Reunited Best Friends: Porn and Mutual Jacking Off

Conrad opened the apartment door before the second knock landed, and Sergio stood there in a wrinkled work shirt, laptop bag slung over one shoulder, grinning the same crooked grin Conrad remembered from college. Five years had put a sharper line along Sergio’s jaw and a little gray at Conrad’s temples, but the hug was immediate, long, and tight enough that both men laughed when they finally stepped apart.

“Twenty-eight and you still live like a student,” Sergio said, dropping onto the couch and toeing off his shoes. He was twenty-seven, marketing suit half-unbuttoned, and already scanning the living room like he owned it.

“Successful accountant,” Conrad corrected, handing him a cold soda. “I have a retirement account. You have a rental car and a hotel I refuse to let you sleep in.”

They fell into the old rhythm fast. Work complaints, bad dates, the city, the way Sergio still talked with his hands. Afternoon light slid across the rug. Somewhere between a story about a client and another about a girl who never texted back, Sergio snorted.

“Remember those nights we used to put on porn and pretend we were just killing time?”

Conrad’s laugh came out thinner than he meant. “You always picked the ones with two guys.”

“Because the camera stayed on the action longer.” Sergio stretched, knees spreading, one arm along the back of the couch. “We were curious. Don’t rewrite it. You used to rewind the parts where the men got their cocks sucked.”

Heat climbed Conrad’s neck. They had been straight best friends then, both dating women, both loud about it. The porn had been a joke until it wasn’t, until they were twenty and sitting too close on a dorm couch, hard in their jeans and refusing to name it. They had never touched. Then graduation, jobs, five years of texts that got shorter.

“I’ve thought about it,” Conrad said. The words sat between them, blunt. “Doing that again. As adults. Just watching.”

Sergio’s eyes stayed on him. “Yeah. Me too.”

The air changed. Conrad’s pulse kicked. He reached for the remote before either of them could joke it away.

He queued a high-quality scene he had bookmarked and never quite deleted: a woman on a wide bed, two men with her, the lighting clean, the bodies close. Sound filled the room, wet and unhurried. On screen the woman moaned while one man kissed down her stomach and the other stroked himself, thick and heavy, waiting his turn.

Neither of them spoke for a minute. Sergio’s thigh pressed Conrad’s. Conrad didn’t move it.

“Look at his cock,” Sergio said, voice lower. “The way he holds it. Slow.”

Conrad swallowed. “The other one’s built like he lifts for a living. Shoulders. That grip.”

They were commenting on the men. Both of them knew it. On screen a hand wrapped the base and pumped, foreskin sliding, the head shining. Conrad felt himself thicken against his zipper, a slow insistent swell he couldn’t hide in jeans that suddenly felt too tight. He glanced down. Sergio’s lap had the same problem, a clear ridge straining the denim, his hand resting on his own thigh like he was deciding whether to adjust it.

“You’re hard,” Conrad said.

“So are you.” Sergio’s mouth curved, not quite a joke anymore. “Turned on by a straight video and by sitting next to you. I’m not going to pretend otherwise.”

Conrad’s ears burned, but his cock jumped at the honesty. “Same. I’ve been half-hard since you walked in.”

The woman on screen cried out as one man pushed into her and the other fed her his cock. Sergio watched Conrad’s face more than the television. “We could stroke ourselves. Like we almost did back then and never had the nerve.”

Conrad’s hand hovered over his fly. “Or,” he said, and had to clear his throat, “we jack each other off. If you want that. I want that.”

Sergio didn’t hesitate. He turned, knee on the cushion, and reached for Conrad’s belt. “I want it. Say stop and I stop.”

“I won’t.”

Buttons, zippers, the clumsy shove of denim down thighs. Conrad’s cock sprang free, flushed and thick, already wet at the slit. Sergio’s was longer, a little curved, the head broad and dark. They stared, breathing hard, then Sergio’s warm hand closed around Conrad and Conrad’s closed around Sergio, and the first slow stroke pulled a groan out of both of them at once.

They stripped the rest of the way in a hurry, shirts flung, socks kicked aside, until they were naked on the couch with the porn still running and their hands locked on each other. Conrad’s grip was firm, twisting on the upstroke the way he liked it on himself, thumb skating the slick crown. Sergio matched him, palm tight, pumping from base to tip, learning the weight and heat of his best friend’s cock with open hunger.

“Fuck, that’s good,” Conrad said. His hips lifted into Sergio’s fist. “Tighter. Yeah. Like that.”

Sergio moaned, forehead dropping to Conrad’s shoulder, breath hot on skin. “You’re so thick. I can feel you throbbing.” He stroked faster, then slowed again, exploratory, squeezing the base, sliding up, spreading the wetness. Conrad did the same, fascinated by the way Sergio’s cock jumped in his hand, by the heavy balls drawn up beneath his wrist when he reached lower and rolled them gently.

