Press for What You Need -- by Handjob (handjob@sbcglobal.net)
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Press for What You Need
by Handjob
The boys from campus who wound up in there—and there were a lot—soon didn’t even bother with calling him “doc.” And sure as shit not “Doctor Preston Wellington.”
I mean, his looks hadn’t changed at all. After medical school and interning, and now happily back at State, working as the medical complex’s sole “men’s sex counselor and therapist,” he still looked exactly like the tall, lithe, sexy-faced undergrad basketball jock from just a few years back. He was even often mistaken as an active currently living in the house when he shared brews over there with the newer members of DIK.
Besides, calling him “Press” helped the boys who came to him feel sorta like they were just talking to their cool older brother. And that’s exactly how Press came off. Most definitely, man. A big bro you could chill with and soon tell . . . well, anything.
But not yet for the freshman standing in front of him in his private examination room. Press could see that tryin’ to spill it was a big damn deal for the lanky new guard who now held his old spot on the team.
“The clinic doctor must have sent you to me instead for a reason, bud.” His hand came down comfortingly on the kid’s shoulder. “And there’s a reason why they gave me this private little place off to the side, man. Outside private entrance and everything. Hell, it can be a bitch trying to talk about this kinda stuff. Try ’n just chillax, Mike. But I gotta know what’s wrong so I can help ya like I wanna.”
Yeah, Press still even talked like it was just you ‘n big bro all alone in your shared bedroom. Maybe that’s why there was even a small bedroom in his little suite, in addition to the office and this large room where they now stood over to one side at the foot of a long examination table.
“Well, um . . . Doctor Wellingto– Um, Doc. . . .”
The hand squeezed slightly. “Just call me ‘Press,’ dude. First name’s Preston, but all my buds call me ‘Press.’ Same as when I lived over there at DIK. And on the team it was ‘Full-Court Press.’ Kinda cool, huh? Listen, man; . . . c’mon, look me in the eye, Mike. Yeah, I’m yer bud, okay? Go ahead ‘n tell me. I don’t tell nobody else nothin’, got it? Yer safe in here, bud.”
A tear was nearly forming in the kid’s eye, but he was finally ready to spill with it. “My nu— Um, my testicles hurt real bad, Pr–Press. I mean, real bad. I’m scared, man. But I can’t. . . .”
“Don’t worry, Mike. Whatever it is, I’m gonna make it feel all better, bud.” Press’ palm slid from the shoulder on down the front of the lean basketball guard’s tight chest and taut stomach as he sat on the stool and stared straight into the boy’s crotch. “Gonna pull yer pants down, Mike. Just relax, okay?”
Press slid the baggy jeans down till they dropped to the kid’s ankles in a puddle over two nervously squirming Nike’s. The long, smooth, slender thighs were squeezing together. Press slid his hands between them and nudged them apart some. Then he hooked his fingertips into the waistband of the tight white briefs. Sheeze, it may just be another case of nads packed too tight. Maybe he’d only have to give the kid pointers on wearing boxers to let the things breath more sometimes.
He slowly peeled the underpants down onto the thighs and got his first look at the teen’s testicles. “Well, ya got two of ‘em, Mike. That’s always a good sign.”
The boy let out a little laugh and even started to relax slightly. Press was funny. Press was cool. Press’ fingers were gonna get busy now.
He leaned in and looked closely as he began feeling gently around the two large balls. His warm fingers soon had them hanging farther down so the fingertips could inspect things even more intimately. He spent quite a while in there, too.
“They’re not really swollen in a bad way,” he finally comforted the kid. “They just feel . . . dense. Same thing with the tubes, bud. Tell me, Mike—and be honest with me, man—just how often you been beatin’ off lately?”
With that, the kid started squirming around much worse. So this was the reason he’d been sent.
“Well . . . um . . . not at all.”
“Truth?”
