Disclaimer: Do not continue reading if you are not 18 years old or you are offended by portrayals of male to male sex or the laws in your state or county forbid this type of material.
Copyright 2004 by the author. Do not reproduce or distribute this story without the author's permission.
Names, characters, locations and incidents are fictional. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
By the time Tim entered college he was a bona fide faggot boy. Through high school, he was one of those kids who never wanted to climb the rope in gym, and hated the game of dodge ball. He was a little dumpy and his breasts resembled those of a girl in early puberty. Worst of all, he had the faggot manner about him. He stood with his shoulders drooped, his head hung down, his hands limp. He was the brunt of all the stunts in the locker room. As he walked to his locker, his ass was whipped by a succession of towels. He knew he couldn't cry or the abuse would get worse. And if he tried to complain, his voice would raise an octave into the squeaky range. The other boys loved to hear that squeak. Like when they laid a rubber dog poop on the bench by his locker. Sure enough, as soon as Tim saw it he squeaked a long "eeeeeewwww" that sent them of all into hysterics. Throughout the rest of the day, as Tim walked from class to class, he'd hear students mocking him with that "eeeeeewwww ." Even kids who weren't in his gym class. Even girls. So the word had obviously spread.
Oh, Tim did have a small cadre of friends in school. Guys like himself who had early on acquired the fairy label, and pulled themselves together not so much for defense, as that was impossible, but in order to get a little respite from the abuse. They would eat their lunches quickly and then hustle down to the library and meet at the back table and support the one who had received the latest traumatic humiliation. They would get together after school at one house or another and begin to explore just what a faggot was. If they were going to be called cocksuckers, then damn it, they might as well see what cocksucking was all about. So they would suck each other off and in those sessions discover that hell, it wasn't such a bad lifestyle after all.
So by the time Tim went off to college, he had perfected his blow job skills, and had even once let his ass be penetrated. Back in eleventh grade, a young gym teacher had called him into his office allegedly to comfort him after a particularly horrendous class. He hugged the boy, and listened to his story with feigned understanding. He wiped Tim's tears with his gentle hand, and petted his rear end and said, "There there. You're a good kid. Any time they give you trouble, you just come to me." So Tim did just that. Once or twice a month he was in Mr. Foster's office and each time he left feeling strengthened, feeling loved. As the months passed, Foster's hands moved from Tim's tears and rear end, to his nipples and his little dick. Foster guided Tim's hands to his own cock, and told him he was a very special boy, more like a son than a student. Eventually, Tim was sucking Foster regularly. He didn't mind the abuse he was getting in the locker room any more for he knew the wonde rful feeling he would get from his secret meeting with the fatherly teacher. So after an especially hot blow job, when Foster asked Tim if he'd like to learn what it was like to get fucked, Tim was ready. Foster pulled down Tim's shorts and tidy whities, and told him to lean over the teacher's desk. Tim closed his eyes, and soon felt Foster's gentle fingers applying some sort of cream all around and into his asshole. Then he heard Foster whisper "Now just relax, my boy. This won't hurt." And it didn't. The man's huge cock which Tim had measured with his tongue so often, did indeed feel tight as it punctured Tim's tight virgin hole, but it wasn't really a feeling of hurt. It was an exhilaration. Foster held Tim's buttocks as he pressed his cock in and out. And when he got ready to ejaculate, he reached around and held Tim's own cock in his warm manly hands. Tim let loose a small but satisfying string of jizz just as the Master began pumping his own massive load into his ass. Fos ter pulled out, turned Tim over and kissed him. Then went to the sink and handed Tim some wet paper towels to clean himself off.
But immediately, things changed between Tim and Mr. Foster. The teacher was no longer available when Tim came around. "Sorry, my boy, I got a meeting to get to." Or else the door would be locked. Tim soon realized that his friend Wally, another faggot boy, was visiting Foster regularly now. Tim now knew what Foster had wanted him for all along, and he accepted it. He was a faggot boy, and he figured he had performed his function well.
