My fiancé, Jack, and I were sharing more stories of our steamy sexual past, and, inevitably, more stories of my dorm-days sexcapades were bandied about . . . . So I decided to continue with my writing for online posting. So here's another piece. I am attempting to change the title because it's not my sophomore year, but I put 6 because it really is the series. I hope Nifty approves.
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I was a fully-committed senior – on the water polo team, carrying a double-major classload and a nymphomaniacal slut – all in all, a better than full-time proposition. I did my studies justice – fortunately a decently-equipped brain helped, as did the need for few hours of sleep, which allowed me to study for as many hours as I needed to keep my GPA near four-point-zero. I did my sports – loving practices and matches alike, loving the way my body felt during exertion, loving the way the water caressed me head-to-toe, and loving being with all the other young men whose muscles rippled and undulated under sheens of pool water and sweat around me. And I did my carnal cravings justice at every opportunity, which being among a bunch of hormone-overloaded young athletes, and being a power bottom, were many and often.
The practice that Thursday was charged to explosive levels. We had a match coming up on Saturday with our arch-rival, a number of their players top-notch as far as Olympics-eligible in two years, as were some of my teammates, and neither we nor they intended to walk away losers after Saturday night. My teammates, both on my squad and on the opposing squad, pushed hard, and their intensity and almost dangerous competitiveness in anticipation of our opposing team was evident in the roughness of our play . . . and in the many boners narrowly, sometimes not, contained in our Speedos.
We wore the type of Speedo suits then which were uncommon but are well-known now – much like compression briefs, just bottoms not what I now call the singlet-style, but with legs and a slightly higher waist than the classic Speedo bikini-like cut. The generosity of the fabric is all that saved – most of the time but not always – the team's hardons from swinging freely through the pool water.
At six-five I was no waif! I'd worked HARD training to get my lanky frame to over two hundred twenty-five pounds of solid muscle. But compared to a few of the beasts on my and opposing teams, I was downright puny. One of said beasts was our team captain, Hastings. His heritage was geographically near mine of northern Europe – I'm from the Netherlands, having come to university from there, and Hastings' heritage, despite the very Anglo name, is Austrian. Think BIG and Aryan, throw in possible steroids, and you've got Hastings pegged. He didn't do steroids, by the way; he was just that big that his body was able to manufacture and carry that much muscle. Six-nine he said, though he seemed to be more than six inches taller than me when his body wrapped around mine. Shoulders that I swear could span half the width of the pool with shouldercaps like volleyballs. Every muscle on him was perfectly sculpted, pumped and functional. Legs like Sequoia tree trunks to match arms like oaks. All of it framed in light skin that, during the summer, bronzed to irresistible perfection – yes, MANY loads I'd jacked and sent flying across the room with intensity as I simply brought his tanned, hunky hulk to mind. Obligatory fine coating of almost translucent short – as in never needed trimming – blond fur. Gorgeous smile around bright, icy blue eyes. And, of course, a cock of death – we measured once and he was, quite literally, a hair short of a full twelve inches of fuckmeat, thick as my wrist.
And that was what was shoved into my back as Hastings blocked me from behind, knocking me out of the path of the ball as it was passed to me. It felt like his cock was what shoved me out of position . . . and although my almost-full concentration was on the play, a sliver of a track in my head, sparked by desire from my ass and nuts, wanted to be in a very different position. I blocked Hastings' interception of the pass, at least. And play went on, just as rough, just as intent, just as charged.
At one point between play I caught sight of Hastings adjusting his fuckpole – underwater, but come on now, a good power bottom can see cock through ripples of the roiling pool waters! – to get that monster horizontal and, therefore, back below the waist of his swimsuit. It was a losing battle with him when he got worked up – it was just too fucking big. When we had meets and audiences he forced it vertical, down the right leg of his suit, and when inflated it basically took several times as long to work horizontal then vertical up to expose. It was too fucking hard and strong to go full vertical down, so he didn't have to worry about the mid-thigh legs of the suit being a closer distance – the Hastings fuckYeti, as I called it, was too determined to go UP when it couldn't go OUT.
When practice was called, and we were all working ourselves down, swimming easily and randomly in the pool, I made it a point to pass Hastings a few times, turn, flip or any other move that put my ass in his line of sight, and then I lingered when he wasn't moving much. At one point he gave me a sneer, which was enough for me to know he'd noticed, and I'd have what I wanted later.
We showered, we horsed around like always, still high on the rush, and we all dispersed into sub-groups and stragglers as we headed out of the gym into the humid night. "I fucking swear – why do we fucking bother showering," I heard growled behind me. Hastings' baritone growl . . . and it set my ass twitching.
