Latest sex stories about What are friends for… | added for who looking to read new experience about narrative What are friends for… | story.
Read from here : 👉 #Bisexual #Teen #Threesome3 days ago8.2k words | | 4.17 | 👁️ Pizza_guy
Darren gets dumped and his best friend is there for him.
The text came at 3:17 AM. Not a call—no dramatic sobs, no awkward silences—just three cold words on a cracked screen: *We’re done. Bye.* Darren stared at it like it was a math problem he couldn’t solve. His brain replayed their last conversation—something about her new college friends, his “stagnant vibe,” and a weirdly specific complaint about how she caught him masturbating into her favorite panties. Twice.
None of it had felt like breakup material. But here he was, barefoot in his kitchen, eating peanut butter straight from the jar like a goddam animal, wondering if he should cry or just throw the jar at the wall.
Kenny found him like that—spoon dangling from his mouth like a prop from a bad porn parody, tear tracks cutting through the Nutella smear on his cheek. “Dude,” Kenny said, stepping over the pile of Darren’s hoodies dumped in protest by the door. “You look like a depressed raccoon who just failed community college.”
Darren sniffed. “She *texted* me. After two years. Three words.” He chucked the spoon into the sink where it clattered like a cymbal crash of defeat. “Who the fuck breaks up via text at three AM? Serial killers and people who owe you money, Ken. That’s who.”
Darren slumped onto the couch, the springs groaning like an old man getting out of bed. Kenny flopped beside him, knees cracking like popcorn, and for a second, the silence between them was just the sound of two idiots who’d somehow survived seventeen years without choking to death on their own stupidity.
Then Kenny pulled out a flask shaped like a miniature fire hydrant. “Emergency protocol,” he said, unscrewing the cap. The smell of cheap peach schnapps punched Darren in the sinuses.
Darren blinked. “Is that—”
“Peach schnapps from my mom’s liquor cabinet? Yeah,” Kenny said, shaking the flask. “She won’t miss it. Pretty sure she thinks it’s hand sanitizer.” He took a swig, winced, and passed it to Darren. “Drink. You’re legally obligated to be drunk and stupid after a breakup.”
Darren grabbed it, swallowed, and immediately coughed like he’d inhaled a wasp. “Jesus, Kenny. This tastes like expired cough syrup.”
“That’s the spirit,” Kenny grinned, slapping Darren’s back hard enough to make him spit peach-flavored regret onto the coffee table.
The flask made another round, each sip burning less, each cough sounding more like laughter. By the third pass, Darren’s fingers had stopped shaking. By the fifth, he was halfway through explaining—with elaborate hand gestures—why Amelia’s new college friends were definitely a cult. “They wear *matching scarves*, Ken. Who does that unless they’re handing out pamphlets about alien overlords?”
Kenny snorted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Dude, you cried when she made you watch *Titanic*.”
Darren’s throat clicked as he swallowed another gulp of schnapps. “That’s not—fuck, okay. But here’s the thing.” His voice dropped to a whisper, like the fridge humming beside them might narc. “She stopped letting me hit, like… months ago. Just kept saying she had ‘headaches’ or some bullshit. But then she’d post thirst traps at 2 AM with her cult-scarf brigade. You think headaches stop you from clubbing but not from posting ass in a g-string?”
Kenny tapped the flask against his teeth. “Bro, you sound like a podcast host who just discovered women lie about being tired.” He leaned in, elbow slipping off the sticky counter. “But real talk—did you *actually* jizz in her underwear?”
Darren’s cheeks burned hotter than the peach schnapps. “Okay, context—”
Kenny held up a hand. “Nope. No context makes *jizzing in panties* okay.”
Darren groaned, slumping forward until his forehead smacked the coffee table—another dent in the Formica graveyard of bad decisions. “Okay, but—hear me out—she *left them here*. On purpose. Like some kinda horny breadcrumb trail.”
Kenny stared, the flask hovering halfway to his lips. “You’re telling me Amelia *gifted* you her panties? Like some fucked-up parting souvenir?”
Darren peeled his forehead off the table, leaving a faint grease stain shaped like Australia. “Not *gifted*,” he mumbled. “Left. In my gym bag. After yoga. Which—side note—she *never* did before.” He grabbed the flask, took a swishy gulp, and gagged. “Tastes like someone dissolved gummy bears in radiator fluid.”
Kenny snatched it back, inspecting the dregs. “Okay, conspiracy time: either she wanted you to sniff ’em like a creep—”
“—or she was *testing* me,” Darren interrupted, rubbing his temples. “Like some fucked-up loyalty quiz. ‘Oh, let’s see if Darren’s nasty enough to—'”
Kenny cut him off by tossing a crumpled napkin at his face. It bounced off his nose and landed in the peanut butter jar. “Dude. You flunked.”
Darren groaned, rubbing his forehead where the napkin had left a grease smear. “She’d *wake me up* with pics. Like, 3 AM—bam! Ass in a thong, caption: *wish you were here*. Then when I’d try to slide in, she’d hit me with the ‘Ew, Darren, not *now*.’ Like, bitch, you *manufactured* the now!”
Kenny snorted, twisting the flask cap back on. “Sounds like she wanted you desperate. Classic power play.”
Darren blinked at the peanut butter jar, where the napkin had sunk like a tiny, defeated sailboat. “So what—I was just her… backup dick?”
Kenny snorted. “Nah, man. Backup dicks get *used*. You were more like—” he mimed placing something on a high shelf, “—her *emergency dick*. Like a fire extinguisher behind glass. *Break in case of boredom*.”
Darren slumped lower into the couch, his erection pressing uncomfortably against his sweats. She’d left him hard and horny, mid-text, mid-stroke, mid-*everything*. One minute he was zoomed in on her latest “accidental” nip-slip in the cult-scarf group chat, the next—*We’re done. Bye.* Like she’d flipped a switch labeled *Darren’s Dignity: OFF*.
Kenny eyed the tent in Darren’s pants, then the half-empty jar of peanut butter, then back again. “Bro,” he said, flicking a glob of Nutella off the couch arm. “Either you’re smuggling a baguette, or you’ve got the world’s saddest boner.”