In his last year at home, Tim had even gained a reputation among some of the straight boys as an accomplished cocksucker. They would let him suck them off on the condition that if he told anyone, he would have the living shit beaten out of him. They were too straight to try anything anal. All they wanted was a good blow job, something most of their girl friends were either too reluctant to do, or too inexperienced to do well.
Now, here he was at college. He had a small room to himself in the freshman dorm, where the other guys tended to give him a wide berth. No one ever knocked on his door to visit or shoot the breeze or listen to music. Tim enjoyed his privacy and felt at ease enough to post a few centerfolds on his wall from Honcho and Men magazines. His wall of inspiration, he called it.
Tim had an oncampus job to help pay his way. He was a PE assistant. As such, he would gather up the dirty towels and used jock straps around the locker room after a team practice session, make sure there was soap in the shower dispensers and clean towels piled just outside the shower, pick the toilet paper up off the floor, and in general make the locker area presentable. The job didn't pay a lot but it did have its perks: he could smell all the sweaty jocks he wanted to, and he had an excuse to look at big muscular hunks showering off.
One hunk in particular caught his eye. Damon was a halfback, with a gorgeous build, a manly cock, and a quiet demeanor. He wore an IOK jacket. Iota Omicron Kappa was known as the jock fraternity. Most of the brothers were on either the football or the basketball team, with a smattering of LaCrosse and gymnastics thrown in. There was a rumor going around that as part of the pledging routine, those wishing to join IOK went through a `measuring up.' One evening, after fulfilling all the other requirements of membership, the pledges who had not yet been weeded out, would stand naked before their future brothers and beat off, until they were fully erect. Then their hardons would be carefully measured by one of the brothers. No member was admitted who couldn't produce at least ten inches. That was the rumor. Tim knew that Damon certainly had no problem with that requirement. Even flaccid, his cock was impressive in both length and girth.
Damon must have noticed Tim's admiration, for one afternoon after showering off, he asked Tim to hand him a towel, even though he could have reached the pile himself. Tim gladly obliged and then took another towel and dried off Damon's back for him. "Thanks. That was nice of you." Tim blushed, but Damon continued, "I don't even know your fucking name. All the guys call you the jockstrap boy. I'm Damon," and held out his hand to shake.
"I know," Tim stammered, taking his hand. "I'm Tim." After what seemed to be an eternal silence, during which Damon continued to dry off his balls and dick and asshole, Tim asked, "Is there anything else you need?"
"You know there is, actually." Tim's eyes brightened. He hadn't expected that answer. "Come with me back over here." Tim, in his street clothes, followed the bare assed athlete to a back corner of the locker room. Classes were over for the day and no one would be coming in. When they got there, Damon stood up on the bench and looked down at Tim. "How about sucking me off, Tim?"
Tim was flabbergasted. This impressive hunk of young masculinity not only called him by his proper name but seemed to be reading his mind as well. Of course he had fantasized about sucking not only all the cocks he had studied since his arrival on campus, but this particular cock. And wasn't it thoughtful for Damon to stand up on the bench, so Tim wouldn't have to get down on his knees, though of course he would have done that too. Tim looked at the manflesh in front of him as it was beginning to stiffen, then he gazed up at its owner, and simultaneously they exchanged silent smiles. Tim opened his mouth and took the tool into his mouth. All of the skills he had learned in high school came into use. He licked the shaft, he ran his mouth sideways along its length, he slobbered on it, he held the base in his hand as he took the helmet in and out of his mouth, he flicked the piss hole with his tongue, he wanted this performance to be perfect. And judging from Damon's quiet moans, it was.
After a long time of oral satisfaction, Damon grabbed Tim's head in his hands. Tim felt the muscular body begin to quiver and knew it was coming. At the last moment, Damon pulled out and showered Tim's face with a huge load of splooge. "Thank you." Who said that? They realized that they had both uttered their gratitude at the same time. And that made them both laugh. Damon climbed down and kissed Tim. Then hugging him tight, he licked some of his jizz off Tim's face. "That's ok. You can leave it there," Tim smiled. "I'll keep it as a souvenir."
