My friend as my cumbucket - part 1

My straight friend Rajno gets an unexpected visit and he doesn't even know it as I have drugged him unconscious.

The key turned with a soundless precision that spoke of practice—three counterclockwise twists to disengage the alarm, then the satisfying click of the bolt retreating. Moonlight cut a silver path across Rajno’s living room floor, illuminatingingly clean for a teenager left alone for the weekend. I’d watched the house for days, noting when his parents left for their coastal getaway, how Rajno lingered at the fridge after soccer practice, gulping orange juice straight from the carton. My fingers trembled, not from guilt, but from the weight of the syringe in my pocket, its payload enough to drop a horse. Or, more precisely, a wiry eighteen-year-old with a bedtime ignorance of locked windows.

Rajno’s playlist still pulsed through the walls when I found him sprawled on the couch, one arm dangling over the edge, fingertips brushing the carpet. Some indie band whined about unrequited love—fitting, if unintentionally ironic. He’d changed into sweatpants after his shower; the damp towel slung over the chair told me that much. I nudged his shoulder with my knee. “Hey.” No response. Just the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his lower lip jutted slightly in sleep. The drink I’d doctored earlier sat half-finished on the coffee table, condensation pooling around the base.

Upstairs, his bedroom smelled of fabric softener and the faint metallic tang of deodorant. I’d been in here before, of course—helping him “study,” which mostly meant him complaining about calculus while I pretended to listen. Now, I traced the outline of his desk, the stacked textbooks, the single sock left crumpled by the bed. His phone buzzed on the nightstand. A girlfriend? A teammate? I swiped it silent without checking. The sleeping pills would keep him under for hours, but my pulse still quickened when I peeled back the thin comforter, exposing the sharp angles of his hips beneath the waistband of his boxers.

His skin was warmer than I’d imagined. Palm flat against his stomach, I felt the jump of muscle as he exhaled, the delicate ridge of his ribs. My thumb hooked under the elastic, easing it down just enough to reveal the first sparse curls. Blonder than I expected. I wondered if he’d even noticed them himself, or if they’d appeared one morning like uninvited guests. The weight of him in my hand was… smaller than my own, but perfect in its unfamiliarity. Rajno stirred, mumbling something incoherent, and I froze—waiting, counting the seconds until his breathing evened out again. His parted lips glistened in the dim light. I leaned closer.

I undressed him methodically, peeling fabric from skin like unwrapping something fragile. His shoulders were sharp enough to bruise my palms, collarbones like parentheses around the hollow of his throat. Not attractive in the conventional sense, no—but there was something mesmerizing about the way his hipbones jutted, the dip between them leading my gaze lower. His cock lay soft against his thigh, a pinkish curve that twitched when my knuckles brushed it accidentally-on-purpose. The urge to pinch the skin of his inner thigh, to see if it would bloom red under my fingers, coiled tight in my gut. His ass was barely there, just two pale mounds barely parting when I rolled him onto his side. I traced the cleft with my index finger, slow, testing the give.

Downstairs, the fridge hummed to life—a sound so ordinary it made my teeth ache. Rajno’s phone lit up again, casting blue shadows across the ceiling. For a disorienting second, I imagined him waking, blinking up at me with those sleep-dumb eyes. Would he scream? Or would confusion soften the edges of his fear, make it easier to press him back into the mattress? I licked my lips, tasting salt and the phantom tang of his orange juice. My own cock strained against my jeans, the denim rough where it rubbed the head. I could come like this, just watching him, but that would be… wasteful.

The first touch of my tongue to his inner wrist made him sigh. A reflex, nothing more, but it sent heat licking up my spine. I mapped him with my mouth—the knob of his ankle, the dip behind his knee, the faint pulse at his throat. His body yielded under my hands like dough, pliant from the drugs, from sleep, from the simple fact that he’d never been touched like this before. When I finally took him into my mouth, he was still soft, but the way his hips twitched told me his body knew, even if his mind didn’t. I sucked gently, savoring the salt-skin taste of him, the way his breath hitched in his chest. Somewhere outside, a car door slammed. I didn’t stop.

I kept sucking him and started playing with his balls. While his cock started to grow, I used my other hand to jerk him off, slow at first, then faster as he hardened against my tongue. His thighs tensed under my grip, his balls drawing up tight in my palm. Precum beaded at his tip, bitter and slick, and I swallowed it down without thinking. His breath came quicker now, shallow puffs against my forehead, and I wondered if he was dreaming—if somewhere in that drugged haze, his subconscious was stitching together sensations into something halfway coherent. Would he wake up remembering this? Would he blame the orange juice?

