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High School Buds


    "Hey, buddy. Welcome! Come on in."

    "Owen, my man! Good to see you."

    My friend Tucker and I hugged, patting each other on the back, before I let him into the apartment and shut the door behind him.

    "Do you need help with that?" I offered, pointing at his large suitcase.

    "What, you're insinuating I'm not strong enough to carry my own bag?"

    "Fuck off," I laughed. "I was just tryna be helpful."

    "I'll manage it. Even though I look completely weak compared to you now," Tucker reacher over and gave one of my biceps a squeeze. 

    Tucker and I had both been high school athletes back home in Minnesota. We'd always been in more-than-decent shape, but I got what he meant: I'd gotten positively jacked in the past two years since I moved to New York. One of the upsides of not having many friends in a new city and spending every evening at the gym. 

    Tucker and I were acquaintances, but not the best of friends at first. That changed in our junior year, when I was the first "jock" at our school to come out as gay. There were mixed reactions, but luckily I had enough support that the ones who had a problem with it kept it to themselves. 

    A few months later, Tucker came out as well. This led to a slew of well-intending but ignorant straight friends trying to set us up, thinking that any two gay guys in the same room automatically belong together. It wasn't like that between Tuck and me. We did fool around a couple of times just to try it out, but for the most part we were good buddies. Growing up, I'd learned from my dad the value of male friendships, and I cherished that part of my relationship with Tucker more than anything. 

    "Impressive," he said, squeezing my arm, which was thicker than it'd ever been. He then followed me through the short hallway up to my room. "So you're done with your course?"

    "Yup, just finished a few days ago," I said, leading him into my room, and reaching for the framed certificate which still sat on my desk.

    "'Owen Morris, Certified Personal Trainer,'" Tucker read out loud, nodding his head. "Well done."

    "Thanks. I couldn't keep getting up at 6 AM to bus tables at the café. Let's see how this goes."

    "Thanks for letting me stay here, by the way," Tucker said, standing next to me in my small bedroom. With his suitcase here, there was barely any room left to move, so we stood just a foot from each other.

    "Don't thank me. That personal training course wasn't free. I could use someone to chip in half the rent for a few months."

    After graduating high school, Tucker went on to college, while I decided to move to New York instead. Now done with his sophomore year, Tuck had gotten an internship in the city and asked if he could stay with me while he was here. Knowing my roommates wouldn't mind, and finding myself in dire need for some extra cash, I agreed. I just don't know if Tucker realized just how small New York apartments (and bedrooms) were.

    "Well, we'll be... cozy here," he turned around my room. "And it'll be fun sharing this," he pointed to my bed.

    "I'm just warning you: I like to sprawl out."

    "So why personal training?" Tucker asked an hour later as the two of us had lunch lunch at a small restaurant downstairs.

    "Well, I was talking to a friend of mine who's a model," I replied, squeezing ketchup onto my fries, "and I was toying with the idea of trying it out. But I don't really think it would've worked for me. He suggested I could try being a trainer, since I already know a lot about fitness anyway, and it only takes a couple months to get certified. His boyfriend even said he could hook me up with a cousin of his who's looking for a trainer, so I had my first client before I even started."

    "Nice. What're they like?"

    "The client? Haven't met him yet. We're starting on Tuesday."

    "Well, cheers to your new job," Tucker said, raising his beer and clinking it against mine.

    "Thanks," I said, taking a swig. I looked around the restaurant. Coming to New York two years ago, I'd imagined it would turn out... different. I was so hopeful then. I was trying to cling to that hope, still. I was sick of crappy apartments and crappy jobs. I was ready for my big break.



    "I don't wanna fucking do this," I thought, getting into the backseat of my car on Tuesday morning.

    "Good morning, Mr. Anderson. The gym?"

    "Yes, please, Philip," I told my driver.

    I reached for the warm cup of coffee waiting for me in the car, and sipped it slowly. It may have been swelteringly hot outside, but I still liked my coffee hot. The A/C in the car was on full blast, tempting me to tell Philip to just drive around in circles for two hours until my next meeting. 

    I was angry at myself for allowing my cousin Parker to bully me into getting a personal trainer. "What's the point of paying all that money for a fancy gym membership if you never work out?" he'd noted rather boldly. Not that he was wrong, mind. 

    Parker and I were the same exact age. We'd inherited the family business from our dads, but that's where most of the similarities ended. Parker liked to keep active, both physically and socially. On any given evening, you'd find him either at the gym or at Manhattan's hottest event for the night; or, more likely than not, both.

    Me, I was more of a loner. I liked my privacy and I liked staying at home. Work took enough out of me. In the evenings, I was at home, a wine glass in hand, pipe in my mouth, and porn on my computer; for a couple of hours nightly. Whenever there was an event I couldn't get out of, I got anxious over missing my ritual, and I sometimes stayed up late just to make sure I do it.

    In the mornings, I was usually too hungover and tired to go to the gym. My lifestyle was catching up with me, however. My cousin was starting to nag me even more, and since we worked together I couldn't exactly avoid him, so I let him talk me into meeting up some acquaintance of his who worked as a personal trainer. 

    When I got to the gym, I was so frustrated that even the male nudity in the locker room didn't manage to cheer me up. That is, until I looked up from my locker and saw the two guys standing nearest to me.

    They were absolute fucking studs! Both in their early 20s, seemed like, and ripped like gods. Especially the blond one with his back turned to me. His arms were so thick, he couldn't hold them down straight. His back, like a downward-pointing arrow, led my eyes to his big ass and even bigger thighs. 

