Brant 2: A New Perspective
Brant was soaked by the time he got back to the frat house and in a foul mood. An entire afternoon wasted and his new jacket probably ruined.
Oh, and no closer to getting into Penny's panties.
Storming into his spacious room, the only frat brother in the house to have his own room, he stepped into his en-suite and began to strip off the wet clothes as he ran the shower to warm it up. Leaving his clothes in a soggy pile on the floor, he stepped into the steaming shower, grabbing the bottle of shower gel. It had been given to him by Penny, and although it was one of those feminine pH-balanced ones, in a less-than-manly bottle and a weird pale blue color, he'd run out of his regular stuff, so he had to make do until he could get some more.
Brant was a good-looking kid, and had a great body to match. At junior high, his dominance within his clique and emerging jock status was confirmed when he started to `fur up' ahead of everyone else in the sixth grade, with a fair-sized bush on his crotch before any of his friends followed suit. By tenth grade, he was shaving daily, and was already sprouting chest hair. Such an early development spurt had fast-tracked him into sports, which he'd taken up with a passion.
Now on the outside track of twenty, Brant was built like a tank. Standing 6"1', he was a compact powerhouse of muscle and outweighed almost all of his classmates (except for the two overweight ones, but fat book-heads didn't count in Brant's opinion), and was easily the most built guy on his team. He hit the weights four of five times a week, and had done since his early testosterone explosion back in sixth grade. He'd gotten the whole smoking and drinking thing out of his system early, as even at thirteen he'd been able to buy cigarettes without being asked for ID, and could buy alcohol in most places at 17. This had helped him to more or less rule high school, commanding an entire cadre of friends. He'd lost his virginity at thirteen to a college freshman who'd been horrified when she'd found out his real age, but since then he'd had more than his fair share of sex. He rightly considered himself a stud, and made sure everyone else did, too.
Brant was an uber-jock: so assured of his own supremacy, which he had established in sixth grade and had built on ever since, his personality had been overwhelmed by his ego a long time ago. Penny's refusal to budge was taken as an affront to his alpha male status, yet something about her was pushing all Brant's buttons. He wanted to just give up on her and move onto some easier pussy, but something about her really got him going.
As he continued to soap himself up, he got to thinking of Penny. As he continued to run his hand over his wide, hairy chest, his other hand moved down to his crotch and his member sprang to life in his palm. Pretty soon, the combination of thinking of Penny's tits and ass, accompanied by his self-worship had him up to his full eight inches, yet another source of pride that fed his ego. As he hadn't cum since that morning, it wasn't going to take long. Standing under the pulsing, steaming water, Brant jacked his big dick with one hand as his other moved down over his hard, rippling stomach. He kept at it, and although he kept on coming up to the brink, he couldn't seem to push himself over it. Brant didn't have a problem cumming too quickly; if he wanted to, he could go for pretty much as long as he wanted. But right now, he wanted to get off, and it just wasn't happening. Visualizing Penny's body was somehow taking a back-seat in his thoughts, and he found himself more interested in his own body. His fingers were playing over the ridges of his furred abs before moving down to grab the thick muscle of his thigh, testing it as he flexed his legs, now pumping furiously with his other hand in an effort to get off. He tried thinking of Penny again, but it seemed to back him off the brink he was on.
Frustration began to well up inside him, but by now he was too hot to give up. His hand came back up to his chest and touched on a nipple. He'd never played with his nipples before, but a few of his conquests had licked or tweaked them. He had always brushed them off, thinking it to be a little too feminine having someone play with his nipples, but he'd always kind of liked it. Now, in an effort to reach climax, his finger was rubbing his nipple, applying some indirect pressure.
And it felt really good.
