Lavish Didi Stories - My old best-friend - Chapter 2
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Author’s note: All my characters are consenting adults (18+). All sexual acts depicted are consensual between the adult characters.
Chapter 2
The drive home was longer than the GPS indicated.
Jonas had the aux. Some wrestler’s walkout mix, bass too big for my speakers. Travis Scott, Future, loud hip-hop. Every few minutes he turned his head and that arrogant little smirk was waiting, like he could smell what the airport and the red light had done to me. My face was still damp where he’d shoved it into his pit at the intersection. The scent sat in the car with us. Sweat. Deodorant that had already lost. Him.
I kept both hands on the wheel.
“You’ve been quiet since arrivals, lil’ D,” he said, stretching until his knee bumped the dash. White tank dark under the arms. Wrestling-camp shoulders in a Civic.
“Something on your mind?”
“Traffic.”
He chuckled, low.
“Sure.”
His hand came over and ruffled my hair hard enough to knock my head toward the window. He left it there a second too long, palm heavy on my skull, then sat back like he’d checked a box.
Mom was still at the hospital when we pulled in. The house felt too quiet and too hot, the way it always did in June before she opened every window and called it air. Jonas dropped his duffel in the living room and pulled the tank off in one motion. Tossed it on the couch. His body was worse without the cotton. Broad chest. Thick arms. Veins down the biceps. A wrestler’s midsection, tight from cutting weight he didn’t need to cut. He smelled stronger half-naked. Of course he did.
“Shower’s mine,” he said, already on the stairs. Halfway up he looked down at me.
“Unless you wanna come scrub my back, D. For old times.”
There were no old times that looked like that. There were summers when we were twelve and he held my head under the lake and Mom’s friend laughed from the dock. I didn’t answer. He laughed anyway and kept going.
The tank was still on the floor where he’d thrown it, a damp white heap by the couch, and I told myself I was only picking it up so Mom wouldn’t see it. The second it was in my hands the heat of him was still in the cotton. I brought it to my face before I could talk myself out of it. The pit panels were darker, stiff at the edges, and when I buried my nose there the smell hit like a door slamming — sharp deodorant fighting a losing war, raw sweat, the salt of his neck, something animal and sweet that was just Jonas after a flight and a car and a laugh at my expense. I inhaled again, harder, greedy, the fabric wet against my mouth, and the room tilted. My knees went stupid. My cock kicked in my shorts so fast it hurt. I stood there in my own living room sniffing my old friend’s ruined tank like a freak, pulling lungfuls until my head buzzed and my eyes stung and I could taste him on the back of my tongue. I wanted to sleep in it. I wanted to wreck it. I wanted him to walk down the stairs and catch me and call me a good boy for this too. I didn’t stop until I heard the pipes cut off upstairs. Then I dropped it like it had burned me, except my hands were shaking and the smell was already in my hair, and I knew I was going to pick it up again the second the house went quiet.
He came down in shorts and wet hair and ate three of Mom’s leftover drumsticks standing up, hip against the counter, telling me about a casting in July like the casting was a girl he was going to get. Promoters. A name he’d heard. The way he said I was born for it made the kitchen feel smaller.
“You’re gonna film me in the garage,” he said.
“Footwork. Takedowns. I need tape that doesn’t look like a high-school hallway.”
“I have things to do.”
“You have a laptop and a mom who leaves at seven. You’ll film me.”
Not a question.
Mom came home to that: Jonas shirtless, me at the table trying to look like a person, the house already rearranged around a nineteen-year-old who took up doorways.
She kissed his cheek. She kissed mine. She said how thin I was. She said how big he’d gotten. Then she said the sentence I’d been waiting for.
“Guest room’s full of boxes. Your mom—” she still called his mother that, the friend-kind, not blood “—said you boys used to pass out on the same couch after the lake. You’ll survive a summer in David’s room. I’ll get the boxes out next week. Maybe.”
Jonas looked at me across the plates.
“Yeah. We’ll be fine.”
Next week was a lie and we both heard it.
Extra scene, because he doesn’t just go upstairs and become a problem. He makes the whole first night a problem.
After dishes he dragged me to the garage “for five minutes.” The five minutes were forty. He put the mats down himself, the ones Dad left when he moved out. No shirt. Sweat coming back already. He showed me a sprawl, then a snap-down, then had me stand there with my phone while he hit a dummy that was a stack of moving blankets.
“Closer,” he said. “You’re shooting like you’re scared of me.”
“I am filming you.”
“Film closer.”
He walked me in by the wrist until the phone was almost on his chest. Heat. The pit smell under the soap. A drop of sweat hit the screen. He grinned at the lens like the lens was a scout.
