My Buddy Mike and the Dick Bets 02

Everyone is 18+ and fully consenting.

Chapter 2: Whatever The Fuck That Was

“We need to see who cums faster, which would make them the loser,” he said, matter-of-factly. I just shook my head, muttering curses about why I ever became friends with him. The next thing he said was the craziest part though.

“We’ll jerk each other off,” he blurted out. 

Upon seeing my flabbergasted reaction, he added, “It’s the only way to be fair!”

“Oh my god,” I said, refusing to look at him. “You’re fucking crazy.”

That was the first time we actually touched each other fully. Like, to get each other off. It was a bizarre escalation to me, even with all the stuff we had done next to each other. Calling it a competition was the only way either of us could pretend it wasn’t a fucking weird thing to do. I was really only doing it because I wanted a buddy jerking sesh. 

We stood up and faced his desk, avoiding eye contact and pausing for a second. He whipped his pants down just enough to hook them under his balls, and I saw his dick, pretty hard already. I winced at seeing it, knowing I was about to jerk him off for the first time. I whipped out my own, dropping my pants to mid thigh, letting my ass breathe and my balls relax downward. We looked at each other’s dicks for another second, and the nerves were making us both get some blood flow already. I felt myself pulse a little bit, waking up with the anticipation of it, even if I was cringing hard internally. 

He went first, tentative, like he was touching something hot, his grip awkward and too loose, then quickly it was too firm, and it felt weird for a second, before he found a happy medium and started pulling on me, making my hips thrust on their own, and getting me fully hard in probably five seconds. It hit me that no one had ever touched me there except Mike, and that had only been briefly for jokes and definitely not in a way that I liked, or at least not that I would admit. This was my first actual handjob. I was dazed as I watched his fist stroke me. It felt so weirdly good, I kind of hated how pleasant it was.

Once I snapped out of it and remembered it was a competition, I stepped in and grabbed his dick. It felt hot to the touch, and it was already throbbing a bit in my hand. I gulped, my mouth feeling dry as I felt a rush of fear pulse through me. It crossed my mind that this was too fucking gay, but something inside me told me this was a worthwhile thing, and my hand closed around him as he sucked in a breath. 

He started talking some shit. Stuff like, “You’re going down,” and, “You’re about to nut already. I can tell.” 

I joined in and we kept talking a bit the whole time, dumb trash talk, calling each other names, pretending this wasn’t a strange sensation to be jerking off someone else’ dick, but our bodies were reacting even faster than our mouths. We shifted our feet, shoulders pressing into each other as our arms crossed, our knuckles even bumping now and then as we stroked each other rapidly. Every time he tightened his fist and stroked me firmly I got a jolt through me that I refused to acknowledge felt really fucking good.

He leaned over at one point, inspecting my dick closely as he kept stroking it, aimed at his face. I almost thought he was going to put it in his mouth. I watched, shocked and scared, still holding onto him, as he got close enough that I felt his breath. Then he spit on me, rubbing it in for lubrication. It felt awesome, and I was relieved that he didn’t suck it, but I almost thought I was going to lose since it was rapidly pushing me toward the point of no return. I started leaking pre-cum, adding even more to my wet thickness as he did his best to drain me prematurely. 

I kept stroking him to the best of my ability while he gave me the death grip and tried with all his might to push me over the edge, squeezing hard down the entire length, making me groan a little, out of my control, even making my balls bounce in a blur with his stroking, which made it feel even better. He kept muttering that I was about to lose, and all I could say was, “Fuck… That feels so good.” 

But the nerves got to him first. 

His breathing went uneven, his hips twitched, and I could feel the moment slipping away from him even as he tried to hold it back. I slowed down just enough to keep control, a steady and strong rhythm on his pink, throbbing meat, watching his face instead of what my hand was doing, clocking the frustration and heat there, the way he bit his lip and cursed under his breath.

When it tipped for him, it happened fast, a sharp inhale, his head dropping forward as he swore and watched his seed spill out, unequivocally losing the contest. 

He sighed, admitting defeat without saying it outright. I pulled back immediately, my heart pounding as he kept stroking me, almost like it was for follow-through. It felt like sportsmanship. He made me squirt ten seconds later, and laughed when my jizz added to his pile in front of us on the table. Not that we were measuring, but I had also made a clearly larger load than his. I felt relieved, my face hot, surprised that it felt so good for him to wank me, and then I felt a hint of shame that I had done something that gay. He seemed to share my feelings, but he also cared more that he lost yet another contest.

"That wasn't how I expected it to go," he said

We cleaned up, and I felt kind of weird. There was a strange tension, or something like that. We chatted about some normal things as we wiped our hands and tucked our dicks back inside. What stuck with me afterward was the way it felt between us, heavier than it had been. He seemed a bit quiet.