Darren adjusted himself with the dignity of a man who’d just been dumped via text at the precise moment his ex’s panties were wrapped around his fist. “It’s—*fuck*—it’s not my fault,” he hissed, knees clamping together. “She sent me that pic of her in the—y’know, the *thing*—right before she—” His voice cracked. “She *blueballed me across state lines*, Ken.”
“So she left you hard and horny?” Kenny said, staring down at his friends crotch.
Darren sighed and rubbed his face. “Yeah man. Right in the middle of…you know.”
Kenny grinned. “Ohhh, I *know*.” His fingers twitched at his sides, drumming against his thigh like a spider testing its web.
Darren froze mid-groan. “Kenny—what the f—”
Kenny’s fingers brushed against the fabric of Darren’s sweats, slow and deliberate, like a burglar testing a window lock. “Emergency protocol,” he murmured, his breath warm against Darren’s ear. “You ever heard of the Bro Code Clause 37? *Unfinished business requires immediate intervention.*”
Darren’s hips jerked—half-panic, half-pleasure—as Kenny’s palm cupped him through the thin cotton. “Dude, *what*—” His voice hitched when Kenny’s thumb pressed just right. The kitchen light flickered overhead, casting their shadows against the peanut butter-smeared fridge: one figure hunched in shock, the other leaning in with the confidence of a guy who’d practiced this exact maneuver in the dark corners of his mind for years.
Kenny’s grin was all teeth. “Clause 37, man. *No bro left behind.* Especially not with a—” He squeezed, making Darren’s knees buckle, “—situation this *dire*.” The word *dire* came out breathy, like Kenny had been waiting to use it in this context since middle school vocab quizzes.
Darren’s brain short-circuited. One second, he was mourning the death of his dignity via text breakup; the next, Kenny’s fingers were dipping past his waistband like a raccoon burgling a trash can. “Dude—*fuck*—what are you—” The sentence disintegrated when Kenny’s thumb swiped over the head of his cock, sticky with pre-cum.
Kenny didn’t answer. Just *clicked* his tongue—the same sound he made when they’d steal energy drinks from the gas station—and tightened his grip. Darren’s hips jerked forward, betrayal and desperation tangling in his gut. “Clause *fucking* 37,” Kenny muttered, breath hot against Darren’s neck. “No bro gets left with a loaded gun and no target practice.”
Darren’s brain short-circuited between *this is weird* and *oh fuck don’t stop*. Kenny’s fingers—calloused from guitar chords and skateboard grip tape—moved with a confidence that made Darren’s breath hitch. “Dude,” Darren choked out, hands clawing at the couch cushions, “you—*ah*—you *practice* this?”
Kenny smirked, thumb circling the head of Darren’s cock like he was tuning a radio dial. “Nah. Just good at guessing.” His other hand shoved Darren’s sweats down past his hips, the elastic snapping against his thighs. “Like how I *guess* you’ve been imagining this since, what, sophomore year? When I caught you staring at my ass in the locker room?”
Darren’s brain stalled—partly from the fingers twisting around his shaft, partly from the accusation. “I—*fuck*—was *not*—” The lie died when Kenny’s grip tightened, his palm slick with Darren’s pre-cum.
Kenny snorted, breath hot against Darren’s ear. “Dude, you *blushed* when I bent over to grab my skateboard.” His thumb swiped over the slit, smearing wetness down the shaft. “You’re *literally* leaking confession juice.” The fridge hummed in agreement, its door plastered with takeout menus and a sticky note that read *Kenny owes $12 for pizza (with interest)*.
Darren’s hips bucked—half protest, half plea—as Kenny’s fingers curled around him with the certainty of someone who’d spent years pretending not to fantasize about this exact scenario. The couch groaned under their shifting weight, its springs singing the song of doomed virginity. “This isn’t—*fuck*—this isn’t Bro Code,” Darren choked out, thighs trembling.
“Naw, its just one buddy helping out another,” Kenny muttered, fingers working Darren’s cock with the same rough precision he used to ollie over curbs—all knuckles and no finesse. His thumb caught the ridge of Darren’s head on an upstroke, smearing pre-cum down his shaft like chapstick on chapped lips. “I can stop if you want me to.” The lie hung between them, sticky as the peach schnapps drying on the coffee table.
Darren’s hips stuttered—caught between shoving forward and scrambling backward—but his dick betrayed him, twitching in Kenny’s grip like a dog begging for belly rubs ” I haven’t cum in almost a week,” he blurted out, the words tasting like peach-flavored regret. Kenny snorted, fingers tightening. “Dude. You’re leaking like a busted Capri Sun.” His thumb swiped through the mess at Darren’s tip, smearing it down his shaft with a wet sound that made Darren’s toes curl inside his mismatched socks.
The fridge hummed. A single drop of condensation slid down the peanut butter jar. Somewhere, Amelia’s cult-scarf brigade was probably doing synchronized interpretive dance or some shit. Meanwhile, Darren was three strokes away from coming in Kenny’s hand like a fucking teenager—which, technically, he still was. “Fuck, fuck, *fuck*—” His knees knocked together, thighs shaking like a freshman at his first kegger. Kenny’s fingers—*since when did Kenny have fingers this good?*—twisted just right, thumb pressing into that stupid-sensitive spot under the head. Darren’s vision whited out for a second, the kitchen tiles blurring into one greasy smear of poor life choices.
Kenny snorted, breath hot against Darren’s neck. “Dude. You sound like a dial-up modem.” His other hand—the one *not* currently jerking Darren off—dug into the couch cushions, fishing out a pair of her panties. “You *jacked off* into these?”
Darren moaned—high-pitched, broken, like a cello string snapping—and Kenny stroked faster, calloused fingers twisting just *there*, thumb smearing pre-cum in frantic circles. The panties dangled from Kenny’s pinky, lace wilted like a deflated balloon. “Fuck, *fuck*—” Darren’s hips stuttered, knees knocking together like a malfunctioning marionette. “I *told* you—she *left* them—”
Kenny inhaled sharply, nose buried in the fabric. “She may be a bitch, but she has a fine smelling pussy,” he muttered, voice muffled by lace. His fingers never stopped moving on Darren’s cock, twisting in rhythm with his own ragged breathing. The scent—something floral with a musk underneath—mixed with the peach schnapps and peanut butter fumes into a cocktail of desperation and bad decisions. Darren whimpered, torn between shame and the electric pleasure racing up his spine.