"I will describe for you the damage to your skin from the heavy chlorine to your skin, but instead I will say because the smell of our sweat is better than the smell of the pool chemicals, so getting laid is an easier task."
"I don't have any problem getting laid, VanD, even if I was covered in shit I'd have more creaming pussy than the rest of you combined!" he boasted, having caught up to me and knocking me with one of his massive arms and shoulders.
"You can surely have my allotment!" I joked, risking it, risking the open reference to my known preferences and his possible freak-out simply by the overt comment when we were around each other.
"Fuck you, pretty boy – I don't need anyone else's help to get my knob squeezed and my nuts milked whenever I want it!" he almost shouted, in his usual loud, boastful delivery.
He was no charmer . . . when his voice was audible – but he was PURE MALE and my entire body wanted him IN me, ON me, filling me, drenching me . . . "Yeah, Beast," I ventured the pet name I used with him, something he disallowed anyone but me, and me never before in public, "You need a good consolation for your squad's pathetic loss to mine at practice."
He literally growled, loud and long, and transitioned into a hearty laugh. At length, when we were at the place where, if he was going to his apartment and I to mine, we'd part ways, he finally said, "And I will so fucking have that consolation . . . soon, I hope."
It was an unusual concession to possibility and desire as opposed to his outward confidence. We were, by then, alone on the street, nobody easily within earshot. He stopped at our parting point, and I noticed as I'd kept walking. "You suddenly undecided, BEAST?" I said, emphasizing the last, again venturing farther than I knew his comfort level to be, but sensing a strange difference to his mood tonight.
Usually, if Hastings was going to fuck me – mouth or ass, usually both – he'd just show up, push in the door when I opened it and take what he wanted. I loved that – loved his confidence, his determination, his beastly pleasure-satisfaction. It's not that he was a jerk at all – in fact, after he'd either fucked me wildly or even virtually raped me, he was always momentarily almost shy, saying he should get out of there and leave me to my own priorities, then pleasantly surprised when I'd ask him to shower with me or just hang. He wouldn't stay long after a shower or if we didn't shower, but he'd stay a bit, talk a bit, then show some reluctant acceptance of the need for him to go, both my need – usually for studying – and his – to get back to his very straight life.
"Is that an invitation?" he growled, quickly glancing about to ensure our privacy hadn't been disturbed, as I was now on the other side of the street, almost headed down my side street.
I thought about taunting him, and I thought about flattering him. You've never needed an invitation before, so when you figure it out . . . OR . . . You know you're such a stud you don't need an invitation, my sexy beast. But there was something different tonight, just there, out in the open yet not explicit, out of the blue after almost two years of clandestine fucksessions. "Yes, it is," I said firmly, having stopped and facing him across the expanse of street and sidewalks.
"Catch some dinner?" he asked, somewhat inarticulately.
That I wasn't ready for. I wanted him to fuck me senseless with all the primal need he always had plus the energized turbo-charged fuckpassion of the rowdy practice fueling it. On the other hand, the part of me I never acknowledged – because it was only trouble – was crying out HE'S ASKING YOU ON A DATE ALMOST – WHAT ARE YOU STUPID? I took several long strides and crossed the street back to him and faced him, not too close, in case anyone appeared to see us. "Dinner would be great," I said with a smile. And then, morphing my smile into a filthy smirk, I added, "Afterword."
Hastings' eyes burned as he looked at me, and I swear I saw his huge bulge in his sweats twitch at that. "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!" he exclaimed and licked his lips absently.
I took a half-step toward him, lowered my voice to where he had to work to hear me, and said, "Exactly!" and turned and headed across the street again. I didn't look back, but his size seventeen sneakers were easy to hear as he followed until he caught up with me on the other side of the street. We walked in silence to my building.
I'd never actually walked into anywhere but the gym or an occasional class with Hastings, certainly never to my building. He showed up when his nuts needed draining or his cock needed exercise, whenever he needed primal release. It was weird – again, that inner giddy bottomboy was stirring up trouble, telling me, PUSH INTO HIM, AGAINST HIM AS YOU WALK, and the odd other equally-doomed-to-failure suggestion.
When we got in the stairwell – I always took the stairs, even though I lived on the eleventh floor! – I realized he might have chosen the path differently and turned, ahead of him and above by two stairs, about to ask him. Hastings didn't stop, and he got to the step below mine, easily met me eye-to-eye and reached out and put his hand on the back of my neck, squeezing it and caressing the name of my neck and up the back of my head. I was as stiff as a board – my body, from surprise and fear that I was hallucinating and would find I was really just sleeping at my desk or something – but my eyes closed in response, the feel of his huge paw on me hot and warm and happy and seductive all at once.
