The Glastonbury Swim Team

[shoreboy]

The Glastonbury Swim Team

1. Drake’s Wet

I was accepted on a swimming scholarship to a small, picturesque New England college.

Any story that begins: I was accepted on a swimming scholarship to a small, picturesque New England college, you just know at some point is going to turn into some Stephen King, fifty shades of crazy, tale of terror. Well, this one’s no exception, just not in a Stephen King sort of way. Banana pajama pants crazy, yes, but not a horror story, well, whore story, yeah, that’d be about right.

I’m Kyle Dupree. Hi. How are you? My stats, to start, because that’s what I had to fill out on my college application: nineteen (I was held back one year before they diagnosed me with ADHD because it’s hard for me to pay attention for any long stretches of time, but I’m not dumb, quite the opposite), five ten, one forty-five. “Beanpole,” Jacob calls me. Jacob’s one of the quicker wits in our trailer park. He’s dating my mom and he’s nice enough to her, so there’s that. Hair: brown, short, spikey. Eyes: yes, I have them. Okay, my mom says they’re the color of freshly cooked maple. What she means is that they’re amber brown with little specks of gold in the right light. Nationality: you want them all? Alright, application sez: Native American, Belgian, Polish, German, Dutch, English and French Canadian. In other words a garden variety New England mutt. I put them in that order since I thought I’d have a better chance at getting a scholarship. I was right. If you want to know the truth, though, I should’ve put them in the exact reverse order, because I’m mostly French Canadian, eh, but if it’s good enough for Elizabeth Warren (the Abenaki people in my case—and I am damn proud of that, one sixteenth proud) it’s good enough for me. 

For those of you taking notes for a guaranteed A+ History paper (and you should), the indigenous Abenaki people covered a huge swath of Vermont, New Hampshire and Maine and have been here for like twelve thousand years. The one tattoo I have is a dream catcher, that was before everyone and their lesbian sister got one. But mine was one of the first. I got it from Dash, who’s this old biker dude who lives in the second trailer from the park entrance, three down from our double-wide, at his kitchen table. I bartered for it, smoked some clouds with him, then let him diddle me on his couch before he picked up his tattoo gun and went at my ribcage in his kitchen. He’d been giving me blow jobs since I can’t remember, but this once I let him finger my hole while he sucked my dick, which the way he did it felt weird—like in, out, in, out, real fast—but still kinda felt good, but I’d rather it wasn’t Dash, but I let him do me anyway like that till I spurted in his craggily-face mouth of his. 

Other stats that weren’t on my application—because if you’re any kind of perv like me you’d want to know: seven and a half inches, uncut, smooth but with dark hairy legs, swimmer’s build (obviously) and short black pubes that I clip, dark wispy pits, and a little bit of dark peach fuzz on my tailbone that eases down the road between two perfectly shaped round, white boulders. See, I knew you’d want to know.

So anyway, like I was saying, Dash got up to his second knuckle of his middle finger in my butthole. I acted like that was crazy deep, but I’d taken big cucumbers way deeper than that since dinosaurs roamed, I just didn’t tell him. Or anyone else, like when mom, Jacob and I were eating our dinner salad with a freshly sliced aforementioned cucumber. Washed, of course.

My mom’s a nurse at the county hospital so there were a lot of anatomy books around the house when I was growing up, and I was a curious kid. I was fascinated by the human body, mine and others. Most of the kids in Cozy Meadows, our little trailer park in the sticks, weren’t allowed to play with me after a certain age because I not only played doctor with them, I played specialist: urologist, gynecologist, proctologist, you name it, I became an expert in the field. I didn’t really care that I was shunned in Cozy Meadows. I’d seen what I wanted to see, felt what I wanted to touch. I moved on. 

Cozy Meadows was close to this lake and for most of the year I’d swim endlessly, taking Waldo, our family’s chocolate lab, with me. He and I would swim across the lake to the side where all these older men used to hang out, sunning naked on a pebbly beach. Waldo was both a good way to break the ice with these old guys—never was any younger guys my age—and at the same time, if I didn’t want to talk to one of them, Waldo kinda sense it and would give a low grumble, and they’d high tailed it. So anyway, I got to know a fair number of these men, and them me. I was technically a virgin when I left home, technically—I liked getting my dick sucked and I didn’t mind returning the favor, but I didn’t like anyone touching my butthole. That was my domain. Dash was probably the only human that had gotten finger deep. Cucumbers and zucchinis fared much better.

The school where I got my swimming scholarship was about two hours away from us. Jacob, who lived at the end of the cul-de-sac but was always at our house, drove me in his old rusty red Ford pickup, Waldo in the back with my one suitcase, and my mom scrunched between me and the gear shift. It’s a hot day as we drive down out of the mountains to the flatlands; the temperature rises another ten degrees by the time we hit the college town. Mom’s trying not to cry. Close to the school we pass a circus setting up in a grocery store parking lot. “Look, honey,” she says to me, “a carnival,” but she loses it when we pass through the school gates, and her misty-eyes turn to real silent tears. I get out of the truck in front of my dorm and grab my suitcase. Waldo tries to get out of the truck but I push him back behind the tailgate. He just looks at me and doesn’t know why he can’t go with me. I give him a big hug, my mom, too, and shake Jacob’s hand but, at the last minute, he pulls me in and gives me a big ol’ Jacob bear hug. And then they drive off, exhaust spewing black smoke out the tailpipe, Waldo shouting out barks from the back of the rusty Ford.

My forehead’s sweating from the late summer day, and I look up at Hannaford Hall, this six-story, ugly beige cinderblock monstrosity, and spot the top floor where I’ll be living for the next school year. I almost didn’t get in at the start of the school year because I’m a fuckup when it comes to paperwork and deadlines, and rules in general. I was supposed to get some meningitis shot but I forgot, but my mom pulled strings at work and got me a shot the week school started. I got the form filled but I missed all that first days orientation shit. ‘Plunge into the deep end and see if you come up’ has always been my way. I was already in trouble with the coach because the swim team warmups started a week before school did. Anyway, I’m used to being a fuck up and feel like I’m always in trouble anyway, so what the fuck. They weren’t going to take away the scholarship from me. The only sticking point was that I had to try out for a slot on the water polo team. Swim season was in the spring, water polo in the fall. I didn’t know from fuck what water polo was. Sound ritzy, Jacob said at dinner while I was looking over my financial papers, doubt it’s a game for folks like us.

Anyway, across the street there’s a nicer dorm. Hannaford Hall looks like some backwoods bunker hospital but Avery Beckwith Hall looks like something that exploded out of an architect’s brain. All angles of metal and glass, overhanging study rooms, electric sliding glass doors. Everyone there, I read in the school’s brochure, lives in five bedroom suites, but it was for the richer kids. Lot of them had their own room. Then there were the townhouses down the road at the school’s gates, but they were for upper classmen. Some of them housed twenty-one year-olds so they could legally have alcohol, but what did I care, I had a jar of gen-u-ine Micky-G’s moonshine in an old glass jar that Micky-G had given me himself as a going-away-to-college present; and some mighty pure crystal from Dash, the biker-tattoo artist, my finger-pumping mentor; and homegrown weed from Jasper, who was Jacob’s younger brother that lived in the backwoods in an honest-to-god teepee and farmed the best pot around, well, good for Vermont I guess. His farm was patrolled by these fuckin’ huge-ass geese who were nasty motherfuckers if they didn’t know you. Even if they did know you, you always had to keep your eye on where they were. Both Waldo and I more than once had them sneak up on us. Getting goosed by a goose is not my idea of fun. Anyway, he gave me a nice supply of his best buds. And then while I was packing, Jacob slipped me a carton of reds, which was very cool of him, ‘cause I know he’d catch grief if my mom found out. I told you she was a nurse. And me on a swimming scholarship. But that’s Cozy Meadows in a nutshell. We don’t think too much about the future. We concentrate on the pleasures of the now.

So I walk in the entrance, push aside these heavy-ass metal glass doors, and inside it’s really air-conditioned cool. There’s this guy with a name tag that says Raf, a good-looking dark-skinned guy, who checks out my paperwork, sees I’m on a swim scholarship like him. He gives me a swipe card for the door, a crooked smile, and tells me I’m on the top floor with a guy name Drake Chadwick. We get to talking and I find out Raf’s the goalkeeper on the water polo team and a R.A., which means resident assistant, meaning free board and room. He’s like a concierge, he says. I tell him I have no fuckin’ clue to what that is. He says if I want something just ask. Cool. He’s a junior, polysci major. I tell him I’m a freshman, majoring in English I think. He says most of the swim team are sophomores, and live across at Avery Beckwith Hall. A couple juniors and seniors live together in one of the townhouses. He says he’ll introduce me to some of the team at dinner. Raf has a funny way of talking, like English is his second language or something. 