“Fuck, dude,” Kenny groaned, tossing the panties aside like they’d burned him. His grip tightened, callouses scraping deliciously against Darren’s sensitive skin. “You been sniffing these like a goddamn bloodhound?” His other hand yanked Darren’s head back by the hair, forcing eye contact. Darren’s pupils were blown wide, lips parted around broken syllables. Kenny smirked. “Answer me, Capri Sun. You been huffing her panties like they’re your a school kid sniffing the glue of your arts and crafts project.”
Darren’s hips jerked—betrayed by his own traitorous body—as Kenny’s thumb swiped over the leaking slit. “N-no, I just—” The lie died in his throat when Kenny pressed the damp lace against his nose again, the scent of Amelia’s cunt mingling with sweat and something faintly chemical. Like fabric softener and bad decisions.
Kenny inhaled sharply through his nose, pupils dilating. “Fuck, she smells like…” His fingers tightened around Darren’s cock, twisting on the upstroke. “Like that strawberry gum you stole from the gas station in eighth grade. The kind that lost flavor after, like, three chews.” His thumb dug into the frenulum, smearing pre-cum in rough circles. “But *her*? Bet she stays juicy for *hours*.” The words came out ragged, like he was the one getting jerked off.
Darren’s hips bucked—half-protest, half-pleasure—as Kenny pressed the damp lace harder against his own face. The scent—something floral undercut with salt—mixed with peach schnapps fumes and the peanut butter still crusting Darren’s upper lip. “Dude,” Darren gasped, fingers clawing at the couch springs poking through the fabric, “you’re *sniffing* them like—”
“Like a goddamn pervert,” Kenny muttered, nose buried in the crotch seam where Darren had left his mark days ago. His fingers never stopped moving on Darren’s cock, twisting in time with each ragged inhale. The lace was stiff in places—crunchy, almost—from dried streaks of Darren’s late-night desperation sessions. Kenny’s thumb swiped over the dried spot near the waistband, smearing whatever remnants of Amelia’s scent lingered there. “Jesus, dude. You *preserved* her like a fucking museum exhibit.”
Darren’s hips jerked—half shame, half arousal—as Kenny’s fingers tightened around Darren’s shaft, thumb pressing into the slit. A fresh bead of pre-cum welled up, glistening under the yellowed kitchen bulb. Kenny dragged it down with his pinky, painting a wet stripe across Darren’s thigh.
“Fuck, dude,” Darren muttered, “I’m gonna cum,” his voice breaking like a middle schooler’s mid-puberty. Kenny smirked, fingers working faster—like he was trying to start a fire with friction alone. The panties were still pressed to his face, Amelia’s ghostly scent mingling with Darren’s shame-spit pre-cum slicking Kenny’s palm.
Darren’s hips stuttered, thighs quivering like a spooked horse. Kenny’s thumb dug into that sweet spot just under the head, and Darren’s vision whited out like a TV tuned to dead air. “Oh *shit*—” he gasped, back arching off the couch as his cock twitched in Kenny’s grip. Cum spurted in uneven ropes—some hitting Kenny’s wrist, some streaking across Darren’s own stomach, one dribble landing on the discarded panties still crumpled between them.
Kenny whistled low, fingers still lazily stroking Darren through the aftershocks. “Damn, Capri Sun. You been saving that up since *middle school*?” He wiped his hand on the couch cushion, and flicked a glob of cum off his fingertips. It landed with a wet *plop* on the peanut butter jar label, right over the nutrition facts.
Darren gasped like he’d just resurfaced from drowning—chest heaving, sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat. His dick twitched weakly in Kenny’s grip, still dribbling. “Fuck,” he croaked, voice shot. “That was—”
“—illegal in seventeen states?” Kenny smirked, flicking cum off his fingers onto a pizza box. “Bro, you *screamed*. Like, full-on B-movie victim when the killer’s axe hits.”
Darren’s dick twitched pathetically in Kenny’s loosened grip, still dribbling like a broken faucet. His sweat-damp shirt clung to his chest where one rogue spurt had landed—a tiny white flag of surrender on the battlefield of his dignity. The air smelled like peach schnapps, and the distinct musk of horny teenage boys.
Kenny sniffed the panties again—a quick, sharp inhale—before tossing them onto the pile of Darren’s hoodies by the door. “Jesus, dude,” he muttered, wiping his hand on the couch cushion. ” “Tell me, you ever taste her? Or were you too busy turning her panties into a fucking *art project*?”
Darren’s dick twitched weakly against his thigh, still glistening under the kitchen light. His breath came in shallow gasps, like he’d just sprinted through a haunted house. “I—*fuck*—I licked her *once*,” he admitted, voice cracking. “At prom. Behind the bleachers.”
“Nice,” Kenny grinned, fingers still lazily tracing the sticky mess on Darren’s stomach. “Real classy move, Casanova. Hope you at least bought her dinner first.”
Darren groaned, slumping deeper into the couch—his cum cooling into gross little islands on his skin. His dick twitched weakly, like a dying fish gasping for air. Kenny’s smirk widened as he flicked a stray droplet off Darren’s hipbone. “Damn, dude. You shot enough to repopulate the sperm bank.”
The smell of sex and cheap booze hung thick between them, mixed with the lingering ghost of Amelia’s panties. Kenny leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head like he’d just aced a test. Darren stared at the ceiling, counting water stains like sheep. “So,” Kenny said, popping the ‘o’ like bubblegum. “We gonna talk about how you just came harder than a porn star.
Darren groaned. “Dude. Shut up.” His voice was raw, like he’d been gargling sandpaper. The couch springs groaned under him, creaking out a symphony of bad decisions. Kenny smirked, fingers still lazily tracing patterns in the mess on Darren’s stomach. The air smelled like jizz and peach schnapps.
“Seriously,” Darren croaked. “Why the *fuck* did you—” He waved a limp hand at his own dick, still twitching pathetically against his thigh. “Bro Code doesn’t cover wristies, Ken.”
“You needed it, your not thinking about her right now are you, besides I might need the favor returned one day when I’m in your circumstances.” Kenny said, tapping Darren on the forehead with two fingers.
Darren groaned, wiping peach schnapps sweat from his brow. The room smelled of peanut butter, jizz, and the ghost of Amelia’s panties still crumpled by the door. His dick twitched weakly against his thigh, as if protesting the sudden lack of attention.
