Blowjob for my straight friend

The party had been an epic chaos. Marcos’s house, on the outskirts of the city, was still vibrating with the remnants of the night: crushed plastic cups on the floor, empty bottles of rum and vodka lined up like fallen soldiers, and the smell of cigarette smoke and sweat clinging to the walls. It was four in the morning and most people had left. Only a few of us remained: me, Marcos, and a couple of friends already snoring on the living room sofa.

Marcos had been my friend since college. Straight to the core, or so he always said. Tall, broad-shouldered, with messy black hair and a smile that could disarm anyone. He played soccer on weekends, had a girlfriend (though that night they had argued and she left early), and had never shown even the slightest sign of curiosity in any other direction. But I... I had been holding this in for years. I glanced at him sideways at the gym, when he took off his sweaty shirt. I listened to his deep laugh and felt a knot in my stomach. It was my secret. My most forbidden desire.

That night, after the last people staggered out, Marcos looked at me with eyes glassy from alcohol and said:

“Stay, man. Don’t leave me alone with this mess. We’ll sleep it off and clean tomorrow.”

I accepted without thinking twice. We went up to his room on the second floor. The king-size bed was unmade, but huge. We both flopped down fully dressed, laughing about the stupid things that had happened at the party. Marcos took off his shirt, revealing that defined torso, the abs shaped by sports, and the dark trail of hair running down toward his pants. My heart beat harder.

“Fuck, I’m so drunk,” he muttered, running a hand over his face. “Are you okay?”

“More or less,” I lied. The alcohol had loosened my tongue, but not enough to confess.

We stayed silent for a while. The bedside lamp’s light was dim, orange. Outside, rain began to fall softly against the window. Marcos turned toward me, resting his head on his arm.

“You know, man... you’re the best. You’re always there. Girls come and go, but you... fuck, you’re the real deal.”

His words hit me. There was something in his tone, a vulnerability he rarely showed. I moved a little closer. Our arms brushed. The warmth of his skin was addictive.

“Marcos...” I began, not knowing how to continue.

He looked at me. His brown eyes, usually confident, were clouded by rum and something else. Curiosity? Tiredness? I didn’t know.

“What’s wrong?”

I swallowed. My heart was racing. The alcohol pushed me on, adrenaline burning through my veins.

“Nothing. Just... I think that about you too.”

He laughed softly, but didn’t move away. We kept talking nonsense: about his ex, about how lonely life sometimes felt despite having everything. At one point, his hand casually fell onto my thigh. He didn’t remove it. Neither did ...