As I reeled there for what seemed like an interminable time, wondering what the fuck was going on, I felt him lean into me and stiffened even more, wondering if this would be the first time he kissed me, wondering if he thought he needed to seduce me, wondering if he was somewhere else, hurting from someone or something for the first time I'd ever experienced. His lips didn't meet mine; they passed my jaw, and his cheek pressed against mine and my jaw, his hand caressing me more and rubbing less. "I fucking WANT you, Mads!" he growled softly into my ear, his breath hot and sending a bolt of electricity through me.
I couldn't help it. I wrapped my arms around him and kissed his neck and held on tight in case my big, strong, manly he-beast pulled away in disgust. But he didn't. Instead he brought his other arm around me and pulled me tight against him, his hand on the back of my head cupping it gently but holding me tight against him. "Gott!" I murmured in my native language, before I could realize the magnitude of what I was feeling in the moment.
He was hard against me – and I against him – but we weren't moving, just holding that position, tightly wrapped in each other's arms. It was heaven . . . but I wanted fucking heaven . . . literally.
"Hast—" I started, but he rubbed my head and pulled me tighter against him, cutting me off.
"It's Jimmy," he said softly in that low, rumbling baritone of his. "Would you mind, if I told you it's what I'd like, calling me `Jimmy?'" he asked me.
I choked a little at the need and want in his voice. There was something going on . . . but for the moment it was going on for and WITH me, and I was overcome – allowed myself to be overtaken by – the intensity of the feeling.
"Jimmy," I murmured behind his ear.
"Mmmmmmm, I like that. Thanks," he said, rubbing his face against mine again.
STILL NO FUCKING KISS my inner demon said, now a bit defiant. "Jimmy," I said again, again getting a squeeze and a sigh from him, "Take me upstairs and fuck me like the stud you are? Please?"
Hastings rumbled a laugh, squeezed me tight and even brushed his lips just slightly against my neck before pushing me away. "Get to business, huh?"
I was burning inside – both from desire to be fucked STILL but also from desire for HIM, for more of him, for more of this type of moment with him. I took a chance. A big chance. I reached out and caressed the side of his incredibly handsome face. "I want you, Jimmy – any or all of you, anything you give me, any way, anywhere, I want. I figure my apartment is a better place for us than here, but if I could stay like that, like we were a moment ago, forever, it would be incredible," I told him, my eyes intense with desire and want and warmth, staring straight into his beautiful, bright baby-blues. Amazing that they weren't icy then!
He smiled at me and held my gaze. "It's a long way up. I may not be able to wait, and it could end up being the stairs for us!" he said, a smile curling the edges of his lips.
I took another chance and reached for his big, warm hand and took it. "I already told you, Jimmy, anywhere, any way, I'm yours, stud." I hadn't moved and kept that intense eye contact with him, watching his eyes smolder at the thought.
"Let's fucking GO then!" he said suddenly, taking a step up to my left, but not letting go of my hand.
Good thing we were athletes . . . and young – ten flights of stairs at a run, even for guys with legs long enough to take two or three at a time, is a fucking workout. I did it all the time; but I didn't do it running balls-out, already breathless from anticipation!
We burst out of the stairwell on my floor and sort of stumbled and fell into and against each other a few times before we got to my door. My neighbors, if they saw us, would think we were drunk. The fact was that I didn't drink – and still don't; and I'd never seen Hastings have more than part of one beer. If my neighbors were looking closely through their peepholes, then they would have seen Hastings dive onto me and pin me against the wall just inside my door before he kicked it shut!
Hastings' massive hardon was jammed into my gut – his height advantage had mine jammed into his thigh! And his lips were shoved against mine, his tongue exploring every bit of my mouth, dueling with my tongue . . . and if it wasn't amazing and ecstatic I would have been wondering WHAT THE LIVING FUCK . . . because he'd NEVER kissed me before – never once!
We were grunting; we were grinding; we were thrusting; we were groping. Hastings had his hand up my shirt, down my jeans, was grabbing my hardon and balls and grabbing my ass and rubbing and moaning. And I couldn't stop myself from doing the same with him . . . except for the minor distinction that my moaning was more like a bitch in heat, like a bitch who wanted to be mounted and fucked wildly and aggressively and mercilessly!
At length he planted his huge, hot hands on my shoulders, broke the face-sucking and pushed back, sucking in a huge breath. "Jesus Christ, Mads!" he huffed, panting.
