BBC on Campus

My usual disclaimers:

• My experiences are in everything I write, sometimes an image that I recall, sometimes much more. This story, however, is fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

• If it is illegal for you to read this story because of your age, location or some other reason, don't read it.

• This work is copyright by the author. Commercial use is prohibited without permission. Please do not republish any parts of this story without consent of the author.

• This story depicts unprotected sex. In real-life, be safe!

Consider a donation to keep Nifty on the web! Http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

Drop me a note if you like the story. I enjoy hearing reader's reactions. Email: coltonaalto@gmail.com.

BBC ON CAMPUS CHAPTER FIFTEEN – RENT BOI

I had given myself the entire school year to fuck each of the rock climbers that lived in the old gas station below me, and as exams wound down and fall semester concluded, my score was five of the six college boys, with only one to go. Max. He was an enigma. He was by far the quietest of the rock jocks, and in a group he said almost nothing. On rare occasions when he opened his mouth, he was soft spoken and spoke slowly. I assumed he was painfully shy. He and I had probably exchanged a dozen words during the entire autumn.

After my post-Thanksgiving conquest of Damian's fuck chute, Max was the sole rock jock that I hadn't fucked. One by one I had picked the ripped studs off, starting with Jesse stretching his dancer boi buns for my big black cock, through Sancho's bike ride on my dick, Travis's weed-fueled lust for big cock, Alex's prank gone bad enough to land his ass on my prick, and Damian submitting to me after Thanksgiving. So far, things had fallen into place like clockwork. But none of that meant success with Max was guaranteed.

After Thanksgiving, I began to stalk Max, watching him closely. Like a gray wolf intent on bringing down his prey, I was now focused completely on Max. Okay, being focused completely didn't mean passing on the diversion with Kyle and his slutty friends or my tour into Jim's Scot hole, but Max was my final prize.

He was hard to read, and being last, I anticipated he was going to be the toughest rock boy to crack. He ran on Westcliffe's college track and cross country teams, so Max didn't drink or smoke much, which meant getting help from that direction wasn't likely. And it was a long shot that I would find myself alone with him after a bike ride, like I had with Sancho, or because of the water being out, like Damian. I would have to work to get my dick in his ass. But I liked challenges, and so far the rock jocks had fallen one by one and I hadn't put all that much effort into any of them.

As I paid more attention, I was struck by how odd Max's schedule was. He didn't have a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend, for that matter; of the six rock boys, Max was the only one, other than Jesse, that might be gay or bi. Well, maybe Travis could be considered bi, but the hot stoner wasn't emotionally attracted to guys, just attracted to the physical pleasure of having a stiff cock ramming his hole.

Almost every week, a night or two would pass when Max didn't come home, which led me to believe that he had to be seeing someone. He roomed with Sancho, and Sancho was getting serious with his girlfriend, so maybe Max was acceding to the inevitable and giving Sancho a night alone to bone. That still left the question of where Max was on those nights. Maybe he was sleeping on a friend's couch, but if he was, Max never hung out with the friend. Whatever he was doing, Max didn't talk about it. Of course, he never talked about much of anything.

Compared to the other five rock boys, Max came off as distant in a sad, melancholy way. Jesse was defiant and challenging, daring anyone to make fun of his being gay. Sancho, with his shaggy blond surfer locks, flushed cheeks and straight nose, was pretty, end of story. Travis was the life of the party, looking for thrills and trouble. Alex played the part of the mischievous prankster, his body a billboard display of tattoos and piercings. Damian was the androgynous boy with long curls that looked gay but was a hit among the ladies and spent his nights fucking pussy. Max, on the other hand, was hard to pin down. He always was the outsider. As I focused on him, that element of his personality aroused my curiosity and interest.

Max's taciturn ways made it all the more surprising that he knocked on my door on Friday afternoon after the last exams in December and asked if he could speak to me. His serious look suggested some problem, and I had no intention of playing counselor to the rock boys. I almost told him he could say what he wanted standing where he was, but at the last moment I relented, cutting him a break and inviting him in.

Max slumped on my couch and looked nervous. He had a long, straight nose and a pale, almost austere face with tight lips. His short, spiked hair was blond, not the sun bleached, streaked blond of Sancho, but light and pale. He had taken to growing thin sideburns. On Max they tweaked his clean cut, all-American blond-boy image just enough to add an edgy aspect to his looks. They made him look just slightly reckless. His face wasn't bad, but all-in-all more handsome than pretty.