Ten minutes later, Brant was still stood beneath the water, but now leant against the tiled wall, his legs beginning to ache. His fingers were now pinching the nipple, and small moans were escaping Brant in a way he'd usually have never let happen. But the need to cum was growing and growing, and yet he couldn't reach it, like the glow of a light just beyond the edge of vision. It was a physical need and he was almost obsessed by the idea of cumming, with no other thoughts filling his mind. Penny had long since been forgotten, replaced by the bright ember that was his nipple. Doing such a thing to himself had never entered his mind before. Now, he felt like he couldn't cum without it. But he couldn't cum with it, either. Gritting his teeth, he whimpered as he squeezed a little harder. His cock pulsed almost painfully in his hand whilst his orgasm welled up inside him, only to shrink away at the last minute.
Panting, Brant pulled his hand from his nipple, but continued to stroke his cock. Suddenly, from the back of his mind, a memory floated up. It had been the night of his senior high prom. His date had been Francine DeVernier, and he'd held off from banging her the entire year to keep her for the prom night. Rumor had it she was a bit of a slut, but she'd had the biggest tits in twelfth grade. Brant, in his capacity as Alpha Jock, had of course managed to organize a post-prom party, renting a hotel suite using his dad's credit card. There'd been champagne, a keg, and Brant had even managed to get his hands on some cocaine, which was to be shared by him and the top members of his cadre. The party had grown like some deformed beast, and at its head was Brant, drunk on beer and champagne and high on coke. He'd even offered some to Francine, and soon the two of them had kicked everyone else from the master bedroom and locked the door.
Francine had been living up to her reputation, giving Brant some really good head. Standing up, tears in her eyes and a trail of drool at one edge of her lips, she'd allowed Brant to slip first one, then two fingers inside her as she kissed his shoulder and massaged his buttocks.
Suddenly, Francine's finger was stroking over Brant's hole; Brant's asshole. But whether it had been the drink or coke or whatever, Brant had let her do it for a minute or two, the two of them groaning in unison for a brief minute. Francine's finger had then begun to press at Brant's hole, and suddenly he realized what was happening. Pulling his fingers from Francine's wet slit, he stepped back, staring wildly at her, then suddenly without thinking slapped her hard across the face before beginning to shout obscenities at her. She'd fled, weeping, whilst Brant had shut down the party in an angry rage and the memory of the post-prom party had been buried forever.
Yet here it was now.
It must have been over half an hour of Brant fruitlessly trying to cum by now. The thought, pushed away for so long, was stuck in his mind now: Francine's finger stroking his asshole; how he had liked it until he remembered who he was. His hand rubbed over his belly once more, stroking in large circles, getting ever lower as his other hand pumped his dick in vain, which was red and so hard it almost hurt.
His hand gingerly moved around his body, he couldn't believe what he was psyching himself up to do, but all of a sudden, his hand was massaging his fuzzy buttock. He'd always been getting compliments from girls about his tight buns, and more than once some cheerleader had told him how hot his ass looked when he was on the field, which his buddies would always rag him for in the showers, but he was always secretly proud.
He splayed his fingers, and the middle one delved into his deep, tight crack, the hair denser here. Taking a deep breath, his finger pushed inwards, and suddenly he was groaning as his finger connected with the bud of his ass. It was like an explosion in his head; after forty minutes of frantic jacking off, he was so desperately in need of cumming, and he wasn't just on the brink now, he was soaring above and beyond it, his orgasm like a massive ocean of light beneath him. Within moments, he'd pushed the fingertip inside himself, whilst his index finger stroked the soft skin around his hole. It was a feeling he'd never experienced before. He wasn't cumming yet, but no longer was he completely on the other side of it, teetering on the brink. He was somewhere in between, diving downwards into that ocean agonizingly yet deliciously slowly. His finger sank deeper as he began to gently push it in and out, and he felt his orgasm rushing up to him faster now.
It was glorious. As the water pummeled his skin, his climax began to break over him like a tsunami. From his ass radiated convulsions of pleasure; Brant's hand upon his cock was now a blur as his entire universe seemed to pivot upon the fulcrum of his orgasm.