Well, it’s time for me to go up and meet ol’ Drake Chadwick. Raf and I shake hands, and I go up in the elevator. But I got to tell you, I get kinda nervous in elevators. I’m not used to them, see. You’re in this tiny cage and that kind of freaks me out. So my hearts beating, and six dings later I’m on my floor. The hallway’s hot and stuffy. I’m holding my swipe card in my sweaty palm walking down the hall looking for 6G. It’s at the end of the hall and I put in my card and it clicks and I push open the door, and there’s Mr. Drake Chadwick on his bed, holding a Maxim in one hand and jacking his big banana cock in the other. Just as I come in he’s spitting a huge load of dick juice all over his magazine and himself. He tries to stifle a fuck! then flails around with his jeans down around his ankles trying to get them up, struggling to not look like a spaz, but I’m sorry, it’s funny, and I start laughing hysterically. He has this totally embarrassed, humiliated look on his face, sees it’s hopeless to remedy the situation, and rolls over to his side hiding his face against the cinderblock wall and kinda starts groaning, pained, but chuckling. I close the door so no one else sees this, and I stand there admiring his perfect, white bubble butt that’s on its side jiggling in an embarrassed snigger. A nice light brown fuzz of butt hair outlines these two muscly white, perfect cannonballs. He can’t look over at me yet. He’s just staying there, tucked to the wall. He reaches up and takes his pillow and pulls it over his head. I find that I am suddenly in love with good ol’ Drake Chadwick. I want to go over and either kiss that big round ass of his or smack it. Maybe I’ll do both. All I know is I want it, wanna stick my tongue in letting it butterfly between his fuzzy crack, but I feel introductions are necessary first.

“I’m Kyle,” I tell him, “and you must be Drake. My friend Jacob says you never get a second chance to make a first impression. And I gotta say, dude,” I tell him while I’m setting my suitcase on the empty bed, “you have made one hell of a first impression. Can’t think how to top it.” 

He finally flips over giving me another sight of his big wanger and low hangers, struggling to get his underwear over his still hard cock and Donkey Kong balls, carefully zipping up his fly so he doesn’t catch himself. Man, the bulge is still showing through his khaki shorts, I see. That eggplant ain’t going nowhere anytime soon. He sits up in bed, pulls down his black Mario Brothers t-shirt over his chest, which was pulled up while he was whacking. Sitting on the bed’s edge, I realize what a beefcake ol’ Drake Chadwick is. He’s this very pretty, very big boy, six foot something hunched on his bed, big feet wiggling in flip-flops, innocent looking face, wide lips breaking into a shy smile, a mop of golden brown hair, with large fluffy brows arching up asking for forgiveness or at least understanding. Come to the wrong place, bub. He’s got this cuddly teddy bear face that should have little black buttons for eyes but instead are dark chocolate brown, and cheeks that are all ruddy red like he’s been crying or just ran a marathon. I go over to extend my hand and he extends his. He doesn’t see it yet, but there’s a jiggling pool of cum slopped on the crook between his thumb and forefinger. I grab his fist and tightly embrace it. I bring that crook up to my mouth, angling it so he sees his wad’s just about to drip off the side. I stick out my tongue, let the spooge fall in, and audibly slurp it up. Two can play at first impressions.

***

Drake tells me on the way to the cafeteria that he’s a second year. He worked all summer but didn’t have the bucks to afford Avery Beckwith with the other guys. Besides, he says, he’s found of cinderblock. 

I meet most of team already sitting around the table in the cafeteria as Drake and I bring our food trays over. Raf’s there eating a heaping of vegetables and rice, while everyone else is either scarfing down Sloppy Joes or cheeseburgers. Drake makes introductions around the table as we settle in: Kenworth Paxton (head nod), Marlon Reznor (head nod), Tommy Durkheim—“hi,” he squeaks—Trent van der Haus—“just House,” House says, reaching over the table to shake—and Steve Reynold. Steve Reynolds looks up from his phone for a nanosecond and then goes back down. I say, hey, to the table. I’ve already forgotten their names.

“So, Dupree, you-you-you trying out for water polo to-to-to-tomorrow?” Paxton stutters horribly next to me. He’s blondish, my size, wide shoulders, prominent chin, and has three deep nasty looking scars on his left cheek. He blinks his eyes forcefully to get out a whole sentence. 

“Yeah,” I tell him. “Don’t know if water polo is my game, but I’m a fast swimmer.” 

Then this Marlon Reznor guy, who has a scruffy little chin beard, says with a heavy southern drawl that’s so thick it’s almost comical, “What’s y’alls event?” Reznor’s a little shorter than me, bulkier, and like Paxton, has sandy blond hair. In fact, everyone at the table except for Raf and Drake is somewhere on the blond spectrum. Aside from Raf, I’m by far the darkest at the table, then Drake, and then you could easily confuse Paxton, Reznor, Durkheim, House, and Reynolds as all being the same guy: all blondish hair, broad shoulders, high cheekbones, straight pearly teeth, tan, and privileged. 

Raf hasn’t said a word. He just sits quietly eating his veggies, studying all the blonds, quizzically. Looks at me that way, too. I can’t tell if he’s like Middle Eastern or Black; could be both. He’s got extremely buzzed black hair, big brown eyes, a broad nose with flaring nostrils, and thick dark lips that occasionally flash an absurdist’s smile when he thinks no one is looking. He’s around the same size as everyone around the table but has huge hands, whose fingers reach out and twirl the straw in his ice tea. 

“Dunno what my event is. Coach’ll have to tell me.” I chow down on my first burger. “No pool where I come from. School was a one room deal and that was it,” I say chewing at Reznor. He and Paxton look at me kinda pitifully, which pisses me off, but I just grin, gnawing some curly fries on my molars. “Hey, it was great. I had the same teacher, Mrs. Duckworth, from kindergarten to twelfth grade.” My teacher’s name makes the guys laugh, but it doesn’t faze me. “There was a lake I swam in, but we also had this quarry where this stoner guy, Jasper, taught me diving from off the cliffs.” I gobble down a few more curly fries. “First time I tried out for anything was here at this college. My mom’s boyfriend pushed me and I said why not. Coach said I was a natural but needed a lot of training. But what do I know?” I say and finish my first of three burger. I see Steve Reynolds, who’s in shorts and wearing a Glastonbury College sweatshirt, its hoodie pulled over his head, text something in his phone, and then a second later Reznor’s reading something on his. Reznor types something back. They both exchange a sly grin. Jerks.

Suddenly there’s two large hand clasping my shoulders, giving them a tight squeeze. “How you men getting along?” Speaking of coach, Coach Brandon had snuck up behind me, the one who said I was a natural, and was kneading my taut shoulders muscles, quizzing the table. “These knuckleheads giving you a hard time?’

They all snicker. “Nah,” I say back over my shoulder, picking up a couple of fries and scarfing them down. “Just the usual poking and seeing what’s under my skirt.” I gotta tell you, I’m trying to act as casual as I can, but coach rubbing my shoulders like this is giving my pecker a little stir, especially when I look up in his face. He looks around forty, has on a tight fitting blue sweater, hugging these enormous pecs and massive shoulders. The sweater’s color sets off his fluorescent blue eyes. He’s bigger and fitter than any of these bozos, still has a slim waist, salt and pepper hair, big blue eyes—I guess I said that—he could like be the dad of any of these guys. Well, I guess not Raf. Well, on second thought, seeing as how they both share this same lopsided smile, maybe they could be related.

Raf brightens when he sees coach. “Kyle was schooled in a one-room schoolhouse, just like I was," Raf informs coach.

I look at Raf surprised. “Yeah?” I say. “Where?”

“Botswana.” I’m taken aback. I’ve never met anyone from another country, and I have no idea where Botswana is. “A little game reserve on the Kalahari Desert,” he says. “An area called Deception Valley.”

“Deception Valley, eh? No shit? I love it,” I say sipping my diet coke. Coach is still hanging onto my shoulders. If he doesn’t stop massaging me soon I’m not responsible for the stiffy percolating in my jeans.