“That’s the one. Keep that angle tomorrow.”
Inside, Mom was already gone to her room with the tablet and the door half-shut. House rules from when I was sixteen: she slept early, we were adults, don’t burn the place down.
My room was smaller with him in it. He stripped to grey boxer briefs that sat low and flopped onto my bed like the deed had his name. One arm behind his head. Legs open. The outline of him was just a fact. He didn’t cover it.
“Don’t stand there like a weirdo, dude. Get in.”
I changed in the corner. Thin shirt. Shorts. Light off. I took the edge. The room held his heat like a closed fist. Every time he shifted I got another wave of soap and the sweat the shower hadn’t beaten.
I slept, or I faked it.
Two in the morning he rolled in. Heavy arm over my waist. My back to his chest. Breath on my neck, slow. Not asleep-slow. Choosing-slow.
“Jonas.”
“Relax. You’re wound like a clock, D. Chill.”
The arm tightened. Chest and stomach flush to my spine. Lower, the thick shape of him against my ass through two layers of cotton. Not all the way hard. Big enough that pretending was a joke.
I didn’t move.
His nose brushed the back of my neck. He inhaled.
“Fuck. You still smell like me. From the light. I wiped your whole face in it and you drove home like that.”
“Jonas, stop.”
“What.” Confused on the surface. Mean underneath. “Most guys would’ve shoved me off in the car. You sat there and took it. That’s a fact, lil D. I’m good at facts when it’s about bodies.”
His hand slid under my shirt and stopped on my stomach. Huge palm. Fingers spread. No lower. The not-going-lower was the point.
“Skinny as hell. You’re filming a wrestler all summer, you better eat. Or lift. I’m not dragging a twig around the garage.”
He was quiet for a hot minute. Then he rolled onto his back and took me with him. I landed half on his chest. Before I could get off, his hand cupped the back of my skull and put my face where he wanted it.
“Smell.”
“Jonas…”
“You already did it in the Civic. Don’t get shy in your own bed.”
Not a yank. Not gentle either. My mouth hit the hot skin of his pit. Deeper than the car. Muskier. I breathed because there was nothing else to breathe.
He made a sound I felt in his ribs.
“Yeah. That’s it. Good boy.”
The words went through me stupid and clean. I hated the part of me that wanted them again.
He kept me there. A minute. Longer. His other hand on my lower back, heavy, owning the space. When he let go I pulled off too fast. Face hot. Room dark. His eyes were open.
“You’re fucking weird, you know that.” No heat in it. Amusement. “Getting spun up over your old buddy’s pit. The kid I dunked in ’16. Look at you.”
“I’m not—”
“Yeah, you are.” He flicked my forehead. “It’s fine. I don’t mind. It’s funny. Little nerd from Mom’s friend’s house getting stupid over a real one.”
He rolled onto his side and threw a leg over mine. Pinned. Wrestler’s habit. The thigh was a gate.
“Listen. This summer we have fun. Nobody finds out the flavor of the fun. Not your mom. Not mine on the phone from Frankfurt. Not the guys I send tape to. You keep your mouth shut, you do what I say in this room and in that garage, and we get along and I’ll give you more and more, progressively. Baby steps. I can make the summer long.”
The leg pressed down.
“Understand?”
I nodded.
“Words, David.”
“Yes.”
“Yes what.”
“…Yes, Jonas.”
The smirk in the dark.
“Good boy.”
He closed his eyes like the contract was signed. I stayed under the leg with my heart trying to get out and my cock aching in shorts he could have noticed if he’d looked. He didn’t look. That was worse.
I didn’t sleep. He pulled me in every time I drifted. Once his face ended up in my neck, breathing me like I’d borrowed his smell and he wanted it back. The arm never unlocked.
Sun came through the cheap blinds. He woke first. Stretched until the briefs gave up being decent. Looked down at me with the same grin as the passenger seat.
“Morning, lil D. You look like you went twelve minutes and lost.”
Hair ruffle. Hard. He stood and adjusted himself with no theater. The outline was a problem the grey cotton could not solve.
“Garage. Twenty minutes. You’re on camera. Don’t shower first. I want you smelling like last night so you don’t forget the rules when the bar starts.”
He left.
The pillow smelled like him. The sheet on my side was a wreck. My mouth still had the pit in it.
I stared at the ceiling and thought about Frankfurt and boxes and a casting in July.
The guest room was going to stay full of boxes, I hope so. I had to make sure my mom didn’t have time to fix that.
I was going to film him.
I was going to do what he said.
