asshole, or treat the apartment like a hotel.

That was why I genuinely liked him.

There was only one thing Cody complained about regularly.

"Man, I don't think I'm ever going to find a normal girl," he said one evening, dropping heavily onto the couch beside me.

I looked up from my phone and gave a quiet snort.

"You? Please. You look like the kind of guy girls should be climbing through the window for."

He smiled, but not with his usual confidence.

"Apparently not."

A few days later, everything changed.

We were sitting in the kitchen when Cody suddenly leaned against the counter with his phone in his hand and told me he had met someone online. A girl. They had been messaging for a few days, and they were planning to meet in a week.

"Seriously?" I asked, genuinely surprised. "Congratulations."

"Thanks," he replied, but I immediately noticed there was something else going on. Excitement, sure. But tension too.

He stared at his phone screen for a moment, then looked at me.

"But... I need your help."

I didn't think much of it. Cody had asked me for help with plenty of things before. Choosing a shirt, taking pictures, checking messages he wanted to send. We were roommates. We helped each other.

"Sure," I said calmly. "With what?"

Cody hesitated for only a second.

"Could you measure my cock? She asked how big it is."

For a moment, I just stared at him.

I wasn't sure I had heard him correctly. Cody stood by the counter with his phone in one hand, completely serious, as if he had just asked whether I could check if his shirt matched his pants.

"What?" I finally managed.

"You know... the size," he said, lifting his phone slightly. "She asked. I don't know whether I should give her a rough estimate or an exact number."

I wanted to laugh, but no sound came out. Because it wasn't funny. Not to me. Not after a month of living with him and pretending I didn't notice his body, his broad shoulders, or the stomach he exposed every time he stretched in the kitchen in the morning.

And now he was asking me to measure him.

"Can't you do it yourself?" I asked, even though I immediately knew it was a weak attempt to escape the situation.

Cody shrugged.

"I could. But it probably wouldn't be as accurate."

He looked at me with that calm, almost shameless smile of his.

"Besides, I trust you."

That didn't help at all.

I swallowed and nodded.

"Fine. If you really want me to."

"I do."

Cody moved away from the counter, opened a drawer, and pulled out a measuring tape. He handed it to me as casually as if he wasn't about to do something that was already making my heart beat faster.

"Okay," he said. "I'm ready."

Before I could answer, he hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his shorts and pulled them down.

Everything inside me froze.

I had seen the outline of his body beneath his clothes before, along with accidental flashes of skin, part of his stomach, and his bare thighs after a shower. But this was completely different. Cody stood in front of me without his shorts, relaxed and half-hard, and my eyes were immediately drawn to his cock.

It was long. Heavy. Much bigger than I had expected to see so suddenly and from so close.

"Matt?" Cody said with amusement. "Are you going to measure it or just stare?"

That finally made me look away.

"Sorry," I said quietly. "You just... caught me off guard."

Cody's smile widened.

"I hope I catch her off guard too."

I stepped closer with the measuring tape in my hand, trying to look calmer than I felt.

It was supposed to be simple. Place the end of the tape against him, check the length, give him the result, and pretend the situation wasn't affecting me at all. But the moment I stood in front of Cody with his body so close to mine, all that confidence fell apart.

I tried to position the tape without really touching him.

Cody looked down, then back at me.

"Matt," he said calmly. "Don't be afraid. Hold it. It'll be more accurate."

I froze.

That one sentence hit me harder than the sight of his cock. He wasn't just letting me look. He was giving me permission to touch him.

Slowly, I wrapped my hand around him.

He was warm, heavy, and more real than I could ever have imagined. My fingers closed carefully around him, and Cody didn't even flinch. He stood in front of me as calmly as if this were still nothing more than practical help before his date.

Nothing about it felt practical to me.

I positioned the tape more accurately, trying to focus on the numbers, but my eyes kept returning to his skin, his shape, and the tension in his body. When my finger slid higher, I accidentally brushed the tip and felt the moisture there.

My heart beat faster.

Cody looked at me as if he knew I had noticed, but he didn't say anything. He only smiled slightly.

I read the measurement, and for a moment I honestly didn't know whether I could say it in a normal voice.

"Wow," I blurted out. "Eight inches."

Cody raised his eyebrows with satisfaction.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Great," he said, glancing at his phone. "I'll tell her."

I thought that was the end of it. I really hoped it was, because my own body was starting to betray me. I was hard in my pants, and I hoped Cody wouldn't notice.

But he didn't move away.

Instead, he looked at me with a new, strangely curious expression.

"I forgot something," he said. "She also asked me to describe it."

I swallowed.

"Describe it?"

"Yeah. So... what do you think?"

I didn't answer immediately.

Cody glanced at my hand, which was still wrapped around him.

"Touch it again. More carefully this time," he said more quietly. "Then tell me what I should write to her."

I didn't know what to say.

I stood in front of him, my hand still wrapped around his cock and the measuring tape hanging loosely between my fingers, while thoughts I shouldn't have been having about my straight roommate filled my head.

"Cody..." I began.

"What?" he asked innocently. "I just want to give her a good answer."

Except his voice no longer sounded as casual as it had before. There was something lower in it now, more focused. As if he himself could feel that the request had stopped being just part of a conversation with a girl.

I gently ran my thumb over his skin. Cody lightly tightened his stomach, but he didn't pull away.

"It's big," I finally said. "But not just big."

He watched me more closely.

"What does that mean?"

I swallowed and forced myself to continue.

"It looks really good. Thick, heavy, and perfectly proportioned. And you're clearly well-groomed. The kind of cock you can't ignore once you've seen it."

Cody smiled slowly.

"That sounds pretty good."

My hand moved with a little more confidence. I was no longer pretending I was checking the measurement. I could feel him clearly, warm and growing harder beneath my fingers. Another small drop appeared at the tip, and for a second, I couldn't take my eyes off it.

"I'd tell her she has something to look forward to," I said more quietly. "That if she likes big guys, she'll be happy. Very happy."

Cody let out a soft laugh, but his eyes stayed on my face.

For a moment, neither of us moved. Then Cody glanced down at my hand.

"Can you do that again while I type it out? I want to make sure I describe it right."

It was an excuse. We both knew it.

Even so, I moved my hand again, more slowly this time, feeling my own cock pulse inside my pants. Cody watched me as if he were studying not only my description, but my reaction too.

In the end, I was the first to pull my hand away, because I was afraid that if it went on any longer, I would forget who we were supposedly doing all of this for.

Cody looked at his phone and started typing the message with a faint smile.

And I stood beside him, still hard, my hand remembering the shape of him.

His date wasn't for another week. But I was already starting to wonder what else he might need my help with before he met her.

Everyone is over 18

I had only been living with Cody for a month, but I had already learned one thing: he was hard not to notice.

He was the kind of guy who could wear a plain T-shirt and a pair of athletic shorts and still look like someone had specifically designed him to distract people. Tall and broad-shouldered, with a muscular chest and that confident way of moving that said he knew exactly how good he looked. And yet, he was a decent guy. Normal. Helpful. He didn't cause problems, act like an asshole, or treat the apartment like a hotel.

That was why I genuinely liked him.

There was only one thing Cody complained about regularly.

"Man, I don't think I'm ever going to find a normal girl," he said one evening, dropping heavily onto the couch beside me.

I looked up from my phone and gave a quiet snort.

"You? Please. You look like the kind of guy girls should be climbing through the window for."

He smiled, but not with his usual confidence.

"Apparently not."

A few days later, everything changed.

We were sitting in the kitchen when Cody suddenly leaned against the counter with his phone in his hand and told me he had met someone online. A girl. They had been messaging for a few days, and they were planning to meet in a week.

"Seriously?" I asked, genuinely surprised. "Congratulations."

"Thanks," he replied, but I immediately noticed there was something else going on. Excitement, sure. But tension too.

He stared at his phone screen for a moment, then looked at me.

"But... I need your help."

I didn't think much of it. Cody had asked me for help with plenty of things before. Choosing a shirt, taking pictures, checking messages he wanted to send. We were roommates. We helped each other.

"Sure," I said calmly. "With what?"

Cody hesitated for only a second.

"Could you measure my cock? She asked how big it is."

For a moment, I just stared at him.

I wasn't sure I had heard him correctly. Cody stood by the counter with his phone in one hand, completely serious, as if he had just asked whether I could check if his shirt matched his pants.

"What?" I finally managed.

"You know... the size," he said, lifting his phone slightly. "She asked. I don't know whether I should give her a rough estimate or an exact number."

