BBC on Campus

The usual disclaimers:

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

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• 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!

I enjoy hearing your reactions to the story. Send me any thoughts and suggestions. Email: coltonaalto@gmail.com.

BBC ON CAMPUS

CHAPTER EIGHT – UNDER THE BOOT

Unless you counted Kent, who found reasons to invite me to lunch or drinks after I turned him into my once-a-month cum dump, Jake Westbrooke had become my best friend among the Westcliffe professors. That was despite having sex with Jake on the wild night at his house – or maybe because of it – and despite not having had sex with him since. Jake was friendly and relaxed and went out of his way to speak to me at faculty meetings and get-togethers.

We were an odd pair. Jake was almost 50 while I was barely old enough to buy a drink in bar. Jake was the Marlboro Man, the epitome of a rugged, handsome cowboy, his family having lived in Montana since before statehood. I was a 6'5" black man from Chicago with long dreadlocks who stood out on Westcliffe's campus like a fish out of water. When Jake was wearing his cowboy boots – and the only time I had seen him without boots was when his legs were in the air the night I fucked him – he was almost as tall as I was. Our height, coupled with our confidence, made us a commanding pair during faculty events.

Jake and I had one other thing in common. Well, more than one other thing, but we shared pale greenish eyes that looked like the eyes of a wolf. They softened Jake's look and made him look wise. They made me look like a predator, a gray wolf or an exotic Jamaican vampire.

Jake stopped me one day as I was walking through the faculty office building. He was talking to a tall student who was within an inch or two of my height. The kid's hair was light brown and his sideburns were just long enough to notice. He had a handsome, masculine face with pale blue eyes, and was dressed in a cheap polo shirt and jeans. The polo shirt looked like he had owned it since high school, and it was at least one, perhaps two sizes too small. It wasn't intentional, but the shirt hugged the kid's torso and showed off his physique in ways that were riveting. I thought his face was plain-looking until he smiled. His killer, light blue eyes lit up and his jawline was strikingly long and straight.

"Dillinger, this is Shane," Jake said, introducing us. "Shane's one of my top business students and has an opportunity to interview at both Goldman Sachs and Morgan Stanley in New York for an internship next summer. I keep telling him he's crazy not to jump on the idea. You know New York, so maybe you can convince him. I have to run to the University Regents board meeting, but see what you can do." Jake shook our hands and hurried toward the board room.

"It's not that I don't want to do the interviews," Shane said glumly, watching Jake disappear. Jake intimidated the kid. Not surprising. The man would intimidate almost anyone. "I don't know where I'd get the money for the trip," Shane said, his voice echoing dejection. "Unless I decide not to eat next semester. I can fly standby `cuz my dad works for the airlines, but hotel rooms in New York cost a fortune. And I don't have a suit."

Shane had a slim, angular body with broad shoulders and slender arms that were surprisingly muscular. I made a snap decision, based, I'm embarrassed to admit, solely on his looks. I would prefer to say that what I did stemmed from my altruistic desire to help the kid out, but it was more seeing how his ass pressed against his jeans. And those eyes and his jaw. The long, straight jaw and the bright blue eyes.

"Look," I said, "I have to go to New York in a week for some academic meetings. I'm leaving on Thursday and coming back Sunday. I'm staying at a friend's apartment, so if you want to come along, you wouldn't have to spring for a hotel room. I can't help you with the suit." Shane might get into my suits, although his waist, while slim, probably was closer to 30" rather than my 28". But supplying clothes to students was above and beyond the call of duty.

"Seriously?" Shane exclaimed. He looked to be a junior or senior, 21 or so, but in that moment he became an excited little kid.

"Yeah, no problem," I said, and we exchanged contact information.

I had second thoughts before Shane's hard, muscular ass carried his V-shaped torso down the hallway. Yeah, the kid had slender hips and awesome buns, but unless I was wildly off the mark, he was straight, and the idea of babysitting him over a long weekend in New York was idiotic. I had far different plans for my weekend in the city. But when Jake found out about my offer, he acted like I was doing both of them the biggest favor in the world. I resigned myself to seeing the idea through.

