I GOT FUCKED BY JIMMY BRIGHT!!!!
By Timothy Stillman
Jimmy Bright was the brightest star of all. I had to get it right this time. I had to let myself be fucked as hard as possible, because Jimmy Bright was the bright and morning star. Jimmy loved fucking me in the ass and creaming in there. Jimmy was the smartest boy at University. Jimmy had the looks and he had the eyes that poured into your soul. Jimmy was the fuckin' universe and getting fucked by the star of the fuckin' universe was the best kind of honor there was. Jimmy was hard and long and he loved to just grind it in all the asses, and though he didn't know whose ass he was grinding it in, it was still a special treat to get fucked by Jimmy Bright, cause everybody just about lined their bung holes up to be fucked by Jimmy Bright. But you had to do it right. To win Jimmy Bright.
Jimmy was cool and hot and somewhere in between was the way his dick ticked up into tonight's lucky recipient's asshole and I wanted Jimmy to know my name, which was Barry, by the by, I do have a name after all, and Jimmy was pounding the bed up and down as he stabbed, lacerated, impaled, endeavoured to get all the way up the insides of me, and Jimmy would not know my name or believe I had one, and he grunted, and Jimmy grunting was this most beautiful music this side of heaven--but Jimmy could be tricky--
He would ask: what classical music do you like? What are your favorite movies? What is your biggest deal turn on? And the tricky part was you had to guess--cause he kept changing the answers--and sometimes--sometimes just to get Jimmy's big flamer in your hole, you had to know what he was thinking before he said what it was--and I tried, I really honest to Christ tried--but Jimmy was easily hurt and accused his potentials for the Saturday night magical hour of sheer eternal bliss occasioned by none in the world ever other than Jimmy Bright--and you had to apologize to Jimmy Bright for things he said I did and said, though he was wrong, you had never done these things to him, or said them, and he didn't even know anybody's name, save his own, and you had to get down on the ground and kiss his feet and then maybe then maybe then he would let you let him to hurt the hell out of you-
Which always occasioned groans from those who had to wait till next Saturday same Jimmy time same Jimmy station for one of the lucky contestants to get their holes corned, but now it was my night, my Jimmy Bright night, on my bed in my dorm, myself on my knees, my elbows on the bed and my head down, my hair falling in my face, my body sweaty, with its own sweat and that of Jimmy's to.
, I would not bathe for at least two days because I wanted the smell and sweat and pain of Jimmy to stay with me--but he was not the only confusion of the lot--there was Larry Lint and there was Farkey Turman and there was Saddlesway Bride and some others lower down on the rungs of college studlings--it was just Jimmy Bright had taken the ante up to its forever potential-he was fond of saying JUST WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU? And you had to politely tell him for the eighth millionth time, and he would say WHO ARE YOU TO WASTE A MINUTE OF MY TIME?
And you would have to bow in his presence and beg humbly. And Jimmy Bright was fond of other people doing his schoolwork for him and being a gracious good-hearted man, he would say, I have been waiting patiently all weekend, well, except for boozing and fucking around, for you to write my term paper, where is it?
And you better have it in triplicate, typed neatly, every word spelled correctly, cause if you did this enough, and if his grades were high enough thanks to everybody else who spent their time doing his work instead of their own, and thus failing classes, then he might let you be the one he fucked, and it was worth it.
Because of his big hairy nuts slapping tight against your ass hole as your own balls and dick screaming with agony they slapped themselves silly back and forth, and you knew Jimmy Bright would not say a word when he left, for he was a STAR and you were the STAR FUCKER, and you already are thinking of things to say that won't make him mad. Hello makes him mad sometimes. Ah hi^Åthat gets his proverbial goat as well--and mean girls on the net think they have it made in the fuck you category--they never met up with Jimmy Bright who was now ready to shoot his wad straight into me.
He held my sides and my butt with both hands gripping hard. He came and came and shot. He screamed in that beautiful cadence of lilting bear gut shot tones that could make me, his once a year, if lucky, butt buddy, just weep with constant joy.