I wanted to laugh, but no sound came out. Because it wasn't funny. Not to me. Not after a month of living with him and pretending I didn't notice his body, his broad shoulders, or the stomach he exposed every time he stretched in the kitchen in the morning.

And now he was asking me to measure him.

"Can't you do it yourself?" I asked, even though I immediately knew it was a weak attempt to escape the situation.

Cody shrugged.

"I could. But it probably wouldn't be as accurate."

He looked at me with that calm, almost shameless smile of his.

"Besides, I trust you."

That didn't help at all.

I swallowed and nodded.

"Fine. If you really want me to."

"I do."

Cody moved away from the counter, opened a drawer, and pulled out a measuring tape. He handed it to me as casually as if he wasn't about to do something that was already making my heart beat faster.

"Okay," he said. "I'm ready."

Before I could answer, he hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his shorts and pulled them down.

Everything inside me froze.

I had seen the outline of his body beneath his clothes before, along with accidental flashes of skin, part of his stomach, and his bare thighs after a shower. But this was completely different. Cody stood in front of me without his shorts, relaxed and half-hard, and my eyes were immediately drawn to his cock.

It was long. Heavy. Much bigger than I had expected to see so suddenly and from so close.

"Matt?" Cody said with amusement. "Are you going to measure it or just stare?"

That finally made me look away.

"Sorry," I said quietly. "You just... caught me off guard."

Cody's smile widened.

"I hope I catch her off guard too."

I stepped closer with the measuring tape in my hand, trying to look calmer than I felt.

It was supposed to be simple. Place the end of the tape against him, check the length, give him the result, and pretend the situation wasn't affecting me at all. But the moment I stood in front of Cody with his body so close to mine, all that confidence fell apart.

I tried to position the tape without really touching him.

Cody looked down, then back at me.

"Matt," he said calmly. "Don't be afraid. Hold it. It'll be more accurate."

I froze.

That one sentence hit me harder than the sight of his cock. He wasn't just letting me look. He was giving me permission to touch him.

Slowly, I wrapped my hand around him.

He was warm, heavy, and more real than I could ever have imagined. My fingers closed carefully around him, and Cody didn't even flinch. He stood in front of me as calmly as if this were still nothing more than practical help before his date.

Nothing about it felt practical to me.

I positioned the tape more accurately, trying to focus on the numbers, but my eyes kept returning to his skin, his shape, and the tension in his body. When my finger slid higher, I accidentally brushed the tip and felt the moisture there.

My heart beat faster.

Cody looked at me as if he knew I had noticed, but he didn't say anything. He only smiled slightly.

I read the measurement, and for a moment I honestly didn't know whether I could say it in a normal voice.

"Wow," I blurted out. "Eight inches."

Cody raised his eyebrows with satisfaction.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Great," he said, glancing at his phone. "I'll tell her."

I thought that was the end of it. I really hoped it was, because my own body was starting to betray me. I was hard in my pants, and I hoped Cody wouldn't notice.

But he didn't move away.

Instead, he looked at me with a new, strangely curious expression.

"I forgot something," he said. "She also asked me to describe it."

I swallowed.

"Describe it?"

"Yeah. So... what do you think?"

I didn't answer immediately.

Cody glanced at my hand, which was still wrapped around him.

"Touch it again. More carefully this time," he said more quietly. "Then tell me what I should write to her."

I didn't know what to say.

I stood in front of him, my hand still wrapped around his cock and the measuring tape hanging loosely between my fingers, while thoughts I shouldn't have been having about my straight roommate filled my head.

"Cody..." I began.

"What?" he asked innocently. "I just want to give her a good answer."

Except his voice no longer sounded as casual as it had before. There was something lower in it now, more focused. As if he himself could feel that the request had stopped being just part of a conversation with a girl.

I gently ran my thumb over his skin. Cody lightly tightened his stomach, but he didn't pull away.

"It's big," I finally said. "But not just big."

He watched me more closely.

"What does that mean?"

I swallowed and forced myself to continue.

"It looks really good. Thick, heavy, and perfectly proportioned. And you're clearly well-groomed. The kind of cock you can't ignore once you've seen it."

Cody smiled slowly.

"That sounds pretty good."

My hand moved with a little more confidence. I was no longer pretending I was checking the measurement. I could feel him clearly, warm and growing harder beneath my fingers. Another small drop appeared at the tip, and for a second, I couldn't take my eyes off it.

"I'd tell her she has something to look forward to," I said more quietly. "That if she likes big guys, she'll be happy. Very happy."

Cody let out a soft laugh, but his eyes stayed on my face.

For a moment, neither of us moved. Then Cody glanced down at my hand.

"Can you do that again while I type it out? I want to make sure I describe it right."

It was an excuse. We both knew it.

Even so, I moved my hand again, more slowly this time, feeling my own cock pulse inside my pants. Cody watched me as if he were studying not only my description, but my reaction too.

In the end, I was the first to pull my hand away, because I was afraid that if it went on any longer, I would forget who we were supposedly doing all of this for.

Cody looked at his phone and started typing the message with a faint smile.

And I stood beside him, still hard, my hand remembering the shape of him.

His date wasn't for another week. But I was already starting to wonder what else he might need my help with before he met her.

Everyone is over 18

Part 1

Quick recap: After Tyler's girlfriend kicked him out, he ended up staying with me. It didn't take long for me to discover the secret that had caused their breakup: his growing curiosity about sex toys and experimenting with things he'd never dared to try before. Instead of pushing him away, I gave him a place where he could finally explore that side of himself without judgment and made it clear I'd be there if he ever needed help.

A quiet sound woke me up.

At first, I wasn't even sure if I had really heard something or if I had only been pulled out of sleep with that strange feeling that someone was moving around in the apartment. I lay still for a moment, staring into the darkness of my room.

Then I heard it again.

A quiet, muffled moan.

I slowly sat up in bed. For a second, I thought Tyler might be feeling sick or that something had happened to him, but the next sound changed my thoughts immediately. It didn't sound like pain.

I got up and stepped into the hallway.

The door to Tyler's room was slightly open. As I passed it quietly, I stopped. Not because I saw him. The room was empty.

But the bag was open.

I moved closer and looked inside. I didn't have to search for long to notice what was missing.

The Fleshlight.

I sighed quietly.

I wasn't angry. More... surprised. Maybe a little disappointed too, though I knew I had no real right to be. After the previous night, I thought that maybe next time he really would ask me. That instead of going back to the bag, he would remember my hand, my voice, and the fact that he didn't have to handle everything on his own anymore.

But old habits clearly didn't disappear that easily.

Another quiet breath came from the living room.

I walked there slowly and stopped in the doorway.

Tyler was sitting naked on the couch, tense and aroused, with the Fleshlight in his hand. He was so focused on what he was about to do that he didn't even notice me.

"Tyler," I said calmly. "What are you doing?"

He froze.

His face immediately turned red, but this time he didn't try to run away or make up an excuse. He looked at me, embarrassed but honest.

"Matt... what happened yesterday was amazing," he said quietly. "But I want it again today. I want to feel something soft. Something that wraps around me... like a mouth."

For a moment, we looked at each other in silence.

Tyler was sitting naked on the couch, the Fleshlight still in his hand, but he wasn't raising it anymore. His breathing was heavier than usual, his shoulders tense, his face red with shame and need he could no longer hide.

I walked over slowly.

I looked at the Fleshlight, then at him.

"You want something soft," I said calmly. "Something that wraps around you like a mouth."

Tyler swallowed.

"Exactly."

I crouched down in front of him, just like the previous evening, when he had put the toy away and let me help him with my hand. This time, though, his gaze was different. Hungrier. More uncertain.

"My mouth can take care of your cock too," I said quietly.

Tyler froze.

For a few seconds, he looked as if he wasn't sure he had really heard me. His fingers tightened around the Fleshlight, but not out of resistance. More out of shock.

"Seriously?" he asked, almost in a whisper. "You'd do that?"

I nodded.

"Of course. I meant what I said."

Tyler lowered his eyes to the toy, then looked back at me again. There was a struggle on his face: shame, curiosity, tension, and something else, a desire he didn't want to pretend away anymore.

"You don't have to do that," he said.

"I know," I replied. "But I want to. If you want it too."

That was the most important part.

Tyler breathed unevenly for a moment, then slowly set the Fleshlight down on the couch beside him.

Then he nodded.

"I want it."

I knelt in front of him, feeling that we were crossing another line. Not to take his toys away from him. Only to show him that real touch could give him something plastic never could.

