BBC on Campus

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BBC ON CAMPUS

CHAPTER FOUR – CYCLING FOR ROCK BOY ASS

The ready availability of Jesse's dancer-boi ass acted like a pressure relief value, taking the worst stress off on my balls and somewhat making up for the absence of regular cum dumps and fuck buddies. Dancing gave the kid the proverbial buns of steel, and seeing his ass cheeks flexed when he did the splits he drove me crazy. He did them regularly while riding my cock, his legs spread wide on each side of me at a 90 degree angle. Watching his ass blew me away. If I had let him, the fucking pussy boi would have lived on my cock and probably would have claimed squatter's rights – so to speak.

I wasn't giving up on my mission of boning the other five college rock climbers, however. Like a gray wolf, I watched them from afar, waiting for the right opportunity to strike.

A couple of weeks after my first invasion of Jesse's ass, I decided to take my mountain bike up one of the local trails. The ride was a tough climb but ended at a panoramic overlook above the town and the University. The weather was sunny and hot for mid-September, and I reasoned that I had best take advantage of the opportunity to be outdoors, because Montana's winter would descend soon enough.

I stretched and warmed up, and was about to clip into my bike pedals when Sancho emerged from the gas station, wearing bike shorts and blinking in the bright sun. His shaggy, sun-bleached blond hair hung over his ears. "You going for a ride?" he asked hopefully.

"Yeah, I heard the Marathon Point trail is a good workout," I answered.

"Huh," Sancho said, "if you don't mind your legs burning for the last five miles. That's where I'm headed. There's a great wall at the top that I want to climb. Mind if I tag along? I can't get anyone else to go."

I shrugged and said, "No problem."

Sancho was wearing a tight Lycra bike jersey that made his arms and chest look awesome, but I quickly concluded that seeing the rock jock shirtless would be better. If I was going to struggle and sweat for three hours on my bike, I might as well have a visual to take my mind off my screaming lungs and legs. I stripped off my bike jersey and said, "I'm thinking that I don't want to carry any more weight up that mountain than I absolutely have to."

Sancho smiled and quickly agreed, saying, "Fuck, that sounds right to me," as he stripped off his own jersey. Shaggy haired surfer boys weren't normally my thing, but Sancho had an upper body to die for. His legs weren't bad by any means, but his delts, triceps and biceps were art. I still was trying to figure out how a blond, blue eyed kid from North Dakota ended up with the name Sancho.

We were an odd couple. Sancho was probably 5'11," which meant I had six inches on him. His long, thick, bleached blond hair was a tousled mess, while my black dreadlocks cascaded over my shoulders. Oddly, even though he was white and I was black, between Sancho's dark tan and my light colored skin, we didn't look that different.

Marathon Point got its name because the trail was 26.2 miles to the top, the exact distance of a marathon. If the route had been flat or even rolling, it would have been an easy bike ride, but instead the trail rose more than a mile, a precise 1,700 meters. The average grade was 4%, but that easy-sounding number masked some steep sections between 15% and 18%. Plus, being unpaved, the trail was much more challenging than smooth asphalt.

In a way, the difficulty of the trail was good, because after we passed the halfway point, we were the only two cyclists on the trail. My bike shorts were soaked with sweat by the time we summited, and I had gulped down most of my water. Fortunately we crossed a small stream near the top and refilled our bottles. There are times when cold, fresh water tastes like the best thing ever. Granted, at other times that category is filled by an ice cold beer or a smooth, rich wine.

The climb ended on a rock shelf with a spectacular view of the valley below, dotted with the buildings of the town and the university, stretching to the mountains in the distance. A strand of Aspen trees on the shelf was already changing colors, and the uniform gold hue of the leaves was a clear signal that fall was approaching. The small, oval Aspen leaves shimmered as they danced and twisted in the light breeze. It wasn't the multicolored riot of the changing leaves in New England, but instead a rich monotone. Arrayed against the cobalt blue sky, the gold leaves were spectacular.

At the back of the shelf was the rock face Sancho wanted to scale. He rested for twenty minutes before tackling the climb. "Climbing this after killing myself on the bike is the dumbest fucking thing I'll ever do," he muttered as he walked to the base of the cliff.