“Well. . . . Okay, so maybe once a week or something; less, I think; and just real fast, too; I don’t do it very long, honest; just please don’t tell Coach.”
“Wait a minute, man. I’ve known our basketball coach pretty well since undergrad. Did he really tell you not to do it during the season? Doesn’t sound like him.”
“Well, no, but. . . . I just heard. I read it. I know yer never s’posta. Could screw up yer—“
“Dammit.” Press regretted the word instantly with a glance up to the frightened face. He gently cupped the heavy balls in his hand again and added a friendly-feeling rub. “Look, Mike, I’m not pissed at’cha. Just pissed how that stupid old lie could still be in circulation, man. Listen to me. It’s not true. In fact, just the opposite. You need to keep that milk flowing to be in your prime. Sperming it up keeps the hormones balanced. And rubbing one out is good, healthy exercise, bud. Ask any boy on the team. I know ‘em all. An’ I also know they all do themselves, man.”
Press shoved the briefs down to join the puddle before standing and looking the boy dead in the eye. “Trust me. You really need to get yer pipes blown out bad, man, But chill, cuz there’s nothin’ else wrong with ya.” Then he hooked his hands under the boy’s armpits and lifted the kid right up onto the examination table, long legs dangling into a wad of pulled down pants. He pulled them the rest of the way off till there was nothing but a sprawling athletic body in a t-shirt and Nike’d socks.
“Lay back, Mike. I’m gonna start takin’ care of this right here and now. I’m real experienced at this, bud. Hafta do lotsa boys like you. Every day, man. Lotsa reasons. But yer not alone. An’ yer also not the only jockboy who comes to me, sport. Tellin’ truth here. Lotsa jocks; just like you; just like me.
“Now listen, getting it all outa there when it’s this over-packed deep in yer nuts takes help. It’ll take a couple sessions, but you’ll feel fantastic when yer squirtin’ normal again, kid. Promise.” He added a dirty little sparkle in his eye: “gonna feel hella good gettin’ there, too. Even gonna learn how to bate yerself way better, the way I teach lotsa boys in here.”
He grasped the soft head between two fingertips. “Yer cut.”
“Is that bad or somethin’? Am I okay . . . Press?”
“Yeah, bud, no worries. I’m cut, too. Just makin’ mental notes for research projects. Cut cock is running about 75% so far at State.”
Then Press just studied the long, thin wiener all soft for a while before giving the kid wood. He enjoyed looking at dick like that. He was in the right line of work.
“I do lotsa ‘college boy’ research projects, Mike,” he finally added while reaching under the examination table. “All kindsa sex stuff. Lots with jocks like you. And the fratboys.” And then the boy heard a splat pump from a big tub of something.
“I make this myself, Mike. A high-grade lube. Perfectly slick for as long as ya want. But it wipes right off, so ya don’t need to soap it when yer on the go—like in the can between classes. I’ll give ya some to take with ya. Use lots.”
Press began slowly fingering lube all over the boy’s elongating penis and watched it expand. It looked to him like the kind that would remain on the thin side the whole way. He made another mental note. In a few more seconds, the cock had quickly half-hardened. “Just relax, bud. Press is gonna get it all outa there good.” He slowly fingered slipperiness around every little part of the boy’s stiffening dick, and in another minute the thing was thumped up bonehard and bangin’ around like a baseball bat. He pressed his fingertip down on the head and made it thwack up once to prove it.
“Nice boner, Mike. Really. I’ve seen lots. Tall ‘n slender; kinda like you, huh? Real good ‘n hard, too. Feel that? That’s solid wood I’m squeezin’, bud. Boners are cool, huh? Feels good with ‘em popped, don’t it? Yeah. Okay, just relax here, an’ let’s getcha goin’ now.”
Press curled his fingers into a gentle cuff that began vaguely traveling up and down from the swirl of pubes to the pulsing tip and back. The fingers of his other hand began manipulating testicles.