"FUCK, Has—er, sorry, Jimmy. That was fucking amazing, Jimmy. THIS is fucking amazing," I said, bringing my arms up and gripping him by his powerful biceps, feeling his body buzz against mine through our arms now instead of our entire bodies against one another, but still as strong as before.
"I want you, Mads," he growled, still huffing.
I grinned – I couldn't help it. "Good thing I've already told you I'm yours for the taking – anywhere, anytime, any way you want, Jimmy," I told him, my grin having gone to a filthy smirk.
Strangely, though, his look, which had been ravenous, barely controlled, went to something far more intense, an outreach, an attempt at connection. I didn't understand. "Jimmy, what is it?" When he took a deep breath, I expected something . . . but nothing happened, nothing was said. "I want you to fuck me, Jimmy . . . I always want you to fuck me, but tonight you KISSED me and have me revved up to almost where I can't stand it that you're not already fucking me . . . but I'm fucking CONFUSED AS FUCK. WHAT the FUCK is it that's going on for you?"
He took a step in then, our arms folding necessarily, and one of his hands that had been on my shoulder went behind my head, caressing my neck, and his other arm went around me and pulled us tight together. I could hear his breath, heavy against my ear, and feel his chest heaving against me as he held onto me.
I felt him hard . . . which was a great sign! But I also felt his tension – not just sensed it, felt it, in tandem with his desire and excitement he was tense. I'd felt that . . . in competition; I'd never seen that from him outside the pool. I didn't want to do anything but get fucked by my sexy beast; but I also cared, my sensitive side, the bottom in me, the one I tried to not let overtake the sexual predator in me, that me was needy to see what Jimmy needed . . . other than my very willing ass.
"Jimmy, fuck me and then talk to me . . . or talk to me. Whatever it is, I'm here for you." I reached down and grabbed his fuckmonster, still raging, and he hissed in a breath by my ear. "Come on, stud, FUCK ME . . . and then, when we're sweaty and sore and exhausted, lay in my arms and talk to me."
Hastings moaned as I finished what I was saying, and his arm around me squeezed me tighter. And in a lightning fast movement, he was down and had me thrown over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and was headed for my bedroom. FUCK YES!
He threw me down hard on my back and was on me, yanking my jeans and boxer briefs down roughly and getting them clean off me, knocking my sneakers off, too. He didn't bother with my socks . . . and he almost ripped off his shirt getting it off and had his jeans off in a flash and was ON me.
When Hastings landed on me – full body, almost knocking the wind out of me – FUCK YEAH! THIS was the beast I jacked off to so often when he wasn't around – his lips met mine again with a long growl and ravenously devoured me with his burning tongue. My entire body was heated to boiling, and the kisses were going straight to my balls and had me on the verge of cumming . . . that's how fucking new and unusual it was, in addition to the beast's natural appeal to me as a master-fucker.
"If you don't fuck me, I swear to GOD I'm going to blast my nutload all over you!" I gasped around his lips.
To that, he ripped my legs HIGH and back against me and had his face buried in my ass so fast that I screamed a little as I gasped when his tongue shoved inside me. I began to squirm and writhe with the pleasure of his invasion. "OH FUCK!" I shouted.
Slurping, Hastings managed to yell back at me, "Oh you fucking KNOW I'm going to FUCK you, VanD!"
Now THAT was MY beast! It was the "VanD" that got me – he always called me that when he was fucking me or when we were in a match or practice – in other words, when his testosterone was high and raging.
He went back to slurping my hole DEEP with his tongue, and we never stopped writhing, moaning and crying out.
And the stray thought, on another track entirely, reached my consciousness, just for an instant: he'd NEVER eaten my ass before – NEVER! WOW!
And then he was ripping the drawer beside my bed out and had the bottle of lube and was smearing it on his fingers, then SHOVED two inside me. "OH FUCK YESSSSSSSSSS!" I shouted with joy and then immediately followed by "OHHOLYFUCK!" when he brushed my prostate and twisted and scissored his huge fingers inside me. "JUST FUCKING FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCKKKKKKKK ME Beast!" I shouted, not realizing until later that I'd called him my favorite name for him when he was fucking me instead of his name, as he'd asked me to.
Hastings didn't seem to notice I'd gone back to the less-than-intimate form of address. No, he was lined up and shoving his great tennis ball of a cockhead into my pucker none too gently. "OH GODDDDDDDD FUCK YESSSSSSSS!" I screamed from the pain and knowing the pleasure that was coming, shoving myself back onto him HARD so that his first thrust went almost balls-deep. "FUCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!" I hissed into the burn and panted like a woman preparing for natural childbirth.
