Author's notes and disclaimer: Finally after 20 months, the latest installment of this story appears. The author wishes to thank Nifty readers for their kind words and the (almost) uniformly positive feedback received, even after all this time. Amazing.
Any e-mails (sans flames)and critiques/suggestions are welcomed. This series is meant not as a work of art (I should be so presumptuous) but purely as an avenue of enjoyment for myself and the readers.
Any suggestions for plot lines or situations you might like to see the characters get involved in are welcome and will be taken under consideration (no promises). The present chapter was a long time coming, and I thank those of you who waited with (varying degrees of)patience for it, especially my biggest fans, Edna and Ryan.
The following is a fantasy, meant only for the eyes of those who are of legal age. Any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental. It depicts actions which the author does NOT condone, PARTICULARLY in this day of renewed increase in HIV infection rates. Play safely, folks, for yourselves AND your loved ones.
X. High School Flashback: Fucking Phil
Suddenly, an abrupt change came over Marvin. His eyes widened, his pretty, elfin animated face crumbled into tears, and he began violently thrashing against me, wildly trying to get out of the back of the SUV. I wrapped my arms around his torso and pulled him back, gently, trying to calm him. "Whoa, babe," I soothed, rocking him back and forth and hugging him as he ineffectually threw elbows and sobbed as if his heart would break. "I didn't mean to hurt ya. I thought we were getting' along good. What's got you so upset?"
"You RAPED me!" he hissed, his chest heaving and his waffled midsection accordioning with emotion in a most becoming way. "You CRACKER SONOFABITCH. You punked me and you wrapped a rope around my neck like you were lynching me just like your Klan granddaddy used to do!" His body stiffened as he felt mine against it and became aware of me crooning softly into his ear. "You damn redneck honkies are all alike," he charged, using my accent as arraignment to misconstrue my intent.
"Oh, shit. Naw. Wait a minute," I protested, taken aback at his reading of the situation and wrapping my arms around him tighter as he wept bitterly, hurt in a way that I would never have done and was instantly sorry for. "Look, man. That wasn't how it was. I know what you're thinking, I can understand. I grew up in Georgia, I still have some of the accent, and I can see why you are upset about the rope. But I swear, I didn't mean it like that. Shit, man, when the little head starts doing the thinkin', there's no tellin' WHAT I might do to get some of a dude as fine as you." I kissed him on the neck, and he twisted away and shuddered, but his tears also began to abate as I stroked his firm little torso gently and continued. "Shit, dude, I know how it is, too. Why do you think I left there? Not a fit place for black folks, OR queer folks." I pinched his nipple playfully and he relaxed a bit. "Look, let me tell you about the first time I ever took a guy, and if you still think I'm some kind of racist pig after that, I'll never touch you again, you leave out the back here, no more contact. Deal?" I lipped his earlobe wetly and traced the vein on the top of his shaft that poured blood into the fine mancock sprouting between his well-formed thighs, rubbing back and forth with my thumb. His lips pursed, but he also nodded, curtly, unsure. I palmed the back of his head and pulled it round to face me, looking into his eyes with all the sincerity I felt. "That's my bud. Now, here's how it happened. First guy I ever forced WAS a lily-white redneck, blond, blue-eyed, as white as they get." I released his head, and he relaxed a bit. "Not only THAT, but the guy who gave me the idea and helped me do it was black. We did it together. Wanna hear about it?" I chuckled softly and suggestively in his ear. He looked back at me and nodded, the hint of a grin cracking one corner of his mouth and his cock twitching as the idea of the scenario sunk in. I winked and smiled back, spooning him against me as my mind drifted back to those high school days...
My hometown was a small town near Atlanta, far enough away when I was growing up there 20 years ago or more to be out of town: nowadays, it's essentially a suburb. Things are sure different there now than they were when I lived there! Small town life anywhere is pretty boring, but small town life in the South is both boring and racially stratified. Not that it's much better anywhere else: some of the most virulent racists I've ever met have been from the Midwest: they don't have the friction there, 'cause there are almost no blacks in the region. Or the reputation: their great-great granddaddies didn't own people. But that doesn't make lots of them any better. Remember, the biggest Klan scandal in history was in Indiana in the 1920's.