Max's abs, however, were something else. They looked like they were carved from marble. He had a nice chest, good arms – hell, all the rock jocks could say the same thing – and long, strong legs covered with faint blond fuzz that was invisible until the light hit it just right. But his abs were like a blinking neon sign on a dark street. They stood out, and I couldn't look at him when he was shirtless without being riveted to his hard stomach. You almost didn't notice the big dragon and eagle tattoo on the right side of his torso because it was so hard to pry your eyes from his eight pack.

Seated on my couch, Max looked at the floor and fidgeted. I remained standing, my 6'5" frame towering over him. Max licked his lips and said, "I have a huge favor to ask of you."

Wondering what this was all about, I said, "Go on," with a stern look. I wasn't going to make it easy on Max. I played it the way I usually did with the rock boys: distant, aloof and dominant.

"I... uh, don't know how to ask this, so I'll just come right out and say it," Max said. "Would you fuck me while this guy watches?"

"What the hell?" I sputtered, trying to assimilate the shot out of deep left field.

"Look, I can explain," Max hastened to say, raising his hands as if he was afraid I was going to punch him in the face. He took a deep breath and started in. "This is kinda embarrassing. Well, it's fucking embarrassing. My parents cut me off this year and to pay tuition and make ends meet, I've been, well, having sex with a few guys. For money. One of them offered to pay a lot to watch me get fucked by a black guy with a big cock."

Holy shit, I thought. Max was a hustler. I had no clue, absolutely no clue, which made me feel stupid. I was the supposedly savvy, sophisticated urban guy from Chicago, with four years in Boston and summers in New York, and I was oblivious to Max turning tricks under my nose. It never occurred to me that guys paid for sex in a small college town in Montana.

"And, uh, well," Max continued, mumbling, "Travis and I smoked a little weed last week, and he told me that you fucked him several times. And that you had a big cock. So I thought maybe you'd fuck me, too. I don't really know any black guys other than you and Jermaine on the track team, and he doesn't have a big cock." I wondered how Max knew the size of Jermaine's cock. Showering after track practice was the obvious answer. But maybe not the only answer.

So much for my theory that the rock boys didn't talk about getting their asses fucked. I suspected that Sancho, Alex and Damian had been tight lipped, but it didn't surprise me to discover Travis shooting off his mouth. The kid had no filters, particularly when he smoked. Oddly enough, Jesse didn't talk either. Not that he was embarrassed in the least, he just didn't think it was anyone's business.

I was too stunned by Max's request to think clearly. For some odd reason, I asked, "Did you fuck Travis after you both got stoned?" Why did I ask that? Who the hell cares?

Max stared at the floor and, blushing, said, "Yeah." He looked up at me and added, "He isn't into guys but likes getting fucked when he's stoned. He was so messed up that he begged me to do him. He said taking my cock was like a mini hot dog after your giant sausage."

I almost smiled but was still too surprised by the conversation. Instead, my mind whirled as I began to hatch a plot. "So, let me get this straight," I said. "You're busy selling your pale ass to whoever in this town will throw twenty bucks at you, and you get a chance for a big payday, but you need me to make it happen. What's in it for me?"

"I'd, uh, I'd split the money with you?" Max asked hopefully.

"Right," I said, loudly. I started pacing back and forth in front of Max, jabbing my finger at him as I spoke. "So you're off selling your ass all over town and now you want to trap me into the same little game. You want to make me a fucking whore, too, by taking money for sex. Why is that? So you can turn me in, too, when you get busted for male prostitution? Are you out of your fucking mind?"

Max had incredibly beautiful blue eyes, and they were wide open in shock. I wanted to throw him on the floor and fuck his ass until dawn, staring into his eyes as I used him for cock practice. "Uh, no, uh, I don't want to get you in trouble," he rushed to say.

"Of course not," I taunted him. "All you thought about was how much money you were going to pocket."

Max, chastised, shook his head and said, "I wasn't thinking." He chewed his lip.

The kid was smart, and honest to boot. I had him where I wanted him. "How much money was this mystery guy going to pay you?"

"Five hundred," Max said. He was back to his taciturn ways.

Not a ton. Nothing by Chicago or Boston standards, or God forbid New York, but not bad for rural Montana. "How many times have you done it with this guy?" I asked. I was going to interrogate the fucker. He would feel like he had spent hours under a harsh light when I was done with him.