Finally, Brant came. His entire body quivering as blasts of cum slapped against the tiles on the other side of the shower stall. He could hear himself grunting and hollering like an animal as he continued to shoot, great wad after wad. He was aware of his fingers pushing in and out of his ass as reality seemed to materialize from beneath the bursting points of light in his head. He realized that he was now on the floor of the shower stall, having collapsed in the midst of his orgasm. He moved, and a jolt ran through him: his fingers were still inside him. Delicately, he extracted them, surprised to realize that he had rammed three fingers up inside himself, but not remembering doing so. Standing on shaky legs, he quickly showered himself off, rinsed off the tiles that were painted with his massive load and stepped out of the shower.
Feeling paradoxically drained and yet incredibly fulfilled, Brant dried himself quickly and crawled into bed, feeling as though he'd just had four hours' football training. He was laid there, still breathing a little more heavily than usual, his mind swimming with conflicting thoughts. What had Madame Siobhan done to him? Why was he doing things and thinking things and feeling things that the day before would have seemed absurd? He'd beaten up guys for suggesting less than what he'd just done.
Three fingers up his ass. He hadn't even known he'd put the second and third up there. He'd hit a girl once for putting a fingertip inside him, and now he was just recovering from possibly the largest orgasm of his life, and he'd put three fingers up his own ass to do it.
Sleep came quickly, and although his dreams were filled with images and events that Brant had never before thought about, he slept soundly.
The next morning, Brant awakes, feeling refreshed. As he slowly drifts back up into consciousness, yesterday's bizarre events are still a million miles away, and his hands move down to the impressive morning wood tenting his bedsheet. As his right hand takes care of his morning glory with practiced grace, his left gently rubs his firm stomach, feeling the thick hair that he's sported since an unusually early age. He's never really thought about it before, and in his semi-wake state, he revels in the sensation of his body hair, the masculinity that it conveys, the maleness of it. As his right steadily takes care of business, his left gropes his stomach and chest, the thick fur running beneath and between his fingers is exciting him in entirely new ways, ways he has never considered before.
As comprehension washes over Brant, his right hand falters in its assured rhythm, and his left halts its meandering exploration of his own body. Yesterday comes flooding back to him, and the twisting, contradicting feelings he'd drifted to sleep with slowly returned: bewilderment, repulsion and a fulfillment he'd never felt before. Brant was by no means a stupid guy: by merit of his looks, his popularity and his athleticism, his intelligence had never really needed to be exercised in public, except to manipulate others and ensure that his needs were ultimately served.
He'd had a lifetime of getting what he wanted, of ensuring that his needs and wants were fulfilled, yet here was something unbidden, something that twenty-four hours ago would have disgusted him that had fulfilled him more than any victory on the field, any scheming to make things run just the way he wanted, or any amount of coerced couplings with pretty high-school girls had ever done. He had never consciously scrutinized his inner workings; his emotional make-up and mental processes weren't things that he had ever knowingly tabulated, charted, extrapolated. But as an intelligent young man, Brant knew instinctively that one orgasm brought about by three of his own fingers up his ass had been one of the rightest things in his life. And, try as hard as what he would later come to think of the `Old Brant' part of his mind could, an intelligent young man like Brant could only come to on conclusion.
Slowly, hesitantly, his right hand once more picked up its rhythm. For a long moment, Brant stared at the point in the ceiling he realized he'd been staring at for the last five minutes, as his sleep-encumbered brain slowly shifted the bulky blocks of his thoughts, reorganizing them until they fit into the only pattern his mind could make. Then, his eyes closed and his left hand slowly recommenced its exploration of Brant's own body – a body he'd lived in, had built and had cared for almost twenty-one years – but up until this morning, had never really known, intending to explore these new feelings that seemed somehow so right. The feel of his hand over his developed yet relaxed muscles, the hair that was thick yet soft. His fingers brushed over his right nipple, pulling a small grunt of pleasure from between Brant's teeth. He felt the first gob of precum roll lazily over the back of his thumb, helping lubricate his cock that, by virtue of a very generous circumcision, could usually get by just fine without lotion until his own natural flow of jerkoff-juice kicked in. His fingers stroked back and forth over his nipple a couple more times, Brant taking in the feeling in a way that he hadn't been able to last night in his desperate need to cum. Soon enough, mere rubbing had turned into gentle squeezes, and Brant felt a large drop of precum ooze from his slit, slicking up his hand which still stroked in a languid, practiced regularity that belied the urges his explorations were cultivating within his belly. The eagerness to feel that incredible sense of fulfillment – the word entire blazed in his mind for a moment - was burning away the fear, doubt, repulsion that had previously lain there. Brant's breath caught in his throat as his eagerness momentarily won out and his fingers almost savagely pinched his nipple between them. Suddenly, Brant was slamming against that same invisible barrier he had raged against for half an hour the night before, brought there in an instant by the bright lance of pain that shot from his tortured nipple straight through his churning belly and directly into his balls. He was held a hair's breadth from ecstasy, and his mind reeled for a moment, a sudden terror sweeping through him that this would be the closest he would ever again get. But even as he thought it, he knew it wasn't true.