Tyler sat naked in front of me, his hands gripping the edge of the couch as if he needed something to hold on to. I could see that he wanted this. I could also see that it was still hard for him to believe he didn't have to be ashamed in front of me.

I leaned in slowly.

I didn't take him into my mouth right away. First, I moved only close enough for my breath to brush his skin. Tyler sucked in air and trembled before I had even touched him.

A small drop of precum had gathered at the tip. I looked at it for a second, then slid out my tongue and slowly licked it away.

Tyler jerked his hips up a few inches.

"Oh... fuck, Matt..."

The sound was quiet, but honest. Completely different from anything he could get from a toy. A Fleshlight could wrap around him, but it couldn't see how he reacted. It couldn't hear that tremor in his voice and answer it exactly.

I dragged my tongue lower, slowly, from the tip downward, watching his stomach tense and his fingers dig harder into the couch. Tyler tried to stay quiet, but every movement pulled another broken sigh from him.

Only then did I wrap my mouth around him.

Not deeply. Not right away. Carefully at first, slowly, letting him feel the warmth, softness, and pressure he had been looking for. Tyler tipped his head back and released a breath, as if his whole body had been waiting for exactly that.

"Yeah... just like that... don't stop."

I stayed with that rhythm. I used my mouth and tongue calmly, carefully, listening to his breathing. When his hips jerked harder, I slowed down. When he moaned louder, I returned to the same place.

"You're doing that so well..." he whispered, almost without control.

Those words hit me harder than I expected. Not because they sounded confident. Exactly because they didn't. Tyler said them like someone who was receiving something he truly needed for the first time, without shame and without pretending.

I sucked him harder.

His body responded immediately.

"Please... don't stop... more..."

Tyler was getting closer.

I could feel it in every tension in his body. In the way his hands gripped the couch harder, in the way his breath kept breaking more often, in the way his hips started moving on their own, impatiently, as if he couldn't sit still anymore.

Tyler suddenly grabbed my shoulder.

"Matt... I can feel myself coming."

His voice was tight, almost scared, as if he still expected me to tell him to stop or pull away.

I didn't.

I stayed with him. I didn't stop. I wanted him to understand that he could. That he didn't have to be ashamed, didn't have to warn me in a panic, and didn't have to finish alone with a toy in his hand.

His body tightened sharply. His head fell back against the couch, his fingers gripped my shoulder harder, and a low, helpless moan broke from his throat.

He came hard in my mouth.

For several seconds, I felt every tremor of his body, every broken breath, every bit of tension finally leaving him. I didn't pull away right away. I stayed with him until the last wave of pleasure passed through his body and left him completely relaxed.

Only then did I slowly pull back.

Tyler sat in front of me, breathless and dazed.

Finally, he looked at me.

"That was... amazing," he said quietly.

I smiled faintly and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

Tyler looked at the Fleshlight lying beside him on the couch, then back at me. This time, he didn't reach for it. He didn't even look at it for more than a second.

And that was when I knew the toy had lost again.

First to my hand.

And now to my mouth.

Everyone is over 18

Quick recap: After Tyler's girlfriend kicked him out, he ended up staying with me. It didn't take long for me to discover the secret that had caused their breakup: his growing curiosity about sex toys and experimenting with things he'd never dared to try before. Instead of pushing him away, I gave him a place where he could finally explore that side of himself without judgment and made it clear I'd be there if he ever needed help.

A quiet sound woke me up.

At first, I wasn't even sure if I had really heard something or if I had only been pulled out of sleep with that strange feeling that someone was moving around in the apartment. I lay still for a moment, staring into the darkness of my room.

Then I heard it again.

A quiet, muffled moan.

I slowly sat up in bed. For a second, I thought Tyler might be feeling sick or that something had happened to him, but the next sound changed my thoughts immediately. It didn't sound like pain.

I got up and stepped into the hallway.

The door to Tyler's room was slightly open. As I passed it quietly, I stopped. Not because I saw him. The room was empty.

But the bag was open.

I moved closer and looked inside. I didn't have to search for long to notice what was missing.

The Fleshlight.

I sighed quietly.

I wasn't angry. More... surprised. Maybe a little disappointed too, though I knew I had no real right to be. After the previous night, I thought that maybe next time he really would ask me. That instead of going back to the bag, he would remember my hand, my voice, and the fact that he didn't have to handle everything on his own anymore.

But old habits clearly didn't disappear that easily.

Another quiet breath came from the living room.

I walked there slowly and stopped in the doorway.

Tyler was sitting naked on the couch, tense and aroused, with the Fleshlight in his hand. He was so focused on what he was about to do that he didn't even notice me.

"Tyler," I said calmly. "What are you doing?"

He froze.

His face immediately turned red, but this time he didn't try to run away or make up an excuse. He looked at me, embarrassed but honest.

"Matt... what happened yesterday was amazing," he said quietly. "But I want it again today. I want to feel something soft. Something that wraps around me... like a mouth."

For a moment, we looked at each other in silence.

Tyler was sitting naked on the couch, the Fleshlight still in his hand, but he wasn't raising it anymore. His breathing was heavier than usual, his shoulders tense, his face red with shame and need he could no longer hide.

I walked over slowly.

I looked at the Fleshlight, then at him.

"You want something soft," I said calmly. "Something that wraps around you like a mouth."

Tyler swallowed.

"Exactly."

I crouched down in front of him, just like the previous evening, when he had put the toy away and let me help him with my hand. This time, though, his gaze was different. Hungrier. More uncertain.

"My mouth can take care of your cock too," I said quietly.

Tyler froze.

For a few seconds, he looked as if he wasn't sure he had really heard me. His fingers tightened around the Fleshlight, but not out of resistance. More out of shock.

"Seriously?" he asked, almost in a whisper. "You'd do that?"

I nodded.

"Of course. I meant what I said."

Tyler lowered his eyes to the toy, then looked back at me again. There was a struggle on his face: shame, curiosity, tension, and something else, a desire he didn't want to pretend away anymore.

"You don't have to do that," he said.

"I know," I replied. "But I want to. If you want it too."

That was the most important part.

Tyler breathed unevenly for a moment, then slowly set the Fleshlight down on the couch beside him.

Then he nodded.

"I want it."

I knelt in front of him, feeling that we were crossing another line. Not to take his toys away from him. Only to show him that real touch could give him something plastic never could.

Tyler sat naked in front of me, his hands gripping the edge of the couch as if he needed something to hold on to. I could see that he wanted this. I could also see that it was still hard for him to believe he didn't have to be ashamed in front of me.

I leaned in slowly.

I didn't take him into my mouth right away. First, I moved only close enough for my breath to brush his skin. Tyler sucked in air and trembled before I had even touched him.

A small drop of precum had gathered at the tip. I looked at it for a second, then slid out my tongue and slowly licked it away.

Tyler jerked his hips up a few inches.

"Oh... fuck, Matt..."

The sound was quiet, but honest. Completely different from anything he could get from a toy. A Fleshlight could wrap around him, but it couldn't see how he reacted. It couldn't hear that tremor in his voice and answer it exactly.

I dragged my tongue lower, slowly, from the tip downward, watching his stomach tense and his fingers dig harder into the couch. Tyler tried to stay quiet, but every movement pulled another broken sigh from him.

Only then did I wrap my mouth around him.

Not deeply. Not right away. Carefully at first, slowly, letting him feel the warmth, softness, and pressure he had been looking for. Tyler tipped his head back and released a breath, as if his whole body had been waiting for exactly that.

"Yeah... just like that... don't stop."

I stayed with that rhythm. I used my mouth and tongue calmly, carefully, listening to his breathing. When his hips jerked harder, I slowed down. When he moaned louder, I returned to the same place.

"You're doing that so well..." he whispered, almost without control.

Those words hit me harder than I expected. Not because they sounded confident. Exactly because they didn't. Tyler said them like someone who was receiving something he truly needed for the first time, without shame and without pretending.

I sucked him harder.

His body responded immediately.

"Please... don't stop... more..."

Tyler was getting closer.

I could feel it in every tension in his body. In the way his hands gripped the couch harder, in the way his breath kept breaking more often, in the way his hips started moving on their own, impatiently, as if he couldn't sit still anymore.

Tyler suddenly grabbed my shoulder.

"Matt... I can feel myself coming."

His voice was tight, almost scared, as if he still expected me to tell him to stop or pull away.

I didn't.

I stayed with him. I didn't stop. I wanted him to understand that he could. That he didn't have to be ashamed, didn't have to warn me in a panic, and didn't have to finish alone with a toy in his hand.