"Never," Max said.

"Never?" I repeated, my voice dripping with sarcasm and making it clear that I didn't believe what I had just heard.

Max glanced up and added, "He only likes to watch." As I continued to stare at him, his eyes focused on the floor and he added, "I guess he got tired of seeing me jack off."

"How many other men have you been servicing?" I pressed.

"Four," Max said.

"You got four old guys paying to fuck your ass?" I responded, wondering how the hell Max had assembled a little black book of five johns in a small college town.

"Only two fuck me," Max said dully. "I fuck the other two guys. Mr. Anderson, he only watches."

"And what, you do them every week?" I asked.

"Or two," Max nodded, eyes downcast.

I suddenly had the explanation for Max's overnight disappearances. "How long you been selling your ass?" I asked.

Max hesitated, biting his lip and glancing at the floor, making me think what he was about to say wasn't the entire truth. "Since the beginning of the school year," he said. "Like I said, my parents cut me off," he added. He was hiding something.

"But this school year isn't the first time you took money and opened up your asshole for a stiff cock, is it?" I said.

Max bit his lip again. Defeat and resignation showed in his stark blue eyes. He sighed and said, "In high school, a guy used to give me stuff. Not that much money. But clothes and video games and stuff."

"Who was this guy?" I pressed.

"My track coach," Max said, his voice flat. I had a feeling that he had never told anyone about it.

"So on those road trips to track and cross country meets, coach got a work out, too, but late at night. A little exercise fucking his star athlete?" I said with a sneer. "And I suppose there were meetings at his house to discuss training, but what really went down was that he trained you to service his cock? Trained you to suck cock and take it up the ass?"

"Pretty much," Max said, surprised to hear me size up his situation so quickly. It wasn't that hard to piece together. Oldest story in the book.

"Did you like that, like being the coach's pet?" I said.

Max took a deep breath. "I don't know," he admitted. "Sort of... not really. I don't know."

Max was conflicted by what he had done in high school. Not a big surprise. But he liked something about the experience. The sex? The money? "So you've been a rent boy for what, three, four years?" I asked.

Max had never confronted the fact that he was a rent boy, and had never focused on how long it had been going on. He eyes were blank. "Yeah," he mumbled. He swallowed and said, "Four years," as his voice trailed off.

"Do your parents know?" I asked.

Max's eyes flared briefly, but his steely mask returned. "No. Finding out I was gay was all it took for them to kick me out. I haven't spoken to them since I left for school in August. It will be a long, long time before I see either of them again, if I ever do." I felt sorry for Max. Nobody should have to endure getting disowned for being gay.

A couple of the rock climbers had made home visits over the course of the fall, but neither Max nor Damian had. I wondered where Max had gone over the long Thanksgiving break if he hadn't gone home.

"You have a nice Thanksgiving vacation?" I asked with a sneer.

Max's face flushed and he clenched his jaws. "It was okay," he said quietly.

"Just okay?" I grinned.

Max apparently decided I was going to pry the story out of him one way or the other, so he might as well spill the beans. He sighed and said, "Mr. Beson took me to San Francisco. I had never been."

"Ah, how sweet," I said sarcastically. "A little vacation with a sugar daddy. I bet he took you shopping for clothes. Did you get anything nice? Maybe a designer shirt? How did you like being Beson's little trophy?"

Max was uncomfortable being forced to reveal his extracurricular activities and not happy to have landed on my couch in a discussion of them. His eyes told me that I had hit a nerve. He hesitated, finally mumbling, "I didn't like it." His eyes plead with me to stop.

Max didn't like being a trophy. A designer shirt wasn't his style. But there was something more. Something about the experience, beyond getting his rocks off, enthralled Max. It lured him like a moth to a flame, an irresistible attraction. I probed some more.

"Tell me, Max," I said, "when you were out to dinner with Beson in San Francisco, how did it feel when the waiters looked at you and smirked, knowing you were trade and Beson was your sugar daddy? Knowing that you sold your ass for money? Did they make snide comments about exactly what was going to happen later in the night, about how Beson's cock was going to be buried in your shitter?"