He knew what he had to do. This time, his slow assessment of his situation made sure that he moved with far more assuredness than the previous evening. His left hand retreated from his nipple that was red and still throbbing with a pleasantly painful heat, sweeping down over his stomach. He found what he needed. There, on the soft ridges of his muscular stomach, a pool of precum was already accumulating. Normally, this was merely overspill and to be washed off along with his load. This morning, for the first time, he swirled the index finger of his left hand in the miniature pool of gluey fluid, covering his fingertip. His eyes still closed, he opened his legs a little way and navigating using that mysterious sense that allows you to know the location of a part of your body even when you can't see it, he brought his finger down. The slick fingertip connected squarely with the tight knot of pink flesh that lay between his furry buttocks. Old Brant railed against what he was doing, but the objections of his former self were consumed in the flames of his yearning. His finger pushed through almost to the knuckle, penetrating his hole for a second time, another bright lance of pain coursing through him, this time exploding with pleasure in the center of him, thrusting his mind once more against that invisible wall.
All thought was devoured by the inferno of need that now blazed within him, the heat of his desires now so intense that sweat covered him as if he was running a high fever. The slow, deliberate rhythm his right hand had once kept was now abandoned, the beat of his gratification now set by the finger that pushed back and forth through his clutching hole. Precum pumped steadily from his dick and almost without realizing he himself was doing it ( as it had been the night before, although last night he hadn't known until after), a second finger now pressed at the fleshy ring. Sweat matted the hair on his chest, his stomach and deep in the cleft of his ass, and with its help, his second finger was soon keeping tempo along with the first. Small gasps escaped Brant as he felt his ass stretch to accommodate this new intrusion. His eyes were screwed tightly shut, but sweat still stung his eyes as he continued to fuck himself with his index and middle finger, his legs now splayed wide open to give him full access to this incredible new source of sensations.
Without interrupting the relentless assault on his ass, Brant's right hand released his throbbing, painfully-hard cock and scooped up as much of the precum on his stomach as he could. With just a momentary pause, the two fingers pulled completely from his puckering hole. At the same moment, the fingers of his right hand, dripping with his juices, slathered the precum around his sweaty asshole. The two fingers instantly plunged back inside him, but a third was now added. The exquisite feeling of stretching he'd experienced with the introduction of a second finger seemed to redouble as, with the help from his own sweat and precum, Brant worked three fingers into his ass to the very knuckle. He somehow knew that last night he hadn't gotten all three in anywhere near as far, and the incredible feeling of being stretched – of being forced open – was suddenly a thundering climax. With all three fingers jammed fully within him, Brant cawed loudly and fat ropes of cum exploded over his face, his chest and his stomach, slapping against his sweat-drenched skin. His asshole clamped again and again onto the three fingers as his orgasm wracked his body, almost seeming to pull at his fingers as he slowly extracted them from the warmth of his own self once the thundering tide had abated a little. His hole, now so empty, quivered and puckered as Brant lay there, breathing heavily, a smile touching the corner of his lips as, for the moment, his mind lay blank and drifting.