And I was already hard thinking about the next time he told me to smell.
Author’s note: All my characters are consenting adults (18+). All sexual acts depicted are consensual between the adult characters.
Chapter 2
The drive home was longer than the GPS indicated.
Jonas had the aux. Some wrestler’s walkout mix, bass too big for my speakers. Travis Scott, Future, loud hip-hop. Every few minutes he turned his head and that arrogant little smirk was waiting, like he could smell what the airport and the red light had done to me. My face was still damp where he’d shoved it into his pit at the intersection. The scent sat in the car with us. Sweat. Deodorant that had already lost. Him.
I kept both hands on the wheel.
“You’ve been quiet since arrivals, lil’ D,” he said, stretching until his knee bumped the dash. White tank dark under the arms. Wrestling-camp shoulders in a Civic.
“Something on your mind?”
“Traffic.”
He chuckled, low.
“Sure.”
His hand came over and ruffled my hair hard enough to knock my head toward the window. He left it there a second too long, palm heavy on my skull, then sat back like he’d checked a box.
Mom was still at the hospital when we pulled in. The house felt too quiet and too hot, the way it always did in June before she opened every window and called it air. Jonas dropped his duffel in the living room and pulled the tank off in one motion. Tossed it on the couch. His body was worse without the cotton. Broad chest. Thick arms. Veins down the biceps. A wrestler’s midsection, tight from cutting weight he didn’t need to cut. He smelled stronger half-naked. Of course he did.
“Shower’s mine,” he said, already on the stairs. Halfway up he looked down at me.
“Unless you wanna come scrub my back, D. For old times.”
There were no old times that looked like that. There were summers when we were twelve and he held my head under the lake and Mom’s friend laughed from the dock. I didn’t answer. He laughed anyway and kept going.
The tank was still on the floor where he’d thrown it, a damp white heap by the couch, and I told myself I was only picking it up so Mom wouldn’t see it. The second it was in my hands the heat of him was still in the cotton. I brought it to my face before I could talk myself out of it. The pit panels were darker, stiff at the edges, and when I buried my nose there the smell hit like a door slamming — sharp deodorant fighting a losing war, raw sweat, the salt of his neck, something animal and sweet that was just Jonas after a flight and a car and a laugh at my expense. I inhaled again, harder, greedy, the fabric wet against my mouth, and the room tilted. My knees went stupid. My cock kicked in my shorts so fast it hurt. I stood there in my own living room sniffing my old friend’s ruined tank like a freak, pulling lungfuls until my head buzzed and my eyes stung and I could taste him on the back of my tongue. I wanted to sleep in it. I wanted to wreck it. I wanted him to walk down the stairs and catch me and call me a good boy for this too. I didn’t stop until I heard the pipes cut off upstairs. Then I dropped it like it had burned me, except my hands were shaking and the smell was already in my hair, and I knew I was going to pick it up again the second the house went quiet.
He came down in shorts and wet hair and ate three of Mom’s leftover drumsticks standing up, hip against the counter, telling me about a casting in July like the casting was a girl he was going to get. Promoters. A name he’d heard. The way he said I was born for it made the kitchen feel smaller.
“You’re gonna film me in the garage,” he said.
“Footwork. Takedowns. I need tape that doesn’t look like a high-school hallway.”
“I have things to do.”
“You have a laptop and a mom who leaves at seven. You’ll film me.”
Not a question.
Mom came home to that: Jonas shirtless, me at the table trying to look like a person, the house already rearranged around a nineteen-year-old who took up doorways.
She kissed his cheek. She kissed mine. She said how thin I was. She said how big he’d gotten. Then she said the sentence I’d been waiting for.
“Guest room’s full of boxes. Your mom—” she still called his mother that, the friend-kind, not blood “—said you boys used to pass out on the same couch after the lake. You’ll survive a summer in David’s room. I’ll get the boxes out next week. Maybe.”
Jonas looked at me across the plates.
“Yeah. We’ll be fine.”
Next week was a lie and we both heard it.
Extra scene, because he doesn’t just go upstairs and become a problem. He makes the whole first night a problem.
After dishes he dragged me to the garage “for five minutes.” The five minutes were forty. He put the mats down himself, the ones Dad left when he moved out. No shirt. Sweat coming back already. He showed me a sprawl, then a snap-down, then had me stand there with my phone while he hit a dummy that was a stack of moving blankets.
“Closer,” he said. “You’re shooting like you’re scared of me.”
“I am filming you.”
“Film closer.”
He walked me in by the wrist until the phone was almost on his chest. Heat. The pit smell under the soap. A drop of sweat hit the screen. He grinned at the lens like the lens was a scout.