—[]—

He got slightly distant after that, less interested in pulling out our dicks, and eventually we stopped jerking it together at all. I told myself it was just the competitiveness burning out, that maybe we’d finally crossed the point where it stopped being fun for him. I had started to think that maybe he got off on a little bit of humiliation, but it felt like that that had changed. And it was more than that. It felt heavier. He didn’t joke the same way anymore. He didn’t make ironic gay comments or mess around. He wasn’t around when we would normally walk to or from school together, and when I texted him, his replies were shorter, sometimes hours later, sometimes just a thumbs-up or a single word.

At first I tried to play it cool. I told myself I didn’t care, that people drift sometimes, that this was normal. I focused on wrestling practice, other friends I was making, on lifting, on trying to get stronger and faster and more shredded like that was a valuable life goal. But it was weird not having Mike as a constant in my life, and not having the satisfying, refreshing, relaxing wank sessions where we would compare dick size and loads and stuff. Every time I finished a set and caught my reflection in the mirror, my brain went back to Mike. To the way he insisted on weird, sexually charged contests but also had the most homophobic demeanor the rest of the time. I thought about the way his face had changed when he lost the contest, watching his own jizz spill out as I jerked him off. I replayed that moment over and over, not the physical part exactly, but the way he reacted, like it would give me some insight into why he basically stopped hanging out with me.

A few weeks went by like that, which felt like a lifetime. We still sat near each other in class sometimes, but there was no fun between us now. He would even leave an empty chair between us most of the time. If our knees brushed under the desk, he pulled his leg back like he’d touched a hot pan. A couple times when I leaned in to show him something on my phone, he stiffened, then forced a laugh, making me feel somewhat cold inside. 

I started noticing odd things that I’d never cared about before, like the way he smelled when he walked by me in class. It would take me back to the times where we stood close to each other as we wanked ourselves silly, maybe the most fun times of my life. When he wore a tight shirt, I noticed he had put on some muscles. He never really worked out that much, so I could only infer that he had developed a new hobby. It stung a little, because it was something we could do together, but we weren’t. Every one of those thoughts came with a sharp internal correction. Stop. He’s just a dude. We’re friends, or at least we were, and it’s ok if he doesn’t want to hang out anymore.

I kept finding excuses to see him anyway. Once in a while he would say yes to doing homework together. It was to my benefit that he needed more help than I did. And occasionally we would have a gaming sesh, or even grab food, but I never broached the topic of jerking off again, or anything like that. And the times we would hang out at all got fewer and farther between as time passed. Half the time he bailed at the last minute. And when he did have me over, he stayed on the edge of his bed instead of flopping down casually like he used to. He even kept his hands busy, controller, phone, whatever, making me think that he was afraid of where they might end up if he didn’t. If something came up on TV with girls in it, I would see the flicker of memory in his eye of when we used to goon to porn for hours on end, competing on who could make more cum, but the wall was up between us, and he never went farther than some comments and jokes about who we’d hook up with and stuff like that. I could feel my body reacting strongly every time. I wanted to wank it with my buddy, but he had made it clear that it was not happening with the way he acted around me. I caught him adjusting himself once, quick and subtle, and my stomach flipped in a way that made me angry at myself for missing it so much.

The worst part was not really knowing what I’d done. I ran through possibilities late at night when I couldn’t sleep. Maybe we’d gone too far and ruined it. Maybe I’d made him feel like an idiot for challenging me every time and beating him so soundly. Maybe he was just ashamed for having less of the traditional measures of masculinity that I had. I’d won too easily. Maybe he’d scared himself. Each option landed with a different kind of ache, but they all ended in the same place, this sense that I’d lost something without ever being told the rules.

It messed with my head more than I wanted to admit. I got irritable. I snapped at my mom once and felt like an asshole. I skipped hangouts with other friends because none of them felt right. I started taking longer showers, standing there longer than necessary, letting the water hit my shoulders while my mind wandered places I immediately tried to shut down, like wishing Mike was there with me and wanking it. It felt gay, and I hated it, but I just missed my friend. 

I told myself I was just horny, that this was normal, that all guys dealt with this in some way. Still, his face kept showing up in my head at the worst times, like right before I would cum, the memory of his body next to me, our shoulders pressed together, our arms working our dicks and shaking each other at the same time, the look of relief on his face when he would finish at the same time as me. Even the heat of his legs touching mine as we would sprawl on his bed.

Once, I found one of his hoodies mixed in with my dirty laundry. I must have grabbed it by accident weeks prior. I held it for a second, then shoved it into my face and took a big whiff. I felt immediately happy to have his scent in my nostrils, then quickly shifted to feeling embarrassed and ashamed, even though no one else was there. I threw it back into the pile, annoyed at myself for the weird twist in my stomach it gave me. That night I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking about how stupid it was to miss something I wasn’t even supposed to want.

By the time I realized how much it was bothering me, it was already too big to ignore. I missed him. Not just the messing around, but the easygoing closeness, the way we used to exist in the same space without thinking about it. He had been the closest person to me in my life.