The flight to New York was a pain in the neck because we had to get up before dawn, drive a long way to the airport and change planes in Denver – nothing that flew from Montana to New York resembled a nonstop flight. However, because Shane's dad had airline connections, we got upgraded, so even if the weekend was a complete bust I had gotten something out of letting Shane tag along.

Taking a cab into the city from LaGuardia, Shane was an excited newbie, staring out the car windows at the packed buildings and dense traffic, and, in the distance, the iconic skyline of Manhattan. I had to collect the key to my friend Stian's apartment at his law firm in midtown, but we only had light, carry-on luggage, and because Shane was in awe of the city, we walked to Stian's place. When I first planned the trip, Stian expected to be in the city, but instead he had been exiled to east Texas for three weeks on a litigation matter. He told me I was still welcome to use his apartment. I was disappointed that Stian wouldn't be around, because the rookie lawyer was a damn hot fuck.

Stian's apartment wasn't much. It was a small studio, with a tiny kitchen occupying one wall. The apartment had a view of... a brick wall. Two small windows looked out on a narrow airspace separating two buildings. I wondered if Stian had seen anything interesting late at night in the windows across the way. In Montana, my windows offered expansive views of the red cliffs that gave Westcliffe its name, plus a green valley and the rooftops of the University. And, occasionally, the shirtless rock climbers that lived below me, scaling the sheer cliffs. Far different than densely-packed Manhattan.

Stian had furnished his studio with nothing more than a king-sized bed, a recliner that sat in front of a huge flat-screen television, a table with two chairs, and the biggest music system I had ever seen. Each corner of the apartment was occupied by a massive stereo speaker. Three snowboards were stacked on one wall.

Shane scanned the apartment and looked puzzled, blurting out, "There's only one bed."

"Duh," I replied. "What'd you expect? A first year lawyer with a four bedroom, six bath apartment in a pre-war building on Central Park? This closet probably costs Stian more than entire apartment buildings in Montana." I could see Shane's mind working, thinking that if I was fine sharing a bed with him, he shouldn't be whining about sharing it with me.

"How do you know Stian?" Shane asked as we unpacked. He had brought a suit for his interviews with the investment bankers tomorrow that looked brand new.

"We were regular fuck buddies for two years at college," I said, hanging up the clothes I brought for my meetings. Shane looked at me sharply. Maybe he didn't know what a fuck buddy was. He was about to find out. "Stian was in law school and we met at the beginning of my junior year. He's from Norway and was older than most law students because starting at 16 he had been on the professional snowboarding circuit for 10 years, winning two Olympic medals along the way. Not many black men in Norway, and Stian was intrigued by me. And I have a thing for guys like Stian, with the swagger and fearless confidence that comes from being successful in something as physically challenging as snowboard jumping. You wouldn't detect it from looking at Stian, but he is a big bottom and has a thing for big cocks like mine. And I have a thing for smooth, tight asses like his. Stian and I were a perfect match. It wasn't romance or love, just sex. A lot of hot sex.

"I ran into him at a party one night. I had my eyes on another guy that night, and Stian was in the same situation, but we talked a little, and in passing Stian bemoaned the fact that getting laid on weekends was easy, while during the week it was tough. Too time consuming, given all the studying required. By the middle of the week he was so horny that he had a rough time concentrating on the books. I felt the same way. The solution was obvious. Stian proposed that we hook up on Wednesday afternoon – hump day, of course – and after the first day, it became a weekly event. Stian's classes were over by noon, and after my last class I would visit his apartment. He would already be naked, with his fine ass lubed and in the air, ready for my cock. Fucker loved getting dicked by my piece and his tight hole was a perfect fit for me. The arrangement worked out great for both of us. I dumped cum in that boy's fuck chute for almost two years until we both graduated."

