Face Timing with My Best Straight Friend on A Saturday Night

The rhythmic, mechanical thump-thump-thump was my whole world, a steady, percussive beat against the quiet Saturday night.

For the last hour, it had been everything. I was face down, ass up on my bed, a pillow wedged under my hips to get the perfect angle. My machine, a beast of polished steel and silicone I'd nicknamed "The Piston," was doing its work with relentless, tireless precision. A thick, nine-inch dildo, slicked with a half-empty bottle of lube, was plunging into me, pulling out, then plunging back in, over and over again, hitting that spot deep inside that made my toes curl and my eyes roll back into my head.

I was lost in it. A sheen of sweat covered my body, making my skin gleam in the soft glow from the bedside lamp. My own cock was rock hard, trapped between my stomach and the mattress, leaking a steady stream of precum with every thrust. I was moaning, a low, guttural sound that was barely audible over the machine's steady rhythm. It was pure, unadulterated ecstasy, a private, hedonistic ritual that usually ended with me seeing stars.

BUZZ. BUZZ.

My phone, lying face up on the nightstand, vibrated violently, the screen lighting up the room with an intrusive flash. The caller ID made my blood run cold for a split second: Marcus.

Panic, hot and sharp, shot through me. Marcus. My best friend since we were kids. The straightest man I knew, currently two states away, probably bored out of his mind on a Saturday night. And he was calling on FaceTime.

For a half-second, I considered letting it ring, letting it go to voicemail. But the machine was still pounding into me, and the sudden shock had sent a jolt of adrenaline through my system that was mixing intoxicatingly with the pleasure. I was drunk, horny, and in a state of near-delirium. The thought that I could tell Marcus anything, that our bond was unbreakable, warred with the sheer, mortifying reality of the situation. I fumbled for the phone, my hand slick with sweat. I answered the phone.

The screen flickered to life, showing Marcus’s handsome, slightly scruffy face. He was sitting on his couch, a beer in his hand, looking bored. "Hey, man," he started, his voice a little slurred from his own drinking. "Was just thinking about you. What are you up to?"

I tried to answer, but just as I opened my mouth, The Piston chose that exact moment to deliver a particularly deep, powerful thrust. A strangled gasp escaped my lips instead of words.

Marcus’s brow furrowed. "You good? You sound... weird." He leaned closer to his phone, his eyes trying to make out the dark, shadowy room behind me. "What's that noise?"

My heart hammered against my ribs. I could end the call. I could make up an excuse. But the alcohol and the raw, primal pleasure had stripped away my inhibitions. I looked at Marcus’s face, my best friend in the whole world, and the words just tumbled out. "I know I can tell you anything, right, Marc?"

"Yeah, of course, man. You know that," he said, his confusion growing.

"Okay," I took a shaky breath, another thrust making me shudder. "Okay. The noise... it's... I'm on my fucking machine."

There was a beat of absolute silence. Marcus just stared, his mouth slightly agape, processing the words. I held my breath, expecting disgust, or laughter, or for Marcus to just hang up. Instead, a slow, curious smile spread across his face. "No shit?" he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Your... your machine?"

I nodded, feeling a strange mix of embarrassment and a thrilling, exhibitionistic rush. "Yeah."

"So... what, you're just getting plowed by a robot right now?" Marcus asked, a genuine, almost scientific curiosity in his tone. "While you're on the phone with me?"

"Uh-huh," I moaned as the machine sped up slightly, a preset program kicking in. "It's... fuck... it's intense."

Marcus leaned back on his couch, his eyes glued to the screen. He couldn't see much of me, just my face, damp with sweat, my eyes half-closed in pleasure. But the sounds were unmistakable. The rhythmic thumping, the wet, slick noises, my ragged breathing. "Can I... can I see?" Marcus asked, his voice barely a whisper. "I mean, you don't have to, but... fuck, man. I'm curious."

My hesitation lasted for about three seconds. The idea was insane. It was crossing a line we had never even approached. But the thought of Marcus watching me, of my best friend witnessing me in this state of total vulnerability and bliss, was the most arousing thing I had ever imagined. "Okay," I breathed, my voice thick with lust. "Okay."

I propped the phone up against the pillow next to my head, angling it down. The camera captured a perfect shot: the glistening dildo sliding in and out of my ass, my cheeks clenching with each thrust, my heavy balls swinging between my legs. I turned my head to look at the screen, at Marcus’s face, now frozen in awe.

"Holy shit, Alex," Marcus breathed. "Holy fucking shit." He watched, mesmerized, as the machine did its work. I could see Marcus’s free hand move down, out of frame, and I knew exactly what he was doing. The thought made my own cock twitch, trapped beneath me.

"You like it?" I panted, pushing my hips back to meet each thrust. "You like watching me get fucked?"

"Fuck yeah, I do," Marcus groaned. "Never seen anything like it." His breathing was getting heavier now, matching my own. "Does it... does it feel good?"

"It feels so fucking good, Marc," I moaned, my eyes locked on the screen. "It feels so good, but you know what would be better?"

"What?" Marcus grunted, his arm clearly moving now.

"You," I confessed, the words torn from the depths of my soul. "God, Marcus. I want you to fuck me. I've wanted you to fuck me for years."

The admission hung in the air, charged and electric. Marcus didn't flinch. He just stared, his hand moving faster. "Yeah?" he growled. "You want my dick, Alex? You want me to do that to you?"

"Every time I see you," I whimpered, the pleasure building to an unbearable peak. "Every time you're in town. I think about it. I think about getting on my knees for you, about sucking your cock until you can't think straight."

"Next time," Marcus promised, his voice tight with his own approaching orgasm. "Next time you're here, first thing we do. I'll let you suck my dick, Alex. I'll fucking wreck your throat with it."