Max's eyes flared. "You're right," he said slowly. "Exactly right. Beson was with a friend from San Francisco, and Beson likes to show off, especially when he's drunk. He made me wear a polo shirt that was too small, with no underwear and jeans that rode low on my ass and showed my dick. All so I would look the part of being a rent boy. He made suggestive comments and groped me all night, and the waiters joined in the fun, hoping for a big tip. By the end, the entire restaurant knew I had been bought and paid for." Max seemed to be conflicted as he related the story. He wasn't reliving something he hated. Something about that night appealed to him.

On a hunch, I asked, "You still have that polo shirt, Max?"

"Um, yeah," Max replied, puzzled by my question. I was beginning to understand the slender runner. The shirt made him look like a slutty whore, but rather than getting rid of it, he kept it. Why?

"The waiters sneering at you didn't bother you, Max. Why not?" I asked.

Max looked at me squarely and answered calmly, "We all knew what I was and if they wanted to look down on me because of it, so what?" What appealed to Max about whoring wasn't the money or the sex. It knowing he was being used. He wanted the humiliation.

"You make a lot of money pimping yourself out?" I asked.

Max chewed his lip. "It's easy," he shrugged.

My interrogation was torture for Max, but I needed an excuse to put the twink in his place, and he had just given it to me. I lurched at him, grabbing his jaws in my hand and snarling, "I asked how much money you're pocketing! Answer me!" Surprise and fear showed in Max's eyes. Good, I thought. I needed to milk his fear.

"A hundred," he gasped. "One fifty from Anderson. Four hundred for Thanksgiving."

I laughed, shoving his head away. "You're a fucking cheap hoe."

Stepping back, I crossed my hands across my chest. Body language. I didn't want Max to feel any element of comfort. "Why shouldn't I just turn you in? Call the cops, report you to Student Affairs, get you expelled?" I would never do that to Max, or anyone else for that matter. But that was a fact Max didn't know.

Max's face turned white. "Don't... please don't do that," he stammered.

"Why not?!" I shouted.

"I'm just trying to stay in school!" Max pleaded.

I stepped back. I surmised that I had softened the kid up enough. I stared at him for a long time. I suppose you could call his looks exotic. Not pretty, but exotic. He was too rawboned to be handsome in the normal sense. The thin face and the long nose, high cheekbones and pale blond, spiked hair. I wasn't particularly attracted to him, but I was more than ready to fixate on those amazing abs as I destroyed his hole.

"So, if I help you out, what's in it for me, since we've already established that I don't want your money?" I asked.

Max frowned. He had assumed that I would accept his offer because I fucked Travis and, presumably, would want to fuck him, too. If a free shot at his ass wasn't enough, splitting the money from the gig was the obvious solution. But when I rejected those options, Max didn't have a backup plan. "I'll, I'll do whatever you want," he stuttered, looking up at me with big, pleading eyes.

"Anything?" I pressed.

Max nodded eagerly. He was relieved to see light at the end of the tunnel, but he was about to find out that it was a long, long tunnel.

"Okay," I said. "So here's the deal. I'll fuck your ass for your friend Anderson. I won't take it easy on you. In fact, I hope your john likes seeing you get roughed up, because he'll get quite a show. I'm going to destroy your boi pussy until you're going to want to scream. But you won't scream. Not with him in the room. You'll take it, take it all. You'll suck it up and take it like the good little whore you are. Anderson will probably like seeing your ass ripped to shreds. Maybe he'll give you a big tip. You keep all the money, every penny of it. I don't want to touch it."

Max stared expectantly. "In exchange," I said, "you're my bitch. Until the end of the school year, any time I text you, you drop what you're doing and hustle your ass to wherever I say. And then I use you to get off. Use you as a cum dump. The bad news for you is that I like sex. You may be taking it up the ass four, five times a day. But you'll do it with a smile, call me `Sir,' and never, never complain. You got that?"

Max was dumbfounded. But he quickly nodded assent. It crossed my mind that he agreed a little too quickly. "Just so you understand, you break any part of this agreement, and I go to the cops and the University the next day." It was an empty threat, but Max gave me a stronger, assured nod.

After Max's story about his track coach and his parents, I felt sorry for him. I don't know why, and it wasn't like me, but I gave him an out. "Get the fuck out of here and I'll forget we ever had this conversation," I said. "I won't go to the cops or the University and you can go back to doing whatever you want to do with your life. Or you can accept the arrangement I just described. Your choice. Leave or stay."

Max stared at me, digesting his options. He paused a moment, his eyes flickering with something between lust, uncertainty and fear. But he looked squarely into my eyes and said confidently, "I'm staying." It wasn't the answer I expected.