His body tightened sharply. His head fell back against the couch, his fingers gripped my shoulder harder, and a low, helpless moan broke from his throat.

He came hard in my mouth.

For several seconds, I felt every tremor of his body, every broken breath, every bit of tension finally leaving him. I didn't pull away right away. I stayed with him until the last wave of pleasure passed through his body and left him completely relaxed.

Only then did I slowly pull back.

Tyler sat in front of me, breathless and dazed.

Finally, he looked at me.

"That was... amazing," he said quietly.

I smiled faintly and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

Tyler looked at the Fleshlight lying beside him on the couch, then back at me. This time, he didn't reach for it. He didn't even look at it for more than a second.

And that was when I knew the toy had lost again.

First to my hand.

And now to my mouth.

Everyone is over 18

Quick recap: When Tyler's girlfriend kicked him out, I let him stay with me and soon discovered that she had rejected him because of his secret interest in sex toys and experimentation. Instead of judging him, I encouraged him to open up and promised that he could count on me in every way.

The next evening, Tyler and I were sitting in front of the TV.

At first glance, everything looked normal. Two beers on the table, some movie playing in the background, the couch, the quiet light from the lamp in the corner of the living room. But after the conversation from the previous day, nothing felt completely ordinary anymore.

Tyler was sitting beside me in sweat shorts and a loose T-shirt, but this time he seemed less tense. He still wasn't fully relaxed, not completely, but he didn't look away every time silence fell between us. It was as if he was slowly testing whether he could really be around me without that constant tension.

For a while, we watched the movie without paying much attention.

And then an erotic scene appeared on the screen.

It wasn't even especially long, but it was enough. Two people pressed against each other, heavier breaths, hands sliding over bare skin. I felt the atmosphere between us change instantly.

Tyler looked away from the screen, but too late.

I noticed the way he shifted on the couch. The way his thighs tightened under the fabric of his shorts. The way his fingers gripped the bottle a little harder than before. He tried to look normal, but his body wasn't as good at lying as his mouth.

After a moment, I saw a clear bulge under the fabric.

Tyler must have noticed it too, because he suddenly stood up.

"I'm going to my room for a minute," he said quickly.

I didn't ask why.

I sat there for a few more seconds, listening to his footsteps. Then I heard the quiet sound of a zipper opening.

The bag.

I stood up and followed him. The door to his room was slightly open. Tyler was kneeling beside the bag, his face red with shame, holding the Fleshlight in his hand.

"Were you going to use that?" I asked calmly.

He froze.

For a moment, he looked as if he had been caught again doing something he was supposed to be ashamed of.

"I need it, Matt," he said quietly. "Sometimes I just have to."

I didn't step inside right away.

I stood in the doorway and looked at him calmly. Tyler was still kneeling beside the bag, the Fleshlight in his hand, embarrassed and tense, as if he was waiting for laughter, a comment, or disappointment.

But I wasn't going to give him any of that.

"Tyler," I said quietly. "It's okay."

Only then did he lift his eyes to me.

"I didn't want you to see this," he muttered.

"I know."

I looked at the toy in his hand, then back at him.

"But I do."

His face turned even redder.

"It's stupid, I know."

"I didn't say it was stupid."

He fell silent.

I moved closer and crouched down in front of him, so I wouldn't be looking down at him. I wanted him to understand that this wasn't an interrogation. That he didn't have to defend himself.

"Yesterday, I told you that you could count on me in every way," I reminded him.

Tyler swallowed.

"I remember."

For a moment, all I could hear was the quiet sound of the TV from the living room. The Fleshlight was still resting in his hand, but it no longer looked like something he truly wanted. It looked more like something he had reached for out of habit.

"What if tonight we tried my hand instead?" I asked.

Tyler went still.

"Your hand?"

"Yeah."

He looked at me as if he wasn't sure he had heard me right.

"Seriously? You'd do that?"

I smiled faintly, calmly.

"Sure. I meant what I said."

Tyler lowered his eyes to the Fleshlight, then looked back at me again. There was embarrassment on his face, but something else too. Curiosity. Need. The same need that had made him reach into the bag a moment earlier.

"You don't have to," he said quietly.

"I know. But I want to."

That was enough.

Slowly, he put the Fleshlight back into the bag and zipped it shut, as if he was closing more than just a fabric pocket.

We returned to the living room without a word.

The TV was still playing, but neither of us was watching it anymore.

Tyler sat down on the couch, but for a moment, he only stared ahead, as if he was still trying to believe this was really happening.

"You can take your clothes off if that would be more comfortable," I said calmly.

He looked at me, then down at his T-shirt. He hesitated for only a second. Then he pulled the shirt over his head, revealing his broad chest, tight stomach, and arms that looked even stronger than usual in the lamplight. Then he slipped his fingers under the waistband of his shorts and pulled them down.

He was completely naked.

For a moment, I looked at his body, but it wasn't his muscles that drew my attention the most. It was his cock. Hard, heavy, and so tense it was as if that erotic scene from the movie had only been the beginning, and my offer had done the rest.

I sat closer.

"Can I?" I asked.

Tyler nodded.

I wrapped my hand around him and immediately felt how hard he was. He was hot, tense, alive. Completely different from any toy he could have kept in that bag.

I took out some lube and poured a little into my hand, then slowly spread it along his full length. Tyler sucked in a breath so sharply that I looked up at his face.

"Oh... fuck," he breathed.

I didn't speed up right away. First, I coated him carefully, from the base all the way to the tip, letting every movement become slick, warm, and deliberate. I could feel his hips lifting slightly into my hand on their own.

Only then did I start moving my hand.

Slowly.

Tyler tipped his head back against the couch.

"Squeeze harder... yeah, just like that."

I did.

His breathing broke immediately.

After a moment, he grabbed my wrist, but not to stop me.

"Slower... I don't want to finish yet."

I slowed down.

And that was when I understood the difference even more clearly. A Fleshlight would never listen to him. It wouldn't wait for his voice. It wouldn't change pace exactly when Tyler needed it to.

I could.

For a while, I guided him slowly, exactly the way he wanted.

Tyler sat naked on the couch, his head tipped back and his mouth slightly open. He was no longer trying to pretend this was nothing. He was completely focused on my hand.

And on the fact that I was really listening to him.

"Now faster," he suddenly breathed. "Fuck, Matt, faster."

I sped up.

His hips jerked harder, as if his body had answered the change immediately. My hand slid over him easily, rhythmically, and every movement pulled a heavier breath from him. Tyler tightened his fingers around the edge of the couch.

"Don't stop," he moaned. "That's better."

I didn't stop.

I watched his face, his tense stomach, the muscles in his thighs that kept trembling. This wasn't mechanical. This wasn't lonely. Every sound he made told me whether to slow down, speed up, squeeze harder, or stay in exactly the same rhythm.

And that was how I knew the bag had lost to my hand that night.

Tyler suddenly sucked in a sharp breath.

"Matt... I can feel it... I'm coming."

I leaned closer.

"Then let me feel it."

That was enough.

His body tightened hard, and then released. He came violently over his stomach and my hand, with a guttural moan he didn't even try to hold back. I didn't pull away right away. I stayed with him until the last tremor passed through his body.

Tyler sat there afterward without moving, breathless, relaxed, and a little dazed. He looked at me as if he was only just realizing that he really didn't have to go back to the bag.

I smiled faintly.

"Next time, just ask me if you need help."

He didn't answer right away.

But the way he looked at me instead of the closed bag said enough.

I didn't want to take his toys away from him.

I just wanted to show him that with me, he might need them less and less.

Everyone is over 18

Part 1

Quick recap: After returning to the apartment with an injured wrist, I quickly realized that I couldn't manage everything on my own. Luckily, I have roommates who are more than willing to take very thorough care of me.

The next day, showering turned out to be a bigger problem than I wanted to admit.

I stood in the bathroom with a towel around my hips, my braced wrist sealed inside a waterproof cover and held carefully against my body, and the expression of a man who had just lost a fight with his own shower gel.

"Fuck," I muttered under my breath as I stepped out of the bathroom.

Ryan spotted me right away.

He was sitting in the living room, shirtless of course, with his legs stretched out in front of him and the remote in his hand. He looked at my towel, then at my wet hair, then at my expression, and smiled as if he'd just found himself some entertainment for the evening.

"So today's problem is hygiene?"

"Very funny."

Dylan was sitting at the table with his laptop, but he looked up immediately. Unlike Ryan, he wasn't smiling cheekily. He was looking more intently, more calmly, as he always did when he saw that something was really bothering me.