In the shower, his burning lusts for the moment sated, Old Brant reasserted himself upon Brant's psyche. Self-loathing punctured the breathless fulfillment like hot needles through a fragile balloon, incredible extrapolations of his behavior playing out in full Technicolor glory in his mind – branded a fag, rejected by his friends and family, thrown out of college, his life ruined by his perverted hunger. By the end of his shower, Brant resolved to suppress whatever was going on. He needed to get Siobhan to reverse whatever foul hex she'd put on him. It was some cruel curse or spell she'd put on him as punishment for the way he'd spoken and acted. That feeling of rightness was some illusion placed over his mind by the witch. This was a challenge.
And Brant had never backed down from a challenge, and he had also never lost.
Two hours later, trying to ignore the ache he could feel coming from his asshole (which didn't feel good, no matter what his mind tried to tell him), he was at the football field, ready for practice, one of the first as usual; ready to put this all behind him. Ready to break through whatever jinx he had been placed under, to destroy the hold it had upon him, to return to his normal life.
Practice was, without exception, the worst two hours of his life.
He had left the frat house and made his way to practice full of determination to return to Old Brant. But it seemed that Old Brant wasn't even there anymore. It was as though he had been reprogrammed. He had expected something similar to the pain barrier he would feel when he lifted weights or went jogging around campus for a couple of hours or – dare he say it – that maddening invisible wall that had held him back from orgasm this morning and last night; something extra that he needed to get around, smash through, dig under or climb over.
There was no extra. There was only new.
He was still Brant. He still functioned as Brant, talked like Brant, but he no longer thought like Brant. Or rather, his thoughts had somehow subtly shifted. As they warmed up, he was still able to take part in the chatter and banter with his teammates, but this time it was distractedly. This time he was aware of undertones a friend's words, he would see the double meaning in things that had before held nothing but one simple meaning. As his friends engaged in their boorish horseplay, Brant knew he could have engaged if he wanted to – and a part of him did – but now the grabbing, the contact of bodies, the hands clasping each other jovially all held new meaning for him.
His friends asked him if he was okay, as they soon picked up that something was not right, but Brant waved it off as a slight head cold, even managing to produce one of the winning smiles that had undone so many bras and upgraded so many bad grades. Brant was still Brant, but he was somehow remade.
This was never any clearer than when Coach Peterson showed up. An ex-marine, Del Peterson was a bull of a man that had settled down to small-town college life after a leg wound had ended his military career. At 6'4", with onyx skin and a face that seemed made more for scowling than smiling, he'd coached Brant since he arrived at the college. He'd encouraged him, trained with him, worked out with him and the two were as close to friends as a teacher and a student could be.
Brant saw Del (he was one of only five students in the college that could actually call Del by his first name to his face, although only when they were alone training or working out) as a man whom he respected and Brant saw Del's amazingly built body as a thing he would like to achieve for himself.
Today, Brant also saw Del as a man; a huge, powerful, handsome, strong, masculine man. The worn and baggy training clothes hinted at the muscles beneath, muscles he had seen hundreds of times and never thought more of them except plain admiration. Today, he longed to see them again, exposed. Coach Peterson was nowhere near the condition he'd been in in the marines: a long period of recuperation following his injury had first softened and reduced his massive physique that had once been almost competition standard. Then, despite his best efforts, small-town living and a comfortable job had added fatty bulk onto his frame. Despite all this, Del was still one hell of a formidable man, and Brant could almost feel the raw maleness radiating from him in waves.
As Coach Peterson stood giving them their warm-up talk and instructions for the day, Brant's eyes were drawn to the line of his shoulders, the way his thighs bulged against the jogging pants. He peeled away the clothes, attempting to picture the hairless muscle beneath. But he had never paid Del's body much mind before, and the picture was somehow wrong, not complete. There was one part that he couldn't bring to his mind at all, something he had seen countless times but somehow never registered: Del's cock. He knew it was big, as his teammates and himself included had commented on it more than once, as Coach would often shower with the guys if practice ran over time. But the image of it wouldn't come to his mind. He wanted to see Coach Peterson naked. As he thought about Del's big cock, wondering how he could joke with his friends about its size but not be able to recall even the vaguest memory of it, he felt his own cock throb.
