verbalBTTM

Let me tell you a little story about those two boys; they invited me for a "fishing trip," and I believed them. Jack and Ryan were the kind of sophomores every freshman notices: easy laughs, sun-browned arms, always together. I’d been finding excuses to sit near them in the dining hall all semester. Fortunately for me, Ryan sucked at chemistry, and that gave me my in. After a while we became friends, and one day they invited me up to the lake for the long weekend. My stomach flipped so hard I almost said no from pure nerves. Fortunately, I had the balls to say yes. The weekend away with Jack and Ryan felt different from the start. This was a chance to escape the concrete hum of the dorms for the quiet rhythm of water and the woods. The three of us piled into Jack's truck, the bed filled with the sharp, clean scent of new gear and the promise of a weekend unscripted. We arrived at dusk, built a fire, the water a bruised mirror of the sky. Setting up camp was a comfortable dance, our movements syncing in the fading light, a silent collaboration. The tent was big enough for three sleeping bags side-by-side, and I silently pretended that was normal. As the fire settled into a crackling heart of orange and red, Ryan (the one in the white shirt) produced a bottle of whiskey. Its warmth, a slow burn spreading through my chest. Jack, ever the pragmatist, followed with a cooler of Pabst Blue Ribbon, the sweat on the cans beading like morning dew. The conversation grew looser, the laughter easier, punctuated by the hiss of cans being opened and the gentle lapping of the water against the shore. Everything felt normal until it didn’t. It was Jack who broke the spell of camaraderie. He stood up, stretched, and without a word of excuse, turned his back to the fire and pissed right in front of me. He didn't turn away in embarrassment, or even make an attempt at being private. He just walked a few feet from the firelight, his movements relaxed and open. There was no aggression in it, only a simple, animal honesty. I watched, not with shock, but with a sense of wonder at his comfort in his own skin. Ryan noticed. He was always noticing me, but his look wasn't calculating; it was gentle, questioning. He rose and joined his brother, and in that moment, it felt like they were inviting me into their world, a world without pretense. Their silhouettes framed by the firelight tempted me like never before. An unspoken challenge hung in the air, thick as the smoke. I don’t remember deciding to stand, only that I was on my feet. My hands trembled on my zipper. I couldn't go, not with them watching. "It's okay," Ryan murmured. "Just breathe." Jack reached over, his fingers brushing my arm. The touch was so light it was almost a question. Something deep inside me unclenched. The sound that came out was a sigh, followed by the steady hiss of my piss hitting the ground. It was the most liberating moment of my uptight life. It felt stupidly intimate, the three of us in the dark. The sound of it loud, as it sprayed against the leaves. When I finished, Ryan stepped closer, his hand finding mine. His skin was warm, his grip firm. He guided my hand down, placing it on his cock. A current ran through me, a jolt of pure, terrifying exhilaration. Jack moved to my other side, his fingers tracing the line of my spine. The firelight danced on the skin of our legs, turning us into creatures of shadow and flame. Jack began to stroke me, his touch clinical, detached, and my body betrayed me, hardening under his expert manipulation. They knew. They had known all along. My pants felt heavy, useless, and they pooled at my ankles without a thought. I sank to my knees, not from desire, but from the sheer weight of their will. It was easier to submit than to fight. When Ryan put his cock in my mouth, it was an act of possession which I relished. Tasting salt and fire smoke, the raw, unvarnished truth of the moment. A small brown bottle appeared under my nose, Ryan's voice a low murmur, "Breathe." The sharp chemical scent cleared my head, sharpening every sensation until all that was left was the fire, the earth, and the three of us. The little brown bottle was a tool, a chemical key to unlock the final door of my resistance, to ensure I was pliant and willing for whatever came next. The world narrowed to a pinprick of light, the sounds of the night fading into a dull roar. I was an instrument, and they were the players. I answered by curling my fingers around him, feeling him respond to my touch. Jack knelt beside me, his hands stroking my hair, his lips