"Do you need help?" he asked.

"Maybe," I replied too quickly. "I just can't reach properly."

Ryan snorted.

"Matt, after everything we've already done, washing your back really shouldn't suddenly feel too intimate."

I felt myself getting hot, but I didn't have a good answer for that. Because he was right. After Ryan's hand. After Dylan's lips. After all those moments when my injury stopped being only a problem and became the reason they touched me.

Dylan closed his laptop.

"Come on. We'll help you."

"Help me?" I repeated.

Ryan was already getting up from the couch.

"What's the big deal? You're limited to one hand. Two pairs of hands should get the job done."

I hesitated, but after everything that had already happened between us, I realized I wanted to let them help.

A few minutes later, the three of us were standing in the bathroom.

Steam was starting to fill the shower, and I felt strangely exposed, even though nudity was nothing new between us. Ryan stepped in first, naked, confident, strong, with a body that looked as if it were made to take control. Dylan followed more calmly, his wet hair falling across his forehead, watching me as if my comfort mattered more than the strangeness of the situation.

I stood between them under the stream of warm water.

Ryan reached for the shower gel and smiled.

"All right, patient. We're giving you a thorough wash today."

Dylan placed his hand on my shoulder, warm and reassuring.

"If anything feels uncomfortable, just say so."

I nodded, feeling how an ordinary shower was turning into something my body had begun to crave even before either of them had really touched me.

At first, it really was just about washing.

At least that's what I tried to tell myself.

Ryan stood in front of me, squeezed some gel into his hand, and began spreading it over my chest with broad, confident strokes. He didn't have a shred of self-consciousness about him. His fingers glided over my shoulders, my chest, my stomach, as if he were performing a very practical task, but the way he watched my reactions gave away that he knew exactly what he was doing.

Dylan stood behind me. His hands were calmer, more patient. He started at the back of my neck, then moved down to my shoulder blades and my back, spreading the foam in slow, circular motions. Warm water ran over all of us, steam fogged the glass around us, and I stood between them, my injured wrist held safely against my body and my breathing growing less and less steady.

"Relax," Dylan said in my ear. "You don't have to do anything."

After these last few days, that sentence already carried too many meanings.

Ryan slid his hands lower, over my stomach, until my muscles tensed beneath his fingers. He smiled when he saw that.

"Well, well," he muttered. "It looks like your hygiene routine is working very well."

I looked down and immediately felt myself getting hot. My cock began to harden between them, slowly, relentlessly, completely ignoring the fact that this was supposed to be just a wash.

"It's the water," I said, though I didn't believe it myself.

Ryan laughed softly.

"Sure. Hot water always makes you hard."

Dylan ran his hand over my back, soothingly.

"Leave him alone," he said. "His body reacts easily."

That sounded worse than Ryan's joke.

Because Dylan said it so calmly, so confidently, as if over the last few days he'd really learned to read me. As if my body wasn't a mystery to them anymore, but something they were both beginning to learn about in their own ways.

Ryan kept washing my chest and stomach, but his gaze kept drifting lower every now and then. Dylan slid his hands down to my lower back, slowly, thoroughly, until I felt the tension building even deeper.

I swallowed hard.

"There's one more place I can't reach properly," I said quietly.

Ryan raised an eyebrow.

"Where?"

"My ass."

For a second, all I could hear was the water.

Then Ryan’s smile widened as his hands settled on my hips.

"So we're supposed to be thorough?"

I closed my eyes for a moment. There was no point pretending anymore.

"Very thorough," I said, my voice quieter now. "And I don't want you to stop at washing it."

Ryan let out a soft, amused breath.

Dylan didn’t say anything, but his hands paused on my hips.

I looked over my shoulder at them.

"I want you to use a finger."

Ryan smiled as if he’d been waiting for me to say it.

"All right," he said. "If that's what you want."

"It is."

Ryan rinsed the soap from his hands, then reached for the bottle of waterproof lube on the shelf.

"Then turn around," he said, moving his hands from my stomach to my hips. "Since we’re supposed to be thorough…"

He slowly turned me around to face the wall of the shower. Warm water hit the back of my neck and ran down my back as I pressed my good hand against the wet tiles. I kept my injured wrist close to my body, safely out of the way, but the rest of me was completely exposed to both of them.

Ryan stood behind me.

I felt his hands on my buttocks, firm, confident, without hesitation. He poured some lube onto his fingers, then let his hand glide slowly between my cheeks with that same brazen confidence of his, as if he could turn even this into a test.

"Relax," he murmured. "I'm just checking where I need to wash more thoroughly."

I didn't answer. I didn't trust my own voice.

He spread me gently with one hand while the fingers of the other moved lower. At first, it was only a brief, slick touch at my entrance.

"Breathe," Dylan said from the side.

Ryan moved his finger slowly, massaging the entrance. I could feel the water, the warmth, the slipperiness of the lube, and his presence behind me. When he slid his finger in slowly, I moaned so suddenly that I clenched my hand against the tiles.

"Oh fuck…" I blurted out.

Ryan laughed low.

"So you like that."

He moved his finger more confidently. His style was just like him: direct, hot, confident. Every movement made my hips tremble, and my cock stood hard under the stream of water.

It felt good.

Too good.

But Dylan suddenly spoke from beside us.

"Wait," he said. "Let me try."

Ryan stopped and glanced at him.

"Better?"

"Different," Dylan replied.

Then he looked at me.

"Is that okay?"

I nodded, still breathing hard.

"Yes."

Ryan pulled his hand back with a quiet laugh and moved around to stand in front of me, leaning against the opposite wall of the shower as he watched.

Dylan first placed his hand on my back.

"Breathe slower, Matt."

I obeyed.

Only then did he slide a finger inside me.

Slowly. Patiently. As if he didn't just want to touch me, but to truly find the spot where my body stops fighting and begins to open up.

The difference was immediate.

I closed my eyes, leaning against the wet tiles, as his finger moved inside me with slow, careful precision.

"Yes…" I whispered. "Just like that."

Dylan didn't rush for even a second.

It was the worst and the best at the same time. His finger moved inside me slowly, in small, precise movements, as if he were truly listening to my breath. Ryan was fire, fast, confident, brazen. Dylan was something deeper. Quieter. More dangerous, because with him, my body stopped pretending it had any control.

I stood with my good hand braced against the wet tiles, water running down my neck and back, while Dylan stood behind me, one hand on my hip, the other guiding calmly to where I'd asked him to go.

Ryan looked at my face, at my parted lips, at the tension in my stomach, at my cock standing hard between us. He smiled, but this time there was less teasing in it.

"Fuck, Dylan," he muttered. "I guess you really are doing this right. Look how he's reacting."

Dylan just smiled slightly by my ear.

His finger moved deeper.

I moaned and rested my forehead against the tiles.

Ryan leaned closer until I felt his breath on my ear.

"Do you want me to help you, too?" he asked quietly.

I turned my face toward him, breathing heavily.

"Yes. Please."

Ryan didn't wait any longer. He wrapped his hand around my cock, wet, warm, steady. He did it so naturally, as if taking care of this need was simply part of helping me. But when his fingers began to slide over me slowly, rhythmically, I knew that we both understood exactly what was happening.

Dylan behind me.

Ryan in front of me.

Me between them, with my injured wrist protected against my body and the rest of me dependent on their hands.

"Oh, yeah?" Ryan asked in a low voice, picking up the pace a little. "Does that feel good?"

I didn't answer with words. I couldn't. My hips twitched between them, and Dylan immediately adjusted the movement of his finger, slower, more precise, hitting that spot that sent a shiver through my whole body.

"Breathe," Dylan said calmly. "Don't hold back."

Ryan tightened his grip.

"He stopped holding back a long time ago."

That sentence broke me.

The tension built suddenly, violently. Ryan sensed it immediately and kept up the pace. Dylan maintained the same deep, measured rhythm. Their movements merged into something I could no longer separate: a hand on my cock, a finger inside me, warm water, steam, their voices, and my body.

"Wait..." I gasped. "Fuck, I'm about to come..."

"Then come," Ryan said. "We're right here."

Dylan moved his finger one more time, slowly, deeply.

I came hard, with a guttural moan, leaning heavily against the wall of the shower. Ryan guided me through the whole release with his hand, calm and steady, until cum spilled over his fingers and ran down with the water. Dylan stayed behind me for a moment longer, not pulling away too quickly, letting my body come down from the tension.

When everything finally quieted down, I stood between them, breathless, relaxed, and completely in their care.