“Hey, Rafiki,” Reznor says, “y’all went to a little red schoolhouse like Dupree?” The others giggle.

I interject, “Well, mine was actually a little brown schoolhouse.”

“Mine was a brown grass hut,” Raf retorts. We exchange conspirator’s smiles.

 “A game reserve. For real, Raf?” Drake says. “I knew about Botswana, but I didn’t know about the game reserve.”

“Yes. I grew up with families of giraffes, and cheetahs, prides of lions,” says Raf. He looks pointedly at Reznor. “Jackals.” The guys all laugh.

Reznor puts on a sarcastic sneer. “Hyenas, too, I bet.” He looks at the guys who were laughing and are now back chewing their burgers.

“Play nice, men,” Coach Brandon scolds. “Listen: I want you to hit the sack early tonight. Seven a.m. tryouts tomorrow and I want you all locked and loaded when you arrive. Got it?” He looks around the table meaningfully. “Locked and loaded.” All the guys look down guilty-like for no reason I can make out. They all nod sheepishly.

I glance up at coach who gives me a wink, and he’s off. Swear to God, he packs a lot in one wink.

I sip to the bottom of my soda until it makes a loud empty gurgle. I ask the guys, “So what’s he mean by ‘locked and loaded’?”

There’s a long pause, until Tommy Durkheim, the youngest of the group, peeps, “We all have to wear these…”

“If you make the cut,” interrupts Trent van der Haus, taunting in his rich baritone, “you’ll find out soon enough. But you got to make the cut first, Dupree.” He’s the blondest on the table’s spectrum. His green eyes sparkle like a cat’s. The guys all look at each other covertly. 

“O-kay,” I say nonplussed, curious but not willing to show it. I look to Drake and Raj for their input, but they’ve clammed up too. “I’m getting another diet soda. Anyone else want a refill.” There’s a cloud over the table now. “O-kay then, just one diet coke.” I get up.

Tommy breaks the silence. “Diet cokes makes you gay,” he says looking up quickly at me, then back down at the table. I guess I’m looking at him quizzically, because he adds quickly, “That’s what Reznor says.”

Renzor rolls his eyes. “I didn’t say diet coke makes you gay, dick-wipe. I said it makes y’all look gay.”

“Hmm,” I say considering the statement while I scan the table nodding my head. Tommy’s studying something interesting in the catsup on his plate. Renzor looking at me challengingly. Paxton and van der Haus are looking at me expectantly. Steve Reynolds head’s down under his hoodie, texting away. Raf’s sitting back stirring his tea with his straw. Drake is caught mid-chew, and has one eyebrow raised at me. “’Funny,” I finally say, “‘cause I was gay a long time before I drank my first diet coke.” Steve Reynolds stops texting and looks up. I leave the silent table behind for the soda machine.

When I get back everyone’s gone. I’m not too surprised. I slurp on my soda playing with a second plate of fries. I scan the almost-empty cafeteria. There’s some overweight girls with multi-colored hair in one of the booths, each one quietly texting on their phones. A few tables away, two nerdy guys in matching black-rimmed glasses stare and occasionally type into their laptops. The older lady cafeteria workers in hairnets and white smocks are clearing salt and pepper shakers, refilling napkin dispensers, and wiping down tables. Some of the lights around the serving trays are being switched off. It’s quiet except for the steely stream of cold air coming out of the AC vents, and an occasional “oh my god” coming from the booth of multi-colored hair girls. 

I take out my flip phone, the one my mom gave me today as a present. I bring up the only number I have stored besides hers and Jacob’s. u there? I type.

I get back, yes.

I think about Jasper, the goose guy. I think about his weed in my suitcase. 420? I type.

There’s a pause, then yes pops on the screen along with a smiley face.

I’m a little sad, this being my first night not living at home anymore. Knowing Waldo won’t be sleeping on my bed. A little scared, too, if you want to know the goddamn truth. But the biggest thing, more than anything else I’m feeling? I’m very, very horney. I type in: can i suck ur dick?

There’s a really long pause. I’m waiting, finishing my drink. One of the nerds at the other table closes his laptop and reaches across the table for the other nerd’s hand. They clasp hands as an old red-headed cafeteria lady reaches over them and grabs their napkin dispenser. 

Finally Drake Chadwick, the third number in my contact list, texts me back: f i cn suck u2.

***

Micky-G’s moonshine in a canning jar sits between me and Drake out on the lawn behind the library half finished. When I got back up to the dorm it was way too hot to stay in the un-air-conditioned room. The fan did nothing but blow around hot humid air. Avery Beckwith Hall has AC, as do the townhouses, but not good ol’ Hanniford Hall. So I take my reefer, my pipe, Mickey-G’s canning jar, and my roommate, and we traipse down behind the library. 

It’s dark and the entire night sky is spread out above us. It’s cloudless and there’s no moon, so we have billions of blinking lights outlining our dark shapes. I warn Drake that you don’t need much of Micky-G’s to get a buzz going. And you’ll definitely hurl if you drink too much. And here, take a hit of Jasper’s herb. You get a good balance between the two of them. I don’t think Drake is that familiar with either weed or hooch ‘cause he’s only taking small hits, imbibing on both minimally, and looks, in the dim light, pretty unstable. Me, too, but it’s not my first rodeo, muchacho—hooch, herb, or hombre. 

Drake falls back taking in the sky and pointing at small shooting stars along the horizon, wordless. I see them too, but it’s him I’m admiring. The enhancements help, but right now, looking at his silhouette, his long nose, the rise and fall of his chest, his sharp chin jutting into the shadowy outline of the Juniper bush, he’s the enhancement I want. I’m horney and happy and nicely roasted. I lean over and kiss him. He’s startled but not unwilling. He’s melting into the grass with me leaning over his face. I sense he’s never had another man kiss him before and, curiously, he draws his finger over the stubble of my nine o’clock shadow. For such a big hunk, his face is soft, smooth, his lips downy. I pass my tongue through his lips and he’s awash in a dreamy, smoldering passion. He’s warm and responsive to everything I’m doing to him. I reach up under his black t-shirt and feel his strong, smooth chest, his racing heart, stroke through the damp hair under his pits. I smell him. He’s between the musk of a freshly run mile and freshly laundered clothes. He’s the good son still, I can tell, but with every kiss, parts of his younger, innocent self wash away.

I undo his shorts and slide them down to his knees, then pull down his checkered boxers. He tells me the grass is cold. Only for a minute, I say, and go down on his very hard cock. I can tell I could get him off in a few seconds if I really went at him, but I want it to last and just trace my tongue along his shaft, licking, outlining, every now and then wrapping my lips around his knob, pulling down his foreskin, swirling over his head, tasting bits of smegma buried deep in the bottom of his ridges. I have a white flake on my tongue and kiss him with it. If he wasn’t high he might have been revolted, but like me, in our ardor, it’s something that turns us both on. He’s into it and is clamoring to get into my jeans. I let him. All he has to do is unsnap a few buttons and he’s in. I’m good and stoned, and, yeah, the grass is cold, dewy, and the individual blades of grass astonish my tickled crack, but not more than the feeling of Drake’s hand running over my erection.

This boy is good and goes straight in for the killshot, almost making me cum the first time he goes full-Nelson on my pecker. He peels the skin down my shaft, exposing my head. I have a lot more foreskin than he does, and he’s much cleaner than I. I’m trash and I know it and I revel in it. But I’ve a mom that’s a nurse and she’s reined me in. Mostly. His first taste of dick cheese, if I’d had my way, would have packed a lot more punch, but since he’s this great big one-eighty pound virgin, I guess he’s better off with just a hint of rankness. Anyway, we slip into a sixty-nine and he’s dripping and oozing like he needs a plumber and I’m there to lap it up. I’m sure I’m leaking too. He just taste so fucking good, the hooch and the pot say so anyway. I can’t get enough of his big bent dick and he’s acting on the same impulses. First he climbs over me, his giant rod angling over my face. My neck’s pulled back to look up at it, in a perfect position to thrust it deep down my throat. Between his legs, his furry balls dangling, I see the heavens and shooting stars as he slides his shaft into my mouth. Over time I’ve gotten good at deep throating. Practice from cucumbers, bananas, and countless men at the lake. He’s a challenge being so big, but with big challenges come even bigger pleasures. That big cock slides down my throat and ends with his dark pubes stuck up against my nostrils. He smells and tastes of soap, but the longer I spend nursing his huge cock, it starts to meld into that special scent and taste of a man. His acrid crack slowly pushes and grinds its way towards me. I don’t think he knows he’s doing it but his ass crack is coming into shadowy view. His dick pops out of my throat and before he or I even realize it, my tongue is buried between his two smooth white cheeks. I reach my hands up and feel the flexing of his muscled ass. I squeeze them and sense the conflict between what he wants and what he’s afraid to ask for. I pull his cheeks apart and settle that conflict with my tongue, riding deep into the valley to find his hole. He lets out an audible gasp as my mouth covers the entrance to the Drake I want to get to know. I dart my tongue inside and he lets out a fuck into the night air, in the dark, behind the library. 