Another classic syndrome of small town life is the overinflated importance of the local high school sports teams. Really kind of pathetic in a way, if you think about it. This is when a bunch of less than rocket scientists, most of whom have no real desire to make anything more out of their lives than what the path of least resistance will offer, have their one shining testosterone-driven moment of glory. The community puts them on a pedestal, they go out and beat (or even lose to) Next County Over High (the arch rival), and they get all the perks that go along with the short-lived notoriety. They form the nucleus of the "in" crowd. They get to abuse all the largesse that their prestige affords them, and woe betide any less popular kid that gets in their way. They're always the ones who go around in a self-appointed posse, pointing out those poor guys who they suspected of being a "fag". Or sometimes they just wanted to harass the meek. Well, you know what the Bible says ;)
There was a guy on the football team, a year behind me, who was the epitome of the syndrome. Phil was a running back, built blocky and compact, not really overweight, but carried a chunky 180 pounds on his 5'6" frame. All of the parts of his body were full and meaty: he was fond of dressing in a pair of tight chinos and a white t-shirt that was about two sizes two small and marchin' his bantam bullmeat up and down the halls of the school, his fleshy nipples straining against the fabric as his big pecs jiggled from his butch strut. He had a blond mullet, the back of which ended in ringlets, which bounced like the rest of him. That's the best way to describe it: he didn't walk, he bounced.
And the part of him that bounced the most was his big round muscular ass. Perched atop thick, shapely thighs, they flexed with power with every stride. It was that ass and those legs that were his true athletic claim to fame: give him the ball, and he'd put his head down and power his way forward. Hard to stop, low to the ground, that butt and thighs and calves pistoning their way down the field, he was the bane of the defenses of the rest of the teams in the league.
Of course, I had noticed him. How could you miss him? He was like a brass band, and besides, he was hella hot. I was a senior, that fall, and Phil was sixteen and a glowingly healthy milk-white example of prime redneck veal that put me on the bone every time I saw him, even though I wasn't exactly sure why. I already knew I was gay, sure. Had known for some time. I wasn't into sports, but working at my Dad's grocery store, lugging cases of heavy stock around, I was bigger and stronger than most of my classmates, and I didn't "throw like a girl" so I passed. Didn't stop me from walking around the locker rooms before and after gym class since I first started junior high feasting my eyes on the smorgasbord of humpy young jocks. My mental faculties were always set full-bore on "record", as I simultaneously maintained a state of Zen-like detachment as much as possible: the last thing I needed to do was to pop a woody in a roomful of nekkid guys. In a small town. Where everybody had known everybody since first grade, and would graduate with them. You get the idea, if you didn't know already. Still, that didn't quite explain why I had such a reaction to Phil. He was built, and I like guys' bodies, especially jocks. Even though he wasn't classically handsome, his face was attractive, in a kind of butchy-bulldog way. He was a Bulldawg, all right, a UGA fan and the living epitome of a stocky muscular powerful animal, sleek and tenacious. He used to wear a UGA sweatshirt with a slogan popular at the time: "Let the Big Dawg Eat". I would chuckle at that, surreptitiously stroking the bone I'd love to feed him. But still, somehow, I couldn't put my finger on why he pushed my buttons like he did. Then one day, it was revealed to me...
The central staircase in our high school was open and fairly narrow, so it was easy to see down to the landings below. Each floor had a landing halfway up, so one had to turn and go the opposite direction halfway between floors. I was near the top of the staircase in the upper half leading from the second to the first floor. The bell had just rung for lunch, and as I started down the stairs, I noticed Phil, arms full of books, surrounded by three admiring females about halfway down the lower landing. They were, no doubt, reliving his winning touchdown run against Next County Over High the previous Friday, giving Our High a 5-5 record for the season. Whee. He was wallowing in the adulation, and he and his entourage were pretty much being passively obnoxious and obstructing traffic. Par for the course.
Then IT happened.