Press was right; it felt hella good. But Mike noticed that Press was really taking his time—stopping, toying with him in every which way, not just doing that faintly held jacking the whole time, though he returned to it often enough. Good, cuz those slow, barely-touching passes over the ridge felt so awesome from this light-jacking thing. Mike had learned something new already.
“Likin’ all this? This is why they call it ‘playing with yourself,’ Mike. I’m playing with you. I’m playin’ with ya, bud. Do it like this from now on in bed. Even when yer roomie’s there, if you two are chill about it. Most turn out to be. But drop that fast-whack thing, kid. Except in the can between classes—if ya need to be somewhere on time—though lots more slowly when you can spare a half-hour or more in there. But either way, I want ya jerkin’ it up in the campus heads all day from now on to keep things fluid, bud. And the rest of the time, like in bed—like even with yer roomie there—this is the way to really drill up good, thick, fat cockcream from deep outa yer nuts. Trust yer older college jockbud, sport. Yer gonna chuck chunks.”
Something in that made Mike shiver. “Fuck. Oh, sorry, Press. Ah. Oh, fu . . . f-f-f—“
“‘Fuck.’ Go ahead, Mike. Fuck.”
“Fu. . . f-fuck.”
“Yeah. It’s fuckin’ awesome swearin’ all nasty when yer goin’ at it, huh?” An inviting flicker lit a bit in Press’ eye. “Fuck yeah, Mike. Fuck, yeah. S’cool, Mike. Go ahead, fucker. Let go. Nasty as ya want, boy. I can go with anything. Cool? Ya like dirty talk?”
Yeah, Press knew his dirtmouth skills helped all these boys blow one sillygood, but a little differently leveled for each. This boy’s face looked pretty hesitant, but Press was a good study of things hidden in eyes. These were staring back fairly darkly along with that vague nod the boy now gave. The kid wanted to know something. At the very least, he needed to know it really was all good, that cool boys can get all hot and dirty around each other. Especially in here. No worries.
How far to take it with this one? “Most boys are ‘dirtyboys,’ Mike—especially the jockboys; just like you; just like me. Lots of ‘em, Mike. Cussin’ cuz they’re feelin’ cool, bein’ bad. Swearin’ it up dirtier the more they get all sexed out. Lots of it’s real filthy even. Boys feelin’ dirty, nasty, spittin’ out long hot strings of really filthy talk. Gets ‘em off hard.”
The boy’s eyes were growing more intense. Maybe he wasn’t just hesitant. Maybe he wanted to learn. Lots did. “Boys kinda sound cool when they’re bein’ bad ‘n swearin’ about it, huh Mike? Like when they feel all sexed and they know they can really let go cussin’ dirty—cuz the other dude don’t mind . . . even sorta thinks it sounds cool, sounds hot . . . when boys talk dirty. Ya like hearin’ nasty boys when they’re talkin’ all dirty, Mike? Most boys do. Wanna bone it up off bein’ a couple ‘o dirty young fucks? Wanna be bad boys with me, fucker? Wanna find out about it?”
The boy’s eyes stared back even more darkly and more dirtily now. He nodded a little more than vaguely this time. The kid wanted it.
So Press went at it harder, but still in his slow, smooth style. “Yeah, get dirty, Mike. Be a nasty young fuck—just like me, man. Let’s be bad boys, Mikey. Let’s play ‘nasty badboys.’ Yeaaah, fuck. Yeaaah, fuck. Tall, cute, hot-as-hell, dirty young jockcock badboys. Ain’t we, you fuckin’ hot jockstud? Filthy boys even, huh Mike? You ‘n me are filthyboys, and that’s a fuckin’ badass filthyboy hardon, Mike. Got a fuckin’ stiff badboy boner banged up there, don’tcha? Got me a thickdicked jockboy all boned in my hand ‘n playin’ with him. Playin’ with ya. Playin’ real dirty with yer young spiked wood. I’m gonna fuck with jockstick on ya till it’s jizzin’ like a fuckin’ hose, fucker.”