The air in my room was thick, heavy with the scent of sweat, lube, and the sharp, chemical bite of poppers I’d just inhaled moments before. I’d cracked the tiny bottle open again, tilting my head back and taking a long, deep pull, the volatile fumes flooding my sinuses, making my head spin and my cock throb even harder against my stomach. The world narrowed to the rhythmic, mechanical thump-thump-thump of The Piston and the grainy, glowing rectangle of my phone screen, where Marcus’s face was a mask of raw, focused lust.

His promise – “I’ll fucking wreck your throat with it” – hung in the air, vibrating with a dangerous, electric charge. It wasn’t just a promise; it was a command, a decree from the straightest man I knew, and it shattered my last vestige of control. I could see Marcus’s hand, a blur of motion in the corner of the screen, stroking himself with frantic, desperate urgency. The visual was obscene, intoxicating, and utterly real. I imagined the feel of Marcus’s calloused fingers, the tight grip, the slick glide of precum coating his shaft as he worked himself to the brink, all while watching me get brutally, mechanically fucked.

My own hand, slick with lube and my own sweat, was a frantic counterpoint to the machine’s steady rhythm. I’d been stroking myself for the last ten minutes, not to come, but to build, to amplify every sensation The Piston delivered. I’d coated my cock in a thick, glistening layer of lube, making it slide easily in my fist, the friction a counterpoint to the deep, stretching fullness inside me. I squeezed, pulled, twisted, my thumb rubbing the swollen head with every upward stroke, trying to match the machine’s pace, trying to drown out the thought of Marcus’s hand with the feel of my own. But it was futile. Marcus’s face, the low, guttural groans escaping him, the sheer presence of him on the screen, was the dominant force.

I took another hit of poppers, the fumes making my head spin and my cock throb. The world dissolved into a haze of pleasure and need. The machine's thrusts felt deeper, harder. I cried out, a strangled, animal sound. "Fuck, Marcus! Look at me! Look at me taking it! Look at your best friend getting fucked like a slut!" I spread my legs wider, giving him a better view. "You're gonna do this to me, aren't you? You're gonna shove your big dick right here, right where this machine is? You're gonna make me scream?"

On the screen, Marcus's whole focus shifted. He leaned forward, his face a mask of intense concentration. "Yeah, Alex," he growled, his voice thick with arousal. "Fuck yeah. I'm gonna fuck you raw. I'm gonna make you take every inch, scream my name. I'm gonna make you beg for it." He shifted, and I could see him squeezing a generous amount of lube onto his fingers, then onto his cock, the slick shaft catching the light as he started to stroke himself in earnest.

"Jesus, Alex," he panted, his eyes glued to my ass on the screen. "I've never... I've never even thought about fucking a guy before. But fuck, man. You've always had a great ass. I've noticed it. In those jeans you wear. Fuck." His hand was moving faster now, a slick, rhythmic sound joining the thumping of the machine. "I can't stop looking at it. Watching that thing disappear inside you... God, I want that. I want to be the one stretching you open."

The filthy praise sent a jolt straight through me. "Then do it," I whimpered, pushing back against the machine. "Tell me how you'd do it."

"I'd start with my fingers," he groaned, his voice getting rougher. "I'd get you all sloppy and wet, just like that. I'd work one in, then two, until you were begging for my cock. I'd bend you over just like that, spread you open and just... look. I'd look at that tight little hole before I even touched it." His strokes were getting frantic, his hips starting to lift off the couch to meet his own hand. "I'd make you beg for it, Alex. I'd make you tell me how bad you need my dick inside you."

"I need it," I cried out, the pleasure building to a fever pitch. "I need your cock, Marcus!"

"Fuck!" he grunted, his eyes squeezing shut for a second before opening again, wild with lust. "I wanna feel how tight you are. I wanna feel you clamp down on me when I push inside. I wanna go slow at first, make you feel every single inch, then I'm gonna pound you. I'm gonna fuck you so hard the bed breaks. I'm gonna fill you up so much you'll still be feeling me next week."

The thought of it, of Marcus's raw, unfiltered desire, was the final trigger. "Do it! Oh god, Marcus, do it!"

On the screen, Marcus's face contorted. "Fuck! Alex! I'm... I'm gonna... FUCK!" He roared, his body arching off the couch as he came. His hand became a blur, his hips bucking wildly as he shot his load, his guttural groans of release echoing through the phone. I watched him ride it out, his chest heaving, his cum glistening on his stomach and hand, his eyes slowly opening to meet mine, dazed and utterly spent.

The sight of him losing control completely was all it took. "Oh, FUCK! MARCUS!" I screamed, my own orgasm ripping through me with a seismic force. My body convulsed, my cock erupting in a messy, glorious explosion that splattered across my chest and neck. I lay there, shaking and wrecked, The Piston still humming inside me, the air thick with the scent of our shared release.

The machine slowed, its rhythmic thumping fading to a gentle, almost mocking pulse. I lay there, utterly wrecked, covered in sweat and cum, The Piston still buried deep inside me, its warmth a fading echo of the storm that had just passed. I could still see Marcus, panting, his own release glistening on his skin, his eyes slowly opening, meeting mine through the screen, a dazed, satisfied, and utterly changed expression on his face. The silence that followed was thick, charged, and infinitely more intimate than any words could have been.

For a moment, the only sounds were our heavy breathing and the now-slowing thump-thump-thump of the machine as it wound down its program. We just looked at each other through the screen, a new, unspoken territory having been thoroughly mapped between us.

Marcus was the first to speak, his voice soft and a little shaky. "Well," he said, a slow grin spreading across his face. "That was not what I was expecting when I called you tonight."

I managed a weak, sated laugh. "Yeah. Me neither."