Suddenly, without warning, a wiry, nondescript black guy who was at the landing between the two flights bolted down the stairs, elbowed the girl behind Phil out of the way, grabbed a double handful of Phil's ass and WHOMPA clamped himself a big ol' feel, yellin' "SWEET THANG!!" at the top of his lungs. Then, before Phil knew what had hit him, the guy had skittered past the girls in front of Phil like a water bug and was hopelessly gone in the crowd.
Phil stood there for a couple of seconds, completely buffaloed. It was quickly clear that someone that he didn't know and had no chance of catching up with had groped him. He had been had. "HEY!" he yelled after the long-gone butt enthusiast. "You're a FUCKIN' QUEER!" A real rocket scientist, that boy. Meanwhile, time had spun into slow motion for me. I had a ringside seat for the whole show. I suddenly knew what made me lust after Phil so much.
It was that ASS.
That ASSSS.
I wanted to fuck him. Bad. It was a revelation. I had never been so hard. My throat went dry and everything was in a kind of haze except for the twin mounds of that delectable rear. Without conscious thought I backed up the four steps to the top of the stairs and made for the nearest bathroom, my books held in front of me to hide the tent. I hurried into a stall, frantically yanking my pants down. I grabbed my cock and on the third pull it exploded, painting the door of the stall with the urgent cum of my thunderous orgasm. I collapsed against the door, grabbing the top for support, my knees too weak to support me. The last two gobs of my orgasm fell to the floor with a viscous plop and I sank down onto the throne, heaving for breath, terrified that someone had heard or seen, and at the same time too zonked out to care... Fortunately, I was alone. I sat there, still hard, and considered what all this meant. Then, as I was wiping cum off the door and floor, a flash of inspiration hit me. An awful wicked evil wonderful idea formed, and I sat back, stroking and thinking. See, I HAD seen the guy who had copped a feel of Phil's ass. Had seen him around, didn't know him, but was sure I could find him again. And I knew we both wanted the same thing. Time, I thought, for a plan of action.
I corralled my best friend Randy and told him what I wanted to do. Randy and I had been best friends forever, and had found out about each other's gayness some time before. We were never attracted to each other, but we always talked about the hot guys in our environs. I told him what had happened on the stairs and the realization I had come to as a result as he sat there, open-mouthed. Then I told him what I wanted to do.
"Jeezus Christ, you're KIDDING!" he gasped, looking at me with utter incredulity.
"Serious as a heart attack, bro," I calmly replied, my eyebrows raised and my face in an evil smirk. "You in or out?"
We found the black guy by himself where we could sequester him the next Tuesday. We surrounded him on a corner behind some lockers. He was nervous: I was bigger than he was, and Randy was bigger than I. I decided to get right to the point.
"Hey, dude, got a question for you. Saw you grab Phil's tail the other day." He started to sputter and protest. I waited for a beat and then:
"Was it good?"
I had started out harshly accusatory, but as I delivered the question, my face morphed into a wicked grin. Randy winked and smiled for emphasis. He saw where we were coming from, and relaxed, cracking a grin himself. "Shit, man, what a fine boo-tay that dude has. I mean, I just couldn't stand it no more. I had to touch it."
"I hear you, bro'," I answered. "He's a piece of ass, all right." I introduced myself and Randy. "What's yer name, man?"
"Jerome, man."
"Well, lissen up, Jerome: we think that ass needs to get fucked. What do you say to that?"
Jerome looked from one to the other of us, not fully believing we were serious. The looks on our faces must have told him otherwise. He swallowed hard, licking his lips as the bulge in his pants grew impressively. "Yeah, man. I'm down with dat. What you want me to do?"
That Friday there was a fair-sized group of kids from our high school who went over to the roller-skating rink. I showed up a little later, latching onto and flattering Phil. Feeding his ego. It wasn't hard: the boy thought his shit didn't stink. The night was kind of slow: it was the Friday before Thanksgiving, and people weren't out like normal. The majority of the "in" crowd and the girls who usually served as Phil's groupies weren't around. It was as if the whole thing had been perfectly set up. A magic evening, one of those times when everything couldn't possibly go any more like you envisioned it than if you had written the script.
But of course those are the times you remember...