Ryan laughed softly.

"Well. Now you're really clean."

Dylan carefully withdrew his finger, then placed his hand on my back.

"And relaxed."

I didn't have the strength to reply.

Ryan turned the water a little warmer and smiled as he looked at me.

"Next time you say you can't reach something, call both of us right away."

I stood under the water, my legs still wobbly, and thought that my injury was supposed to make me helpless.

But with Ryan and Dylan, needing help was starting to mean something completely different.

Something I wanted more and more.

Everyone is over 18

Quick recap: After returning to the apartment with an injured wrist, I quickly realized that I couldn't manage everything on my own. Luckily, I have roommates who are more than willing to take very thorough care of me.

The next day, showering turned out to be a bigger problem than I wanted to admit.

I stood in the bathroom with a towel around my hips, my braced wrist sealed inside a waterproof cover and held carefully against my body, and the expression of a man who had just lost a fight with his own shower gel.

"Fuck," I muttered under my breath as I stepped out of the bathroom.

Ryan spotted me right away.

He was sitting in the living room, shirtless of course, with his legs stretched out in front of him and the remote in his hand. He looked at my towel, then at my wet hair, then at my expression, and smiled as if he'd just found himself some entertainment for the evening.

"So today's problem is hygiene?"

"Very funny."

Dylan was sitting at the table with his laptop, but he looked up immediately. Unlike Ryan, he wasn't smiling cheekily. He was looking more intently, more calmly, as he always did when he saw that something was really bothering me.

"Do you need help?" he asked.

"Maybe," I replied too quickly. "I just can't reach properly."

Ryan snorted.

"Matt, after everything we've already done, washing your back really shouldn't suddenly feel too intimate."

I felt myself getting hot, but I didn't have a good answer for that. Because he was right. After Ryan's hand. After Dylan's lips. After all those moments when my injury stopped being only a problem and became the reason they touched me.

Dylan closed his laptop.

"Come on. We'll help you."

"Help me?" I repeated.

Ryan was already getting up from the couch.

"What's the big deal? You're limited to one hand. Two pairs of hands should get the job done."

I hesitated, but after everything that had already happened between us, I realized I wanted to let them help.

A few minutes later, the three of us were standing in the bathroom.

Steam was starting to fill the shower, and I felt strangely exposed, even though nudity was nothing new between us. Ryan stepped in first, naked, confident, strong, with a body that looked as if it were made to take control. Dylan followed more calmly, his wet hair falling across his forehead, watching me as if my comfort mattered more than the strangeness of the situation.

I stood between them under the stream of warm water.

Ryan reached for the shower gel and smiled.

"All right, patient. We're giving you a thorough wash today."

Dylan placed his hand on my shoulder, warm and reassuring.

"If anything feels uncomfortable, just say so."

I nodded, feeling how an ordinary shower was turning into something my body had begun to crave even before either of them had really touched me.

At first, it really was just about washing.

At least that's what I tried to tell myself.

Ryan stood in front of me, squeezed some gel into his hand, and began spreading it over my chest with broad, confident strokes. He didn't have a shred of self-consciousness about him. His fingers glided over my shoulders, my chest, my stomach, as if he were performing a very practical task, but the way he watched my reactions gave away that he knew exactly what he was doing.

Dylan stood behind me. His hands were calmer, more patient. He started at the back of my neck, then moved down to my shoulder blades and my back, spreading the foam in slow, circular motions. Warm water ran over all of us, steam fogged the glass around us, and I stood between them, my injured wrist held safely against my body and my breathing growing less and less steady.

"Relax," Dylan said in my ear. "You don't have to do anything."

After these last few days, that sentence already carried too many meanings.

Ryan slid his hands lower, over my stomach, until my muscles tensed beneath his fingers. He smiled when he saw that.

"Well, well," he muttered. "It looks like your hygiene routine is working very well."

I looked down and immediately felt myself getting hot. My cock began to harden between them, slowly, relentlessly, completely ignoring the fact that this was supposed to be just a wash.

"It's the water," I said, though I didn't believe it myself.

Ryan laughed softly.

"Sure. Hot water always makes you hard."

Dylan ran his hand over my back, soothingly.

"Leave him alone," he said. "His body reacts easily."

That sounded worse than Ryan's joke.

Because Dylan said it so calmly, so confidently, as if over the last few days he'd really learned to read me. As if my body wasn't a mystery to them anymore, but something they were both beginning to learn about in their own ways.

Ryan kept washing my chest and stomach, but his gaze kept drifting lower every now and then. Dylan slid his hands down to my lower back, slowly, thoroughly, until I felt the tension building even deeper.

I swallowed hard.

"There's one more place I can't reach properly," I said quietly.

Ryan raised an eyebrow.

"Where?"

"My ass."

For a second, all I could hear was the water.

Then Ryan’s smile widened as his hands settled on my hips.

"So we're supposed to be thorough?"

I closed my eyes for a moment. There was no point pretending anymore.

"Very thorough," I said, my voice quieter now. "And I don't want you to stop at washing it."

Ryan let out a soft, amused breath.

Dylan didn’t say anything, but his hands paused on my hips.

I looked over my shoulder at them.

"I want you to use a finger."

Ryan smiled as if he’d been waiting for me to say it.

"All right," he said. "If that's what you want."

"It is."

Ryan rinsed the soap from his hands, then reached for the bottle of waterproof lube on the shelf.

"Then turn around," he said, moving his hands from my stomach to my hips. "Since we’re supposed to be thorough…"

He slowly turned me around to face the wall of the shower. Warm water hit the back of my neck and ran down my back as I pressed my good hand against the wet tiles. I kept my injured wrist close to my body, safely out of the way, but the rest of me was completely exposed to both of them.

Ryan stood behind me.

I felt his hands on my buttocks, firm, confident, without hesitation. He poured some lube onto his fingers, then let his hand glide slowly between my cheeks with that same brazen confidence of his, as if he could turn even this into a test.

"Relax," he murmured. "I'm just checking where I need to wash more thoroughly."

I didn't answer. I didn't trust my own voice.

He spread me gently with one hand while the fingers of the other moved lower. At first, it was only a brief, slick touch at my entrance.

"Breathe," Dylan said from the side.

Ryan moved his finger slowly, massaging the entrance. I could feel the water, the warmth, the slipperiness of the lube, and his presence behind me. When he slid his finger in slowly, I moaned so suddenly that I clenched my hand against the tiles.

"Oh fuck…" I blurted out.

Ryan laughed low.

"So you like that."

He moved his finger more confidently. His style was just like him: direct, hot, confident. Every movement made my hips tremble, and my cock stood hard under the stream of water.

It felt good.

Too good.

But Dylan suddenly spoke from beside us.

"Wait," he said. "Let me try."

Ryan stopped and glanced at him.

"Better?"

"Different," Dylan replied.

Then he looked at me.

"Is that okay?"

I nodded, still breathing hard.

"Yes."

Ryan pulled his hand back with a quiet laugh and moved around to stand in front of me, leaning against the opposite wall of the shower as he watched.

Dylan first placed his hand on my back.

"Breathe slower, Matt."

I obeyed.

Only then did he slide a finger inside me.

Slowly. Patiently. As if he didn't just want to touch me, but to truly find the spot where my body stops fighting and begins to open up.

The difference was immediate.

I closed my eyes, leaning against the wet tiles, as his finger moved inside me with slow, careful precision.

"Yes…" I whispered. "Just like that."

Dylan didn't rush for even a second.

It was the worst and the best at the same time. His finger moved inside me slowly, in small, precise movements, as if he were truly listening to my breath. Ryan was fire, fast, confident, brazen. Dylan was something deeper. Quieter. More dangerous, because with him, my body stopped pretending it had any control.

I stood with my good hand braced against the wet tiles, water running down my neck and back, while Dylan stood behind me, one hand on my hip, the other guiding calmly to where I'd asked him to go.

Ryan looked at my face, at my parted lips, at the tension in my stomach, at my cock standing hard between us. He smiled, but this time there was less teasing in it.

"Fuck, Dylan," he muttered. "I guess you really are doing this right. Look how he's reacting."

Dylan just smiled slightly by my ear.

His finger moved deeper.

I moaned and rested my forehead against the tiles.

Ryan leaned closer until I felt his breath on my ear.

"Do you want me to help you, too?" he asked quietly.

I turned my face toward him, breathing heavily.

"Yes. Please."