"Brant? You okay, buddy?" Coach Peterson was at Brant's side, and clapped a massive hand on his shoulder. The other guys had gone off onto the pitch, starting practice, and Brant looked dumbly up at the Coach, his face flushing.
To Del, the gesture was nothing more than one of concern, and he'd often given Brant a friendly pat on the back or grasp of the shoulder – his days in the marines had made him comfortable around other guys. But Brant had been both distracted yet oddly buzzed, and hadn't seemed to hear a word he'd said. With any other player, Del would have been pissed as hell, but he knew Brant wasn't like that. Brant was usually as focused as a laser-guided missile when it came to training – when it came to any sports. The guy (Del had strangely never thought of Brant as a kid, even though he thought this of many of the others) had a body he would have killed for at his age, and although he knew Brant could be an upstart and way too big for his boots off the pitch and out of the weights room, he related to Brant in a way he didn't with almost any other student. Almost like one of his marine buddies.
To Brant, the feel of that heavy hand gripping his shoulder was unlike anything he'd felt before. The contact between one man and another had never been anything more than something straightforward and literal. He felt his dick once more throb in his jockstrap. His mind unraveled possibilities before him, scenarios, images, visions, wishes. In something close to an epiphany, Brant knew that this was how it felt to want another man. The feeling was more intense than anything he'd felt for Penny or any other woman. Old Brant screamed against it, tossing every nightmarish scenario of ruination, damnation, rejection and abandonment against these new feelings, attempting to bat out the flames of Brant's wanting.
This all happened in a mere moment, but to Brant it felt like an eternity. Shaking himself visibly beneath Coach Peterson's iron grip, he looked up, smiled that winning smile once again and ensured Coach he was fine, just a light head cold.
Del watched Brant join his teammates. The smile had been 100% pure Brant – arrogant, in control, winning. But his eyes had been something else completely. He just didn't know what.
The next two hours were living hell for Brant. He played terribly, easily the worst of his life, which was no surprise, considering the tempest of emotions and feelings and thoughts that were at war within him. Every innocent touch, joking word and smile of a friend ignited what seemed to be new bush fires of confusion in the tangled undergrowth of his mind. His cock felt as though it never once was completely soft, but shame and sheer terror kept it from becoming anything more than half hard. Coach Peterson was like a lodestone, constantly drawing his attention and his gaze. His teammates and friends were all healthy, virile young men with powerful bodies and he could feel his growing attraction for them as well, but it was Coach Peterson who shone like a beacon of masculinity amongst the dim glows of his friends' own.
Del couldn't figure out what was up with Brant, but it sure wasn't any head cold. He could see that Brant could have played well, but if anyone had ever had a lot of shit to deal with, it was the guy fucking up the entire practice. He looked like a man who was being caught, judged and executed at the same time. He wondered if he was in some kind of trouble. He kept catching Brant giving him and the other players strange, searching looks. Even though it wasn't the full two hours, he was glad to call an end to training. He gathered the guys around, and from their body language and solemn demeanor, he knew they knew something wasn't right. They'd have to be blind and deaf not to. He hated to tear a strip off Brant, but he knew he had to be fair; he would have done it to any other player, and his own strange affection for Brant couldn't get in the way of that. And just like any other player, he'd make sure to find out what was going on afterwards. But he'd do so because he considered Brant the closest thing to a friend he had amongst the young players.
Brant walked over to the loose knot of players gathering around Coach Peterson as though he were approaching the electric chair. He could feel sweat springing up on his face, his guts were somersaulting. There'd be shouting; there'd be questions and accusations. Maybe they already knew. Maybe he was already going to be kicked off the team, thrown out. They had seen how they looked at him. The friendly comments had thinned out as practice had worn on, eventually petering out altogether. They knew what he was thinking. They wanted him away from them, out of the frat house, off the campus.
Del saw the color draining out of Brant, could see sweat glistening on his brow when the kid (the first time he'd ever thought of Brant as such) hadn't broken a sweat the entire practice. Suddenly he thought the kid must be sick after all: he'd been wrong.
Then Brant threw up in great heaving retches.