Shane was quiet, staring at me, his blue eyes betraying shock. I guess he hadn't pieced together that I liked guys. Or maybe the idea of a casual fuck buddy was weird to him. He said nothing as we left Stian's apartment, but he was quickly back to the wide-eyed innocent as we took the subway to Greenwich Village. I don't think he had ever been on a train before, let alone a subway.

I had a short meeting at NYU and suggested Shane explore some of the tourist sites in the city before meeting me later. We went out to dinner at a restaurant in the Village. I thought Shane was 21 or 22 when I met him at Westcliffe, but he was actually shy of 21. The waiter didn't bat an eye or card either of us when I ordered a bottle of wine and then a second.

The waiter was a big queen, and he lavished us with attention, assuming we were two gay boys out on the town. Shane was oblivious. When he went the john, the waiter gave me a knowing wink and whispered, "I'm surprised you let that boy outta bed, honey. He looks like he's fun when he's horizontal. Of course, you look like you'd be one damn big mouthful in bed, and I like that." I let the comment go with a smile, but made a mental note of the waiter's name. He was not bad looking, and you never know when a hot fuck hole will come in handy. I needn't have bothered trying to remember his name, because the waiter penned his name, phone number and address on the back of the credit card receipt.

After dinner, Shane and I walked through the Village. Shane didn't notice that half the bars we passed were gay. Drunk, he was having trouble not stumbling over his own feet. "You have no idea how much I appreciate this," Shane gushed as we wandered the narrow streets. "New York is so incredible," he raved. "I can't thank you enough for letting me come along. This is great!"

Just a block from the Hudson, we passed the Boot, a bar I knew by reputation. The bar's bouncer gave us a lazy smile and blatantly scoped me out. If a guy stared at me at Westcliffe, it was the result of inadvertent curiosity. Guys that might be interested were cautiously, politely, discreet. Not so in New York City. More than a few men made no pretense of hiding their leering stares, announcing with their eyes that they were ready, willing and able to offer an eager hole to house my cock.

The bouncer practically slobbered over the size of my package, giving me a lewd smile, so much so that I glanced down to see if my fly was open or something. My cock, snaking down the inside leg of my jeans, was more obvious than normal, but nothing all that unusual. Don't get me wrong, having a big dick is better than the alternative, although sometimes fucking would be easier with a smaller dick. But some men were so single-mindedly focused on the size of my cock that to them I was merely a characterization of a big donkey dong.

The bouncer handed us a card and said, "First drink is on the house, guys. Come on in." Shane was still on cloud nine and didn't want to pass on the offer of a free drink. Knowing the bar's clientele, I was more skeptical, but Shane was insistent, so we climbed up the half dozen stone steps to the bar.

The Boot had a reputation of catering to white boys looking for big black cocks and black studs looking for tight white pussy. That explained the free booze Shane and I were offered; interracial couples – the younger the better – were the Boot's target clientele, and the bouncer assumed Shane and I were together. Predictably for New York, a different bar existed for black men looking for white cocks and the white men that fancied black bottoms.

It was early enough that the Boot wasn't crowded. We were most of the way through our drinks when Shane looked at me with a frown and said, "There's no women in this place."

Oh, boy, I thought. I was with the one guy in New York City who could spend 20 minutes in a gay bar and not realize it was a gay bar. Admittedly the action was tame – the front part of the bar, where we were, was mostly a spot for conversation and subtle cruising, and it was early enough that not much of the latter was occurring. But still, how naïve do you have to be to not notice the preponderance of black daddies and the posters of black leather boots on the walls, coupled with a random rainbow flag or two? Highly unlikely Shane had been in a gay bar, and equally unlikely that he had been in a bar with more than a token number of blacks. Actually, he was under 21, so maybe he had never been in a bar.

"Happens in gay bars, Shane," I said. Shane stared at the men around us. He didn't seem as nervous as I thought he might be. Twenty-year-olds are ready to explore the world, even if they are exploring someplace they'll never revisit.