We’re shadows writhing in shadows, him riding my face. There’s only the slightest of movements, we’re dark statues frozen on the lawn, the only unseen movement is my tongue tracing a spiral inside his ass, then jabbing into his hole. He emits a quiet moan of gratitude. His hole’s loosening. I feel his sphincter pushing out, wanting me to penetrate him deeper. I happily comply while I reach up his shirt, play with his pin-point nipples. He starts grinding his ass over my face, getting the scruff of my cheeks to burn against his rutting ass. There is no resistance in him, he wants me to go deeper. I wiggle a finger next to my mouth and let the saliva provide the necessary lubrication for my digit to slide in. Into the warm night air, in the shadow of the library lawn, he emits another amazed fuck, and pushes down on my finger so I penetrate him deeper, now up to my second knuckle. He’s still grinding down, but rather than pushing further into to him, I withdrawal a bit and wet my middle finger and let it join the first. Oh fuck, he cries softly, knees on the grass, realizing what it feels like to have two fingers invading him, and before he’s settled comfortably into it, I wet a third and slip it in. 

“Fuck man,” he says quietly, now aggressively pushing his butt down on my hand. “I’m going to cum,” he pants helplessly as his bucks on my fingers.

“Like hell you are,” I say pulling out.

“You fucker,” he says, his teeth shining from the light of the library windows. “You fuck,” he says. “Turn on your side.”

“Why?” I say, but know where he’s headed. He pulls a small tube of hand cream out of his shorts and dangles it in front of me with a devilish smile. “You thought that far ahead?” I say. “Sneaky, sneaky, honey badger. Was that going to be for me or for you?”

“Didn’t know, but I do now. Turn on your side,” he says sure of himself.

I toe off my sneakers and slip off my jeans. We’re outside in the shadows, footpaths, flowerbeds, brick staircases, alone, quiet, lit by a billion stars, cloaked by night. I pull off my shirt. His Mario Brothers shirt and khaki shorts come off. His checkered underwear lies over them. We’re naked next to shrubs, dirt, the smell of freshly mowed grass, moist. I roll on top of him. Our hard cocks press into each other’s belly, his dark and my darker pubes intertwine, the dew of the lawn make us slick and slippery. I have one leg between his, and he has one leg between mine. Neither one of us has relinquished who, for the moment, will bottom and who will top. We’re dancing, we’re jockeying for position, we’re enjoying the chase, the pursuit, the open question. Our hands at first clutch tenderly as I bend to kiss him. Then I feel his palms clutching tighter. Then we’re wrestling for control. He’s pushing up as I’m holding him down. He’s bigger but I’m quicker. I flip him and have him pinned so his face is pushed into the grass, but I feel him powering up like a hydraulic lift, slow pushing me back. His face comes out of the grass and he’s wearing a conqueror’s smile. “You can fuck me afterward but I’m going to fuck you this second,” he says, throwing me onto my back, lifting my legs apart. 

He smears some cream on his dick and sticks his hand under my butt. I feel his fingers run over my hole, then push inside. Like I said, I’m pretty much a virgin with man meat but not unfamiliar with penetration. But there’s a universe of difference between me playing with my hole and someone else doing it. Especially if that someone else is as hot and aggressive as this fucker. He pushes my legs forward and lines up his thick member against my hole, and slowly pushes in. The whites of his eyes shine as does his shimmering wet body. He’s a merman from the sea and he’s diving inside me, burying his thick veined shaft, his foreskin pushing back revealing his velvety knob pushing deeper than even the most daring vegetable has ever gone. How can it hurt and feel so good at the same time? Fuck, yeah, I encourage him. Do it, I whisper in his ear. And he’s in up to his bone. I feel his pubes grinding against my hole, his solid rod spreading the width of my chute apart like its never been spread. I’m trying like mad to get used to his size but he’s frenzied and nineteen and in heat. He doesn’t care about anything but what he wants, and that would be cumming inside me as quickly as he can. I stroke myself and could easily get off this very second. I feel the burn building inside my balls. He’s pounding against them, abusing them with each thrust of his pelvis. Fuck, the thrust and pressure themselves could bust my nut any second I chose to let it, and I’m torn, but Drake decides for me, and holds my legs apart, shudders, breaths strained rushes of air through clenched teeth, and I know he’s cumming inside me deep. I want to cum, too, but I want it to be inside him when I do, so I hold back. It’s an ecstatic moment feeling him rutting inside me, spewing his first load in me, while I wait, watching him return to behind his eyes. His eyes are alive in a new way. Knowing something I don’t yet know. I’m jealous of the fuck.

He rolls off me, looking up at the night, smiling. He lies next to me and grabs my hand and brings it up to his mouth, licks it. Doesn’t kiss it, but licks it. That makes me laugh. I comment, “So, we’re batting two for oh, boy-o, aren’t we?”

“What’d you mean, boy?” He comes back and leans over my face. He licks my lips. He’s on top of me again, his dick’s still hard. “You gotta cum whenever you can, boy-o.”

“Says my wanker roommate,” I say and knock him off me. Both our dicks are hard, standing off our bellies as we lie on our backs squeezing hands. There’s a fireball in the sky, not a small specks of light, but something that lights up our faces. I see his eyes shine. He’s enraptured, blissful. I’m jealous and want his lube. He sees how much lust is in me, scrunches his face uncertain, and grabs for his clothes. “I don’t fucking think so. Turn on your side, boy,” I order.

“I don’t know, Dupree,” he says sitting up holding his checkered brief.

“I do, Chadwick. Where that tube?”

He hands it to me tentatively. “I never…” he begins.

“I know. Me neither,” I say back at him. “You'll like it. I'll make sure you do. I’ll go slow. Hell, before, you were ready to have me to fist you.”

“What’d’ya mean?” he asks as I lube my cock, shaking my head. I reach between his butt cheeks, those beautiful white boulders I’d first seen this afternoon and have been thinking about ever since. My lubed finger pushes at his hole. Boy is he tight, tighter than when I was fingering him moments ago. He’s purposefully clenching, not wanting me to go any further. “Ow,” he says quietly. “I don’t think I can, Kyle.”

“You’re not the only boy scout that comes prepared,” I say rifling through my jean pocket. I pull out my bag of T, lick my un-lubed finger and then a second, and stick them in the bag. I pull out white fingers and rub them on his tight hole.

“What is it?” he asks, as it goes inside his chute. He’s lubed enough to take my fingers up to my second knuckle. I rub them all around the wall of his wet rectum. He takes a grimaced inhalation. “It burns, man,” he complains.

“Just for a second,” I say. I don’t take my fingers out, but leave them in him. After a few seconds I start wiggling the pair around. Then there’s the first moan I’ve been waiting for. His hole seems to not only be loosening up but wanting more stimulation. Another inhalation through his clenched teeth. My fingers inside are conflicting him. He squeezes. My fingers being squeezed is not of rejection but enticement. He doesn’t yet know it, but he wants more. His brain will catch up to his body, but even before it does I lube a third finger and slip it in, then a fourth. He gasps as he thrusts his hips back to take more of my fingers. I’m more than willing to give it to him. 

On his side, he pushes up on his elbow while he thrust back his ass and starts rocking gently. I go with his rhythm and let him pump himself on my hand until it’s buried up to the crook of my thumb. “Fuck, man,” he whispers. “Fuck that’s good.”

“Yeah?” I ask him. “More?”

He answers by pushing harder onto my hand. I lube my thumb and the thickest part of my hand. The thumbnail slides it. He’s pushing on me, hungrily, greedily. My thumb knuckle is buried and still he’s rocking, trying to take in more. He’s hissing on the lawn through clenched teeth, writhing, fingers digging into the turf, wanting something he doesn’t have a name for. “Ah-ahh!” he hollers loudly, and I look around to see if anyone hears us. I then realize he’s swallowed my whole hand. 