On screen the men switched places. Neither of them looked away from each other’s laps for long.

Sergio’s mouth found Conrad’s throat, a wet open kiss that wasn’t quite a kiss, teeth grazing. “I want to taste you,” he said. “Can I suck your cock?”

“God, yes.”

Sergio slid off the couch to his knees between Conrad’s spread thighs. He held the base, looked up once, eyes dark, then took the head into his mouth. Heat and wetness closed over Conrad so suddenly he swore. Sergio’s tongue circled, flat and eager, then he sank lower, lips stretching, cheeks hollowing as he sucked. Saliva slicked the shaft. He bobbed, slow at first, then deeper, the head nudging the back of his throat. He gagged once, pulled off with a shiny string of spit, stroked what his mouth had left wet, and went down again with more determination.

Conrad’s hand settled in Sergio’s hair, not forcing, just holding. “That’s it. Fuck, your mouth. Take it.”

Sergio hummed and took him deeper, nose brushing the dark hair at Conrad’s groin, throat fluttering around the thick length. One hand fondled Conrad’s balls, rolling them, tugging lightly while he sucked in long wet pulls. Conrad’s thighs shook. He watched his cock disappear between Sergio’s lips, watched the porn flicker at the edge of his vision, and felt every nerve light up.

“Stop or I’ll come,” he managed. “Your turn. I want you in my mouth.”

Sergio climbed back up, cock bobbing, flushed and leaking. They shifted, Conrad kneeling on the rug now, Sergio perched on the cushion edge. Conrad didn’t tease. He licked the underside from balls to tip, tasted salt and skin, then closed his mouth over the broad head and sucked hard. Sergio’s hand slapped the couch. Conrad worked him the way he had just been worked, hungry, messy, spit running down the shaft onto his fist. He took him deeper on each stroke, relaxing his throat, until Sergio’s cock filled his mouth and the head pressed in, thick and pulsing. He fondled Sergio’s balls with his free hand, heavy and warm, and sucked until his jaw ached and Sergio was cursing in a broken voice.

“Come here,” Sergio said. “Both of us. I want your cock while you have mine.”

They rearranged on the wide couch, Conrad on his back, Sergio turning and swinging a leg over so they lay head to cock, sixty-nine, the leather creaking under them. Sergio’s mouth found Conrad again at the same moment Conrad guided Sergio’s length back between his lips. The angle let them both go deep. Conrad gripped Sergio’s ass and pulled him down, taking the curved cock into his throat while Sergio swallowed him to the root, nose buried, moaning around the thickness so the vibration shot straight through Conrad’s gut.

They found a rhythm, sloppy and desperate. Suck, pull off to gasp, lick the head, sink down again. Hands cupped balls, squeezed, stroked whatever their mouths couldn’t reach. The porn kept playing, forgotten except as a low soundtrack of other people’s pleasure. Conrad’s world narrowed to the taste of Sergio, the stretch of his lips, the hot suction milking his own cock, the way Sergio’s hips rocked in small helpless thrusts.

“I’m close,” Sergio gasped, pulling off just long enough to say it, then diving back down, sucking harder, fist twisting at the base.

Conrad answered by taking him deeper, throat working, one hand rolling Sergio’s balls in a firm rhythm. Sergio’s whole body went tight. He groaned around Conrad’s cock, and then he was coming, thick pulses flooding Conrad’s mouth, bitter and hot and endless. Conrad swallowed, coughed, swallowed again, milking the shaft with his hand until Sergio shuddered and eased out, still twitching.

Sergio didn’t stop sucking. He redoubled, wet and ruthless, one hand pumping what he couldn’t swallow, the other cradling Conrad’s balls and tugging just enough to tip him over. Conrad’s orgasm hit like a snapped wire. He thrust up, cried out against Sergio’s thigh, and came hard down Sergio’s throat, spurt after spurt, hips jerking while Sergio drank him down and kept sucking through the aftershocks until Conrad had to push gently at his hip, oversensitive and wrecked.

They collapsed apart, chests heaving, mouths wet, cocks softening against their stomachs. The television murmured on. For a few breaths neither of them moved except to wipe a chin, to laugh once, shaky and stunned.

They made it to the shower still touching, shoulders bumping in the narrow stall, warm water rinsing spit and sweat from skin. Conrad kissed him under the spray, slow and satisfied, and Sergio kissed back, tasting of both of them, hands sliding easy over wet backs.

“That,” Sergio said against his mouth, “was the afternoon I wanted. Porn. Your hand. Your mouth. All of it.”

Conrad nodded, forehead to forehead, already half-hard again at the thought and too spent to chase it. “Next time you fly in, we don’t wait five years. My couch. Or your hotel. Same thing.”

Sergio’s smile was bright and wrecked. “Deal.”

Water ran over them, and Conrad kept kissing him, lazy and sure, the reconnection still humming in his bones.