Shane excused himself to go to the rest room. As the minutes clicked away and he didn't return, I began to wonder if something was wrong. He was clearly drunk, and maybe it had caught up with him and he was praying to the porcelain god, as they say. I headed back to check on him.

He wasn't in the rest room, but I had a sinking feeling I knew what happened. In the basement beneath the Boot, connected by a steep staircase and an unmarked door, was a second bar, the Heel. In contrast to the Boot's merely shady reputation, the Heel, sometimes called Boot Hell by its patrons, had a well-deserved reputation for raunchy sex and gratuitous violence. If the Boot was where black tops and white bottoms met, the Heel was all kink, where black masters and white subs met, with predictable results.

I found Shane in one of the Heel's back rooms. He was sort of praying, but not to the toilet. Pleading was more like it. He was on his knees and two black guys were holding his arms behind him. A third black man, his cock dangling from his fly, was standing in front of Shane. Shane's chest and abs were exposed, the remnants of a ripped T-shirt hanging from his waist.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything," Shane gulped. The kid was scared. I suppose any college boy would be scared by three large black men intent on raping his mouth, even without knowing that getting face fucked would merely be the first round, and his virgin asshole was destined for the same treatment. The Heel's back rooms were infamous for open sex action, but usually late at night, in the hours just before closing at 4:00 a.m.

"Shut up, cracker," the black guy in front of Shane snarled. "We gonna teach you a little respect. By the time we dun raping your holes, you never disrespect da man again." With that, he rammed his semi-hard cock into Shane's stunned mouth. Shane gagged and groaned, but his assailant had no intention of letting up.

Whatever Shane had done, it must have been trumped up. The kid was polite and appreciative. He had never shown a hint of racial prejudice. The alleged disrespect was probably something as trivial as looking one of the black men in the eye rather than keeping his eyes on the ground, as was expected for a white boy in the Heel. The men that frequented the Heel took its protocols for granted, but a kid from Montana would never have guessed them.

I hate to admit it, but I was sorely tempted to watch the scene play out. The script was easy to predict. The first black man would face fuck Shane, blowing his load down Shane's throat while the other two guys held him. Shane's gagging and pleas for mercy would be ignored; although Shane wouldn't understand it until it was too late, the more he struggled and suffered, the more his tormentors would pour it on. That was the dynamic of the Heel's infamous back rooms.

Once the first man forced Shane to swallow his load, the dam would burst. The thugs holding Shane would take their turn raping Shane's mouth. An audience would form; these events attracted a crowd of men enjoying the show while slowly stroking their cocks. When the first three men had extracted their revenge, Shane would be fair game for the audience. For several hours, both of Shane's holes would be filled with rigid black cocks as the crowd had their way with him.

Shane could cry for help all he wanted, but no one would lift a finger because it was understood that a white boy in the Heel was there because he craved exactly the sort of abuse and humiliation that Shane would be enduring. Shane's age would be an added attraction; tight, white twink ass was a delicacy at the Heel. It would be after dawn before Shane would be released. The Boot and the Heel stopped serving alcohol at 4:00 a.m., but the back room action in the Heel basement didn't stop until the last pair of black balls had seeded the victim de jour. Then Shane would be kicked out the back door, stinking of piss, his holes cum-filled and his clothes, if he wasn't stark naked, in tatters.

I made my move. "What the fuck did you do now, slut?" I said, striding toward Shane and this captors. I got surprised looks from the three men assaulting Shane. I probably didn't need to add special effects, but I did anyway, slapping Shane's face, flattening my hand to make it sound worse than it was. I grabbed Shane's throat and yelled at him, "I let you out of the fucking cell for one night for good behavior and this is what happens? I give you clothes for the first time in a month and this is what you do to them? Even an idiot like you knows better than to insult real men. When I get you home, the collar and cuffs are going back on and you're gonna be chained in the dungeon for a fucking week. Maybe a month! Understand? And my cock is gonna be so far inside your faggot pussy that you'll be tasting my head cheese for weeks."