He shoved in the last few inches of his massive fuckmissile and ground into me, his groin and washboard eight-pack trapping my cock against my own groin and abs in a way that momentarily took my mind from my screaming ass to the intensity of the rush and worry that I might cum right there and then. "FUCK ME!" I shouted with all the force I could muster.
And he did. Nothing slow or ramping up – my fuckbeast started long-dicking me, slamming that fuckpole into me balls-deep, fast and hard. "OH GOD Mads!" he cried as his pace was fully going. "You're so fucking hot and tight – I could fuck you forever!"
Okayyyyyyyyyy . . . we'll go with the endearments, even though in all the time he'd been using my ass for a cum dumpster he'd expressed his admiration, appreciation and pleasure with things like, "You fucking love this horsecock, don't you, bitch?" and, "You're a fucking cock-whore, aren't you? Take it, you cockslut; take this big MANcock in that slutty cunt of yours!" I was carried away with what he was saying now, though, every bit as much as his filthy talk ignited my ecstasy and need all the other times had.
Hastings had my legs shoved back against me, my ass up at an angle he could nail like a jackhammer, and he only moved slightly and caused that bullcock of his to SLAM my prostate, sending sparks and lightning bolts through my consciousness. "OH FUCK YEAH – clench on my fucking cock!" he shouted . . . unnecessarily, because my body was fully in reactive mode to him and to his body invading mine now, and I couldn't have NOT reacted as his cock slammed my ecstasy button and scraped against it in and out again, that humongous flared head knocking it on the outstroke almost as roughly as the in.
I was writhing and spasming, and my balls were boiling. I always took it good from him, and I always lost all control, but usually not this fast or this extremely. I was babbling and moaning, begging him to fuck me harder and yelling praise for his massive meat's prowess and his studliness for having it.
"Yeah, baby, I want to fill you fucking full of me – I want to make you MINE!" he shouted, jackhammering my knob even harder, working my body like an instrument by a virtuoso.
Again the fleeting thought. "Baby?" What the fuck?! "Mine?" Double what the fuck?!?!?! But OH it was so FUCKING good . . . I never wanted it to stop. Not the fucking, certainly, until I felt him lose his nut and blast me full of him. But mostly not the sweet talk and intimacy – I loved my beast's way of using me for his pleasure, but I was really loving us fucking more together than him using me.
"OH HOLY FUCK, MADS, I'm going to fucking CUM!" he shouted, and I knew he was because that impossibly huge fuckweapon of his had gone to cannon size and steel hardness inside me, that head reaming me like an apple or baseball dragging my chute.
I was amazed I could say anything other than screams, moans or incoherent shouts with the pummeling my prostate was taking, each contact and scrap causing my body to spasm wildly and my entire body being filled with lightning bolts and stars, but I did. "OH GOD YES! Give me your seed – I fucking want it!"
And just like that, as if a bomb went off in my balls, my climax burst through me, my nuts blasting, my cock shooting well over my head and onto my hair, face, neck and chest, long, thick ropes of my cum. "OH FUCK THAT'S FUCKING IT!" he was shouting as his own eruptions had his body spasming, though he was still pounding me HARD and FAST and DEEP while that burning-hot seed of his shot DEEP inside me.
When we both regained a bit of awareness, he was still over me, and I was still bent in half. He was staring down at me intensely. This was usually where he pulled out, jumped up, did his version of a happy-dance swagger as he headed for the bathroom, and if I had really been special in my working of his cock while he fucked me, he'd throw me a, "DAMN, that was what I needed!" on his way into my bathroom. But he just held his position. I had no choice but to hold mine – I was trapped beneath him and still impaled on the beast's BEAST.
And then he lowered his head and met my lips again, gently, with a moan or murmur of pleasure. "Mmmmmmmmmm," his lips passed the sound into my mouth. As if that wasn't enough of a shock, he pulled away slightly, and with a devilish smile, looking at my chin, lapped up two of my cumropes. The BEAST . . . eating cum? NEVER! He smacked his lips and said, "Everything about you is delicious!"
Okay, I'd reached my limit. I know, I know, gift horses, their mouths, etc. But this was too much. "Jimmy I don't know what the fuck has gotten into you, and that is probably the most amazing fuck of all times in my life, but who the fuck are you tonight, and what's going on for you?"
He looked away briefly, and I thought he was going to bolt . . . but he didn't. He turned back, nose to nose with me and kissed me again lightly on my lips. Then he pulled out of me very slowly, considerately – if you can call pulling a mastercock out of a power bottom EVER considerate! FUCK we WANT that thing ALWAYS! LOL – and lowered himself beside me, getting his big, hairy arm under my head and pulling me onto my side tight against him.