No, man. He was shootin’ off phrases three levels down from the sextalk he could spit with. This was Press takin’ it all easy-like with a first-timer today. Trust me.
The boy squirmed a little, looking anxious for lots more of it.
“Yeaaah, fuck. Yeaaah, fuck. Big fuckin’ badboy woodboner gettin’ all fucked around with in my nasty hand. Yeaaah, fuck. Yeaaah, fuck. Fuckin’ with nuts, too. Fuckin’ with nads, Mike. Gettin’ all nasty fuckin’ around on yer nads. Yeaaah, fuck. Yeaaah, fuck. We’re fuckin’ hot jockboys gettin’ stiffdicked together. Fuckin’ dirty young fuckers doin’ nastyboy shit. Two badass young fuckerboys gettin’ nasty as fuck together now.”
And Press was makin’ Mike feel like it, too, but not by jacking quickly. Press was a pro. He knew giving handjobs shouldn’t be just a whacking blur. Not if they were gonna be any good—and especially not with Mike’s problem. He was still playin’ with the boy, making sure it would build to a big blasting blow from way down deep. So he kept using that roaming hand, back and forth from a barely-held gentle jack to a few smooth strokes here and there—but mostly just fuckin’ around with boner, gettin’ nastier and nastier all over the fuckin’ thing: barely scratching veins, tickling under the dickhead, a fingertip smearin’ real deep in there slowly all around the ridge, boingin’ ‘n battin’ a big badboy boner, smackin’ stiffy around all sillyhot on a sexboy, doin’ dirty little things in different places all over the kid’s steeled hardon. He used everything he knew of to really fuck around with dick dirty—and Press knew a whole fuck of alot.
He knew all about nuts, too, and his other hand was gettin’ just as nasty down there deep into the boy’s thick, fat nads; just as thoroughly as the hand workin’ cock for the kid; just as nasty as the mouth that was now spewin’ streams of sextalk into eyes that seemed begging for it.
“Yeah, gettin’ wickedsick off this shit’s fuckin’ fun, huh? With a buddy right there. With yer buddy right on ya. Fuckin’ bein’ bad boys. Look what we’re doin’, stud. Look at it. You ‘n me are bein’ nasty boys, Mikey. Fuckerboys doin’ their dirtyboy shit. Dirty shit only nasty boys could really get together and do together; what only nastyboy kids could do on each other: fuckin’ around on a buddy’s hard cock—like I’m doin’ on you, bud. Big, stiff, dirtyboy boner. Hard fuckin’ sexstick. Yeah, get all nastyminded; just like that. Be a fatdicked dirtybad jockboy. Look how fuckin’ bonered-out you are, Mike. Betcha never stuck one this fuckin’ stiff before, huh, youngfuck? Yer bonin’ up to it good off this, all nasty off lookin’ at me fuckin’ with yer wood. I’m a hot, nasty, jockdick fuckboy, Mike, an’ yer a studly young badass nasty fuckerboy jock, too.”
Press went on like that awhile, watching as the boy drifted into a dirty trance, as if he were hearing his favorite song echoing in his head. A mist of sweat was soon dusting the kid’s brow, matting some of the hair. One of the long legs was quivering. His mouth was kinda hangin’ open a little. A faint curl was beginning to snarl his upper lip. And his eyes were filling up with a filthy gaze just about to run over.
But there was even more in there looking back, trying to search deep inside of Press for something more it wanted. Something else that hid but wanted to well up to the surface. The kid wanted to spew a boysecret—a boysecret about the two of them. Press could always tell.