It was a little weird, and I missed our sessions more than I wanted to admit. I’d hated them at first, all the awkward laughing and pretending it was just about the contests, but he’d gotten me used to it. I liked having another body in the room when I was being intimate with myself. I liked the timing, the shared build-up, the way we’d glance at each other and pretending we weren’t paying attention to each other while our breathing synced up anyway. When our orgasms lined up at the same moment, it felt like confirmation, like proof we were both normal guys in a way, because we were reacting the same way to the same thing. No thinking required.

Without that, my jerkoff sessions felt like they were missing a dimension. I’d catch myself scrolling too long, rewinding the same few seconds, then closing my laptop in frustration because it wasn’t the same. I missed the dumb commentary, the competitive edge, the way he’d smirk and say something sexy that made my cheeks heat up just as we were about to climax at the same time. I hated that I missed it.

A couple times I even hovered outside my brother's door, hand half-raised, already rehearsing some casual line like, You wanna watch some porn low key? I always bailed. I didn’t want to make it weird at home. When I finally handled myself solo later, if it happened at all, it would be quick and empty, all blur and muscle memory, no ecstatic moment of bliss worth remembering. Lying there afterward, I would stare at the ceiling, feeling weird that I was still measuring my happiness against the way it felt when Mike was there, pretending we were just doing what straight guys do.

Whatever had shifted between us wasn’t going away on its own, and the distance was starting to feel worse than the risk of talking about it. So when I finally decided to talk to him about it, part of me was relieved that I had decided to break the silence, even if I had no idea what it was going to cost me.

I finally asked him about it one night when we were alone doing homework in his room. 

“So,” I said, keeping my eyes down on my notebook, “Do you ever miss how we used to jerk it together, or…”

He went defensive fast.

“Bro!” he said, covering his face like he was personally offended. “That’s gay as hell, dude. What the fuck?”

I shouldn’t have been surprised at the harshness of his reaction. I just paused for a second, feeling the tension run through my body.

“You’re a fag, dude,” he said.

I felt a rush of anger. Anger that he wouldn’t acknowledge what we had together. I wanted to slap him in the face. It was more than anger. It was rage.

I snapped back, “You’re the one who wanted to jerk me off!” 

We were on our feet before either of us decided to be. Our hands met each other, the first time they had ever been in the heat of hormonal male anger instead of friendly posturing. It wasn’t a real fight. It was just a dumb, heated shoving matching that turned into grappling because neither of us wanted to back down.

He was stronger than I expected. I forgot that he had started working out. We bumped into the desk, some papers sliding, the chair tipping over. We almost laughed a couple times at the absurdity of it, but it didn’t drop out resolve to express our emotions through our muscles instead of our words. 

I overpowered him once, then eased off, thinking it would end. But he surprised me and took me down instead. It felt like brothers roughhousing, except it wasn’t playful. There was too much frustration in it, too much extra energy burning off between us. When he finally pinned me, my wrists pressed into the carpet over my head, his knees braced on either side of my hips, my breath went shallow.

For a second we just froze there, both of us breathing hard. I stared up at him, my chest rising and falling, my jaw clenched. 

That was when I realized there was something pressing into my chest. I didn’t have to look down to know he was hard in his shorts, his dick pressed firmly against my stomach through his shorts. The contact was unmistakable. His eyes flicked down, then back to my face, like he hated that I’d noticed. Maybe it was just the heat of the moment, but it felt bigger than it used to be. Had he had another growth spurt, but only in his crotch? I felt the heat dissipate out of me instantly. It was weird, but my friend was back, in the form of an unexpected boner touching my chest. He didn’t move, which gave me pause.

“Dude,” I started, trying to keep it light, “What, uh, what is… what are you doing?”

He smirked instead, mean and familiar at the same time. “Winning.”

Maybe he had found a game he actually had a chance of besting me at. And it made him hard to win.

I was about to ask if his dick had gotten bigger since our last contest, but I stopped as he leaned closer. It was like he was studying my face. I could feel his weight push harder on me, his throbbing boner celebrating his win as he basically dry humped my chest. And the cylinder of his manhood moved upward, almost pressing into my neck. The pressure, the heat of him, it all brought me back to the old days. My body reacted before my brain even caught up with what was happening, a rush of nerves that made me tense. I felt myself getting hard, matching his hardon. He noticed as it tented my shorts and touched his butt.

“Relax,” he said, quieter now. “It’s a joke.”

But neither of us laughed.

He shifted his balance, and the contact broke as he slowly moved off of me. I sucked in a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. We both scrambled back to our feet, smiling nervously, or awkwardly, I wasn’t sure, the air in the room suddenly light again. He tugged his shirt down and fixed it, adjusted his boner, tucking up into his waistband, and cracked a genuine grin like he’d just pulled off a prank.

I shook my head, half laughing, half rattled, my pulse racing. Whatever that was, it wasn’t resolved, but it was a good sign, at least to me. If he needs to win something to get off, then that just means I have a couple new rules to add to this thing of ours.

“Next time,” he said, pointing at me, trying to sound cocky, “you’re not getting out of it.”