My Best Friend’s Brother Dylan Was Supposed to Be Straight
Copyright© 2025 by StoriesByTroy
Chapter 5: Why is the door locked?
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 5: Why is the door locked? - 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
Dylan saw Elliot dropping me off at the apartment earlier this morning. One thing led to another, and five minutes later, his cock was buried down my throat, his fingers twisted in my hair like he owned me. He didn’t even take off my hoodie. Just bent me over the couch, yanked my shorts down, and lined himself up behind me. His cock was thick and slick and pulsing against my hole, the head already leaking, just about to press in ... and that’s when the knock came at the door.
“Shit,” I muttered, blinking. “That’s my sister.”
Dylan didn’t move. He stayed there, crouched behind me, cock still perfectly in position. His chest was heaving against my back, his breath warm and shaky. He let out a low groan, almost angry. “I don’t care,” he muttered, voice raw with need. “Don’t answer. Let her go. I’m so fucking hard right now ... don’t do this to me, Spaghetti Noodle.”
“Are you insane Dylan?” I hissed, twisting underneath him. “She can’t see you literally about to fuck me in HER apartment...”
The knock came again ... louder this time, more impatient.
I slipped out from under him in a panic. My legs felt like jelly, my shorts were tangled around one ankle, and my ass was still wet from his precum. Dylan stood, towering, bare-chested, cock still pointing straight up, flushed and twitching. His swim trunks were still balled up near the couch. He looked like sex itself.
“Put something on!” I said, dragging my shorts up.
“Don’t really want to...” he muttered, reaching down and yanking on his trunks in a hurry. The fabric barely contained him. I threw his T-shirt at his chest, but he ignored it, already stalking toward the balcony with that same desperate tension running down his spine.
There was no time to argue. I ran a hand through my hair, pulled the hoodie down over my hips, adjusted my expression into something half-awake and confused, and cracked open the door.
Becca stood there in her running gear ... tight black leggings, sports bra, her ponytail slick with sweat. She had an iced coffee in one hand and a suspicious look in the other.
“Why was the door locked, Troy?”
“It probably just latched,” I lied.
Her eyes narrowed as she looked me over. I probably looked wrecked—flushed, hair messy, lips swollen. Her gaze swept over the couch, the twisted blanket, the slightly ajar balcony door. She took a long sip of her drink.
“I thought I heard voices.”
“Must’ve been the neighbors,” I said.
Becca stepped inside, walking slowly. “It smells like cologne in here.”
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