What would it be this time? He started talkin’ the kid through things, searching for the clue to spring it open. Mild, wild, whatever it was, the kid had to know it was all good to let out. “So awesome gettin’ a good woodrubbin’ like it’s from yer big bro or somethin’, huh? Ya know, it’s almost like ya got yer hottest camp counselor fuckin’ with dick down there in the dark on ya, Michael. You even look like a hot fuckin’ pornstar, an’ I’m like that dude who wantsta watch ya bad, man. I’m like yer filthyminded rentboy you can force to do all yer dick shit even. I’m even such a filthy fucker it’s like some dirtdick skater-bater trash ya wanted, all swipin’ feels off yer shizzle finally. Yeah, Mike, wanna be sportboys? Wanna dick it at me like two studly jockcock locker-room sportsluts? Fuck, yer awesome, Mike; you look just like a hunky brat fratboy humpin’ hardon through a pretty-faced pledge’s fist. Gotcher best high school bud here again, bro; all nasty off yer big teenage boner just like I usta be, buddy. Bad kids sneakin’ into yer room after school: middle-school strokebuds, Mikey; just like ya always wanted. Let it all out, sport. Tell me what it is.”
And the kid did. Yeah, man, you’d be spewin’ sex secrets like crazy after forty minutes of this shit, too. Press was a master at batin’ boys till they talked up every filthy secret. A shitload of deeply repressed dirty desires was always gushin’ out in Press’ place. It was a sex therapist’s job, right?
But Mike jumped in for help with a fairly simple request. “I wanna be a dirty hot sexboy, Press, but I don’t know how they do nothin’. Oh yeah, play with me. Mess around with my hard dick like yer my real . . . my best . . . fucking dirty bud, Press. Play with my fucking hard boner, bud. Finally teach me the dirty shit. Yer so awesome, dude, bein’ my buddy, calling me your ‘buddy,’ your ‘bud.’ You even called me ‘sport.’ Fuck, you don’t know, Press. Always wanted an older bud like you back home, man. Like those college boys in my building back home. I mean, the jock ones, like I wanted to be. A dirty one, too. Wanted one o’ them so bad to teach me all about sex stuff so I’d be ready when it was me. A dirty buddy who’da told me about all the fucking awesome sex shit before I needed it, bud. I didn’t even learn nothin’ ‘bout how to jack it right like this, and I still don’t know nothin’, Press.”
Press picked it up and flew with it. “I’m here for ya, sport. I’m yer hot older college jockbuddy, Mikey. Yer best bud’s right here now. Gonna teach ya everything. Like how to jack off this way till that cheese whizzes thicker than you ever spunked it before, bud. Promise—and yer best bud keeps his promises, right? Gonna jack it out today the way a buddy shoulda taught ya a long time ago, man. Teachin’ ya now, though, huh, Michael? Hot college boy home teachin’ ya my dirty dick shit right now. Makin’ up for all that time, sport. An’ I’ll be teachin’ ya lots more, too. Anything ya wanna know about, Mikeyboy. Anything for a buddy, right? An’ today yer best buddy’s gonna show ya just how funky-thick jizz can get, bud. Real nasty smellin’, too. It’s awesome; you’ll see. It’s harsh; smells the way dirty jock badboys like you ‘n me get into, bud. That shit’s ten times riper when ya drag it way up from deep down. This is the kinda shit nasty young teenboys need to get taught, sport. How to work it all outa there the way yer best bud’s teachin’ ya now. Learn from me, Michael. Get off on it, bud. Yer older college jockboy best-bud’s gotcha, Mikey. Stayin’ right here with ya, sport.”
“Fuck, bud. Fuck. Yer such a fucking hot bud. I mean, this is the hottest fucking thing that ever happened to me in my whole fucking life, Press! Really. I mean, I . . . I . . . I fucking never did a girl yet or . . . or nothin’ yet, bud. Not nothin’, man. I need to tell you. I’m fuckin’ virgin, Press. Yer the only one who ever touched it yet, Press. Fuck! Fuck, yer playin’ with me so fucking damn nastyhot, bud. First time I ever got anything, and it’s so . . . so wickedgoodhot . . . and . . . dirty, like . . . like I want it. I want a dirty sextalk buddy to share his secrets, teach me shit. I wanna be a dirty sexboy. I want my dirtytalking fucking nastyhot jockboy best bud jackin’ me all the fucking way off!”