"I," he started and then choked a little. I waited, simply putting my hand over his heart and snuggling into his pec and shoulder. "I, uh, I've been a total fuckhead, Mads." I waited for him to continue, but it was only the sound of his breathing, shallow, short and faster even than us panting before.
"You're amazing, Jimmy, and I don't know what you're saying, but I've never thought of you that way."
I was startled when he abruptly turned on his side to face me, almost shouting at me. "NO! You know I'm a fucking piece of shit. YOU above all KNOW!"
"Jimmy, I don't know. Talk to me, babe," I entreated, using his unprecedented term of endearment from before. To help ease him I let my hand go to his extravagant head of thick blond hair and caressed his scalp and then petted his face and back to his scalp again. "What do you need, Jimmy?" I asked softly.
"Your forgiveness," he replied, very softly, though gazing at me intently.
I had no fucking idea what was going on. "Jimmy, I can't think of anything you've done that is anything other than awesome, so what the heck are you saying?"
"I've treated you like total crap!" he said, voice rising, pulling away from me and rolling onto his back.
Oh, no, he wasn't getting away! I rolled with him, again tight to him, my hand again on his heart. "Jimmy—"
"SEE?" he yelled. "THAT'S what I mean! RIGHT THERE!"
"Jimmy, WHAT THE FUCK?" I shot back.
"WHEN did you EVER call me by my name EVER before, Mads? When did I call you by yours? When did I ever TALK to you . . . or say anything nice to you?"
"Oh, plen—"
"NO!" he shot, cutting me off. "NO, Mads – just stop it, stop making excuses for me. No, you never called me by my name because you KNEW I didn't want you to, wouldn't have allowed it to SEEM LIKE there was anything close between us. I never called you Mads because I would never, ever allow you to think of me as anything BUT a dominator who used you when necessary. Admit it, Mads! JUST FUCKING ADMIT IT – I'm a total prick!"
"HEY!" I shouted, loud and sharply enough to make him startle, and his eyes went wide. "I've NEVER thought of you as a prick, Jimmy – NEVER! And by the way, I fucking LOVE your prick, in case you couldn't tell all those times you fucked me into oblivion and made me cum without touching myself. So don't fucking talk shit about a guy I really LIKE – GET THAT, MISTER?" I was poking his chest by then, odd angle, but forcefully, and he flinched with the last assault as I got the last part out.
"You like me, Mads?" he said, looking incredulous.
"Oh, fuck you, Jimmy!" I shouted and rolled and jumped up, planting my hands on my hips, my eyes blazing down at him. "What the FUCK, Jimmy? I repeat: WHAT . . . THE . . . FUCK?! You think I'm some simpering pussy you've used and abused all this time? I'm a fucking MAN, Jimmy. I'm a MAN who likes MEN . . . MEN who FUCK ME! And you, ya idiot, you fuck like a fucking champion stud sire. Oh, and you happen to be my team captain, a GREAT team captain, by the way, and you make every practice and every match fucking HOT for all of us and get the most out of us, so we feel like champs, even when we lose. Yeah, ASSHOLE, I like you. What the FUCK did you think I was doing this for?"
He was wide eyed, and his mouth was open, laying there looking up at me.
"WHAT THE FUCK IS UP WITH YOU, Jimmy?" I shouted louder.
And then, just when I was ready to tell him to get the FUCK out of my apartment, the unimaginable went to the surreal; he started crying. My big beast clamped his hands on his face and was sobbing.
I really had no fucking clue what was going on, and I thought briefly that maybe he was on something. But I really did know him too well for that to even be a stray thought; Hastings was so anti-drugs that I'd seen him literally go ballistic when a teammate had a problem the term before, and he forced him to acknowledge that he was using, forced him to accept help, forced the entire team to support Roddick as he worked through it, both tough love and loving support. So what the HECK was going on?
But it was only an instant that all that swirled in my head. My beast was crying, and I was in the bed, forcing him to let me hold him, and then he was crying into my chest and stomach, grasping at me for dear life.
I'm not a natural with this kind of thing. Usually I'm the guy who doesn't have a fucking clue what to do until I see someone else do something or hear them say something and can pick up and follow. But I really did LIKE my beast, and I wanted to hold him and make him feel better . . . about whatever the fuck!
I was petting his hair, rubbing his massively muscled back as he sobbed, and it finally went from shudders to soft cries, my abs wet with his tears. "Talk to me, Jimmy," I said very softly and kissed his forehead at his hair line, pulling his head gently up to be able to do it. "You're safe here, Jimmy," I murmured, holding him and still petting him.