Kenny stretched, his shirt riding up to reveal a pale strip of stomach. “Damn, dude. You look like you just lost a fight with a vacuum cleaner.” He flicked a glob of cum off the couch, it land on a pizza box with a wet splat.
Darren groaned, rubbing his face. His dick twitched weakly against his thigh, still sticky. “What the fuck just happened?”
Kenny smirked, “You needed a favour.” He wiped his hand on the couch cushion, leaving a faint sheen.
Darren groaned, rubbing his face. “You know what?” His voice cracked as he gestured to his sticky stomach. “You give pretty good handjobs.” His dick twitched weakly against his thigh, still sticky. “For a dude.”
“You could say I’ve been practicing on myself since I was 11 dude,” Kenny laughed casually, as he grabbed his croch, shaking his dick. Darren blinked. There was silence for a solid three seconds before the fridge’s hum filled the gap.
“Wait—” Darren sat up suddenly, cum flaking off his abs. “You jack off with your *left hand*?” His eyes darted to Kenny’s right hand—still glistening with Darren’s mess—then back up. “That was your *wrong hand*?”
“Ya, I know how to do it with both my right and my left. You never know when you might not have use of your right hand.” Kenny said with a smirk as he flexed his fingers.
Darren stared at Kenny’s hands—the right one still slick with his own cum, the left currently scratching at a mosquito bite on Kenny’s knee. His brain short-circuited between *that was technically impressive* and *why am I picturing Kenny jerking off in a cast?*
Kenny flicked Darren’s earlobe with a sticky finger. “Emergency dick protocol ain’t free, bro. You owe me a Slurpee and a six pack of chicken nuggets.”
Darren blinked at the cum stain slowly crusting on his AC/DC shirt. The kitchen clock ticked louder than usual—or maybe that was his pulse slamming against his eardrums. “Dude,” he croaked, voice still wrecked, “we *gotta* establish rules before you—” he gestured limply at Kenny’s right hand, now wiping itself on a Doritos bag, “—go all *Brokeback Bro Code* on me again.”
Kenny grinned, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. One sneaker nudged the abandoned panties. “Rules? Like what—no eye contact? Wear socks? Pretend we’re *not* thinking about Amelia’s cult-scarf friends doing naked goat yoga?” His smirk widened as Darren’s dick gave a half-hearted twitch. “*See*? You’re still broken, man. Gonna need a full system reboot.” His fingers twitched toward Darren’s waistband again.
Darren slapped his hand away—too slow, too weak—his wrist still sticky. “Dude. Boundaries. Like… no surprise handy-j’s during porn watching.”
Kenny’s grin was pure mischief as he snatched the remote. “Wrong. That’s the *best* time for a handy-j. When the porn’s volume drowns out your sex noises.” He hit play—some low-budget gangbang scene where a plumber “fixed pipes” with his dick—Darren’s phone buzzed on the coffee table. The screen lit up: **AMELIA (Cult Leader)**.
Darren froze mid-reach for his sweatpants. Kenny paused the porn. The plumber’s moan stretched into a demonic groan. “Dude your seriously gonna answer that, after what I just did for you,” Kenny said, staring at the phone vibrating between a Cheeto dust stain and Darren’s drying cum.
“What do I gotta do to make you forget that bitch, suck you off?!?” Kenny blurted, the words came out faster than he could think them up. Realizing what he said, he froze mid-sentence, his fingers stilling against the fabric of Darren’s sweats. The room smelled like sweat, spilled schnapps, and something electric—like the air right before a thunderstorm.
Darren blinked slowly. The word “suck” hung in the air like a deflating balloon. His dick gave a half-hearted twitch against his thigh—traitorous little bastard.
Kenny’s fingers twitched on the waistband of Darren’s sweats. Neither of them moved. The paused porn on screen showed the plumber mid-thrust, his face frozen in a ridiculous O-face. Somewhere outside, a neighbor’s dog barked at nothing.
Darren cleared his throat. His dick gave another pathetic twitch. “Dude. Would you?”
Kenny’s fingers flexed against Darren’s waistband. His grin wavered for half a second—just long enough for Darren to notice. “Would I *what*? Wear a neon tutu to prom? Eat a live goldfish? Suck my best friend’s dick like it’s my *sacred duty*?” His voice cracked on “duty,” the word bouncing off the peanut butter jars like a bad punchline.
Darren’s pulse hammered in his throat, his dick *twitched* again—pathetic little Benedict Arnold—as Kenny’s pinky dipped under the elastic of his boxers.
“Would you?” Kenny’s voice dropped an octave, halfway between joking and something that made Darren’s stomach flip. His fingers—still sticky from Darren’s mess—hovered over the waistband of his sweats like a bomb squad deciding which wire to cut.
Darren froze. Not like a deer in headlights—more like a guy who’d just realized the fire alarm was actually a grenade pin bouncing at his feet. The porn’s frozen moan stretched into a distorted whine as the TV’s screensaver kicked in—a tropical fish tank that made the room glow piss-yellow. Kenny’s knee pressed against his thigh, warm through the fabric. There were approximately seven thousand things Darren should’ve said. What came out was: “You got ChapStick?”
Kenny blinked. His fingers—still hooked in Darren’s waistband—twitched like spider legs testing a web. “The fuck kind of question—”
Darren’s brain short-circuited mid-thought, synapses firing in frantic morse code: *ChapStick? CHAPSTICK?* His dick disagreed, perking up like a dog hearing the crinkle of a treat bag. The TV’s screensaver fish swam lazy circles, casting blue shadows over Kenny’s smirk.
“Cherry or mint?” Kenny deadpanned, fingers still hooked in Darren’s waistband. His thumb grazed the divot of Darren’s hipbone—casual as a shoelace flick—but his pulse jumped visibly in his throat.
Darren’s brain short-circuited again. The tropical fish screensaver bathed Kenny’s smirk in neon cyannne pepper, making his crooked incisor glow like a warning light.
“Shut up,” Darren growled, fingers digging into Kenny’s wrist—not pushing away, just *anchoring*. *shut up* and suck me off, bitch.” The words dropped like a lit match into gasoline, all fizz and reckless heat.