Ryan didn't wait any longer. He wrapped his hand around my cock, wet, warm, steady. He did it so naturally, as if taking care of this need was simply part of helping me. But when his fingers began to slide over me slowly, rhythmically, I knew that we both understood exactly what was happening.

Dylan behind me.

Ryan in front of me.

Me between them, with my injured wrist protected against my body and the rest of me dependent on their hands.

"Oh, yeah?" Ryan asked in a low voice, picking up the pace a little. "Does that feel good?"

I didn't answer with words. I couldn't. My hips twitched between them, and Dylan immediately adjusted the movement of his finger, slower, more precise, hitting that spot that sent a shiver through my whole body.

"Breathe," Dylan said calmly. "Don't hold back."

Ryan tightened his grip.

"He stopped holding back a long time ago."

That sentence broke me.

The tension built suddenly, violently. Ryan sensed it immediately and kept up the pace. Dylan maintained the same deep, measured rhythm. Their movements merged into something I could no longer separate: a hand on my cock, a finger inside me, warm water, steam, their voices, and my body.

"Wait..." I gasped. "Fuck, I'm about to come..."

"Then come," Ryan said. "We're right here."

Dylan moved his finger one more time, slowly, deeply.

I came hard, with a guttural moan, leaning heavily against the wall of the shower. Ryan guided me through the whole release with his hand, calm and steady, until cum spilled over his fingers and ran down with the water. Dylan stayed behind me for a moment longer, not pulling away too quickly, letting my body come down from the tension.

When everything finally quieted down, I stood between them, breathless, relaxed, and completely in their care.

Ryan laughed softly.

"Well. Now you're really clean."

Dylan carefully withdrew his finger, then placed his hand on my back.

"And relaxed."

I didn't have the strength to reply.

Ryan turned the water a little warmer and smiled as he looked at me.

"Next time you say you can't reach something, call both of us right away."

I stood under the water, my legs still wobbly, and thought that my injury was supposed to make me helpless.

But with Ryan and Dylan, needing help was starting to mean something completely different.

Something I wanted more and more.

All characters in this story are over 18 years of age.

It was late afternoon when I heard a knock at the door.

I wasn't expecting anyone. For a moment, I even thought it might be a neighbor or a delivery guy, but when I opened the door, I saw Tyler standing in the hallway with two bags at his feet.

He looked different than usual.

Normally, Tyler had that kind of confidence that was hard to ignore. He was tall, well-built, with broad shoulders and a chest that looked too good even under a simple T-shirt. That day, he was wearing gray sweatpants and a fitted shirt that clung to his arms and torso, but his face didn't match the rest of him. He looked tense. Tired. A little embarrassed.

He looked at me, then down at the bags, as if he suddenly didn't know where to start.

"Matt... I know this is stupid, but my girlfriend kicked me out. Can I stay at your place for a while?"

For a second, I just looked at him.

Not because I didn't know what to say. More because seeing Tyler like that was something I hadn't expected. He had always seemed like the kind of guy who could handle anything. And now he was standing in front of me like someone who had just lost his safe place.

I stepped aside.

"Of course you can. For as long as you need."

He walked in quietly, as if he still wasn't sure he was really allowed to. I helped him carry his bags into the living room, then took two beers from the fridge. I handed one to him.

We sat down on the couch. Tyler held the bottle in his hand, but for a long moment, he didn't even drink from it.

"So what actually happened?" I asked carefully. "Why did she kick you out?"

Tyler lowered his eyes.

"We just had a fight."

"About what exactly?"

He shrugged, too quickly, too lightly.

"Well... we just weren't getting along. For a while. You know how it is."

I watched him for a moment.

I didn't push.

Not yet.

But I could see he was lying. Or at least not telling me everything.

The next day, Tyler went to the gym.

He said it casually, as if he wanted to get back to normal, as if the previous evening hadn't happened at all. He put on a sports hoodie, threw a bag over his shoulder, and said only,

"I'll be back in an hour or two."

When the door closed behind him, I stood in the living room for a moment, looking at the spot where he had been sitting earlier. Something about his story still didn't feel right. "We weren't getting along" sounded too empty. Too convenient. Like an answer prepared in a hurry so no one would ask any more questions.

I knew his girlfriend. We weren't close, but enough that I could knock on her door without feeling like I was doing something completely strange.

A few minutes later, I was standing outside her apartment.

She opened the door with a faint smile, but as soon as I mentioned Tyler's name, that smile disappeared.

"I wanted to ask about Tyler," I said carefully. "What actually happened?"

Her gaze hardened at once.

"What did he tell you?"

"That you had a fight."

"Did he tell you why?"

"He said you just weren't getting along."

She gave a quiet snort, with the kind of irritation that made it sound like the answer itself offended her.

"Oh, really? That's all? Shame he didn't tell you the truth."

I felt that I'd been right.

"Then maybe you can tell me?"

She crossed her arms over her chest.

"Of course. I found a bag full of sex toys. There was a dildo, a fake ass toy, a Fleshlight... I was shocked. Tell me, why does a guy need a dildo? He likes girls, right?"

I didn't answer right away.

"Maybe he wanted to experiment."

She burst out laughing. Short, sharp, unpleasant.

And that was when I understood.

Tyler wasn't hiding it because there was something wrong with him. He was hiding it because he knew that if he told the truth, he would be laughed at exactly like that.

I went back to my apartment with a strange heaviness in my head.

Not because I was angry at Tyler. Quite the opposite. After talking to his girlfriend, I felt something closer to sympathy. She hadn't spoken about him like someone who had hurt her. She had spoken about him like someone whose secret had disgusted her. As if the simple fact that he had fantasies was reason enough to throw him out.

When I stepped inside, I immediately heard the sound of running water.

Tyler was in the shower.

For a moment, I stood in the hallway, looking toward the living room. His bags were lying where we had left them the day before. One of them had been pulled slightly away from the wall. The zipper wasn't fully closed.

I shouldn't have looked.

I knew that.

And yet I walked over.

I opened the bag just a little, enough to see inside. And everything was exactly as his girlfriend had said. A Fleshlight. A dildo. A fake ass toy. A few things hidden deeper, carelessly covered with clothes, as if Tyler had packed in a panic and hadn't even had time to hide them properly.

I looked at it for a moment without disgust.

To me, it wasn't a bag full of something dirty. It was a bag full of something Tyler had clearly never been able to show anyone without fear.

I zipped it shut and quickly went back to the couch.

A few minutes later, the bathroom door opened.

Tyler came out wearing only a towel, with wet hair and drops of water on his chest. His shoulders looked even broader, his stomach was tight, and his legs looked strong.

"Oh, you're back," he said.

For a second, I had to remind myself what I wanted to talk about.

"Yeah. Can we talk once you get dressed?"

Tyler shrugged.

"It's fine. We can talk now."

He sat down on the couch beside me, still wearing only the towel.

Great, I thought. That will definitely make this conversation easier.

For a while, we sat in silence.

Tyler had the towel wrapped low around his hips, his hair still damp, and the skin on his chest lightly shining after the shower. I tried to look him in the eyes, but it wasn't exactly easy.

Finally, I cleared my throat.

"Tyler, I want to ask you again. Why did she really kick you out?"

His face changed immediately. His jaw tightened, and he looked away.

"I told you. We weren't getting along."

This time, I didn't let it go.

I stood up calmly, walked over to his bag, and brought it to the couch. I placed it between us. Tyler went so stiff it was as if someone had suddenly pulled all the air out of him.

"I talked to your girlfriend," I said quietly. "Please, just be honest with me. I'll seriously understand."

For a few seconds, he only stared at the bag. His cheeks turned red, and his fingers tightened around the edge of the towel.

"Fine," he said at last, almost in a whisper. "I'll admit it. I like experimenting sometimes. My girlfriend didn't like that, and she kicked me out."

I didn't say anything right away. I didn't want him to feel even more exposed.

"Can we talk about what's inside?" I asked calmly.

Tyler swallowed.

"Yeah."

I unzipped the bag and took out the first item. The Fleshlight. I turned it in my hand, then looked at him.

"What do you use this for?"

Tyler lowered his gaze, but he answered.

"Sometimes I use it instead of my hand. It kind of feels like getting sucked off. It's great."

"And your girlfriend?"

He gave a short snort, without any amusement.

"Please. She wasn't exactly into that."

I put the Fleshlight back and took out the dildo.

"And what did you need this for?"

This time, his embarrassment felt different. Softer. Like he was talking about something that genuinely interested him.

"I read a lot online. About prostate stimulation, for example. Apparently, you can come from just a dildo."

"And did you?"

He shook his head.