Sancho surveyed the route to the top before beginning the ascent. He asked me to help him get up to the first handhold, so I lifted him up, feeling his smooth skin and straining muscles as he pulled his body weight up by his fingers. My hands moved to his hard ass muscles as he rose higher. Finally he was on his own, dangling from hand holds that I could barely see, if I made them out at all.

There was not much for me do other than to watch in fascination as Sancho slowly but persistently worked his way upwards. His fingers and toes found tiny crevasses and ridges in the stone. The rock face was a buff, light tan color, and Sancho's tanned body stood out against the cliff as the sun beat down on him. Sancho angled higher and higher, and after several stops and starts, he finally eased himself to the top. Watching his climb was impressive: elegant and powerful, a display of precision, strength and stamina.

Sancho was the youngest of four farm boys, and while he was growing up his older brothers considered him fair game, picking on him mercilessly. Sancho wasn't one to run to his parents. Whenever one of his brothers would pull a stunt, Sancho blamed himself for being stupid enough to fall for it or just accepted it as what older brothers did. He took everything his brothers dished out, never complaining. Even though Sancho was a top high school athlete, he never eclipsed his brothers' exploits, and between being pummeled by this brothers at home and perceiving himself as inferior at sports, the kid had zero self-confidence.

Unfortunately for Sancho, Travis and Alex picked up where Sancho's brothers left off, nicknaming Sancho biscuit' and calling him farm boy.' Sancho wasn't dumb by any means – he was at Westcliffe on a partial academic scholarship – but having grown up miles from any town with a traffic light, his naivety and lack of sophistication made him seem slow. Alex and Travis kidded him constantly. For Sancho, it was a continuation of the treatment his brothers dished out, but he was good natured about it, even dumping on himself now and then. On top of everything, Sancho, channeling his North Dakota farm boy upbringing, was as gullible as they came. Travis and Alex could talk him into doing almost anything they suggested, and Sancho believed virtually everything they invented. That combination made him an easy target for Alex's pranks. True to form, Sancho blamed himself for whatever went down.

After Sancho's cliff climb, we sprawled out on the shelf overlooking the valley, taking in the sun and the breeze. I was enjoying the relaxed and mellow feeling that descends after strenuous exercise and I almost thought I could fall asleep. One part of me, however, had no intention of sleeping. To say I had been neglecting my cock – at least compared to the pace back in Chicago and Boston – was an understatement. It pressed against the Lycra of my bike shorts.

To make matters worse, I started thinking about how good Sancho's muscular arms and chest and his tight stomach looked. And how good his ass felt as I lifted him up at the start of the climb. My cock stirred and announced its presence. The one-time diversion into Kyle's fuck hole and the ready availability of Jesse's tight ass notwithstanding, I hadn't gotten nearly enough action since I moved to Westcliffe. I never liked whacking myself off, which meant my balls weren't getting drained often enough. I didn't need a boyfriend at this stage, but a couple of regular fuck buddies along with a slut cum-puppy would have come in handy.

I glanced at Sancho to find him looking at my crotch intently. Maybe he had seen my cock move inside my tight Lycra shorts. They weren't doing much to hide my basket. Sancho's face was still flushed from exertion, making his ruddy cheeks stand out more than normal. On the spur of the moment, I squeezed my cock and dragged it out of my bike shorts. Freed from the confines of the tight Lycra, and with the waistband of my shorts pressing underneath my balls, my cock responded with a happy lurch.

"Holy shit, that thing is huge!" Sancho blurted out. His eyes looked like they were about to bug out of his head.

"You've been scoping it out, why don't you touch it?" I asked. I didn't actually think Sancho had been checking me out, and I was not expecting Sancho to do anything more than tell me to fuck off. Still, if Alex and Travis could get Sancho to do anything they suggested, it was worth a shot.

Sancho only said, "Fuck," staring at my dick with his mouth slightly open like my prick had hypnotized him.

Sancho hadn't run away, which was promising, but he had hadn't jumped on my dick, either. I needed to break the stalemate. I moved slightly, eliminating the distance between us, leaving my big black cock inches from Sancho's thickly veined hand. To my amazement Sancho moved slowly forward and touched my piece. He cautiously pulled the foreskin down, watching with fascination as the head of my uncut slab of black meat emerged and expanded.