Kenny’s grin curled slow as molasses. “Damn, Capri Sun. Didn’t know you had *demands* in you.” His fingers slid lower, tracing the vein on Darren’s cock with the precision of a safecracker. “What’s the magic word?”
Darren kicked him square in the shin—not hard, just enough to make Kenny hiss through his teeth. “The magic word is *hurry the fuck up*.” His dick throbbed against Kenny’s palm, still slick from earlier. The TV screensaver flickered, bathing Kenny’s smirk in aquarium blue.
Kenny exhaled sharply through his nose—half laugh, half surrender—before dropping to his knees with the grace of a drunk gymnast. The floorboards creaked. A single Cheeto crunched under his kneecap. “Damn, Capri Sun,” he muttered, fingers already tugging Darren’s sweats past his hips. “You’re bossy when you’re post-nut desperate.”
“Just shut up and do it Special-k,”
Kenny froze mid-reach, fingers hovering an inch from Darren’s dick. The nickname “Special-K” *pretty smart*, he chuckled to himself, then cracked his knuckles theatrically. “Alright, Capri Sun. But you gotta promise not to—”
Darren kicked him again—this time connecting with Kenny’s ribs—sending a half-empty bag of Doritos skittering across the linoleum. “Less talking. More—*fuck*—” His words dissolved into a gasp as Kenny’s mouth—warm and unexpectedly *skilled*—closed over the head of his cock.
Kenny hummed around him, the vibration traveling straight to Darren’s spine. His tongue swirled in lazy circles, teasing the slit before diving deeper like he was trying to solve a geometry problem with his teeth. Darren’s fingers tangled in Kenny’s hair—too tight, probably—but Kenny just groaned like Darren was doing *him* the favor.
The TV screensaver flickered to a jellyfish, casting pulsing purple shadows across Kenny’s cheekbones. His lips stretched obscenely around Darren’s cock, spit-slick and determined. Something *clattered* in the sink—probably the spoon Kenny had used to eat peanut butter straight from the jar like a heathen.
“*Fuck*—” Darren’s fingers twisted tighter in Kenny’s hair, scalp burning where his nails dug in. Kenny groaned around him, the vibration traveling straight to Darren’s balls. His tongue swirled under the head, lapping up pre-cum with the enthusiasm of a kid licking frosting off a spoon. The TV screensaver pulsed—neon jellyfish casting Kenny’s smirk in violet light between strokes.
Kenny didn’t stop. His lips stretched wider, taking Darren deeper until his nose pressed into wiry pubes that smelled musk and horny teenager.
“Fuck—” Darren gasped, fingers twisting tighter in Kenny’s hair. “How the hell—” His words dissolved into a groan as Kenny swallowed around him, throat muscles fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings.
Kenny pulled off with a wet *pop*, grinning up at Darren with spit-slick lips. “What, never had your dick sucked by a dude? Dude,” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing pre-cum across his cheek. “Bet Amelia just laid there like a dead fish, huh?” His fingers traced the vein on Darren’s cock, thumb pressing into the slit. “Bet she never sucked you like this.”
Darren’s hips jerked—half-protest, half-begging—as Kenny ducked back down, tongue swirling around the head like he was licking the last bit of ice cream out of the bowl. The TV screensaver flickered to a psychedelic coral reef, bathing Kenny’s bobbing head in neon pink.
“Jesus *fuck*—” Darren choked, fingers twisting tighter in Kenny’s hair—*too tight*, probably—but Kenny groaned like it was exactly what he needed, his throat vibrating around Darren’s dick. Spit pooled at the corners of Kenny’s mouth, dripping onto the Dorito crumbs scattered across the carpet. The whole scene smelled like teenage boy sweat and the peach schnapps they’d spilled hours ago—something sticky and reckless fermenting between them.
Kenny’s tongue did this *thing*—a quick flick under the head that made Darren’s hips jerk forward—before he pulled off with a wet gasp. “Dude,” he rasped, wiping his chin on the hem of Darren’s AC/DC shirt, “you taste like—” His nose scrunched. “Salty peach schnapps and penis butter…I mean peanut butter”
Darren kicked him weakly in the shoulder. “*Penis butter*? What in the actual—”
Kenny swallowed him down again before Darren could finish, hollowing his cheeks.
Kenny’s tongue swirled under the head, coaxing out another bead of pre-cum. His fingers dug into Darren’s thighs—half-restraint, half-encouragement—as Darren’s hips jerked forward.
The TV screensaver cycled to a neon octopus, tentacles pulsing in time with Kenny’s bobbing head. Darren’s fingers twisted tighter in Kenny’s hair—too tight, definitely too tight—but Kenny just groaned around him, the vibration traveling straight to Darren’s spine.
“Suck it, Special K,” Darren gasped, hips jerking forward—half command, half plea. Kenny’s lips stretched wider, taking him deeper until his nose pressed into wiry curls that smelled of musk and spilled schnapps.
The nickname stuck like gum under a desk—*Special K*—half mocking, half worship, as Kenny’s throat opened around Darren’s cock with practiced ease. His tongue did that *thing* again—swirling under the head like he was decoding Braille—and Darren’s fingers twisted tighter in Kenny’s hair. “Fuck—*how* are you—” The words died as Kenny hummed around him, vibrations traveling straight to Darren’s spine.
Kenny pulled off with a wet *pop*, lips glistening under the jellyfish screensaver’s neon pulse. “Dude,” he rasped, thumb swiping a stray bead of pre-cum off Darren’s tip, “you’re gonna owe me *way* more than nuggets after this.” His grin was all teeth—crooked incisor catching the light like a warning.
Darren’s hips twitched upward, dick bobbing against his stomach. “Shut *up*,” he gasped, fingers still tangled in Kenny’s hair. The TV flickered to a screensaver of anglerfish—glowing lure casting shadows that made Kenny’s smirk look feral.
Kenny wiped his chin with the back of his hand, smearing spit across his cheekbone. “Dude. You’re leaking like a busted hydrant.” His thumb swiped another bead of pre off Darren’s tip—slow, deliberate—before popping it into his mouth with a grin. “Tastes like shame and Capri Sun, Bet Amelia never told you that.”
“Fuck you, special K,” Darren gasped—except it came out half-moaned, hips stuttering as Kenny’s tongue did that *thing* again, the one that short-circuited his nervous system like a fork in an outlet. The TV screensaver cycled to a psychedelic seahorse, casting Kenny’s bobbing head in bioluminescent green.