peppering my neck with soft kisses as I took Ryan deeper into my throat. It wasn't a performance; it was exploration. It was an embrace, pure and simple. It was an act of my surrender to a feeling, not a force. Again the bottle was offered to me, this time without pressure, a suggestion to "make it feel even better," and the rush was a wave of pure sensation that washed away any lingering self-doubt. Choking on Ryan's cock with tears pooling around my eyes, Jack found my hole and started to probe. My moans betrayed me as they grew louder with his continuing advance into me. With a subtle command from Ryan motioning me to rise, the three of us moved together toward the tent, leaving our clothes behind like discarded inhibitions, breadcrumbs to our night. The zipper of the tent had barely closed behind me before Ryan pushed me down onto the sleeping bags, the chemical rush from the bottle still burning through my veins like liquid fire. My head spun in the best way—every heartbeat throbbing in my cock, every one of my nerves screaming for more. Jack was already on his knees behind me, spreading my cheeks with rough hands. I felt the cool night air hit my hole for only a second before his tongue was there—hot, wet, relentless—rimming me like he’d been starving for it. I moaned around Ryan’s cock, the sound muffled and filthy, drool running down my chin as Ryan fucked my throat, slow and deep. “Fuck, he tastes so good bro,” Jack muttered, his fingers tangled in my hair, guiding me down until my nose pressed against his brother's pubes. The smell of whiskey, sweat, and smoke still clung to all three of us, mixing with the sharp tang of sex in the confined space. Jack pulled back just long enough to spit on my hole, then he slid two fingers in without warning. I bucked hard, choking on Ryan’s cock, but Ryan only laughed low and held me down, forcing me further into my natural desires of submission to them. The brown bottle appeared again—Ryan uncapped it and held it under my nose while Jack worked a third finger inside me. “Deep breath, freshman.” I inhaled hard. The rush hit like a ton of bricks, my hole relaxed instantly, greedy and open. I pushed back against Jack’s hand, like a slut in heat. Jack didn’t make me wait long. I heard the crinkle of a condom wrapper. I withdrew my mouth from Ryan's cock, looked back at Jack, and said, "No, man, I want to feel you fuck me." Jack smiled as he slicked up his cock with lube. Then the pressure—thick, blunt, perfect. Jack’s cockhead breaching me, stretching me further open inch by slow inch while Ryan fucked my face in rhythm. I was stuffed from both ends, helpless and drooling and loving every second of it. Like the faggot I always jerked off to being one day. They took turns after that. Jack pounding my ass until I saw stars, Ryan choking me on his cock until tears ran down my face, then switching—Ryan’s thicker cock splitting me open while Jack fed me his balls, making me lick and suck, worship them like the needy little faggot I’d just discovered I was for them. At some point they flipped me onto my back. Ryan folded me in half, knees to my chest, and slammed in so deep I felt him in my throat. Jack straddled my face, grinding his sweaty ass down onto my tongue while teasing the head of my leaking cock in time with Ryan’s thrusts. I came first—hands-free, untouched, just from Ryan’s dick nailing my prostate and Jack’s hole smothering me. My orgasm ripped through me like a seizure, cum splattering across my stomach and chest in thick ropes while both of them laughed and called me their “freshman faggot slut.” They didn’t stop. Ryan pulled out and shot across my face, thick streaks painting my lips and cheeks like a cheap whore. Jack followed seconds later, adding his load to the mess, marking me inside and out. I lay there wrecked and trembling, covered in cum and sweat, while they kissed lazily above me—tongues tangling, hands roaming, like they’d done this a hundred times before. Eventually Ryan reached for the whiskey bottle, took a swig, and poured a splash across my chest. Jack leaned down and licked it off my skin, slow and filthy. “Welcome to the club, bro,” Jack breathed, his lips brushing mine, his stubble scraping like sandpaper as he kissed me deeply, letting me taste the whiskey and a mixture of our cum. I passed out between them sometime after, sticky, wrecked, and happier than I’d ever been in my life. Let me know if you want me to continue this story. Special thanks to @pupHawaii for posting the top picture.

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