"Not really. One time I was really close, but then my girlfriend suddenly came home and I had to stop."

Finally, I took out the fake ass toy.

"And this?"

For the first time, Tyler smiled a little more freely, though he still didn't look straight into my eyes.

"Man, that one basically replaced fucking for me. I could fuck it as much as I wanted."

I looked at him calmly.

"Yeah. A fake ass gives you a hole. You can fuck it as much as you want. But a real one gives you a reaction. Tightness, warmth, breathing, moans, hips, muscle tension... that moment when you feel that someone isn't just letting you do it, but actually wants you. No toy can replace that."

Tyler lifted his eyes.

And for a moment, he looked as if, for the first time, someone hadn't just heard his secret, but truly understood it.

I put everything back into the bag and zipped it shut.

"Tyler, I want you to know that you live with me now, and you can count on me in every way."

He didn't answer right away.

But there was relief in his eyes.

And I knew this conversation wasn't the end.

It was the beginning of something that had only just started between us.

All characters in this story are over 18 years of age.

It was late afternoon when I heard a knock at the door.

I wasn't expecting anyone. For a moment, I even thought it might be a neighbor or a delivery guy, but when I opened the door, I saw Tyler standing in the hallway with two bags at his feet.

He looked different than usual.

Normally, Tyler had that kind of confidence that was hard to ignore. He was tall, well-built, with broad shoulders and a chest that looked too good even under a simple T-shirt. That day, he was wearing gray sweatpants and a fitted shirt that clung to his arms and torso, but his face didn't match the rest of him. He looked tense. Tired. A little embarrassed.

He looked at me, then down at the bags, as if he suddenly didn't know where to start.

"Matt... I know this is stupid, but my girlfriend kicked me out. Can I stay at your place for a while?"

For a second, I just looked at him.

Not because I didn't know what to say. More because seeing Tyler like that was something I hadn't expected. He had always seemed like the kind of guy who could handle anything. And now he was standing in front of me like someone who had just lost his safe place.

I stepped aside.

"Of course you can. For as long as you need."

He walked in quietly, as if he still wasn't sure he was really allowed to. I helped him carry his bags into the living room, then took two beers from the fridge. I handed one to him.

We sat down on the couch. Tyler held the bottle in his hand, but for a long moment, he didn't even drink from it.

"So what actually happened?" I asked carefully. "Why did she kick you out?"

Tyler lowered his eyes.

"We just had a fight."

"About what exactly?"

He shrugged, too quickly, too lightly.

"Well... we just weren't getting along. For a while. You know how it is."

I watched him for a moment.

I didn't push.

Not yet.

But I could see he was lying. Or at least not telling me everything.

The next day, Tyler went to the gym.

He said it casually, as if he wanted to get back to normal, as if the previous evening hadn't happened at all. He put on a sports hoodie, threw a bag over his shoulder, and said only,

"I'll be back in an hour or two."

When the door closed behind him, I stood in the living room for a moment, looking at the spot where he had been sitting earlier. Something about his story still didn't feel right. "We weren't getting along" sounded too empty. Too convenient. Like an answer prepared in a hurry so no one would ask any more questions.

I knew his girlfriend. We weren't close, but enough that I could knock on her door without feeling like I was doing something completely strange.

A few minutes later, I was standing outside her apartment.

She opened the door with a faint smile, but as soon as I mentioned Tyler's name, that smile disappeared.

"I wanted to ask about Tyler," I said carefully. "What actually happened?"

Her gaze hardened at once.

"What did he tell you?"

"That you had a fight."

"Did he tell you why?"

"He said you just weren't getting along."

She gave a quiet snort, with the kind of irritation that made it sound like the answer itself offended her.

"Oh, really? That's all? Shame he didn't tell you the truth."

I felt that I'd been right.

"Then maybe you can tell me?"

She crossed her arms over her chest.

"Of course. I found a bag full of sex toys. There was a dildo, a fake ass toy, a Fleshlight... I was shocked. Tell me, why does a guy need a dildo? He likes girls, right?"

I didn't answer right away.

"Maybe he wanted to experiment."

She burst out laughing. Short, sharp, unpleasant.

And that was when I understood.

Tyler wasn't hiding it because there was something wrong with him. He was hiding it because he knew that if he told the truth, he would be laughed at exactly like that.

I went back to my apartment with a strange heaviness in my head.

Not because I was angry at Tyler. Quite the opposite. After talking to his girlfriend, I felt something closer to sympathy. She hadn't spoken about him like someone who had hurt her. She had spoken about him like someone whose secret had disgusted her. As if the simple fact that he had fantasies was reason enough to throw him out.

When I stepped inside, I immediately heard the sound of running water.

Tyler was in the shower.

For a moment, I stood in the hallway, looking toward the living room. His bags were lying where we had left them the day before. One of them had been pulled slightly away from the wall. The zipper wasn't fully closed.

I shouldn't have looked.

I knew that.

And yet I walked over.

I opened the bag just a little, enough to see inside. And everything was exactly as his girlfriend had said. A Fleshlight. A dildo. A fake ass toy. A few things hidden deeper, carelessly covered with clothes, as if Tyler had packed in a panic and hadn't even had time to hide them properly.

I looked at it for a moment without disgust.

To me, it wasn't a bag full of something dirty. It was a bag full of something Tyler had clearly never been able to show anyone without fear.

I zipped it shut and quickly went back to the couch.

A few minutes later, the bathroom door opened.

Tyler came out wearing only a towel, with wet hair and drops of water on his chest. His shoulders looked even broader, his stomach was tight, and his legs looked strong.

"Oh, you're back," he said.

For a second, I had to remind myself what I wanted to talk about.

"Yeah. Can we talk once you get dressed?"

Tyler shrugged.

"It's fine. We can talk now."

He sat down on the couch beside me, still wearing only the towel.

Great, I thought. That will definitely make this conversation easier.

For a while, we sat in silence.

Tyler had the towel wrapped low around his hips, his hair still damp, and the skin on his chest lightly shining after the shower. I tried to look him in the eyes, but it wasn't exactly easy.

Finally, I cleared my throat.

"Tyler, I want to ask you again. Why did she really kick you out?"

His face changed immediately. His jaw tightened, and he looked away.

"I told you. We weren't getting along."

This time, I didn't let it go.

I stood up calmly, walked over to his bag, and brought it to the couch. I placed it between us. Tyler went so stiff it was as if someone had suddenly pulled all the air out of him.

"I talked to your girlfriend," I said quietly. "Please, just be honest with me. I'll seriously understand."

For a few seconds, he only stared at the bag. His cheeks turned red, and his fingers tightened around the edge of the towel.

"Fine," he said at last, almost in a whisper. "I'll admit it. I like experimenting sometimes. My girlfriend didn't like that, and she kicked me out."

I didn't say anything right away. I didn't want him to feel even more exposed.

"Can we talk about what's inside?" I asked calmly.

Tyler swallowed.

"Yeah."

I unzipped the bag and took out the first item. The Fleshlight. I turned it in my hand, then looked at him.

"What do you use this for?"

Tyler lowered his gaze, but he answered.

"Sometimes I use it instead of my hand. It kind of feels like getting sucked off. It's great."

"And your girlfriend?"

He gave a short snort, without any amusement.

"Please. She wasn't exactly into that."

I put the Fleshlight back and took out the dildo.

"And what did you need this for?"

This time, his embarrassment felt different. Softer. Like he was talking about something that genuinely interested him.

"I read a lot online. About prostate stimulation, for example. Apparently, you can come from just a dildo."

"And did you?"

He shook his head.

"Not really. One time I was really close, but then my girlfriend suddenly came home and I had to stop."

Finally, I took out the fake ass toy.

"And this?"

For the first time, Tyler smiled a little more freely, though he still didn't look straight into my eyes.

"Man, that one basically replaced fucking for me. I could fuck it as much as I wanted."

I looked at him calmly.

"Yeah. A fake ass gives you a hole. You can fuck it as much as you want. But a real one gives you a reaction. Tightness, warmth, breathing, moans, hips, muscle tension... that moment when you feel that someone isn't just letting you do it, but actually wants you. No toy can replace that."

Tyler lifted his eyes.

And for a moment, he looked as if, for the first time, someone hadn't just heard his secret, but truly understood it.

I put everything back into the bag and zipped it shut.

"Tyler, I want you to know that you live with me now, and you can count on me in every way."

He didn't answer right away.

But there was relief in his eyes.

And I knew this conversation wasn't the end.

It was the beginning of something that had only just started between us.