"OK. As you wish. But I'd like to think that this won't be the last time you give me a BJ." Tim liked the way Damon said that. This wasn't another Foster just using him and dumping him at the end. Tim had become fairly astute at judging people and there was a sincerity about Damon.
"I'd like that very much," Tim said, as Damon returned to his own locker and began getting dressed. Tim wondered how long he'd wait for the next time. But he was surprised anyway when he next saw Damon.
The very next day, as Tim crossed the quad on his way to the Science lab, Damon came up beside him and nonchalantly patted his ass. "Hi, Tim." He still remembered his real name.
"Hi, Damon. Want another blow job?" Tim was grinning but the offer was heartfelt. To hell with science lab if an absence meant he could once again taste that man sausage.
"No, sorry. Not now, I gotta get back to the frat house. But I gotta ask you something. What do you get paid as the jockstrap boy?" Wow, thought Tim, that came out of left field. Why is Damon at all interested in my finances? Tim told him his weekly salary. "OK, Tim, IOK will pay you the same salary, plus free room and board." Tim stopped dead in his tracks, and stared at Damon openmouthed.
"What the hell for?"
"We need a houseboy. You'd have your own room in the basement and you'll eat your meals in the kitchen."
"And what does the houseboy do?"
"Well, that's the official name for the position. That's what we told the Greek office that we needed. But unofficially, we joke that we need a slave. Frankly, we're a bunch of jock slobs and we need someone to pick up our messes and keep the place looking presentable. Like you've been doing in the locker room."
"And I'll get paid, plus free room and board?" Tim repeated disbelieving.
"Plus maybe a few other perks," Damon winked at him and cupped his crotch, "if you know what I mean."
That was the coup de grace. The thought of being able to suck Damon's mantool often was the clincher. "I'll do it then." Tim said, and wondered if, in his excitement, his voice had entered that squeaky range he tried so hard to avoid.
In the following week, Tim took care of a lot of necessary loose ends. He had to give notice at the gym office. His boss was sorry to see him go. "You're the most efficient worker we have. Frankly, most of the others just stand around scratching their balls. Look, if this new gig doesn't work out, you're always welcome to come back here." Tim thanked him profusely. "And also if you ever need a job recommendation, come to me."
Tim also had to tell the dorm he was moving out and arrange for a refund on his rent and on his dining card. He visited the frat house one day and saw his room - well, not a room exactly. It was a corner of the basement that may have been a coal cellar at one time. It was separated from the rest of the area by a cloth sheet hung over a pole. There was no window, and the cot was minimal. Nothing like the comfortable privacy he enjoyed at the dorm. The bathroom consisted of a toilet, sink and shower in one corner of the basement, without so much as a door. He was beginning to have second thoughts, and remembered his boss's offer. Then he met a few of the frat guys. They all seemed especially friendly, not at all like the abusive musclemen in his old HS gym classes, or like the disdainful heteros in his dorm. "Damon's told us a lot about you," they said, "Welcome to IOK." Tim was thrilled. His reservations about the accommodations melted. He knew he would never be a brother, - he could never `measure up' - but he would be among guys, gods really, who seemed to accept him for what he was.
Midweek, Tim was startled when someone knocked on his door at the dorm. He cracked it open slowly and saw Damon standing there with a bunch of empty liquor boxes. He smiled at Tim, "I thought I'd come over and give you a hand packing." Tim noticed that some of his fellow freshmen were in the hall gawking dumbfounded that the school's star halfback was unexplainably visiting the freak.
Damon came in and Tim quickly closed the door. Damon looked at the centerfolds. Tim blushed and whispered, "My wall of inspiration." Damon smiled. Then he began helping Tim pack up his books and his records and the clothes in his closet. They left enough items to get Tim through the rest of the week, and together carried the boxes downstairs to Damon's car, to the further confusion of the dorm residents. Back in the room after the last trip to the car, Damon said Tim would find all his things in his new room when he moved in on Saturday. "Wow, how can I thank you, Damon?" but both of them already knew the answer to that question. Damon opened his zipper and offered his schlong to Tim, who took it readily in his mouth and gave him a long fulfilling blow job.