"Mads, you're too nice to me," he choked out softly, looking up at me and touching my face gently.
I helped him get settled back against the headboard and managed to keep an arm around him but had us facing each other in a more comfortable position. "Tell me what it is, Jimmy. What's happened?"
This time when he took a huge breath, it all spilled out. "One of my childhood friends from my home town, Mads. He was killed last night. I found out this afternoon before practice. He was a GOOD guy, and I was a total fucking asshole to him . . . and probably got him killed!" He got out the last but went into a sob.
"Hey there," I said, pulling him closer. "Hold on, Jimmy. I know you'd never hurt anyone, and I know you were nowhere near Iowa last night. So what are you talking about?"
He looked up at me with red, tear-filled eyes. "He was my first, Mads – Carl was my first . . . when we were in middle school. We wrestled together – not on the team or anything because I was too big and gangly for it – but we wrestled together and . . . well . . . we got heavier into it and . . . well, we were best friends and lovers. He was my first guy."
He stopped, and I gently urged him on. "That's awesome, Jimmy; and I can see why you'd be hurting for someone you cared about so much and who had such a special place in your life."
"NO!" he shouted. "You don't understand!" He moved back, away from me, his fists balled and his face red. Carl and I WERE lovers. Until he came out, and oh hell no, no way I had the balls to do that. And when he came out, I never talked to him again . . . at least not as a friend. No, I joined everyone else in calling him a fag and harassing him and making sure everyone knew I was as fucking shocked that I had been friends with a FILTHY FAGGOT COCKSUCKING BUTTFUCKER as everyone else. I fucking ENCOURAGED the harassment and the abuse!"
He was worked up, shouting and crying as he got that out. I wasn't shocked, frankly. I never thought he was a jackass, but I also didn't have a difficult time applying my thoughts about him vis-à-vis his latent attraction to mansex before tonight to an extension that had him acting out to prove he wasn't a fag.
"And last night some guys beat him up so bad outside a gay bar in Cedar Rapids that he didn't survive. And that's just the end of the story, after I ruined his life and set him up for misery for seven years until his life ended that way. He was my BEST FRIEND beside being my lover; and I fucking not only abandoned him, I hurt him over and over and encouraged it from everyone else, from all the other fucking assholes who either were closet cases or homophobes . . . until it finally KILLED him!"
"Jimmy—"
"NO, Mads – just NO! And I got him killed and how different is what I did to him than to NEVER allow myself to seem too friendly to you, NEVER to be alone with you when anyone knew, USE you for sex and treat you like an object and give you NOTHING! HOW IS THAT ANY DIFFERENT?" he shouted.
"Jimmy," I said softly, and although he pulled away when I reached for him, when I moved closer and put my hand on his head, he let me. "Jimmy, we've had an agreement, you and I. You never offered me anything else, and I willingly and eagerly, I might add, took our secret meetings as often as I could get them. Hell, I did everything I could to get you to WANT to come and fuck me. YOU aren't allowed to beat yourself up for THIS – NO WAY! This was ours."
"But—"
"MY TURN!" I cut him off sharply. "Jimmy, what you did, hurting your best friend, your lover, you didn't do out of evil; you did it out of youth and fear. It was wrong; but you KNOW it was wrong, and you hurt because you can't make amends to him. But you didn't cause his death – if that logic was correct, then every hate crime everywhere would be the fault of every man fearful about his sexuality who'd ever acted homophobic when anyone knew about it. It's not right; and if nobody acted that way, we'd have a much better world. But you can't change the past; and you can change yourself. I've never seen you act out or even allow anyone to say anything bad to me or any other gay man since I've known you almost three years now. In fact, remember last year when that guy on the football team, Satter-something, teased me when he saw me out with someone and you told him to back the fuck off, that I was part of YOUR group of athletes who had a better record than his team did? You're not evil, Jimmy; you're human."
He looked at me, regretfully. "What if I told you something that would make you think that, Mads? That would make you know that I'm really not a good person?"
"Jimmy, you can tell me anything; but unless you tell me you deliberately hurt people or animals, I'm not going to change my opinion of you. I haven't changed my opinion of you for what you did when you were a young teenager; I'm certainly not going to change my opinion of you which is based on what and how I've known you for the past three years we've been on the team together."
I was feeling pretty confident that we were getting somewhere, that I could get him through this. I was surprised that I didn't feel awkward or afraid that I wouldn't know what to say or do. Of course, I was wrong.
"And if I told you that all the times I called you BITCH or COCKSUCKER or SLUT or WHORE when I was fucking you it was so I could be sure to hide that I'm in love with you?"