For who could possible best Jimmy Bright? Jimmy Bright was always right. He knew everything there was to know and if he corrected you and told you to hold your left ear closed the whole live long day, you would do just that, and you would not even say to yourself in silence, is a happy sprung butt hole worth this butt hole making a fool out of you? Where is some self-pride? Well, the thing of it is, is this: take a lonely childhood, take a mentally unbalanced mother, take being alone so much you wanted to scream your guts out to the next county, take the sadness you are constructed of, and when you get to be one of Jimmy Bright's little patsies, then you go all the way and you remember every second of this sexual hour and you store it up because maybe this will be the last time he gets round to you--
Of course he does you, that would be me, Barry, I forget I am not the person I am talking about, a habit of mine, as a favor from his big lovely overflowing with the milk of human kindness kind of heart, and then he slaps me on the butt and I collapse like a weak chair and he rips out of me and bounds off the bed, Mr. Tough Guy, and you want something to happen to him, you want someone to grind him up, you want someone in a Mack truck to run over him, you want something more subtle, you want him to see himself as he really is, you want him to be ignored or screamed at or verbally slammed because he just simply should not exist, and you want to say something here tonight, right now, me, Barry, not, me, the mouse, and he is finished dressing, as he tells me to tie his shoes.
As I sit on the bed on my tender ass and lean over to do what he asks, as he says, "sorriest little willie I ever saw on anyone. You sure you're a real man?" As I finish tying his shoe laces. As I look up at him, so full of fury and anger am I, I have just been degraded more than one can be degraded and live, it seems to me at least, so I look up at him and I say the thing I should say, and I don't care, this is my reward?, this ass fucking thing standing there so pretty and brave and brilliant looking--come back in ten years, Jimmy Bright, let's see how you stand the test of time, you s.o.b., and the thought scares me as I lean away from him, did I say it aloud?, can he read my mind?, our minds?, we fear so, I think. He turns round without a word and heads for the door.
"Wai--itt" I croak.
He stops. Dead still. Back turned. Like Michael Myers in "Halloween" when the girls walking down the sidewalk cat call him in a car he drives by, and he stops the car dead.. Just long enough to scare the girls to death and wipe their fuckin' smiles off those fuckin' faces. Then drives on.
He stops, Jimmy Bright. He does not turn around. No one but no one speaks out to Jimmy Bright unless Jimmy Bright gives his glorious permission. He waits. I am going to say it. I am going to, without fear of the consequences of this fucking machine--I mean that: he can do nothing, there is nothing to him, save his looks, other than his brutal ability to fuck. And now I speak for everyone.
My heart is going a million miles an hour. My head is swimming. I am sweating now even more than when he, Jimmy Bright, the one and only god being from the skies was fucking me-and my voice trips and falls all over the place, but as he overly does it with looking at his watch, which tomorrow he might say I stole from him and I had to buy a new one for him; he would give me an hour, no matter what class; what test I might miss--he's done it to others--we talk about him in hidden whispers in the woods far from the campus and fear and tremble that he might be there and hear .or that one or the other of us might betray the others for getting up a head or two in the to-be-fucked line--but we have to talk, we have to risk--
As I risk now--so I say, "Jim--ah cough--Mr. Bright, ah sir, ah---"
"Get the fuck on with it, worm. I give you five seconds." He starts timing by his watch.
"Ah ah er ah" don't blow it now, you can do it, be proud of yourself, "Ah Mr. Bright, ah, thank you sir."
That'll fix his clock by god. Bravo. Well done.
"You went over the time limit. Fuck yourself from here on out. I'm through with you taking advantage of my feelings, hurting me, abusing me, thinking of me as a sex object, taking up my time, being a smart ass and rude and crude and you better get me an A on History next week or your ass is grass.."
Then he storms out of the room and slams the door. As I lie on my bed and cry. One, he doesn't know who I am. I'm not the one who's doing his history paper. So he might forgive my very existence and fuck me again sometime because he doesn't remember me already. And two, I know who is doing his history paper, so I will be sure to warn him.
And I cry for happiness.
I have just BEEN FUCKED BY JIMMY BRIGHT--and who am I? Just some asshole along the way that got some cum delivered in it is all. Along with lots of other assholes. Well, it's being something anyway. Most people aren't anything at all, they think. Hey, it's our fault after all. We made him the way he is, he says. And of course, we have to agree.