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Shane's captors for reactions. So far, so good. Shane, however, was in shock. Walking into hell in the Heel was bad enough, but in the alternative universe he had plunged into, now I was behaving bizarrely, too. Pushing Shane forward on to his hands, I bent close to his ear, my dreadlocks falling over his head, and yelled, "I want to hear an apology to these men. They're real men, not fucking faggots like you. Get your mouth on their boots and tell them how sorry you are to have caused them any problems, and how you will never, ever do it again." To make sure Shane understood what I was doing, I whispered to him, "Play along."

Shane was a quick study. He slobbered apologies, kissing the three pairs of black boots. "I apologize for this pathetic pair of holes," I said to Shane's captors. "I thought he was ready for one night of freedom, but obviously the hoe proved me wrong. I own his whore holes, and he's not getting the pleasure of a load of cum in any of them until he's earned it. And from the looks of things, he has a long way to go. Fucking pussy boi is dumber than a box of rocks."

By the rules of the game played at the Heel, I had the trump card. The patrons could play with any white, Latino or Asian man that walked into the place, but a sub or slave owned by a black master was off limits without his master's permission. The shaky part of my scheme, however, was that subs were never in the Heel as anything but playthings. Their presence was solely the result of their masters wanting to humiliate them and subject them to a gang rape. Subs weren't brought to the bar for other reasons, certainly not to enjoy a night on the town as a reward for supposed good behavior.

My plan teetered on the edge as the three men considered Shane and me. This was one time when my age didn't help. Finally, however, the first black man nodded solemnly. "Get your white trash hoe out of here, and don't bring him back until he has some manners."

I nodded, thinking we had pulled off an escape. "I apologize for him, again," I said.

We weren't out of the woods, however. "Wait," the man said, seemingly reconsidering. "I want his faggot ass back here in three months. This time properly trained. Me and my bros will have a little party with him. You better teach him how to be a decent cocksucker by then and stretch his ass out. We gon' rip this cracker's fuck hole to shreds." The man aimed a mouthful of spit at Shane, catching him on his chin.

Not taking any risk of the tide turning, I hustled Shane up to the Boot. Following Shane up the steep stairs, I got a bulls-eye view of Shane's exposed asshole. Shane's accosters had already started in on his clothes, with long vertical knife cuts in the rear of Shane's jeans and the remnants of his boxers dangling from his waist. Fortunately, Shane's shirtless body distracted most of the Boot's patrons from his bare ass and shredded jeans, although we didn't escape without long stares and suggestive comments. It was chilly enough that Shane had worn a leather jacket, and he was lucky it had not disappeared from the bar stool in the Boot while we were otherwise engaged in the Heel. Shane's bare torso looked damn hot under his black leather jacket.

Enduring the stares we would get in the subway was out of the question, so hailing a cab was better for the shell-shocked boy. As we neared Stian's apartment, Shane said to me, "God, what can I do to thank you? That was the scariest thing that's ever happened to me. How did you know to say all that stuff about owning me and chaining me in a dungeon?"

"Just reciting facts," I said. "You didn't see the chains in Stian's apartment?" I asked.

Shane eyes went wide, thinking maybe he had slipped into the Twilight Zone after all. I laughed. "Just playing with you," I said. "Stian is into a lot of kinky stuff, but at least the last time I fucked him, chains weren't one of them. As to what I told those dudes back there, it was just a lucky guess."

"Fuck," Shane said, staring out the cab window. I could sense him thinking that I had rattled off a lucky guess that was remarkably detailed, and that his fate had been determined by a fortunate roll of the dice.

"Too bad Stian is out of town," I said as we entered Stian's apartment. I didn't think talking about the Heel would help Shane get over it. It would be best if we moved on and put the incident behind us. "Thinking about Stian reminds me of how awesome his ass is," I added. "His hot ass is usually in this bed. Sounds damn good right now."