"WHAT THE FUCK?" I blurted out completely unintentionally.
"See? I've been a total fucker to you, Mads, treated you like a fuck object so I could be CERTAIN you or anyone else would never know how I felt about you . . . and could still make love to you!"
"I, uh . . . " I was dumbfounded, and I'd sort of slumped back, lost contact, our touch broken.
"Yeah, exactly! You don't have to throw me the fuck out and tell me never to come back, Mads; I know I need to go. But I'll tell you something you won't believe, but I'll prove it and you'll know I mean it. I'm going to come out, and I'm going to do everything I can to make sure NOBODY EVER does the things I have done to anyone ever again." He got out of the bed and was grabbing his clothes. I'll fucking beat the crap out of anyone who ever gaybashes ever and I see it or hear about it!" he snarled . . . and sobbed as he was getting into his jeans.
"You love me?" I managed to say through all the swirling thoughts in my head.
"I know. See what I mean? Hate me for treating you the way I have, Mads. Now you know!" He had his shirt on backwards and was fighting it around to right it. I could have laughed my ass off if he hadn't been in such distress . . . and if my chance wasn't seeming like it was slipping away.
"Jimmy," I said, getting to where he was, taking him by the shoulders as he finally righted his shirt and was buttoning his jeans. "Look at me for a minute, OK?"
He slowly looked up, tears on his face. "I'm SO sorry, Mads. You're the most awesome, handsome, wonderful guy, and I've been a shitheel."
"Just tell me again," I said, staring into his hurt eyes.
"That I'm a fucker and I know you hate me?"
"Uh, NO!" I said forcefully, but smiling. "Tell me you love me, so I can make sure my head didn't just make that up."
"I'm so fucking sorry, Mads. I've loved you since the very first time I saw you when we were freshmen and on the b-team together. I've loved you all this time and just USED you."
"But you LOVE me?"
"Mads, I dream about you – whether I'm awake or asleep. I dream about you, I dream about us. Yeah, I love you, and I have loved you since the day we met. I'm so fucking in love with you I haven't BEEN with anyone for almost three years . . . not successfully, anyway," he added with a shy look away.
I stepped in, and I wrapped my arms around him. "I've been in love with you since the first time I saw you, too, Jimmy," I confessed, grinning.
But Jimmy wasn't grinning, and that made his face go from sad to an outright grimace. "See what I fucking mean? See how I've hurt you all this time?" he cried out.
I shook him – HARD. "HEY!" I yelled, and he looked startled. "You're talking about the man I LOVE there, and NOBODY, not even HIM, talks shit about the man I fucking LOVE! You GOT THAT, MISTER?!" I admonished him, with another shake for good measure.
"You mean . . . " he started, looking like he was finally figuring it out. I just nodded. "You mean you don't hate me for deliberately keeping you in that box, like my personal sex-appliance all this time?"
I grinned even more. "I have LOVED being your sex-appliance, Jimmy. And tonight, oh my GOD! Tonight you fucking upped my voltage to new levels, baby. MAN, tonight you fucked me so fucking GOOD!" Okay, I MEANT he'd MADE LOVE to me, but a power bottom, who is used to not freaking out guys who think they're straight, can't change everything that quick. Just like Jimmy was going to have to work through his past, with Carl, about Carl and about his homophobic, gay-bashing ways, I was going to have to change and remind myself I didn't have to ACT like I usually did.
"Mads," Jimmy started, moving in until our bodies were touching. "Are you REALLY willing to forgive me AND to be mine too, despite what I've done?"
"You stupid top!" I said, laughing. "You had me at `take it!' ya big stud! And you're offering me the opp to be YOURS? FUCK YES I'll be yours . . . if you'll be mine!"
He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me tight. "I'm going to tell the team tomorrow – about us."
"WHOA, stud, maybe you should give yourself some time. Be clear about this, Jimmy. I am NOT asking you to come out, much less to declare we're a couple. Hell we haven't even coupled yet AS a couple."
"Which reminds me," he mugged, grinding his hard-again cock into me. God I LOVED that he got hard faster than a Ferrari could go zero to sixty! I particularly loved that he got hard FOR ME that fast. I laughed and ground back. "But, no; this isn't FOR you – it's FOR us, Mads. I want to start over, and I want to BE WITH YOU, and I want everyone to know I fucking LOVE you. That is, if you're okay with that."
"I'm more than okay . . . as long as that starting over," I answered and grabbed his fuckmonster, "Includes my fuck-beast FUCKING his new boyfriend RIGHT FUCKING NOW!"
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