Kenny pulled off with a wet smack, grinning up at him with spit-slick lips. “Nah, dude. *Fuck you*—literally.” His thumb pressed into the slit of Darren’s cock, twisting just enough to make his vision blur. “Unless you wanna tap out? “
Darren’s hips jerked forward—answer enough—as Kenny ducked back down, swallowing him whole. The sudden heat punched a groan from Darren’s lungs, fingers scrabbling against the couch cushions like he was clinging to the edge of a cliff. Kenny hummed around him, the vibration traveling straight to his balls.
The screensaver cycled to a swarm of pixelated krill, casting Kenny’s shadow in flickering blue against the Cheeto-dusted carpet. His nose pressed into Darren’s pubes—inhaling sharply through flared nostrils—before pulling off with a wet gasp. “Dude,” he rasped, thumb swiping pre-cum off his bottom lip, “You gonna blow or what?”
Darren’s hips jerked—half-protest, half-begging—as Kenny ducked back down, tongue swirling around the head like he was licking a goddam milkshake off a fucking fountain glass rim. The neighbor’s dog started barking again, sharp yaps syncing with the rhythm of Kenny’s bobbing head.
Kenny didn’t give him a chance to answer. Just sucked harder, throat vibrating around Darren’s cock like a goddamn jackhammer. His fingers dug into Darren’s thighs—half-restraint, half-encouragement—as Darren’s hips stuttered forward.
The TV screensaver cycled to a neon octopus—tentacles pulsing in time with Kenny’s bobbing head—casting the room in epileptic blue. Darren’s fingers twisted tighter in Kenny’s hair, Kenny just groaned around him, the vibration traveling straight to Darren’s spine.
“Fuck—*fuck*—” Darren’s hips jerked forward—half command, half surrender—as Kenny’s throat opened around him with practiced ease. His tongue did that swirling thing, and Darren’s vision whited out for half a second. The Capri Sun pouch metaphor Kenny had joked about earlier suddenly made horrifying sense—Darren’s orgasm hit like a juice-box explosion, hot and sticky and *way* more volume than physics should allow.
Kenny swallowed—once, twice—then pulled off with a wet gasp, lips slick and swollen. A single pearl of cum escaped the corner of his mouth, catching the neon glow of the jellyfish screensaver. “Dude,” he rasped, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. “You *literally* taste like expired fruit punch,” His grin was all teeth—crooked incisor catching the light—as he licked a stray drop off his knuckle. “Bet Amelia never drank Capri Sun like that.” He laughed hysterically at his own dumb joke.
Darren slumped against the couch, vision still pixelated. His dick twitched weakly against his stomach, oversensitive and sticky. The room smelled like jizz, peach schnapps, and the ghost of Kenny’s ChapStick. “Jesus *fuck*,” he wheezed, fingers still tangled in Kenny’s hair. “Did you—” His throat clicked. “Did you just *swallow*?”
Kenny wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing cum across his cheekbone. The jellyfish screensaver pulsed violet over his smirk. “Dude. You *literally* blew like a busted Capri Sun pouch.” He flicked a glob off his chin—it landed on the pizza box with a wet *plop*. “Bet Amelia never—”
Darren kicked him square in the ribs—weakly, post-nut jelly limbs failing—but Kenny just laughed, catching Darren’s ankle and biting the tendon. “Fuck—*ow*—you *bite* now?” Darren yanked his foot back, nearly toppling the stack of Xbox games. His dick twitched—traitorous bastard—against the cooling mess on his stomach.
Kenny wiped his mouth on Darren’s AC/DC shirt, leaving a wet streak over the lightning bolt. “Dude. Rules.” He held up three fingers, each tipped with Darren’s own spit-slick DNA. “One: no telling Amelia I deepthroat better than her.” The Dorito bag crunched under his knee as he leaned in. “Two: you *owe* me that six-pack of nuggets.” His breath smelled like cum and the ghost of cherry ChapStick. “And Three—next time *you’re* sucking *me* off.”
Darren’s dick gave a pathetic twitch against his thigh—half-terror, half-curiosity—before the doorbell rang.
Both of them froze. The jellyfish screensaver pulsed neon pink across the cum, smeared on Kennys cheek.
“Shit—” Darren hissed, scrambling for his sweats. His dick made a wet *plop* against his thigh as he yanked the fabric up.
Kenny wiped his chin with the AC/DC shirt again—Darren would *never* unsee that stain—before crab-walking backward into the kitchen island. “Dude. Chill. Probably just the Domino’s dude.”
The doorbell rang again—sharper this time—followed by three rapid knocks that sounded suspiciously like Amelia’s “shave-and-a-haircut” signature knock.
Kenny froze mid-wipe, Darren’s cum still glistening on his chin under the jellyfish glow. “Oh *fuck* no,” he mouthed, eyes darting to the peephole. The neighbor’s dog went silent. Even the tropical fish screensaver seemed to hold its breath.
Darren’s sweats were halfway up his thighs when Amelia’s voice sliced through the door: “I *know* you’re in there, Darren. Your bike’s chained to the dumpster.” Her knock this time rattled the loose hinge Kenny’s dad kept meaning to fix.
Kenny’s grin froze mid-wipe, cum still glistening on his chin under the jellyfish’s neon pulse. He mouthed *holy shit* with the exaggerated precision of a bad lip-reader, then ducked behind the couch—taking the half-empty schnapps bottle with him. The label peeled off in his grip like a sad banana.
“Dude, why are you hiding,” Darren hissed, sweat beading on his upper lip as Amelia’s shadow darkened the peephole. His sweats were tangled around one ankle like a failed escape rope.
Kenny’s whisper came from behind the couch cushions, half-muffled by the schnapps bottle pressed to his mouth: “Same reason your dick’s still out—bad life choices.” The jellyfish screensaver pulsed green over the dried cum streaks on his cheekbone.
Amelia’s fourth knock rattled the doorframe. “Darren? I *know* you’re ignoring me.” Her Doc Martens tapped an impatient rhythm against the welcome mat.
Kenny’s whisper cut through the blue jellyfish glow: “Dude. Your dick’s still dripping.”