The mattress creaked as I shifted, knee pressing between his legs to spread him wider. His cock bobbed against my chin, flushed and leaking, and I swiped my thumb over the slit just to watch him squirm. His hands flexed at his sides, fingers curling into the sheets. I wanted to pin them down, wanted to feel his pulse rabbit under my grip, but that would be too much. Not yet. Instead, I dragged my teeth along his shaft, just enough pressure to make his breath catch, and was rewarded with a groan—low, involuntary, the kind of sound you only make when you think no one’s listening.

Downstairs, the fridge clicked off. Silence pooled in the room, thick as the spit shining on Rajno’s cock. I lifted my head, watching his face for any flicker of awareness, but his lashes stayed dark against his cheeks, his mouth slack. A thin string of saliva connected my lower lip to his tip before it snapped. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, tasting him still, metallic and sweet. His chest rose and fell, rose and fell, and I thought about how easy it would be to climb over him, to press my own aching cock against his thigh until—

Rajno came hard. It surprised me—the sudden jerk of his hips, the way his whole body arched off the mattress like he’d been shocked. His cock pulsed in my hand, spilling over my fingers in hot, uneven spurts, his stomach streaked white. His breath came in ragged gasps, but his eyes stayed closed, his limbs loose with sleep. Cum dripped between my knuckles. I brought my hand to my mouth, licked a stripe across my palm, and shuddered at the bitterness. Had he dreamed this? Or was his body simply reacting, dumb and animal, to the pressure of my touch?

I leaned back on my heels, knees sore from the hardwood floor. The room smelled like sweat and sex now, the fabric softener drowned out. Rajno’s cock twitched weakly against his belly, still half-hard, pearly cum pooling in the hollow of his navel. I dipped two fingers into it, swirled them absently. His skin was damp, feverish almost. A car passed outside, headlights sweeping across the ceiling, and for a second his face was illuminated—mouth open, brow slightly furrowed. Beautiful. Mine. The thought curled hot in my chest.

His phone buzzed again. This time, I picked it up. The screen showed three missed calls from someone named “Eli.” I thumbed it silent, set it facedown on the nightstand. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the branches against the window. Rajno sighed in his sleep, one hand drifting toward his spent cock, fingertips brushing sticky skin before falling away. I caught his wrist, held it just above his head, my grip tight enough to leave marks. His pulse fluttered under my thumb. Slow. Steady. Unaware.

Now it was my turn. I took advantage of his open mouth and gently pushed my thick dick in. His lips parted with barely any resistance, slack from sleep, from the drugs, from the sheer novelty of intrusion. The head of my cock bumped against his teeth—too much pressure would chip enamel—so I angled my hips, guiding myself deeper. His tongue lay heavy and unresponsive against mine. When he kept on sleeping, I started facefucking him harder, each thrust measured but insistent, the wet sounds obscenely loud in the quiet room. His throat convulsed once, twice, but the reflex was weak, half-hearted. Drool pooled at the corners of his mouth, slicking my way.

I pulled out just before coming, spitting onto his slack face instead. It landed warm across his cheekbone, dripped down toward his ear. Rajno twitched but didn’t wake, his breathing only hitching when I dragged my thumb through the mess, smearing it over his parted lips. The taste of him—sleep-sour, tinged with orange juice—still lingered on my tongue. My cock ached, flushed and angry against my stomach. I palmed it absently, watching his face for any flicker of awareness. Nothing. Just the flutter of his lashes, the shallow rise of his chest.

My phone came out next. The flash was harsh in the dim room, bleaching Rajno’s skin ghostly white for a split second. I snapped three shots in quick succession: his cum-streaked stomach, his spit-slick mouth, his thighs still spread obscenely wide. The last one was a close-up of his cock, soft now but glistening, nestled in its sparse blonde curls. I swiped through them, zooming in on the details—the way his lower lip was swollen from my teeth, the reddening marks where my fingers had dug into his hips. Perfect. I tucked the phone away, already imagining how I’d revisit them later, alone in my apartment, the images glowing on my screen while I—

Downstairs, a floorboard creaked. I froze, ears straining, but the house stayed silent. Just the settling of old wood, the hum of the fridge cycling back on. Rajno sighed in his sleep, one arm flopping bonelessly to the side. His fingers brushed my knee, a touch so light it could’ve been accidental. I caught his wrist again, held it tighter this time, my thumb pressing into the fragile bones. His pulse thrummed under my grip, steady as a metronome. Unaware. Unresisting. Mine. The thought coiled hot in my gut, tighter than the ache between my legs.

I dressed him carefully, tugging his boxers back over his hips, smoothing the comforter up to his chin. His phone buzzed once more—Eli, probably—but I ignored it, stepping back to survey my work. Rajno looked almost peaceful now, lips slightly parted, hair mussed from my hands. Only the faint sheen on his skin betrayed what had happened, the way his breath hitched when I brushed a thumb over his collarbone. I lingered by the door, memorizing the slope of his shoulders under the blanket, the way his fingers curled loosely around the edge. Tomorrow, he’d wake with a headache, blame the orange