"You sure, white boy?" I asked. "I'm serious about owning your fucking whore holes and using them as a cum dump. I'm serious about making you my bitch."

"I'm staying, sir," Max said, this time adamant. He meant it. I nodded in response, wondering if I had opened Pandora's Box, but ready to nail my sixth rock climber.

Jesse and Max were now both in the fuck-at-will category. Aside from their holes, my cock would be getting serviced monthly by Kent's manhole, and an occasional fling with a stoned and insanely horny Travis was in the cards. Add some threesomes or foursomes with Kyle, his muscle stud boyfriend and his furry model friend, and my cock was going to be well cared for at last. I could dick one of the white rock climbers every night of the week if I wanted.

I had had my way with Sancho, Alex and Damian, and I didn't see using any of them again, although you never knew. Hell, I could see doing Damian again. I liked his long hair and tight body, and, whether he remembered it or not, he volunteered that I could fuck him whenever I wanted. Sancho's broad shoulders and shaggy bleached-blond hair were a turn on, and I loved the thought of seeing Alex's sarcastic, mischievous mouth wrapped around my cock. Maybe I would cycle through all of the rock boys again. The frat bully Trent would come crawling to get his ass spanked and filled with jizz if I so much as hinted I would discipline him again. I wasn't likely to have another night with Jake or Akili or Shane, but I couldn't rule it out.

But first there was Max.

"What are you waiting for, slut?" I asked. "Your ass is mine, and I'm going to use it right now. Strip, get on your knees and suck my cock. Get it good and slippery because otherwise it is going to tear your ass to shreds when I breed you like a bitch." Earlier I had tied my long dreadlocks into a pony tail, but I untied them and let them fall across my shoulders. I liked them loose when I fucked.

Max jumped to comply with my orders. As he stripped, his lean, ripped body looked amazing. After I had pried everything out of Max about his hustling, he was relieved, even eager, to be following my orders. Suddenly it clicked. Max was painfully shy and reserved, which meant he wasn't a natural rent boi. Whether they are tops or bottoms, a good hustler is an extrovert, taking charge and leading reluctant johns to where they want to go. Max was too passive.

But he was passive enough to be a good, maybe a great submissive. He wanted to be used and humiliated. When I gave him the choice to leave or stay, the kid stayed because he wanted to follow my orders, wanted me to make him my bitch. He wanted me to abuse him, wanted me to enslave him. Neither Max's high school track coach nor Beson did it for Max because they put him on a pedestal. Max wanted it the other way around. He lusted for the shame of being a sex toy. He wanted to be used for sex. What he liked in San Francisco wasn't Beson buying him fancy clothes. It was the degradation of the waiters sneering because he was a rent boi, knowing that his ass was for sale, and seeing him for the whore he was.

Max wasn't going to have the pedestal problem with me and I had plenty of humiliation for him. The kid needed a big leather collar. Some wrist cuffs and ankle cuffs, too. I wondered if Anderson would pay more to see me fuck Max's brains out while he was handcuffed, a heavy iron chain hanging from his thin neck. I might have to find out.

I eased my cock from my pants and Max's eyes betrayed a moment of shock at its size. But the kid's ice blue eyes quickly showed the signs of lust and determination, and he dropped to his knees like a trooper. I was more convinced than ever that my hunch about Max being a born sub was correct.

I shoved Max's face into my crotch and snarled, "Smell it. Get used to the scent. You're gonna come to love it, crave it. You're gonna want your nose in my junk whenever you can. My manscent is gonna get you off, make you hard just thinking about it. You'll be begging me to give you a sniff of my ass, my taint, my sweaty balls." I could see the gears turning. Smelling a man's masculine scent wasn't something Max had considered. But now he was thinking about it, thinking about the humiliation of being forced to breathe with my junk in his face. The idea that he would come to lust after my scent was planted and beginning to grow.

Max began licking and mouthing me. He stared up at me, seeking my approval. To get any validation from me, the hoe was going to have to work very hard. But that was what he would do. He focused intently on my cock and balls, using his hands, watching for any signs from me.

Soon he had my dong down his throat and was sucking like a pro. I guess, technically, he was a pro. I debated whether Jesse or Max was the better cocksucker, but they were both damn good. Neither was in Akili's or Jake's league, but Max could get there, with work. Judging from the early signs, Max would put in the time and effort required. He wanted it.