Sancho's actions didn't surprise me. Straight guys are as curious about other guys' dicks as gay boys are. The difference is that straight boys don't want to give into their curiosity for fear of appearing gay, and gay boys' don't want to stop at mere curiosity. By putting my big black cock practically in Sancho's hand, I made it easy for Sancho to surrender to his natural urge.

Most guys, gay or straight, check other guys out. It's natural. White boys are extra interested when it comes to black men because they've heard black men are hung. It must have been a complete accident that Sancho happened to be wondering about my dick at the instant I pulled it out of my bike shorts. Or maybe he was just amazed that my cock was so big and wanted to see if it was real. With my dick in front of him, Sancho acted without thinking, mindlessly doing what I told him to do.

I grabbed Sancho's shaggy blond hair and forced his head toward my dick. I wasn't particularly gentle – well, I wasn't gentle at all – but the thought of seeing Sancho go down on me was too enticing. "Yeah, get on my dick," I urged him. "Put it in your mouth." With my thickening dick shoved in his face, Sancho did nothing for a few long moments, but then tentatively licked my cock. He stopped as if to reassure himself that it didn't taste gross. I wondered if he was even cognizant of my dick being attached to my body, because he acted like he was visualizing it floating in space in front of his eyes. Perhaps in Sancho's mind I had turned into one of his brothers and Sancho was doing what he always did, following orders.

I moved slightly to position my piece against Sancho's lips, and I pressed forward, demanding entrance. The surfer boy didn't relent. I was beyond the point of no return by then. I pried Sancho's mouth open with one hand and grabbed his hair with the other, forcing his head down on my cock. At last, the warmth of Sancho's wet mouth surrounded my fuck stick.

I had to keep my hands on Sancho's head, guiding him, but in a couple of minutes, he was giving me head, slowly taking me into his mouth, feeling how a hard cock felt with his tongue. I moaned, not believing that my big black cock was slick with Sancho's spit and was disappearing between Sancho's red lips, the kid's bleached blond hair bouncing as he bobbed up and down on my piece.

Sancho worked my cock until it was hard, although admittedly it didn't take much. The kid was pathetic at giving head, undoubtedly his first time, but I was so excited at the thought that he was sucking my cock – or at least trying to – that it didn't matter. However, I wasn't going to settle for a bad blow job – or worse yet, a half-hearted hand job. I grabbed a handful of Sancho's shaggy blond hair and pulled him off my cock. "You shouldn't have done that," I told him, my voice steely. Sancho looked up at me wide-eyed, as if he realized for the first time what he had spent the last ten minutes doing. Going down on another guy, giving him head. "Because once I get hard," I went on, "I need an ass or a pussy to fuck, and your ass is the only hole around. You caused this problem, and now your ass is going to solve it."

Before Sancho could react, I spun him around on all fours and pulled his bike shorts down, revealing his a tight bubble butt. And a stark tan line just above his ass crack. The farm boy obviously did his chores shirtless. I had a vision of Sancho, shirtless and sweaty, as his muscles strained with the effort of tossing bales of hay.

I was surprised by how furry Sancho's ass cheeks were. He had a smooth chest – hell, all of the rock boys were smooth – but below the waist he was completely different. The blond hair on his legs, glowing in the sunlight, ran all the way up to his ass cheeks. My type of ass. Plump and muscular all at the same time, ready to have a cock shoved inside it. My dick was slick with Sancho's spit, and Sancho's ass still glistened with sweat, so Sancho's dance card had a single entry – a raw fuck.

Fucking outdoors is hot. Even a slight breeze, blowing across naked skin, adds an element of excitement. And the risk of being caught or watched introduces a measure of urgency and danger than can be a turn on. Something about being naked, your ass and cock exposed to the sun and the wind, feels good. I was ready for a wild fuck in the wild, with my second rock climber as my target.

I spread Sancho's ass cheeks and, before he could react, stuck a finger inside him, then a second one. "God, what are you doing?" Sancho gasped. I had the blond twink's prostrate under my control, but I knew I needed to move quickly before Sancho's brain put together what was about to happen. Using a finger from each hand, I opened his ass crack wider and wider, keeping the pressure on his prostrate while positioning my cock at his hole.