“Wait, wait, wait, wait,” he cries, gulping air like a drowning man, his head drooped over. I can’t believe it either. Neither of us can. But it’s done. I don’t move. I wait. We’re like that for some time, unmoving, sweating into the wet grass. I’m hard as a steel beam. He drops to his side, hissing again through his teeth, the slightest of moans germinated from deep inside his chest. He gently moves his hips. Stops. Tests the water. Pushes back a little. Stops. I let him control what we do, but my dick is getting impatient. It’s jealous of the attention my hand’s been given. I lube my shaft. Stroke it slowly. Try to appease it. But it know what it wants, and where it’s going. 

I slide up behind Drake, let my knob rest between my wrist and the top of his ass. My cock traces down my wrist finding my palm held open at the entrance of Drake’s body. Drake knows what’s what, and begins a torturous journey against my pelvis. He can’t help himself. He’s drawn to the thought of it like I am. He pushes back as I arch forward, the knob of my cock crawling down my palm into his out-stretched hole. He’s drenched, sweat pours down his back, off his butt, dripping on my arm; his body burning on the lawn. I fear any moment he’ll spontaneously combust, become nothing but ashes. His desire is burning as hot as mine, he’s as determined. I push forward and he pushes back, in small minuscule movements. Then, with a pop and a gasp from both of us, suddenly, like falling through an hourglass, I’m inside his ass, his hot lava ass. He cries out even louder, his fuck is deeper, more lustful, craven. He’s molten inside. His fire surrounds my hand, my groin is a wick ignited. His body makes me insane. My fist and cock move around inside this crushing volcano, my cock clenched tightly inside my fist. No anatomy book prepares you. The body is a body, wet, liquid, flesh, a hundred degrees Fahrenheit, pliable, strong, vulnerable, unimaginable; the mind is only one small occupants of the body. I know what we’ve done, what we’re doing. But it’s not knowing, it’s feeling that composes the body. He feels so fucking good, what I’m doing to him is a violation against his surrender. That makes me even harder. He growling next to me like a mongrel clinging to a bone, my fist, my cock. I lick the sweat off his spine. My free hand reaches across his slick torso, and I grab his steely cock. I fuck him from behind, jacking myself off in him and jacking him at the same time. We’ve found a rhythm we can sustain, not for long but forcefully. I’m breathing through clenched teeth. Wanting to hurt him, wanting to bring him pain and with it, massive, fierce, masculine satisfaction that only males can satisfy in other males. Fuck, he cries with my fist violently ramming up his shithole. We find a plateau of ferocity, a place where I could abuse him indefinitely, and he knows it, I know he knows it, except I’m feeling his dick leak, then spurt, then gush, then his ass squeezes my fist internally. The dominos of orgasm are falling mightily. His seized ass is pulling the cum straight out of me. I have no choice but to shoot, a steady stream of cum liquefies his perfect hole. I quake for a moment at the precipice, appreciate his beauty and his submission, then fall endlessly, rush after rush of pleasure, filling him with me. 

“Stop. Wait,” he gasps, trembling, after only seconds have passed. “Please don’t move,” he begs as I still feel a stream of semen flow into his bowels. I squeeze my fist to push out a few more drops, a last shudder, and then relax my hand.

“I’m not moving,” I say, and it’s true. I’m locked within him. Only he can release me. He’s shaking and I pull him in tightly with my free arm. I stroke his heaving chest. Is he cringing? I can’t tell but his body quivers. I feel his guts rumble and tense, and he shits out my cock and hand savagely with a harsh grunt of exhalation. “Fuck!” I yowl at the intensity of the sensation of having my cock and first aborted all at once. 

He rolls over on his stomach, buries his face in the grass, his dark hair matted to his scalp. He’s a beautiful mess and I want to hold him. I slip an arm over his broad shoulders but he throws it off, hiding his face in the shadowy blades. I’m stung by his turnaround but I’ll wait for him as long as he wants. I won’t get dress. I’ll wait with him till daylight when the safety officers discovers our naked bodies on the library’s back lawn. 

I pick up the Mason jar half full of Micky-G’s moonshine, twist open the top and take several unwise swigs. I screw the lid tight and lay back, looking up at the inky sky; watch for a long, long time as meteors and satellites glide across the firmament above us. I lay the back of my hand on the small of his back. He rocks it off. I rise on an elbow. I want him to look at me, to show him I’ll lick his slimy guts off my hand, I have no pride, I’d be his mutt if he'll be mine—but his face remains buried. I lie back and find the rings around nearby Saturn, tick off the moons of Jupiter—Ganymede, Io, Callisto, Europa, Themisto, Amalthea, Elara. I stare into the black holes where the stars aren’t anymore. Observe galaxies whirl, whole universes dance through each other, disburse in a prism of gas. I see far off stars hurtling toward me at a million light-years a second, while others swim into the black emptiness toward oblivion, never to be heard from again. Like people do. “Drake?” I ask a bit panicked at how quickly I'm alone in the universe. “You there?” The vacuum of space swallows the question. u there drake? He’s a digital ghost, a celestial body untethered. I can’t reach him though he’s inches away. I don’t know how to chart this course; I’ve never traveled here before. Did I do something wrong? Do something right? The longer I stare the more I see the stars aren’t white; have never been. Some glow red, some yellow, others are a ghostly blue. I feel the earth rotating under me, the lawn taking me along for the ride. The constellations wheel across the black vault above. Their stories elbow into my brain—the hunter, the serpent, the bears, the belt, the lion, I know them all, just like at home on our trailer’s roof. Same stories, same stars; stories spread down through millennia, through a trillions souls, eventually to mine. I’m drunker than shit and will probably puke in a moment. I’ll push dirt over the puke like it never happened.

As I look above my head, upside down at the library windows, three figures stand peering through the glass, backlit, unmoving. Even with the world upside down as it is, the central figure in a blue sweater, with salt and pepper hair, comes into focus. Coach Brandon. What I can’t comprehend in my addled brain, what I can’t wrap my mind around, is why he’s there standing next to a dark figure in a cowl and, on his other side, why there’s a bald guy whose head shines in a mosaic of tattoos. None of this makes sense. Huh. But I can tell you this: coach just winked at me. That’s the second time tonight.
 

Edited April 22, 2018 by shoreboy

[Lure]

Epic! can't wait to read more.

[damsonffpig]

Great start ...my horned imagination is running wild already

Something about about fit horny swimmers and their teams ;))  and their Coach;)

[seattlebbbtm]

Another masterpiece afoot

[Fistcumslut]

Nice beginning...

[shoreboy]

2. Bullfrog and Otter Boy

Quartermaine’s familiar tattooed dome strode by the high trailer windows. A moment later there was a wrap on his door, and a low, “Get him out of here,” and then Quartermaine was gone.

Jeremy, Jeremiah, Bullfrog—let’s stick with Jeremy for now—Jeremy nudged the old dairy farmer who definitely smelled like his livestock. The cot was narrow so they were right up against each other. The farmer continued to snore. Jeremy shook the old man again.

“I’m up. I’m up,” said the farmer. He threw his spindly legs over the cot, bare feet on the grungy linoleum. “Up an atom,” the old man said out of habit, mostly to himself, blinking, putting out his hand on the nightstand searching for his glasses. Jeremy, already sitting next to him in threadbare boxers, handed them to him. “Milk the cows or they’ll be hell to pay,” the farmer said smacking his lips, making sure his dentures were still intact. He seemed to have forgotten where he was. He looked around at the trailer, then at Jeremy.

“Thanks for stopping by, Shamus,” Jeremy said, getting up and going over to his small coffee maker, pouring himself a cup. He wasn’t going to offer the old farmer any. He needed to make sure he was gone before the camp had officially gotten into the buzz of opening day mode. It was still early enough that no one would be wiser that Shamus had been there all night.

“Ya know,” Shamus said pulling up his coveralls, slipping the suspenders over his narrow shoulders, “you remind me of someone.”

“Who,” Jeremy asked taking a sip of coffee, singing his upper lip.

“My youngest. Bonnie,” the farmer said, tying up his shit-caked work boots.

 “Okay,” Jeremy said cringing while he felt his lip, “that is so wrong in so many ways I can’t even count.”