Friday night, Tim could hardly sleep. He had packed the rest of his gear, pulled down his centerfolds, and was ready to go. He woke up early on Saturday. While the rest of the dorm was sleeping off their hangovers, he took a quick shower, ate a banana and a pop tart for breakfast, and stared out the window looking for Damon's car. It came around 11, and Tim grabbed his bags, looked quickly around his room one last time, and ran down the stairs. When Damon actually climbed out of the car and opened the trunk for the stuff, Tim hoped some of the guys in the dorm were awake enough to witness this.
In a few minutes, they were in front of IOK, unpacking the trunk. Damon took one of Tim's bags and led him down the alley to the back door. The houseboy would never presume to use the front door. "It wouldn't look right," explained Damon. They walked through the kitchen and Damon introduced Ramón. Tim had heard about Ramón's culinary prowess. The university insisted that its top athletes be well fed so they underwrote the food expenses of the frat. Tim would be among the privileged few who would eat Ramón's legendary menu.
Then they headed down to the basement. Tim started for the curtain that separated his new quarters, when Damon stopped him. "I have to tell you something, Tim, before you go in. The brothers decided you should have a new `wall of inspiration,'" and with that he pulled open the sheet. "Meet the brothers." There on one wall, Tim gazed at row upon row of 8x10 glossy prints of the brothers. Not their faces, but life-size close-ups of their giant erect cocks! Tim quickly scanned them and then pointed to the third photo in the second row. "Yep, that's me. You sure do know my cock!" And eventually you'll be able to name every picture up here. Your new wall of inspiration."
Tim was stunned. Seeing his eyes welling up, Damon left him to adjust to his new surroundings. Tim slowly realized all that the house had done since he last saw this room. It had a fresh coat of paint, new lighting, and this fabulous wall of inspiration. They must have taken these pictures this week. Maybe one of the brothers had a darkroom. They had set up his computer, linking it into the house's own LAN, which reputedly had great resources for researching papers. The cot was the same, and there was still no privacy, but Tim was almost in tears thinking of all that these guys had done for him already. He wanted to give each of them a blow job right then and there in gratitude.
Tim tried unpacking the rest of his gear, but he kept being distracted by his new wall of inspiration. Suddenly, he heard a phone ring. Holy shit. The brothers had even installed a house phone in his room. Not for outside calls, mind you. But a phone that allowed anyone in the house to summon the houseboy when needed. This time it was Ramón telling him his lunch was waiting in the kitchen. Tim sat on a stool at the kitchen counter, eating a delicious consommé and some thick roast beef sandwiches. The best meal he had had thus far at college. After lunch, Ramón showed him where the cleaning supplies were stored, and the bulletin board with the elaborate house schedule. Tim studied it diligently. He wanted to find times when he could do his cleaning duties without intruding on the brothers. During supper every day, they would all be occupied in the dining room. Most mornings, some had either classes or team practice, and the others would probably be sleeping late. Wednesday eveni ng was the weekly business meeting. Saturday was probably going to be party night. As he studied the chart and made notes, Damon came through the kitchen and confirmed his assumption. "Look, Tim, we're having a bunch of sorority sisters over tonight. You'll probably want to make yourself scarce." Tim understood completely. He had no desire to see or be seen by any of the sisters. And the brothers certainly wouldn't want the girls to see this cocksucker living among them.
"Absolutely, Damon." Saturday night would be a good opportunity to hole up in his room and do his homework. With that understood, Tim went about the house locating the bathrooms and sprucing them up for the visitors. He took special note of the bathroom just off the conference room, because it was unique. It was extra large with an oversized hot-tub right in the center. "Like a roman bath," he mused. He picked up stray socks and jocks that somehow hadn't made it into the hamper. And random pizza boxes and empty beer bottles that were apparently still en route to the garbage bins.