Darren blinked down at himself—sweats halfway up, cock half-hard and glistening under the screensaver’s pulse. A single drop trembled at the tip like a trapeze artist reconsidering life choices. Outside, Amelia’s Doc Martens did an impatient shuffle-scuff against concrete. Inside, Kenny’s grin was a Cheshire cat smear in the jellyfish glow, lips still puffy and suspiciously shiny.
“Jesus *tapdancing* Christ—” Darren hissed, yanking his sweats up so fast the elastic snapped against his hipbones. The motion sent another pearl of cum rolling down his thigh—Kenny’s tongue had apparently turned his dick into a goddamn leaky faucet. He swiped at it with a crumpled Doritos bag, which only succeeded in sticking orange dust to the mess.
Kenny popped up from behind the couch like a jack-in-the-box with a semen mustache. “Dude. You look like you just wrestled a glazed donut.” He licked his thumb and scrubbed at Darren’s neck where a rogue splatter had dried shiny. The jellyfish screensaver pulsed green over their chaos, making Kenny’s fingerprints glow like radioactive crime scene evidence.
Darren batted his hand away, rubbing his neck furiously like Kenny had branded him with a radioactive hickey. The jellyfish glow turned Kenny’s spit-smeared fingerprints into neon Exhibit A evidence. Outside, Amelia’s Doc Martens did an impatient *stomp-scuff-stomp*—the international Morse code for *I’m about to kick this door in*.
Kenny vaulted over the couch—graceful as a drunk gazelle—and tossed Darren a crumpled pizza box lid like a shitty shield. “Dude. Play dead.” His whisper was all hot cherry ChapStick breath against Darren’s ear.
Darren caught the greasy cardboard mid-air, heart hammering against his ribs like a coked-up woodpecker. He swiped at his dick with a Doritos bag—*crunch*—just as Amelia’s shadow darkened the peephole again. The jellyfish screensaver pulsed neon over the cum smear on Kenny’s cheekbone, turning their disaster into a fucking disco crime scene.
Kenny wiped his mouth on the back of Darren’s Xbox controller—goddamnit—then chucked a half-eaten Twinkie at the TV remote.
Kenny’s fingers—still sticky—dug into Darren’s shoulder. “Bruh. Breathe through your nose—you sound like a dying accordion.” He snatched the pizza box shield and pressed it to Darren’s chest like ceremonial armor. “Act cool. Like we weren’t just—” His grin flashed in the dark, incisor catching the streetlight. “Y’know. Bro-ing out.”
Darren’s dick gave a traitorous twitch at the memory. Outside, Amelia’s knock shifted to that rapid *tat-tat-TAT* pattern she used when her patience was thinner than the crust on Dominos’ gluten-free bullshit. The doorknob jiggled—locked, thank fuck—but then came the sound no teenage boy ever wants to hear: the metallic *scritch* of a key sliding into the lock.
Kenny’s eyes went saucer-wide. “Dude,” he hissed, “why the *fuck* does your ex have a key to my—”
The deadbolt clicked open. Darren’s hands flailed like electrocuted starfish—one shoving Kenny’s cum-glazed face back behind the couch, the other clawing at his own sweatpants now inexplicably *inside out*. The pizza box shield crumpled against his chest as the door creaked inward, flooding the cum-stained crime scene with fluorescent hallway light.
Amelia stood framed in the doorway, Doc Martens planted like landmines in the welcome mat’s “Bless This Mess” embroidery. Her nostrils flared—scenting peach schnapps and teenage shame with the precision of a bloodhound at a felony buffet. Darren’s dick gave a pathetic twitch inside his backwards sweats, still damp with Kenny’s spit and poor life choices.
Kenny materialized beside him like a horny ghost of christmas past, miraculously free of cum stains but reeking of cherry ChapStick and panic. He’d somehow procured a bag of Funyuns mid-crisis, crunching loudly like an asshole in a silent film. “Oh *hey* Ameebs,” he drawled, onion dust snowing onto the pizza box shield still pressed to Darren’s chest. “We were just—”
“Playing FIFA,” Darren blurted, kicking the schnapps bottle under the couch with a hollow *clunk*. His dick chose that moment to twitch inside his inside-out sweatpants, still slick with Kenny’s spit. The jellyfish screensaver pulsed helpfully over Amelia’s suspicious squint.
Kenny shoved half the Funyun bag into his mouth like a stress-eating chipmunk. “Yep,” he lied through onion dust, casually tossing the cum-stained Xbox controller behind the TV stand. “Just FIFA. Super intense. Penalty kicks. Sweaty.” He punctuated this with a pelvic thrust that made Darren want to strangle him with his own backwards sweatpants.
Amelia’s Doc Martens tapped a skeptical rhythm against the threshold. Her gaze—sharp as a cafeteria spork—darted between Kenny’s suspiciously puffy lips and Darren’s neon hickey glowing under the jellyfish screensaver. “You smell like a frat house dumpster,” she announced, nostrils flaring at the peach schnapps/semen cocktail wafting from the couch cushions.
Kenny’s grin was a masterpiece of guilty innocence, onion dust snowing from his Funyun-stuffed cheeks. “Dude. *Duuuude*. We were just—” His elbow jabbed Darren’s ribs with the subtlety of a wrecking ball. “*FIFA*. Right, Capri Sun?”
Darren’s nod was so vigorous his brain sloshed like a half-empty Gatorade bottle.
“FIFA,” he echoed, voice cracking on the second syllable. Behind Amelia’s back, Kenny mimed sucking an invisible dick with grotesque enthusiasm, tongue lolling like a dying goldfish. Darren’s dick twitched again—traitorous bastard—just as Amelia sniffed the air like a bloodhound at a crime scene.
“You boys reek,” she announced, wrinkling her nose like she’d just sniffed a locker room full of wet hockey gear and regret. Darren’s pulse hammered against his ribs. Kenny just grinned, wide and dumb as a golden retriever who’d eaten a whole weed brownie, his tongue still faintly pink from cherry ChapStick and Darren’s dick.
Behind Amelia’s back, Kenny mimed jerking off with exaggerated hip thrusts, mouthing *she’s so clueless* like this was some sitcom gag instead of their actual lives unraveling in real time. The jellyfish screensaver pulsed neon over the half-empty schnapps bottle peeking out from under the couch—a glowing, bioluminescent indictment of their idiocy.