Fucker never knew what hit him. I withdrew my fingers and in their place, eased the head of my cock into his hole. Sancho blurted out, "Oh, shit!" I wouldn't have been surprised to hear him scream at the top of his lungs and tell me to get my fucking cock out of his hole. But if that option occurred to him, he never acted on it. Instead his body was rigid as he concentrated on dealing with my intrusion. I saw his big hands, used to pulling his body up the side of cliffs, clutch the rock shelf we were on. Subconsciously he was gripping the rock to deal with the pain of my cock ripping his guts apart. He was well trained.

I was too sex-crazed to go easy on him. As soon as I was halfway inside his tight hole, I rammed my cock all the way in, causing Sancho groan and exclaim. Damn, the farm boy's ass was tight. His hands were clenching the rock so hard that thick veins had popped out of his forearms. He was holding his breath, just taking short, gasping gulps of air.

I began to ride him with quick strokes, pulling my dick out a couple of inches before pushing back inside. As I got into a good rhythm, I pulled out farther and farther, until just the head of my cock stayed in Sancho's hole. With both of our bodies sweaty from the bike ride and the merciless sun, in no time my groin was making loud smacking sounds as it slammed into Sancho's wonderful ass. My black pubes met Sancho's white-blond ass fur in a blur.

My hands traced Sancho's taut back and arm muscles, feeling the smooth skin stretched across thick, rock-hard mounds of muscle. Sweat kept running into my eyes, obscuring the visual of my black bull cock as it drilled repeatedly into Sancho's ass.

Feeling Sancho's muscular back and seeing Sancho's arms flexed as he grabbed the rock got me hornier than hell. Keeping my cock wedged in Sancho's ass, I got to my feet, squatting down so I could continue to power fuck him. It wasn't a position I could hold for a long time, particularly as my thighs were already drained from the bike ride. I rammed Sancho in rapid-fire fashion, driving my cock into his tight college butt, feeling my cum rise.

The change of position was good for Sancho in end – so to speak – because I didn't take long before nutting inside him, blowing a huge load of cum deep into his guts. I pulled Sancho's ass onto my cock as I shot, wave after wave of spunk rocketing into the farm boy's furry chute.

I had been totally focused on my own dick and hadn't even touched Sancho's, so as I recovered, panting and with my dick still buried deep inside his fuck hole, I reached around and grabbed his prick. It was totally soft, so I didn't bother with it. I was a little disappointed that he hadn't gotten hard, but then he was straight, so what should I have expected?

I pulled out and sat down to recover. Sancho rolled over on his back. He mechanically pulled his bike shorts up, looking a little shell-shocked, as if he couldn't recall how his bike shorts got pulled down to his knees in the first place. "Sorry about that, dude," I offered. "I don't know what came over me. Too much studying and not enough recreation, I guess. You kinda opened Pandora's box."

Sancho looked at me, suddenly terrified. He took a big gulp and blurted, "You can't tell anyone what happened."

It wasn't what I expected, but so far nothing about the day with Sancho had been what I expected. I should have reassured him, but instead I toyed with him. "What part of what just happened?" I asked. "You going down on a guy, you getting your ass fucked, or you taking my black ball juice in your ass? Or the fact that you enjoyed getting your ass drilled?"

Sancho's eyes widened, and he started, "I didn't..." His voice trailed off, as if he was trying to recall exactly what he was going to deny. He couldn't deny going down on me or getting fucked or the fact that my black rod had invaded his ass. But enjoying it? Had he just realized that he enjoyed some part of sucking me and getting fucked? Or was he just doing what he always did with his brothers, blaming himself?

Straight boys are predictable. Thinking about getting fucked grosses them out, and, most of all, violates their masculine self-image. When a cock invades their ass and it hurts, their take on butt sex is only reinforced. But as their asses relax and the pain goes away, things start to change. Straight boys' prostrates are usually unknown passengers in their bodies, until their first bottoming experience, and after their prostrates send feel-good sensations to their brains, they freak out. Confusion reigns as they wonder why it feels so good if they don't like guys.

"Fuck, yeah, you enjoyed it," I snorted. "My dick didn't just fly into your mouth by itself." I wasn't above rewriting history a bit, and I also wasn't above contributing to Sancho's confusion about what had happened. "Hell, you loved it," I said, "but that's okay. I'm cool with that."