Randy stuck his head in the door of the rink, catching my attention and flashing me a "thumbs up". I returned the signal, and held my thumb and forefinger at a 180- degree angle. Half an hour. The look on his face was indescribably lascivious as he faded into the crowd.
"Dude!" I hauled Phil in, wrapping my arm around his broad shoulders and jock- punching a bicep just hard enough to be both playful and challenging. "Get rid of those skates and let's have some REAL fun. Got some stuff you should try."
"Yeah?" he brightened. This gig was a bore, even for him. "Whatchoo got goin', man?" This was too easy.
"'Cmon out to my car. Got some PJ I swiped from my folks." For those of you who don't know, "PJ" is short for "Purple Jesus": a potent fruit punch made with 151 rum or more often, pure grain alcohol. I fed Phil all he could hold, and in fifteen minutes flat he'd been lubricated enough to lose what little common sense he had...
"Hey dude, you know you've always been my Bud," I started, conspiratorially. "A friend of mine and I, we got a surprise for ya."
"Yeah?" Phil slurred slightly. "Whuzzat?"
"You remember that fag that grabbed you on the stairs at school a coupla weeks ago?"
"Hell yeah!" he spat, his face hardening into a mask of disgust instantaneously. "Man, I wish I could get hold of that fuckin' queer! I'd kick his ass 'til his nose bled!"
"Thought you would," I smiled. "Thing is," I leaned in, lowering my voice conspiratorially, as if anybody could hear us in my car, "I SAW who did it."
"Shit!" he bellowed, "you DID?! Who was it?" He was fairly panting with excitement and outrage, his studtits heaving invitingly in his indignation.
I raised a hand. "Better than THAT, bud: we got him tied up in the old tobacco warehouse. You want some?"
"Damn man, you know it!" he snorted. "Let's go!"
I started the engine. "Shit yeah, man. I want to see you teach him how to be a queer," I chuckled. Oh, brother, would he ever...
The abandoned warehouse stood silently, isolated at the edge of town. It was after 11 by the time we got there. The town had gone to sleep more than an hour ago, and everything was dead quiet. Phil had a righteous head of steam built up by the time we got there, and I was fairly huffing with anticipation, myself. He couldn't get out of the car fast enough, stalking towards the building resolutely, a grimly pleased look on his face. I bird-dogged behind his behind, trailin' his tail and watching the cocky bunch and roll and dimple and swagger of his ripe cantaloupe asscheeks. He was sexier than shit, and dumber than a homemade turd. And I was sporting a log that needed to pack his poop chute in the worst way...
I pried open the door as Phil strode past me and into the gloom. From over in the corner came the glimmer of a battery-powered lantern, and there, suspended from ropes tied around the rack beams that used to hold the bales of tobacco, was Jerome, seemingly helpless.
"There he is, Phil."
"Oh, SHIT!" Jerome wailed, on cue.
"Hot DAMN!" snarled Phil, shucking his jacket. "I'm gonna ENJOY this."
I opened the ziplock bag in my pocket as Phil stood there, swaying slightly, taking the scene in. "My sentiments exactly."
Phil walked toward Jerome, the fury in his brain blinding him to everything else. He wasn't paying attention as I slipped up behind him, clapping the rag sopping wet with chloroform which had been in the ziplock bag over his mouth and nose as I grabbed a big handful of curly blond mullet from behind and yanked his head back to throw him off balance.
"NOW!" I yelled, as Phil simultaneously gasped and sucked chloroform, emitting a loud "MMMFFHH!!"
In an instant, Randy appeared out of the gloom and tackled Phil, while Jerome shook himself free from the loose ropes and joined in. Phil, bewildered by what was happening and already woozy from the chloroform, struggled ineffectually for the minute or so it took to put him under, but was little match for the three of us, especially in his condition. I was holding the rag tightly against his mouth and nose, and he didn't have the presence of mind to hold his breath: if anything, he hyperventilated, and that speeded the process. Chloroform doesn't work as fast as it's portrayed in the movies: it takes a bit of time to truly render someone unconscious who's being knocked out against their will. Fortunately, with the three of us, he didn't stand a chance. Finally, I felt him slacken and his hot jock bod go limp. I held him with the rag in place for another thirty seconds or so, just to be sure. Then I dropped the rag, and Jerome and Randy turned loose as I stood there, holding him up by his hair. I looked at my co-conspirators. It was obvious that Phil was the only one who was limp in the room...