The old man put a twenty on the nightstand. “She’s not as old as you but has the same round butt that…”

“Shamus, zip it. I don’t need to know.” Jeremy was cinching his belt then buttoning the top of his plaid shirt. He put a strawberry-frosted Pop-tart in the toaster, then opened the door for Shamus. Shamus shuffled out, stopped at the door in front of Jeremy, saw that whatever was between them last night had been ushered out with the dawn. The old man’s stubbled face registered sadness, then resignation, as he patted Jeremy’s cheek and descended the trailer’s steep metal stairs clutching firmly to the handrail. Jeremy watched the back of the old man’s red #MAGA cap bob between the carnival trailers. In the morning haze, he watched the red hat pass through the back end of the half-erected carnival rides, through the empty game booths, and finally out the arch into the supermarket parking lot. Few carnies were up yet. He took another cautiously sip of his coffee. The September air was moist, warning of another hot day before autumn broke summer’s hold.

The toaster popped, and the intense aroma of strawberries and roasted sugar clung in the air. Better than the cow dung and Old Spice that came with Shamus, he thought. He brought the Pop-tart out with him on the trailer steps and looked at the rising sun through the pink clouds. He tried not to think bad of any of the men that came to see him. They were usually old, married much too young, usually with a kid on the way, and stuck in a marriage that had lasted decades with no end in sight. As he ate the frosted pastry, he got out his ancient iPhone and clicked on the browser to bring up Craig’s list, how he managed to plan his tricks as the carnival went from small town to small town. He was hoping to reconnect with one of the college boys he’d hooked up with last year. It was by accident that he met him, thinking that the guy in the post was lying about his age, saying he had a swimmer’s body, and all the other things men said that turned out to be untrue. The boy turned out to be the real deal, the most gorgeous specimen he’d ever been with. The kid indeed had a swimmer’s body and much more, in anything he’d undersold himself: sandy blond hair, a peach-fuzz mustache, dark blue eyes—how many times did he beat off remembering that face? But the boy also had a monstrous stutter and large gashes on one of his cheeks. But he was also sweet, muscular, a wing-span that didn’t quit, and a bubble butt he could munch on for days. They hadn’t talked much, mostly from the boy’s self-consciousness over his stutter. The oddest thing was he wore a chastity cage, which he was vague, if not right down evasive about. The most he said was that he was into chastity, but it was hard for Jeremy to believe. The entire time the lad had spent in his sling, he’s poor dick was bursting against the metal trap. Jeremy concentrated on his butt in the myriad ways he knew, which was the focus that Ken, Kenneth—something like that—texted him he was interested in when they first made contact. He’d made love to the boy’s butthole alternatingly sweetly then, at times, aggressively. The boy had liked it both ways. There were only a few stops on the year-long carnival schedule he really looked forward to and this town was at the top.

He licked the crumbs off his fingers and downed enough now warm coffee to get him through the busy day. He clicked on Craig’s list regional personals. He thought he should plan now since the day the carnival launched in a new town was the busiest it would get except for the tear-down. The tear-down lasted all night, a twenty-two hour day and then a drive to the next town, usually involving plenty of amphetamines provided by Quaretermaine and management. He scanned down to the personals section and found it was gone. He checked out another random region and it was gone there too. It had to be a mistake, some glitch. He wasn’t dependent on turning tricks, but it did help him supplement his living expenses. Without them he’d wind up with the other carnies who were dependent on the measly salary management offered, living in near-destitution in what was infamously called ‘the bunkhouse,’ a converted eighteen wheeler split down the middle, broken up into small spaces which only fit a twin mattress with ten inches of space to spare on each side and a mirrored medicine chest for toiletries next to the door.

His life was a steady stream going downhill. There weren’t a lot of job opportunities for ex-felons, but he’d found this one. He’d hit his high when he was thirty years old, working for a start-up wind farm outfit setting up wind turbines all around New England. He was unafraid of heights, having spent summers teaching his little brothers to high-dives off a nearby quarry. Setting up these humongous wind turbines, with blades that stretch a football field in length, there was something meaningful and monumental he was doing, transforming mountaintops, creating renewable energy, powering tens of thousands of houses wherever his company sent him. He made enough money to send back to assist his youngest crazy brother who grew marijuana and lived in a teepee. The dope froze in Vermont’s long winters, but he was happy kid, so there’s that.

But for one god-forsaken road trip to Canada to hook-up with a gay couple outside of Montreal, his life could have continued on an upward trajectory. 

He got up to pee in his miniscule bathroom. He flushed the toilet, washed his face, shaved, then scrutinized himself mercilessly in the mirror. At forty-seven, he’d once been considered attractive, at least his mother had thought so, long, long ago. Unfortunately, so did his father. Even in the midst of middle age, he’d kept slim and still had some of the physique he acquired in the prison weight room. His greying hair kept most of his mousy brown color. His face was slim, gaunt some would say, and had a sharp chin with a big, wide lips. He’d maintained his undetectable positive status ever since he converted, never knowing if it was from sharing needles or unprotected sex, but what did it matter? He caught the bug, but it was under control. There were bags under his eyes this morning from Shamus waking him up all night wanting him to fuck him every which way every couple of hours. He’d finally gotten a straight four hours, from two to six, when Quartermaine had pounded on the side of his trailer.

Throughout the day, as usual, he was all professional, worked well with the other carnies and ride operators, the staff at concessions, and all the performers from the Big Top to the Freak Show. Because he wasn’t afraid of heights the Ferris wheel and Hammer ride operators always wanted his help. He made the final electrical connections on the Hammer’s lighting, and still had time to dress his own joint, the ‘knock three dolls down and get a prize’ booth, before the carnival flicked on its lights at exactly three o’clock to begin opening day operations. He brushed out the knockdown dolls’ deceptively long hair and wedged them between the front piece of wood and the hidden backstop that made them next-to-impossible to knock down for some worthless prize that the marks were so eager to get for their girl. But the rubes kept coming and over the last couple of years he’d learned a good bit of patter to keep his joint one of the top money-makers.

The couple in Montreal had the usual stupid screen names common for the site he was on: dirtypig4u and VelvetHole. He had their address on his phone with directions; he also had a shit-load of nasty porn on it, which he didn’t really think about as he crossed the Canadian border. He’d just taken a Viagra at a McDonalds down the road as his Subaru pulled up to the first border agent, a young Asian-Canadian woman. She looked bored and asked where he was staying. He said he hadn’t made a reservation but he thought he’d stay in a Montreal hotel. She looked at him suspiciously and told him to pull over to an area at the border patrol offices. He followed her direction and pulled into one of the docks. Two border guards were waiting for him, asking him to get out of his car. They were both nice, respectful, almost apologetic about the delay. The first officer had tattoos covering his arms up to his neck, and the other one was extremely handsome with a close cropped dark head of hair. They were a pleasant distraction until they asked him for any electronic equipment. “Like my phone?” Jeremy asked, a little apprehensive. The handsome one nodded, and he turned over his phone giving him the access code, and warning him that there was porn on it. They asked him to step inside. They then proceeded to tear the car apart end to end. The tattooed agent brought back several bottles of poppers and asked what the bottles contained. He told him the contents, saying feebly that he hoped he’d get lucky. The tattooed guy looked less friendly after that. They were both gone for about an hour leaving him in a benchless waiting area. When they returned they were stone-faced and asked that he follow them.

He felt trapped like a mouse in a maze, a maze that had only one path to walk down knowing this wasn’t going to end well. They took him into a windowless room and asked he take off his shoes. He did and the handsome one motioned for him to slide them over to him. He complied as the tattooed agent read him his right and asked if he understood that they were detaining him for suspicion of trafficking in child pornography. His heart stopped. 

To back up for a second. He’d had a major run-in with the law before stemming from a hunting accident when he was fourteen. Hunting trips with his father always ended up in their two-man pup tent and was always where sexual abuse took place. It had been going on since he could remember and it was never anything he looked forward to. Quite the opposite. He came up with any excuse he could think of to get out of going, but never to any avail. Even his mother put pressure on him to spend some time with his hard-working father who only asked that his oldest son go out the first day of deer season with him. What changed on this particular hunting trip was after his father had finished with him, as he was drifting off after his fourth beer, he started mumbling about how old Jeremiah was getting, and how Jacob, who’d just turn nine, or maybe even better, Jasper, who was six-and-a-half, might enjoy coming with him next year in his place.

