My Best Friend’s Brother Dylan Was Supposed to Be Straight
Copyright© 2025 by StoriesByTroy
Chapter 1: He Is So Gentle
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1: He Is So Gentle - When I agreed to a chill weekend at my best friend's place, I didn’t expect his older brother Dylan to be back—or to look like that. I should’ve looked away. I didn’t.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Ma Ma Teenagers Consensual Romantic Gay BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Humor Western Brother DomSub MaleDom Spanking White Male White Couple Anal Sex First Masturbation Oral Sex Safe Sex Size Nudism Slow
I didn’t come to Paris to get over Dylan. I came because my sister begged me. Said she was still settling in. Said she needed someone around. Someone familiar.
And then she started working twelve-hour shifts. Gone before I wake up. Home after I’m asleep.
So here I am. Alone in her new apartment, roaming a city I barely know, thinking about Dylan’s body and what he said the last time we texted:
“Still thinking about your mouth, baby. That throat was made for me.” “Spaghetti Noodle, you’re mine”
God.
I shouldn’t miss him. But I do. That muscled, so-called “straight” jock who used to fuck the attitude out of me and leave without a word. And I let him. Every time.
So I distract myself. I wear cute outfits. Take OOTDs in the street below the apartment. Post them on Instagram with pouty captions like “just trying to find my way” or “tired of being mysterious, might start acting up.”
I explore cafés. I journal in parks. I pretend I’m thriving.
I people-watch from terraces. I sketch in parks like I’m someone with a purpose. I journal about Dylan’s cock. Write poem’s about his body.
Pretend I’m healing. Pretend I’m not still opening his stories just to see if he’s shirtless again.
But I’m stuck here. At least until my sister decides she’s okay being on her own.
So for now ... I stay. And I try not to text him back because if I do, I cannot stop thinking about him...
One Thursday evening, I was out on my usual aimless stroll. The golden hour light was soft and low, brushing against the buildings like a filter. I walked slow, lazy, scrolling Dylan’s Instagram, which felt like emotional self-harm but I did it anyway.
He’d just posted a selfie with some celebrity fitness guy. Both shirtless. Veins popping. Dick print outlined in sweatpants like it was a brand deal.
I stopped dead in the middle of a cobblestone street, barely registering where I was. I was staring at the photo, thumbs frozen, brain spiraling. I could still feel his hands on my jaw, holding me in place. I could still taste the salt of his skin.
Then...
“Excusez-moi?” a voice said. “We are kind of ... shooting here?”
I blinked up.
A tall French guy was standing a few feet away, camera in hand. Two impeccably dressed models were behind him, backlit by the sunset, posing beside a café.
“You’re blocking the frame,” he added, but he smiled as he said it. “Unless you’d like to be in the photo, too, handsome.”
My cheeks burned.
“Ah ... shit ... sorry, I didn’t mean to...”
I stepped back, flustered.
He clicked a few shots, quick and clean, then looked back at me.
“Je m’appelle Elliot,” he said. “You’re very photogenic.” (My name is Elliot)
I laughed. “Hi. Elliot. I’m Troy.”
He looked at me like I was the interesting one. Like I wasn’t just some distracted mess missing a hookup back home.
A few more lines were exchanged ... about the light, the models, Paris in the spring ... and then, suddenly:
“Coffee? With me? I know a place not far from here.”
I said yes. He looked like a dreamy french guy who I wanted to kiss. So, Of course I said yes.
We met again the next evening. He wore dark jeans and a loose linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. I wore a tank that dipped low in the back and some high-waisted corduroy shorts I’d thrifted earlier that day.
We walked around Le Marais. Laughed about nothing. He smoked. I pretended it didn’t turn me on. He told me about his freelance gigs and how annoying models can be. I told him about my sister, about not knowing how long I was staying.
We kissed in an alley behind a bookstore. Soft at first. Then not. He pressed me gently against the brick wall, his hands on either side of my waist, thumb stroking my skin like it meant something.
He tasted like vanilla and cigarettes. He kissed like he wanted to memorize my mouth.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.