Sancho stared at me blankly. Cute boys aren't my thing, but if they were I probably would have been hooked at that instant, because in his wide-eyed terror and innocence, Sancho was adorable. I debated pressing him further, but decided to cut him a break, so instead I stuffed my cock back inside my bike shorts and gave Sancho a light punch on the shoulder. "Don't worry, dude," I said, smiling. "I'm just playing with you. I don't talk about the pussy I get or asses I fuck. That's not cool."

Sancho looked partially relieved, but I could tell his mind was whirling with the implications of what had happened. He had just had sex with another man, and the ass that got fucked was his. "What happened is just something we can laugh about – just the two of us, nobody else will know," I told him, pulling myself to my feet. Laughing was one thing Sancho was unlikely to be doing when he recalled my cock being up his butt.

"Get your ass moving, slug," I said. "Let's toast the downhill!"

We clipped in and had ridden barely a mile when two cyclists met us, climbing up the trail. They were the real thing, moving faster by far than Sancho and I had been when we struggled up the last mile to the summit. We moved to the side of the trail to let the climbers pass, following protocol and yielding to the uphill riders. If the two guys weren't professional cyclists, they were close; their matching one-piece Lycra team suits gave them away, and they had the thin arms, massive thighs and shaved legs that marked them as pros.

As the guys passed, they nodded and thanked us, but each gave me a long stare and a faint smile. I was used to curious stares, but Sancho got an equally long stare and smile. I wondered whether we might have had a foursome if I had fucked Sancho just a few minutes longer at the top of the trail. Probably not. An audience would likely have freaked Sancho out. But watching the big thighs on the two cyclists reminded me of a hot Czech road biker I had done a couple of times in Boston. A cyclist with his massive legs in air and a tight asshole could be addictive.

The 26 miles back to town took a little more than a third of the time it had taken us to struggle up the ascent. When we pulled up to the gas station, I couldn't resist tweaking Sancho one more time.

"Whoa, dude, it looks like my cum is seeping out of your ass," I said. Sancho's bike shorts were damp with sweat – mine were too – but the idea that cum could seep through the thick padding on the shorts was absurd. However, the idea of my cum leaking from Sancho's ass wasn't absurd. The kid had probably noticed his ass was wetter and squishier than normal all the way down the mountain.

Sancho got a terror-stricken look on his face and said, "Fuck!" turning around to see if he could spot anything. I stifled a snicker.

"Look, dude," I said, continuing to play Sancho now that he had reassured himself that nothing could be seen on his bike shorts. "I'm not saying we're gonna have sex all the time, but you liked it, so maybe I'll fuck you again. Just don't, you know, hound me all the time." Sancho stared, unable to get words to form. The kid must have been a ton of fun for his brothers as he grew up. I felt kind of bad to become the latest in the line of guys that had played him.

As we stowed our bikes, Sancho found his tongue. He caught my arm and said, "About what I did, you're not going to say anything, are you?" His blue eyes were earnest and serious.

"Dude, relax," I said. As tempted as I was, I liked the kid and decided not have any more fun with him. "I don't blame you for what you did. Things like that just happen sometimes. Like I said, I'm not one to talk. The next time this will come up will be 20 years from now when we're having a beer at homecoming, and we'll wish we could still ride up the Marathon." Sancho nodded, as reassured as he was going to be.

Sancho was withdrawn for the rest of the day but back to his normal self by the next morning. Within a couple of weeks he had a steady girlfriend. Maybe part of the reason she existed was to reassure Sancho that he wasn't gay, but I knew the truth. The kid was as straight as they come. I didn't mind the fact that he had a girlfriend, except I felt bad for Sancho because she was cheating on him and seemingly everyone on campus knew, other than Sancho.

For my part, I had had my fun with Sancho, and he was not a candidate to be a regular fuck. Like the gray wolf, I liked chasing down prey. I enjoyed the challenge of hunting a straight boy and bagging him. But once conquered, there was little point in putting up with the headaches that came with straight boys. Particularly when the only reward was a piece of ass I had already bred.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Stay tuned for chapter five; Dillinger's quest takes a short detour.

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