I opened couple of beers Stian left for us. Even though Shane was already tanked after drinking at dinner and in the Boot, he guzzled the beer, still looking dazed. It was late, and after finishing my beer, I excused myself to the rest room to brush my teeth. When I returned, I stripped and climbed into bed.

Suddenly, Shane was next to the bed. "Fuck me," he said. "I want you to fuck me. You saved my life back there and I can't do anything else to thank you, and you said you wanted an ass to fuck. Fuck mine." He was manic, rattling off the words.

Saved his life? No, as bad as his night at the Heel might have been if I hadn't intervened, that was never an issue. On the other hand, Shane probably had no clue about the ordeal I had rescued him from – a night of both of his holes being used as a cum basket for hours on end by rough studs intent on abusing him. "Dude, I wasn't hinting about getting a fuck if that's what you think," I said.

"No, it's not that," Shane said. He was still shirtless, but pulled his destroyed jeans and underwear down and kicked off his shoes. "I'm drunk as hell, so just fuck my ass. I want to take your cum in my ass." Left unsaid was that Shane's professed desire to get fucked could – and likely would – change in the blink of any eye.

I had taken the high road once tonight by rescuing Shane at the Heel. Should I take it again, telling Shane to forget it and go to sleep? As I pondered the decision, Shane got on all fours, his shoulders on the bed and his ass in the air in a remarkably appealing way.

Fuck. To hell with the high road. The kid had asked me to fuck his ass not once but twice, and now he was offering me an awesome fuck chute. Yeah, he might be drunk, but most of the guys I had fucked had been drunk, too. Or, in Travis's case, drunk and stoned.

Stian had stores of lube exactly where I anticipated they would be. I worked my cock to a hard on and pressed my pole against Shane's ass. Shane's hands spread his ass cheeks apart for me. For a straight boy, he was begging for it. I worked my dick into his crack, probing at his hole.

I wrapped my arms around Shane's tight chest to give me more leverage. Shane's forearms were covered with silky, light brown, almost blond hair, but his broad chest and flat stomach were completely smooth.

"Regardless of how much it hurts, just fuck me," Shane said, certainty in his voice.

"Shut up," I said, pushing the head of my ass splitter inside Shane's boy butt for emphasis. He gasped, anguish evident in his voice. "I'm going to fuck your boi pussy and you can either relax and enjoy it or stay tense and hate it. This is all about you learning to take cock."

Shane gave a stuttering moan as I rammed my cock farther inside him. His hard, slender body felt incredible as I gripped his chest and stomach. My only regret was that I wasn't going to see the kid's face as my cock finished the invasion of his hole.

That came in short order. I slid my dick between Shane's hard gluteus until I was wedged all the way inside him. Shane kept groaning, "Ahh, ahh," each time my cock sank farther into him. His body was tense, which turned me on because his muscles were rock hard. It was a damn good thing he was drunk, because I don't think he could have taken my cock otherwise. I began to pump back and forth, using my hand as a brace against Shane's iron abs so I could plow his fuck chute. Shane held his breath and breathed in short gasps, occasionally muttering, "Oh, jeez!"

I thought about shoving Shane onto his stomach so I could drill into his ass, but that would have meant I couldn't feel the muscles on his abs and chest. Instead, keeping my cock in his hole, I lowered us until we were on our sides. I wrapped one leg around Shane's long legs to hold him better. After that I got into a good fuck rhythm.

I slid my hand down to check Shane's cock. It was soft, so I returned to his abs. But I reconsidered and told him, "Get yourself hard. I'm going to fuck your boi pussy until you cum, so if you want to be able to walk tomorrow, you better get moving on your dick."