I pushed Phil into Jerome, who caught him, surprised, staggered by his weight. "There's your ass, man."
Jerome struggled to hold him up: Phil probably outweighed him by nearly forty pounds, even though Jerome was a good three inches taller. He slipped an arm under Phil's and with the other arm grabbed a handful of smokin' hot glute, pulling the shorter guy against him and grinding hungrily. "Fuck yeah, man," he growled, lust turning his voice to gravel. "Aw, fuck YEAH!"
"Grab hold of him, Randy," I ordered. "Let's get him stripped and tied up before he comes to."
Randy took him in a full nelson as Jerome and I set to work getting Phil's tight jeans off. Jerome's hands were shaking with excitement as he unbuckled Phil's belt and unfastened and unzipped his pants. I yanked his shoes off and held him by the ankles off the floor as Jerome worked his pants over his hips and ass. He reached down and fondled Phil's basket through his tighty-whities, but got no response from the unconscious fucktoy. I grabbed the pants midthigh, pulling them down Phil's legs and off as Jerome was running his hands all underneath the briefs, feeling the helpless stud up, lovingly caressing the hot mounds of tailmeat and toying with Phil's cock and balls. By this point I had a hand wrapped around each of Phil's firm thick thighs, holding his knees on either side of my waist. His basket and the near crevice of his hot asscrack were in front of me, my fevered gaze riveted on the goodies between his legs. Jerome unzipped his pants and took his dick out, his big, thick, drooling boner springing from his opened zipper like a beast on the prowl. It sounds stereotypical, but it was HUGE. Quite a bit bigger than mine, and my fat 8" was nothing to be ashamed of.
"Oh yeah, baby," Jerome rasped, tugging the briefs down to expose Phil's luscious ass and jewels. "Daddy gonna take a ride in your sweet pink Cadillac. You ready for the stick shift?" The briefs were pulled off, exposing the honey blond fluff over his rose pink dick, not too long but fairly thick, with a lovely mushroom head, and a pair of fine smooth balls, like small plums. You could see Randy's mouth watering. Then the shirt, up the nice blond treasure trail which was the only hair on his body besides his pits and pubes, the flat and toned but slightly puppyfat-layered stomach with its highset and flush navel, neither an innie nor an outie, and very attractive. Up over his meaty pecs with their big perky pink nipples and his round muscular shoulders and finally off, so that he was finally clad in nothing but his socks.
"Don't you want to take his socks off, too?" asked Randy, who had something of a foot fetish.
"Naw, man," I winked. "We're gonna FUCK them off."
Jerome laughed. "You got THAT right."
We strung him up, the ropes that were loose on Jerome now very tight on the shorter dude. He was strung up with his arms above his head but not painfully stretched, and his ankles tied down and apart so his legs were nicely spread, about shoulder width. He was still out like a light as we stripped ourselves, all three of us hard as a rock as we drank in the sight of the fuckable slab of veal...
I walked up beside of Phil, hooking an arm around his waist and pulling him backwards, causing his ass to jut outwards and dimple voluptuously. I cupped a humpy cheek, feeling its muscle tone, my fingers sliding into the deep warm crevice between it and its twin globe of desire. I pulled outward, feeling the firm tissue resist as if it did not want to reveal the treasure beneath: a glorious rosy pink sixteen-year-old virgin jock asshole. Jerome came up from behind, his hand trembling as he reached forward to touch the rim with his fingertip, lightly tracing around the circumference until, almost as if on cue, the tight little sphincter winked at him enticingly...
"You ever fuck a guy?" Jerome asked. I shook my head no.
"Ever fuck a woman?" I looked at him and sheepishly shook my head again, feeling the color rise to my face.
"Have you?"
"Never had a woman," he said, conspiratorially. I grinned. "Got me a cousin, though, he sure like ol' Jumbo, here." He winked. My grin grew broader.