Jeremy was able to convince the sheriffs, but not his mother, that his father had accidentally taken a bullet to the head as he hid, unseen by Jeremiah, in the brush. It’s possibly she knew what was happening between her husband and son by a million small details but never said a word. She also never said anything to the sheriffs in her home about her suspicions, nothing at the funeral, not a word at the courthouse. Not one word ever. But she never treated him the same after the incident, only found excuse after excuse to keep his younger brothers away from him. She encouraged Jeremy to graduate early, get his electrical engineering certificate his last year in high school, and leave the house the day he graduated. He was not unwelcome in her house, especially around holidays when his brothers begged him to come home, but neither was he especially warmly welcomed. A kiss on the cheek on entering and leaving, a Tupperware of leftovers, but not an inch more of affection than was necessary.

So the father-son pornography he’d harvested on his phone was buried deep in his history and his character. The Canadian shrink who interviewed him prior to trial asked him whom in the photos he identified with. He told her the boys, and he argued that he thought none of them were underage. He wasn’t into kiddy porn, he pleaded. But the ages of the kids in the photos were questionable enough, it didn’t matter whom he identified with. Child pornography is child abuse, argued the Canadian Crown Attorney. She wasn’t interested in the psychiatric deposition his attorney tried to put, unsuccessfully, into evidence. So he did his time, labeled a child sexual predator, the lowest of scum in the prison hierarchy, beaten, raped, infected, unemployable once outside, until he found a job at the dime toss booth, turning penny-ante tricks on the side for extra money, sucking off old men who smelled of Brylcreme and Aqua Velva, because they were coming into town for a ‘date’ and having a nice piece of cheap flesh that reminded them of their daughter.
He placed the last knockdown doll on the top shelf, secured it in place. He pinched the bridge of his nose feeling a migraine coming on. Now that Craig’s list no longer did personal ads, how long before he took up room in the Bunkhouse? How similar were those eight by twelve foot rooms to the cell he did time in? How much lower could his life go?

“Jeremiah was a b-b-bullfrog,” sang a voice behind him. “Hello, B-bullfrog.” Kenworth Paxton. He remembered the name even before turning around. As he spun around, he fretted that he’d aged unrecognizably in the last year, was afraid of being looked at by a creature he remembered being so astonishingly perfect, scarred but perfect in every way. The boy was the same, a little taller maybe, a bit broader in his chest if that were possible, same scars on his cheek, and wet, shoulder-length sandy blond hair, longer than the previous year before. But the length suited him, framed his face, his beautiful imperfectly-perfect face. He came over and leaned on the red lip of his booth, his fingertips just brushing the lad’s. His smile was from ear to ear. He felt an immediate rousing desire in his groin for the young man, but an even stronger desire to just lean there for hours, taking him in. A full year of imagining him and now, here he was, made flesh, even more ideal than what was indelible in his mind.

“You look…” Jeremy couldn’t find the words. He noticed drips of water coming off his hair onto his collar. “You look wet,” he laughed. 

“I c-c-came right after try-tryouts. I’m al-al-alternate goal-goalkeeper this year,” he beamed.

“That’s fantastic, man. Congratulations!” Jeremy enthused, clasping his hand, an excuse to hold him, to feel how real he was. He rocked his head acknowledging that he really was here, that he showed up. He didn’t quite know what a goalkeeper was—he guessed soccer—but if the kid was happy, and the smile spread across his face said he was, then so was he. Ecstatically happy. “So how you been?”

“G-good,” the young man said, looking at Jeremy hungrily. He looked back at him the same.

“So can you come by tonight? Meet me later?” Jeremy’s face clouded for a second, coming down to earth. “Nah, you’ll probably be with all your friends tonight. First night of the carnival and all.”

“No. Yeah. I can m-m-meet you,” he said. The kid began to shuffle his feet. “Like is t-t-ten okay?” he blinked hard to spit out his proposition.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Jeremy happily. He kept nodding his head practically disbelieving who was before him. The kid was just as happy to see him too, starting to pick up Jeremy’s head bobbing until both of them were bobbing in synch together, very happy to see each other. There was a pause between them, not of awkwardness but a hint at a mutual anticipation for what ten o’clock would hold. “Yeah, ten. Perfect. Here or at my trailer? Yeah, let’s meet at my trailer. You remember which one it is? The green one? Small, has flowers painted under the window?” 

“Couldn’t forget it,” Kenworth Paxton said. “Best night of my life.”

“Best night of your life?” Jeremy noted he hadn’t stuttered. “Best night of my life. That is until tonight, I promise you that.” The kid really seemed to be happy seeing him again. Whenever he allowed himself the luxury of thinking about Kenworth Paxton he figured he’d forgotten him, or got interested in someone else, college flings, but he seemed to have the same connection right now that he had the week he’d been here a year ago. Should he have kept up writing to him? Texting him? That would’ve been presumptuous, weird. The kid was a baby, he was a middle age, part-time hustler who worked as a carnie. What could possibly go wrong? “So, yeah, ten. Okay.” Both their heads were still bobbing.

“Bullfrog!” yelled a burly, red plaid shirt-wearing, bearded lumberjack, coming up to Jeremy’s joint. “Hey kid,” he said, noticing their bobbing heads. Then to Jeremy he said, “If I can tear you away, we need you pronto on Big Eli.”

“Be right there.” The lumberjack spun on his toe, not before giving the kid another once over, and then headed back to the back lot. “I got to go help with the Ferris wheel...so ten then.” Jeremy wanted to whisk Kenworth Paxton straight back to his trailer and throw his legs in his sling and have at him for the next week straight. Instead, he brushed the boy’s knuckles, and hollered over to Ronnette, his neighbor with a dart throwing booth, if she’s keep an eye out on his junk. She said sure and wiggled her arched brows. He always used the gate at the back of his booth to get out, but today he spontaneously hopped over the booth’s lip next to Kenworth Paxton, to smell him, to size him up. He put his hands on the kid’s shoulder and gave him a tight, quick squeeze. He didn’t care who saw. He cocked a thumb at the rides. “Gotta go,” he said transfixed, not moving. Kenworth Paxton smiled once more, and Jeremy ripped himself away from the spot, and headed to the back lot with a grin he wouldn’t shake the rest of the day. 

As he stood at the top of Big Eli replacing the Ferris wheel’s burned out neon light, seventy feet in the air, both feet solidly anchored between two beams, overlooking the small town below, the college off in the distance, the green forest hills beyond, standing atop his entire world, nothing, no one remotely as high as him at that moment, he wondered if the kid was still committed to that damn little chastity cage? And if so, how was he going to get it off him?

***

Marlon Reznor swaggered down the sidewalk leading the pack. House, that is, Trent van der Haus and Steve Reynolds, head bent under his hoodies, still texting, walked side by side, but not talking. Tommy Derkheim was the only one chirping away behind them all, asking his teammates what they want to do first at the carnival. He thought the Hammer ride should be their first stop, and then maybe the freak show. He was really just excited they’d invited him along.

“Freak show,” Steve Reynolds mumbled under his hoodie. House nodded his large head in agreement. 

Raznor cut through one group of geeky boys and then another group of girls coming back from the fair, giggling, eating cotton candy, one girl’s hair exactly matching its pink color. Raznor stroked his chin fuzz, looked back at Tommy and the diamond their quartet made slicing down the sidewalk. “House of mirrors first,” he said taking out a joint, to which House and Reynolds nodded and Tommy shrugged happily.

They finished the joint as they walked through the fair’s archway, passing Dr. Moreau’s House of Curiosities, i.e., the freak show, just as a woman in a flesh-colored bathing suit adorned with shiny dangling bangles, and draped with an albino boa constrictor, was leaving the small stage in front of the tent and a scaly lizard-man was climbing onto it. The bald barker, a large man with a blue tattooed scalp that had a dome of stars and constellations from his chin to the back of his neck etched on his face and head, was in the middle of his patter. “Some applause for the beautiful Misty Morning and her serpent Houdini, who can get into and out of the tightest of places. The girl your friends and neighbors are talking about, with an act with which they can only whisper. Man oh man, she’s got all the things a girl should have, and she’s gonna shake ‘em loose like a bucket of juice!” Misty shook her ample butt with all her bangles jangling before disappearing behind the tent flap. “And Larry the Lizard Man, who suffers the persecution of unjust inequity a man or lizard could endure.” Larry, in a large pair of trousers with a cutout accommodating his large reptilian tail, sat on a stool and stared at Tommy. His split tongue slithered out as it darted out over a mouth that stretched from wide across his jaw. His black diamond-shaped pupils unnerved Tommy and Tommy tugged at Raznor’s shirt wanting to go.