“That’s the one. Keep that angle tomorrow.”
Inside, Mom was already gone to her room with the tablet and the door half-shut. House rules from when I was sixteen: she slept early, we were adults, don’t burn the place down.
My room was smaller with him in it. He stripped to grey boxer briefs that sat low and flopped onto my bed like the deed had his name. One arm behind his head. Legs open. The outline of him was just a fact. He didn’t cover it.
“Don’t stand there like a weirdo, dude. Get in.”
I changed in the corner. Thin shirt. Shorts. Light off. I took the edge. The room held his heat like a closed fist. Every time he shifted I got another wave of soap and the sweat the shower hadn’t beaten.
I slept, or I faked it.
Two in the morning he rolled in. Heavy arm over my waist. My back to his chest. Breath on my neck, slow. Not asleep-slow. Choosing-slow.
“Jonas.”
“Relax. You’re wound like a clock, D. Chill.”
The arm tightened. Chest and stomach flush to my spine. Lower, the thick shape of him against my ass through two layers of cotton. Not all the way hard. Big enough that pretending was a joke.
I didn’t move.
His nose brushed the back of my neck. He inhaled.
“Fuck. You still smell like me. From the light. I wiped your whole face in it and you drove home like that.”
“Jonas, stop.”
“What.” Confused on the surface. Mean underneath. “Most guys would’ve shoved me off in the car. You sat there and took it. That’s a fact, lil D. I’m good at facts when it’s about bodies.”
His hand slid under my shirt and stopped on my stomach. Huge palm. Fingers spread. No lower. The not-going-lower was the point.
“Skinny as hell. You’re filming a wrestler all summer, you better eat. Or lift. I’m not dragging a twig around the garage.”
He was quiet for a hot minute. Then he rolled onto his back and took me with him. I landed half on his chest. Before I could get off, his hand cupped the back of my skull and put my face where he wanted it.
“Smell.”
“Jonas…”
“You already did it in the Civic. Don’t get shy in your own bed.”
Not a yank. Not gentle either. My mouth hit the hot skin of his pit. Deeper than the car. Muskier. I breathed because there was nothing else to breathe.
He made a sound I felt in his ribs.
“Yeah. That’s it. Good boy.”
The words went through me stupid and clean. I hated the part of me that wanted them again.
He kept me there. A minute. Longer. His other hand on my lower back, heavy, owning the space. When he let go I pulled off too fast. Face hot. Room dark. His eyes were open.
“You’re fucking weird, you know that.” No heat in it. Amusement. “Getting spun up over your old buddy’s pit. The kid I dunked in ’16. Look at you.”
“I’m not—”
“Yeah, you are.” He flicked my forehead. “It’s fine. I don’t mind. It’s funny. Little nerd from Mom’s friend’s house getting stupid over a real one.”
He rolled onto his side and threw a leg over mine. Pinned. Wrestler’s habit. The thigh was a gate.
“Listen. This summer we have fun. Nobody finds out the flavor of the fun. Not your mom. Not mine on the phone from Frankfurt. Not the guys I send tape to. You keep your mouth shut, you do what I say in this room and in that garage, and we get along and I’ll give you more and more, progressively. Baby steps. I can make the summer long.”
The leg pressed down.
“Understand?”
I nodded.
“Words, David.”
“Yes.”
“Yes what.”
“…Yes, Jonas.”
The smirk in the dark.
“Good boy.”
He closed his eyes like the contract was signed. I stayed under the leg with my heart trying to get out and my cock aching in shorts he could have noticed if he’d looked. He didn’t look. That was worse.
I didn’t sleep. He pulled me in every time I drifted. Once his face ended up in my neck, breathing me like I’d borrowed his smell and he wanted it back. The arm never unlocked.
Sun came through the cheap blinds. He woke first. Stretched until the briefs gave up being decent. Looked down at me with the same grin as the passenger seat.
“Morning, lil D. You look like you went twelve minutes and lost.”
Hair ruffle. Hard. He stood and adjusted himself with no theater. The outline was a problem the grey cotton could not solve.
“Garage. Twenty minutes. You’re on camera. Don’t shower first. I want you smelling like last night so you don’t forget the rules when the bar starts.”
He left.
The pillow smelled like him. The sheet on my side was a wreck. My mouth still had the pit in it.
I stared at the ceiling and thought about Frankfurt and boxes and a casting in July.
The guest room was going to stay full of boxes, I hope so. I had to make sure my mom didn’t have time to fix that.
I was going to film him.
I was going to do what he said.
And I was already hard thinking about the next time he told me to smell.
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