Shane didn't hesitate, grabbing his cock and working it. To get hard, he probably had to fantasize about fucking his girlfriend, but I didn't give a shit what it took. I got myself close and stayed there. I wanted to feel that moment when Shane's ass gripped my dick as he came. Shane was going to bring me off as he blew his boy juice.

I glanced down at Shane's fist and was surprised by what was inside. The kid was hung. He was fisting a stiff, uncut eight inches. It took him a while to climax, maybe because he was drunk. More likely he was having trouble getting turned on with a giant black dong impaling his ass and his own cock nowhere in the vicinity of a wet pussy. I was enjoying his tight ass and lanky body, so I wasn't in any hurry.

Shane started taking quick, gasping breaths and I knew he was getting close. I buried my cock all the way inside his cunt and he shuddered involuntarily as his balls exploded. I swear I have never seen so much cum. He shot a good 18 inches and by the time his white pussy pounder was done spurting, the floor next to the bed was a river of white jism. It was good that Stian had hardwood floors and no carpets. I drilled Shane with a couple more thrusts of my rod and released my own load, my dick throbbing as it sowed black man cum deep in Shane's guts.

As we both caught our breath, I was tempted to fuck Shane again. But I was beat after the long day of travel, meetings, drinking and fucking. So I pulled out and rolled over to my side of the bed. Shane slipped out of bed, I assume to clean his ass out and the floor up, but he didn't say anything. I don't remember him coming back to bed. The next morning I woke to see him sprawled on the bed, his young face peaceful and untroubled. I wondered if he would say anything about the night at the Heel or getting butt fucked.

He didn't. Maybe he was drunk enough so that he didn't fully remember his back room nightmare or my dick being in his ass, or maybe he thought I was drunk enough so that I didn't remember. More likely, once sober, he didn't want to relive either experience. Whatever.

During the rest of the trip, neither of us raised the night at the Heel or what transpired in Stian's bed. We mostly went our separate ways. I hooked up with a couple of buddies from college and two dudes I had fucked during my summer jobs in New York. They didn't have Shane's body, but they were better fucks. And after one of my meetings, I happened upon a hot Latin NYU student who made no pretense of cruising me. He was mesmerized by my dreadlocks and intent on getting fucked.

The Latin bottom didn't have a place to go to, and Stian's apartment was too far away, but the twinky slut proposed using a john in the basement of one of the classroom buildings. I could tell the boy made a habit of regularly cruising the john, scouting for cocks to breed his pussy. He was on his knees slurping on my black pole within 30 seconds of entering the stall, telling me it was the most beautiful cock he had ever seen. After he serviced me with his mouth for a good while, he stood up, turned to face the wall and stuck his pert little brown ass out, spreading his ass cheeks to reveal a puckered hole.

The slut must have been majoring in big cock, because my monster split his pussy with minimal resistance. Tight holes are the best, but an occasional loose cunt is a nice change of pace. Even better, once my rod was buried inside my Latin bottom, it was apparent he had already taken a load of cum in his ass. As I pulled out of his fuck chute before plunging back in, my black shaft was coated with thick white spunk.

I fucked the kid twice, then turned him over to another black dude who wandered in during the second fuck, brazenly opened the stall door, and gawked at the show. I guess the bro didn't mind sloppy fourths, or maybe he got off on them like I did.

After the night at the Heel, Shane was quiet and subdued the next morning, but he had a nasty hangover so it was hard to tell what caused his dour mood. Stian had left us a gym pass, and I suggested we get in a quick workout, as my meetings and Shane's interviews weren't until afternoon. Shane agreed, but after digging through his clothes, he told me that he had a jock strap and shorts but must not have brought a T-shirt. Did he not remember the T-shirt he left behind in tatters at the Heel?

I could have loaned him a T-shirt, or borrowed one of Stian's, but Shane had a broad, smooth chest with small nipples that was well worth the price of admission, and it occurred to me that watching him shirtless would be hot. I already had taken his ass, but it had been dark when I fucked him, and the brief glimpses of Shane's torso I had gotten in the Heel before we went to bed suggested a closer look would be well worth it. I told him to wear the polo shirt he wore on the plane until he was in the gym and then go shirtless.