"This was your idea," he told me. "You fuck him first. Bust his cherry ass with your cherry cock." I beamed and moved into position.
"Wait!" Jerome commanded. I froze, unsure of what he wanted. "Did asshole here bring anything with him?"
"Yeah," I answered. "His backpack is in my car."
"Gimme your keys and just be cool for a minute," he said, struggling to pull his pants back up over his big stiff dick. I did as he asked. He returned a minute later with Phil's backpack and began rummaging around. He gave a little whoop of pleasure as he located what he was looking for...
"Yes, sir, yes, sir!" he exclaimed, pulling out a couple of ammonia ampules. "Sho' nuff, sho' nuff! You just KNOW a musclehead like this gonna be carryin' jock stuff around with him."
"What's that for?" Randy and I asked almost simultaneously, nonplussed.
Jerome broke an ampule under Phil's nose. "Why, you want sweet cheeks here to FEEL it when you pop his cherry, don'cha?"
"Absolutely!" I laughed, the idea making me even hornier as Phil began to splutter and cough, shaking his head and opening his eyes. Phil suddenly became aware that he was tied up, and naked...
"SHIT!!" he yelled. "What the fuck is going on here??"
I finished unscrewing the cap from the tube of KY I had brought, and grabbed one of his delicious butt globes, my fingers digging into the firm supple flesh as I peeled it back to expose his succulent jock poontang. "Funny you should mention that word, fuck," I cooed, easing the tip of the tube past the edge of his sphincter. He moaned at the touch of the metal, trying to squirm away as I squeezed the tube hard, leaving a copious glob of slick goo at the entrance of his chute.
"God, NO!" he screamed. "You sick bastards! Turn me loose! Get away from me! AAAAGGGHHH!!" He thrashed and cursed as I inserted my index finger slowly past the tight entrance into the warm smooth tunnel of his stud pussy. I added a second finger inside Phil's ass now.
It was a great feeling.
Where his ass ring was, it was so tight, like a band around, just grasping my fingers. But inside him, past his ass hole, it was heat, real silky heat. It was the kind of place I wanted to bury my dick in, I wanted to stick my big cock in there and just stay in it for hours. The walls of it were smooth and slick from the lube. They radiated warmth that my fuckin' pole dripped, longed to feel.
Randy and Jerome each had hold of one of Phil's brawny thighs, holding him in place as I slicked his channel. Randy was playing with Phil's rod and nuts and licking his lips. Jerome was teasing his fat, sensitive nipples, making them erect and talking shit to him, taunting Phil as he cursed and spat and wailed. I grabbed the shaft of my cock, corkscrewing my hand up and down it and grabbing the base as I wrapped my other arm around his burly waist. The head of my throbber slid into the unfathomed cleft between his luscious rump halves.
Contact.
I began to apply pressure, and his ring admitted just the very tip of my bone. At that moment, I knew a feeling like none other I had ever had. Suddenly I understood the instant when a lion closes its mouth around the spinal column of a gazelle, when the fangs of a vampire break the skin above the jugular before actually piercing the vein, when a snake disarticulates its jaws around the head of its vanquished prey. Overcome by lust, I thrust forward, forcefully, greedily. Half my length rocketed past his sphincter and into the furnace of his scrumptious fuckhole.
Phil's screech of anguish was ear-splitting. I froze, breathless, my dick pulsing with every thunder-pounding of my heart, feeling the equal throb of his rectum as his own heart beat with the shock of accommodating my girth in his sweet virgin ass. That sweet virgin ass. My throat went dry.
"What'd you stop for?" Jerome demanded. "Go, boy! Fuck him! Cram it up him! CRAM him!"
And Cram him I did...
Marvin looked up at me, and smiled. "That explains a lot."
"Don't it though?" I chuckled. "Seriously, though, dude, it never crossed my mind that I was making you feel that way. I don't care what color guys are: if they look like you, their butt is in danger." Marvin giggled and snuggled enticingly against me. "I am an equal opportunity horndog. It's one of my more appealing character traits." He laughed. I looked down on him, sexy little guy nestled in my arms like a big teddy bear. A muscular little bear that still needed fucking...