    His brunette friend stood facing the other way and I had to keep my jaw from dropping when I saw his dick. How the fuck was it humanly possible for someone's cock to be that long, and he wasn't even erect? He may not have been as muscular as his buddy, but you definitely couldn't say he got the short end of the stick; there was nothing short about him.

    I sat down, so the boys' goods were at my eye level. I took my time taking my socks off, while the guys chatted with each other. The one with the monster dick seemed to be new to New York, and here working for some tech company. They talked about getting their hands on the new iPhone that'd just come out, as I pulled down my pants slower than I ever have in my life, trying to bide as much time in the locker room as I could.

    All of a sudden, the blond Adonis turned to me and blindsided me, walking up to the locker right above mine.

    "Excuse me," he said casually, standing right in front of me as I sat on the bench.

    Holy fucking shit! My breathing stopped and my heart rate accelerated. The guy's dick was inches from my face! Not as long as his buddy's but very thick, it hypnotized me like a pocket watch swinging right in front of my eyes. It was so close I could make out his circumcision scar perfectly. My mouth opened involuntarily, my jaw trembling. 

    And just like that, it was over. The guy had retrieved his bag and turned away. A second or two that felt like a lifetime; and yet, nowhere near long enough.

    The two buddies continued to talk to each other, but I was so flustered, it all sounded like a foreign language to me. I reached for my towel and put it in my lap before anyone noticed the erection I was sporting in my briefs.

    "Where the fuck is he?" I thought, checking my watch. My trainer was now three minutes late. How fucking unprofessional! I'm giving him two more minutes and heading out.

    Precisely 120 seconds later, I stood up and headed out of the room, all too happy to skip the workout and go to the sauna instead before going to work.

    On my rushed way out, I bumped into a man walking into the room, who wasn't paying attention because he was on his phone. I wasn't sure whether to apologize or to yell at him to watch where he's going. The man bent down to pick up the phone he'd dropped, and on his way up we made eye contact.

    I lost my breath again. It was the blond hunk from the locker room, whose thick cock I was already well acquainted with.

    "Porter?" he said, smiling. I thought I was gonna pass out.

    "What?" I mumbled dumbly.

    "Porter Anderson?" he smiled even wider. What a gorgeous fucking smile. It should be illegal for someone to be this handsome. 

    "Y-Yes," I finally nodded.

    "I'm Owen," he offered me his hand. "Sorry for being late."

    "N-No problem."

    In the business world, I was a firm believer in a firm handshake. But as I offered my hand to Owen, I found it impossible to apply any pressure, instead allowing him to squeeze it tightly.

    "I-I'm sorry about your phone," I said the first thing that came to mind, so I don't just stand there like a nervous idiot.

    "Don't worry about it, it's an old piece of crap anyway. Shall we get started?"

    Arriving home that evening, my body was exhausted, yet somehow my mind... my mind felt invigorated, for the first time in a long while.

    Owen had made me work hard that morning. He asked what my goals were and how often I worked out. I lied by answering "occasionally." He made me do exercises which were too difficult for me, but I was determined not to seem weak in front of him, so I pushed myself even harder than I'd thought possible. 

    At work that day, I had a lot to do but my mind kept wondering off. Off to his voice, manly yet smooth, when he talked to me. Off to how I flinched every single time he would touch me to correct my posture. Off to his thick cock, inches from my face...

    At home, I got my drink and my pipe, and fired up my computer. I typed in my favorite website and went straight to the BDSM category.

    The cliché of the hard-working, in-charge businessman who went to a dominatrix after work to be whipped and lose all control was true enough with me, except I was into leather-clad men rather than women in rubber. Every now and then I paid an escort to do it to me, but I'd never met one who hit the spot (no pun intended). Most of the time, I resorted to watching videos instead. 

    Often, the dominant guys in the videos I watched were older leather daddies. This time, I spent extra time looking for a video featuring someone younger. Someone that... looked like Owen.

    After a couple of pages, I found something that worked. I lit up my pipe and started smoking, one hand on my drink and the other on my crotch. I watched the Owen lookalike hit and yell at the other man on screen (who unfortunately was too hot to be compared to me). As I watched him being humiliated, and spit at, and called names, my dick got hard. I started to jerk myself off with my eyes closed, listening to him count down from twenty as he was being whipped. By the end of it, his voice was positively shaking, as if he was about to start crying. In my mind, the sound of the whip mixed with the image of Owen's body; of his own and of his buddy's cocks; of these two gorgeous men who I was nothing in comparison with...

    I shot my load all over my desk, faster than I ever remember doing it. I opened my eyes and scooped up my cum, putting it in my mouth, wishing it were Owen's load I was swallowing.

    The next Tuesday, I saw Owen again. It was another intense workout, but it didn't feel as draining as last week. Plus, I was just grateful to see Owen again. I'd been jerking off to him every night for the past week.

    "I have something for you," I said at the end of our session, handing him a white box.

    "Really? What?" he looked genuinely puzzled.

    He opened the box, looking even more surprised as he pulled out a brand new iPhone. 

    "I felt bad about making you drop your phone last time," I said, "and I wasn't sure if it worked. So I wanted to get you a new one."

    "Porter..." Owen laughed, "that's very nice, but this is a bit..."

    Much? Yeah.

    "Don't worry about it. I got it through work, it didn't cost me a dime," I lied.

    "Are you... sure?" he seemed hesitant.


    "Thank you."

    No, Owen. Thank you.

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