Telling Shane to go shirtless was a stroke of genius. Shane looked amazing, and his lanky, muscular body attracted quite a fan club. He was oblivious to how he stood out from the crowd, which made him all the more beguiling. Shane viewed himself as an unsophisticated bumpkin from the mountains of Montana. But the women in the gym – and plenty of men – viewed him as prime meat. In their eyes, he was fresh off the farm, a hot stud that could have walked off the pages of modeling shoot, with fuzzy cheeks and muscles to die for.

Shane's chief admirer was a woman who took Shane straight from the gym to her bed. Before they left, I overheard her tell Shane, "Men my age in New York don't satisfy women like me. They don't have the stamina or the raw energy. One fuck and they're done. Midnight, lights out. But I can tell that that's not you. You're like a tightly wound watch, ready to spring loose. And that excites me. You have no idea how much that excites me." Whatever. Less than 12 hours after he was getting face fucked in the Heel, as a precursor to being butt fucked by my big cock, Shane was rutting in the bitch's pussy. Shane spent the rest of his long weekend in New York alternating between conducting interviews, seeing the sites and fucking cougar cunt.

I couldn't blame the woman for swooping in and grabbing Shane, because he looked hot. She was a good 15 or 20 years older than Shane, but she got off on sleeping with college men. Any college guy would have fit the bill, but with Shane she hit the jackpot. He was a hot stud out of central casting, with rock solid muscles and a plain, masculine face, modified just slightly by his modest sideburns. Plus, probably overcompensating for his experiences in the Heel's basement and Stian's bed, he had an insatiable appetite for pussy. Shane possessed a big dick to fill the woman's cunt and the stamina to fuck her with it all night, and that combination sent the woman into orbit. Good chance she had never had eight inches inside her before, much less a rock hard eight inches from a constantly horny 20-year-old on a mission to prove something.

Shane's cougar apparently decided Shane had staying power to spare, because following the midmorning, post-gym fuck and the night of sex that came later, the woman invited a girlfriend into bed the next night. Shane scored the classic straight boy fantasy of a ménage-a-trois with two women. Whatever damage Shane's ego took when he was assaulted in the Heel, or when I used his ass, got repaired quickly by two women gushing over what a stud he was. Neither Shane nor I slept in Stian's bed after the first night. We used his place just to change clothes, although when I met Shane there on Sunday as we were leaving for the airport, he had washed all the towels and sheets. Thoughtful guest. I didn't have the heart to tell him that Stian would have considered spunk soaked sheets and a crusty cum towel as the best gifts we could have left him.

Shane got the internship in New York, and both he and Jake thanked me over and over for helping with the trip. If Shane was bothered by the nightmare at the Heel or getting his ass fucked, he never let on. Quite the contrary, he dropped hints suggesting he was grateful to me for saving him and fine with what happened after. During one conversation he looked directly at me and said it was good to `open yourself up' to new experiences. He asked if I was headed back to New York anytime soon because he needed a place to stay during the summer and wanted my help.

Still, Shane was hard enough to read that I couldn't tell if he would consider a repeat. A repeat of his visit to the Heel was out of the question, but a repeat of the experience in Stian's bed? There remained the possibility that I was misinterpreting Shane's hints and he had no recollection of getting balled that night. But I unless I was misreading the situation completely, he remembered.

Shane certainly remembered his weekend of straight sex in New York. Shane knew Damian, and not long after the New York trip I overheard Shane eagerly giving five of the rock climbers a long, detailed recounting of fucking his cougar and his ménage-a-trois. According to Shane, the women climaxed more times with him than they ever had before. I wondered if Shane already had plans for a reunion with the one or both of them during his summer in the city.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Thoughts and comments? Please send them along. Coltonaalto@gmail.com

Chapter nine? A rock jock story is in the works...

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