Darren exhaled through his nose like a bull prepping for charge, willing his dick to *stay the fuck down* inside his sweatpants. Amelia’s Doc Martens tapped impatiently against the *Bless This Mess* doormat—ironic, considering the crime scene of crusted cum and Cheeto dust they were standing in. Kenny, the human equivalent of a dumpster fire, chose that moment to “accidentally” elbow the TV remote, switching the jellyfish screensaver to a looping video of dolphins fucking.
Amelia blinked at the screen. “Why are the dolphins—”
“*Mating rituals*,” Kenny blurted, tossing the Funyun bag over his shoulder like a shitty magician’s distraction. The dolphins on-screen bucked in pixelated ecstasy. “National Geographic shit. Super educational.” His grin was a train wreck—all crooked tracks and impending disaster.
Amelia’s eyebrow arched higher than the time Darren tried to jump his bike over a shopping cart. “You’re both morons,” she declared, stepping over a suspiciously sticky sock. Her Docs left tread marks in a crushed Cheeto like a crime scene outline.
Kenny coughed into his fist—*”stupid bitch”* barely disguised as a sneeze—while palming the schnapps bottle deeper under the couch. The dolphin porno chose that moment to zoom in on a particularly enthusiastic cetacean thrust, casting Amelia’s skeptical face in aquatic blue.
Darren’s sweatpants were glued to his thighs with drying shame. “Ames—listen—” His voice cracked like a middle schooler’s. Behind him, Kenny mouthed *tell her to suck a bag of dicks* while miming slitting his own throat.
Amelia stepped over Kenny’s cum-stained socks like they were landmines. “I came to take you back,” she announced, flicking her neon-green braid—new since Tuesday—over one shoulder. The dolphins on-screen moaned in sync with her dramatic pause.
Darren’s sweatpants suctioned tighter to his thighs. “Uh,” he said eloquently, brain short-circuiting between Kenny’s teeth marks on his inner thigh and Amelia’s chipped black nail polish tapping against her phone case. The case read *Property of Amelia* in bedazzled letters that caught the dolphin porno’s blue glow.
Kenny’s elbow dug into his ribs—subtle as a car crash. “Dude,” he hissed, breath reeking of Funyuns and felony charges. “Fucking *say* it.”
Darren swallowed the lump in his throat—half guilt, half leftover come—and squared his shoulders. “Fine,” he croaked. “But *only* if…” His Adam’s apple bobbed like a fishing float in a hurricane. “If we… y’know. *All* of us. Together.”
Kenny choked on his own spit mid-Funyun crunch, onion dust snowing from his lips like dandruff from a methhead Santa. The dolphin porno hit a particularly enthusiastic squeal as Amelia’s neon-green braid swung like a pendulum of doom.
“You want me to *what*?” Amelia’s voice hit that octave usually reserved for breaking wine glasses and eardrums. Her Doc Martens ground into a stray Cheeto like it was Darren’s balls.
Kenny’s smile widened, grinning around a mouthful of Funyuns. “Dude. *Dude*. She’s gonna say yes.” His whisper carried the confidence of someone who’d never faced consequences—not when he shoplifted Red Bulls, not when he TP’d the principal’s house, and definitely not now with Amelia’s neon braid swinging like a noose above them.
Amelia sized them up like a pissed-off librarian finding kids smoking in the bathroom. “You want me to *what*?” she repeated, voice cracking on the last word. Darren could practically see the steam coming out of her ears—her neon braid twitched like a live wire.
Kenny leaned in, smelling like onion dust and bad decisions. “Dude, she’s *blushing*,” he stage-whispered, jabbing Darren with an elbow sharp enough to puncture a Capri Sun.
Amelia shifted her weight—Doc Martens squeaking against the Cheeto-crumb battlefield—but didn’t bolt. Her neon braid swung like a pendulum counting down to disaster. “You’re both disgusting,” she muttered, but her eyes flicked to Kenny’s sickened lips.
Kenny grinned—slow, dangerous—licking onion dust off his teeth. “Dude,” he breathed, hot against Darren’s ear, “she’s *so* gonna ride your face while I—”
Amelia’s Doc Martens stomped hard enough to crack a Cheeto. “*Fine*,” she spat, neon braid whipping like a live wire. “But only if *he*”—her chipped-black-polish finger jabbed at Kenny—”wears my panties.” The dolphins on-screen chose that moment to climax in pixelated synchronicity, casting Kenny’s stunned face in aquatic blue.
Kenny’s Funyun bag hit the floor with a hollow *fwump*. “Duuuuude,” he breathed, pupils blown wide as Darren’s abandoned Capri Sun metaphor. His tongue darted out to lick onion dust off his teeth. “Ameebs wants me in *her* panties.” The way he said it—like a death row inmate getting his last meal—made Darren’s dick twitch inside his shame-glued sweatpants.
Amelia’s neon braid swung like a pendulum over Kenny’s stunned face. “Not *my* current ones, dumbass.” Her Doc Martens crushed a Cheeto into powder as she dug through her backpack. “These.” The lace-trimmed black panties hit Kenny’s chest with a *fwap*—still faintly smelling like peach body spray and pussy.
Kenny caught them like a first baseman snagging a foul ball, his grin splitting wide enough to show three separate cavities. “Dude.” He rubbed the fabric against his cheek like a cat with catnip. “Ameebs wants me *drowning* in her coochie ghosts.” The dolphin screensaver chose that moment to loop back to the jellyfish, pulsing pink over the panties now stretched between Kenny’s fingers like a trophy flag.
Amelia’s Docs squeaked against the Cheeto dust. “They’re *clean*, dickwad.” Her neon braid swung like a pendulum over Kenny’s dumbstruck face. “Don’t be such a jackass,”
Kenny clutched the panties to his chest like they were a winning lottery ticket. “Dude. *Duuuude*.” His grin stretched wide enough to show the Skittles he’d crushed between his molars during the dolphin porno climax. “Ameebs wants me *dressed* for dinner.”
🔞 Candy.AI 🔥 AI Sex Chat – Roleplay, Erotic Stories, Try for Free 🕹️
🤩 Rate this story 🥺
12345
(4.17 out 6 votes)
Pizza_guy #Bisexual #Teen #Threesome