I let Max mouth me for a long time, but I was ready for prime time. I had been sort of gentle – well, gentle for me – with the straight rock boys for fear that I would freak them out. But the blond twink on his knees in front of me was about to find out what it meant to serve a dominant black man.

"You're good at that, slut," I said, giving him the encouragement he desperately wanted. I pulled my cock from Max's mouth and slapped it across his face. "Now let's see if you are good at getting butt fucked. Get on your back and spread your ass cheeks. I own your hole, and I'm about to show you what it's like to be bred like a bull breeds a cow."

Max was still shell shocked at the size of the cock that was destined for his ass, but he meekly complied. I found a tube of lube and squeezed a gob of it into Max's tight fuck chute. I followed with two fingers, causing Max to grunt as I found his prostate and toyed with it just enough to make Max want more.

I coated my cock with lube, jacking it to full mast. Max kept his legs raised high, his eyes betraying fear as he contemplated the black rod that was about to impale his ass. I had no doubt that the kid was going to take everything I could dish out. Deep down, he wanted this as much as I did.

"Yeah, bitch," I said, "This big block cock is going to live inside your guts. Get familiar with it. It's gonna hurt like hell, and you're gonna scream your head off. But you know something? You're gonna start liking it. Start liking how full it makes you feel. Start liking the feeling that you're serving da man. And then, you won't want to live without it. You are gonna be addicted to my horse dick."

After that speech, I had to make sure Max felt it, so I rammed my pole inside him in one quick, violent trust. I regretted it, because he was tighter than fuck and it hurt to take him so fast. For his part, Max yelled at the top of his lungs and then began gasping, tears welling in his eyes.

I pulled out to let Max's ass and my throbbing cock relax, then pushed back inside his fuck chute. I started slowly but soon got into a good pattern, pulling out of Max's hairless white fuck hole and then powering back in as far as I could go, making Max groan each time I hit bottom. My pace quickened until I was slam fucking the white running boy, the sounds of Max's ass being drilled echoing against the brick walls of my apartment.

I had fucked Jesse earlier in the day, sending him off on Christmas vacation with a sore ass dripping with black ball spunk. So without heavy pressure on my nuts, I was prepared for the long haul. I rode Max like the whore he was, drilling his chute, powering into him, fucking his pussy. Before long, I worked up a good sweat – even in December the gas station was hot – and Max's smooth, tight skin was glistening, too. I ran one hand over his taut abs. They felt like round river rocks separated by deep crevasses.

Max's cock, by no means small, had been semi-hard from the moment he stripped, but it stiffened until it was rock hard. The fucking little hoe liked getting used as a cum dump! I wrapped my big hand around his prick and began to pump his cock in time to my thrusts into his whore hole.

I was surprised at the size of Max's dick. Not as big as mine, but within a couple of inches. I could see his appeal as a hustler. Fuck, the kid could do porn, too. Being a smooth young twink with blond hair, in porn he would be a natural bottom. But with the big dick he could top, too.

I hadn't planned on it, but I brought Max off moments before I shot and seeded him. Max's cum shot like a geyser onto his abs and then began to drain off the ridges of his muscles and into the valleys of his eight pack. The vision sent me over the top, and my load jetted into Max's rent boi ass. Cum covered, with sweat plastering his lank blond hair to his forehead, the kid looked damn good.

Max was true to his word. I never once heard him call me anything but `Sir.' I was right about him being a natural sub. He was totally comfortable in the role, relieved to have a well scripted part to play. He opened his mouth and ass anytime I wanted. The day after Max made his fateful visit to my room, we did the thing for Anderson, who turned out to be an old white rancher in a wheelchair. He was thrilled that I not only had the big cock he wanted to see (and touch), but also had long dreadlocks. He enjoyed watching me abuse Max so much that I thought he was going to have a heart attack. The only bad thing was that I had to pull out of Max's boi cunt before cumming so Anderson could see my spunk spurt all over Max's face. I made Max slurp down every drop of my jism, but I didn't doubt that was what Max would have done anyway.

I had always kinda liked performing for an audience. The show for Anderson was hot enough that I took Max home after we were done and fucked his brains out, balling his tight ass two more times.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Let me know if you are enjoying the story as it develops. Coltonaalto@gmail.com

Chapter Sixteen continues Max's story and will hopefully be up in another week or two. Hope you are finding the story to be fun.

© Copyright Colton Aalto 2015