Time to shift up to high gear, but only cuz Press had another kid coming in fifteen minutes. He didn’t want his boys to have to look at each other—not if they didn’t wanna, I mean. Besides, it was just a first session.
The fingers of the one hand fondled testicles with a stronger coaxing. The light grasp of the other hand tightened down into a smooth milking urge from the pubes right up to the tip and off. Then back again for another. And another. Then an endless rhythm of it, right up and off with the big hard dick boingin’. And finally, never letting go again.
“Go ahead, sport. Time to sperm it, buddy. Yer best bud wants it now. Jizz it hard as ya fuckin’ can, Mike. I’m right here teachin’ ya. Bust that fuckin’ sexsauce for me, bud. Yer hot best buddy wants that shit, Mikey. Wantsta see it squirtin’ like fuck. Bust it right on me, boy—all the fuck over me. Don’t worry ‘bout holdin’ back . . . or where it goes either. Don’t worry ‘bout fuckin’ nothin’, bud. Go ahead and just sperm me down. That’s what best buds are for, sport, so go ahead ‘n spray me. Just shoot that shit out hard. Spunk it hot ‘n nasty, fucker. Spray down yer best bud heavy, fuckstud. Rinse down my fuckin’ face, boy. Yer best bud fuckin’ wants you, Mikey! Pisswhiz me in nasty, smelly, hornyrich dickcream, fucker! DO it, Sport!”
It squirted like fuck. Harder than ever before in Mike’s young life. A rock-solid wad busted nearly to the ceiling. Then huge gushes of raunchy smelling sperm burst nearly as high, arcing in both long, crudely heavy streamers and lightly fluttering ribbons in the air. And a whole lot pissed a rinse right down Press’ sexy face, too. He yanked it up from down deep while the kid’s nads slipped themselves from his fingers and smacked in way tight—and then even popped inside, like they were trying to get up through that jizzpissin’ dick and fly outa there themselves. He rubbed against them in there with a palm while he urged out more sperm with the other tightly stroking hand. Thickly caked spunk started thudding into Press’ jaw. Fat, clumpy caulk-ropes began lacing wide rags down his chest. Nail-hard spermchunks bulleted in bolting tracks up his arm. Until finally the harshest, ripest-smelling bulk of the paste just fountained up burbling heavily in a silvery-white swell that enveloped Press’ fist completely.
The kid still humped and spasmed, squirming everywhere like crazy, just like he had all the way through his nut. He was still banging his fists and yellin’, “Beat me_, bud!_ Fuckin’ beat me off, fucker!” But after another minute or so, the two best buds had to stop playin’ for the day. Damn that clock.
Soon they were standing in the doorway. Press lifted the boy’s head back up. “I know what you mean, Mike, but it sure sounds like yer roomie’s right for it from what you saw. And a dirty mouth, too. You said he was a real cool sportboy, too, an’ ya like him lots, right? You’d be surprised how often they’re down for it when it’s with a good bud. And don’t worry, I’ll tell ya real safe ways to get to it, how to bring it up all cool-like: ‘just a buddy thing.’ An’ you want a buddy, right? Bet he’ll start likin’ the idea of bein’ good jackbuddies. Most do. And that’s an awesome time to share sex questions and get suggestions . . . tell secrets . . . show things. Two boys alone together . . . trusting each other . . . learning stuff.”
Press curled an arm around the shoulder again, and the boy’s head fell into his neck again. “Maybe even a best bud for college, Mike. Wouldn’t that be cool?”
Press squeezed slightly before returning to a final firm grasp on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it right now. I’ll see ya tomorrow. Okay, bud? I’m here now. I gotcha. Life’s gonna be cool.”
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