Even though a housekeeper was hired to come in every Thursday and give the house a thorough vacuuming and cleaning, Tim still found time to get out the hoover and give some areas a quick once over. All the while, various brothers came by with requests. Several needed clean briefs, one wanted his tie pressed, one was out of shaving cream, one needed condoms, and most surprising to Tim, several of these hetero frat boys asked for blow jobs. "To get me primed for tonight." Apparently, the expected arrival of the sisters made them especially horny. All these petitioners were polite and respectful, but they assumed that their wishes would be fulfilled. And indeed, Tim did grant every last request.
Long before the party was underway, Tim was sequestered in his basement area, just happy to have found this wonderful situation. He contemplated his fortuitous meeting with Damon, his valuable experience in High School, and the amazing way in which everyone here seemed intent on his comfort. He took out his pen and labeled a few more of the pictures on his wall of inspiration. He had memorized the pictures so well, that as soon as any brother had proffered his erect cock, Tim could immediately match name and picture. As the noise of the party got louder upstairs, Tim took his dick in his hand, jerked himself off and drifted into a sound satisfying sleep.
On Sunday morning, just as Tim expected, he was able to go about cleaning up all the downstairs rooms without interruption from the brothers sleeping overhead. Still, whenever he heard someone stirring, he made sure he wasn't seen. It wasn't the brothers themselves he was hiding from, but the possibility that some of the sisters may have spent the night.
By the time the brothers began stumbling downstairs in robes, or pjs, or briefs, or less, the living room, dining room, front hall and parlor actually bore some semblance of order, which caused several of them to scratch their heads in bewilderment, wondering if they had only dreamt the party. When they did encounter their new houseboy, they congratulated him on his amazing efficiency. They probably would have let him suck them off as a reward, but they were so hung over, that they knew they could hardly lift their poor dicks an inch. Blowing would have to wait.
As the next few days passed, Tim began to get into a real routine. He managed to keep all the public rooms in order, the bathrooms sparkling, and even the private bedrooms free of unnecessary clutter. He also managed to satisfy the brothers' sexual desires and by Wednesday he had most of the pictures on his wall labeled. Tony's was the longest shaft. Bart's was the one with the ponderous low hangers, George was completely shaved, - maybe that had something to do with being on the swim team. Pete had a heart with his girlfriend's initials tattooed on his belly, toward the left side, and slightly below his waistband. Tim hoped he was planning to keep this girl, because down the line a wife finding those initials would expect some explanation.
Tim also managed to keep up with his schoolwork. In fact, this living arrangement seemed to give him new resolve to do well in class. He certainly didn't want to flunk out now that he had it made. He had a report due on Thursday, but he knew he could work on it without interruption during the house business meeting Wednesday night. That's why Tim was surprised when Bart (big balls Bart) came by before supper. He threw open the curtain, - Tim had already decided he could never expect any privacy in his basement pad, - and said "Hi, Tim." After some brief remarks about how wonderful the house looks, Bart came to the point. "Listen, after our meetings each week, we like to have a little fun. We call it game night. You know, drink some beer, shoot some pool, joke around. We'd like you to be part of the fun, if you don't mind." Tim raised his eyebrows. "If you feel like it, we'd like you come upstairs and knock on the conference room door at 11. The brothers will be expecting you. But if you'd rather not, we understand. There's no pressure. And you can leave any time you don't feel comfortable." Tim couldn't understand what Bart was getting at. Why wouldn't he want to join in game night? They had all been so nice, it would be terribly impolite to refuse their invitation. And, what's more, if he was lucky he might be able to identify the last few photographs on his wall. Maybe a couple beers was all it would take for these final stragglers to open their zippers and show him their cocks. "Oh, and one more thing, Tim," Bart said as he headed through the sheet curtain, "you don't need to wear anything. I mean, anything at all." He headed up the stairs leaving Tim both confused and elated.
"So no clothes," he thought after he was alone again. "Maybe it's like a weekly toga party, but without the togas. Maybe they just like to hang around the place bare assed once in a while. Why not? One thing for sure, I'll be able to identify all those pictures now. . . . But why was Bart so evasive? He kept saying I could leave if I ever felt uncomfortable. Hell, I've never felt more comfortable in all my gay fucking life!"