“Looks like Lizard Man like our Otter Boy,” Raznor taunted his small teammate. ‘Otter’ was the name the team called him, a name that followed him from his family, where anytime he was in water he was in bliss, a small otter who flipped and spun off diving boards effortlessly, gracefully, playfully, sometimes recklessly in the chances he’d take on a dive. Third string on the water polo team last year, but who’d won enough first and second places at last year’s diving competitions, that he was wholly embraced by the team. Otter was the man!

“C’mon, Raz. He gives me the creeps,” Tommy said, trying to act casual but his reedy voice betrayed real distress beneath his plea. Steve Reynolds held his phone aloft and snapped a photo of him and Tommy with the lizard man in the background.

Reynolds scrutinized himself in the pic, decided it was good enough to post, clicked share, saying, “I googled it and these freak show lizard-men mostly suffer from extreme ichthyosis. Probably has some body mods like that split tongue. I think we should do the show, maybe introduce Otter to him.”

“No,” Tommy begged, pulling on House’s shirt, the only one who never teased him. 

House made a face of disdain at Reynolds, and led the way to the House of Mirrors. He pulled out a second joint, lit it up and passed it around as they took a circuitous route through a bunch of trailers to get to a ticket booth. House collected money from each of them, and at the House of Mirrors, handed over the tickets to the fun house attendant. A very stoned Reznor, Reynolds, House, and Tommy filed in. 

Reznor immediately ditched them, whipping around some glass to get away from the group. As the remaining trio wound through the maze, Reznor snuck up on Tommy and jumped him, making Tommy scream and fall into House. Reynolds broke off and went his own way, House went another, and soon the four of them were exploring confusing corridors of reflections and glass partitions alone, laughing and jumping on each other when they reconnected. Sometimes they found each other with a touch, but more often they thought one of them was at an arm’s distance away only to find themselves bumping into glass.

At the center was a black room of warped mirrors that made the foursome look lean and tall as giants, others that made them look like dwarves with tiny legs. Tommy and the others laughed at their reflections, knocking each other around the black room, pointing in the mirrors, taking overhead picture on their phones, seeing who could make the most warped photo. Raznor got bored and headed out, then House followed, Reynolds took a third path leaving Tommy behind only for a second. An unseen hand swiveled a pane of glass, cutting Tommy off from his friends. He followed this new path into the back of the ride and watched his teammates in the distance, cutoff first by two rows of glass, then three, then he didn’t see them anymore. He met his reflection, then his reflection’s reflection, then himself reflected until he was surrounded by an army of Tommys, saw himself in every direction and saw nothing but himself. “Guys!” he said loudly as he stumbled through the glass and mirrors. “Guys!” he shouted. He heard the other boy’s laughter dying away, replaced by music from the carousel.

There was mist at his feet. Gas climbed slowly up the glass. He coughed and started to feel dizzy and a little faint. He ran through the maze quicker, looking for a way out, looking for some shred of the outside world, but all he saw was more glass, more dead ends, more of himself. He stretched out his hand which pressed against his reflection. His knees buckled under him and he fell. His head pressed against the glass. His cheek ran down a sheet of glass, squeaked the pitch of straining flesh against a slick surface. The oils of his face left a trail of grease as he slid lower, legs tucking lazily under him, head going forward until it hit the House of Mirrors’ floor. Then he fell into a woozy blackness. Barely conscious, he heard the faint music of the carousel, felt hands picked him up, carried him off. A false back wall creaked open, and he disappeared from sight. Hands undressed him as he hung like a limp dolls, placing him in a suit that was much too tight. Someone or something touched his exposed butthole. His butt filled with something cold and wet. Whatever it was soon enveloped him in a warm blanket, made him feel dreamy floating in a dark semi-consciousness, made him acutely aware of his body and of the hard metal cage that locked away his maleness.

Tommy came out of a haze feeling exposed, exceedingly relaxed and even more horney. Part of his brain said he should panic, but overall he felt himself drifting somewhere between wakefulness and dozing in twilight. He rested on a padded red leather tabletop, his ass riding slightly higher than his shoulders as he laid crumped on his left arm. Around the red table was a gold rail. To the rail, his wrists and ankles were secured. His skin felt strange, alien, oddly furry. It felt like most of his body was in a tight fitting diving suit. Looking at his arms and back at his legs he saw this suit had a light fur glued to the suit’s skin. His chest, abdomen, and genitals were all him, however, and they rubbed sensually against the red leather. His dick and balls though still were captured inside their metal cage.

He looked around. The room was octagonal, all eight sides mirrored. Between each mirrored pane stood a panel of fluorescent lights. Presently, the white tubes flickered on making the small enclosure extremely bright to the point of being almost blinding. Seven of the eight mirrored panes had slot removed at head height, and within the gaps, seven sets of eyes watched him studiously, anonymously. The eighth mirror directly in front of him swerved open and the barker from the freak show, the one with the blue tattooed head of stars, came in and, with a black gloved hand, closed the mirror behind him.

The barker addressed the anonymous onlookers behind the mirrors. “Behold, our newest creature, captured for your investigation into nature’s oddities, gentleman. A boy of quality, to be sure. Note his blond fur, the extra vertebrae at his tailbone sporting his diminutive tail. Don’t let his blond coat of young fur mislead you, for he is a special marvel, a naturally born hairy Otter Boy, a small but wild animal which is why we must constrain him to this table. He is the Otter Boy for which you’ve paid to scrutinize. And study every part of him you shall.”

It was then that Tommy saw the purpose of the suit he was in. He saw himself in the mirrors in a fur suit that made him look like the water creature, his nickname cruelly turned on himself, the Otter Boy the barker assured the audience he actually was. He tugged at his bindings and found he was not completely immobile but tightly constricted in how much he could move. He tried to speak but found his mouth had a small mask over it, which, when he looked in one of the mirrors, saw they had given him an otter-like muzzle. He blinked at his reflection and recognized the absurdity, the phoniness of the ruse, and how little it seemed to matter. He would have panicked but for the underlying calm his body felt and the stroking the barker was applying to his butt and caged genitals.

“Note, too, gentlemen,” continued the barker, “how his sex has been cruelly bound. This must be, because in captivity, kept in his cage, being a young male, all he would do when first captured was to play naughtily with himself day and night. But tonight, for his pleasure and yours, we will unbind the young animal and let him play as I know he will for whomever comes forward with a slight extra token of coin and a deep-seated need to satisfy his curiosity.”  

A lubed forefinger, cracked and callused, entered his hole causing Tommy to wince. It withdrew and he felt the barker fiddling with the chastity cage’s lock. With a click his cock and balls hung loose. Immediately they were lubed, and were drawn down, massaged, blood squeezed into them making them flush, then beginning, through constant stimulation, to harden. What should have been acute humiliation, so publically on display, was instead erotic, in fact, intoxicating. Tommy couldn’t explain it even to himself. He was a virgin, no male or female had been drawn to him, or he to another. He was cute, undeniably, but shy, reluctant to show any attachment when it came to anyone outside his family. Now after one year spent with his teammates, he was finally opening up to them, though not about his sexuality. This act, this pulling on his hardening phallus, was the first time he’d ever had anyone put a finger or fist on his genitals. He wanted the callused finger inside him again. He didn’t have to wait long.

“You will see, gentlemen, our initially reluctant creature is eager to participate. The Otter Boy is a playful pup. Note how quickly he is engorged.” Indeed, Tommy was hard as steel with only a few seconds of stimulation, could easily shoot his wad were the barker not easing up masturbating him. “You will witness for the first time the Otter Boy submitting to penetration.” The barker held up a bulbous glass nob that sparkled in the lights. He poured a thick gelatinous liquid over the rod and some over Tommy’s upturned hole. The viscous liquid was cold and made his hole tweeze shut, only to be stroked by the bulbous rod rubbing up and down his crack. He couldn’t help himself and pushed his butt to receive the rod, and the barker obliged, allowing only a small portion of the instrument to glide smoothly in his hole. It gave him satisfaction beyond his imagination. The glass bulb spread him open to the possibility of something foreign taking over his body, forcing him to open up whether he was willing or not. The barker steadied Tommy’s torso, placing his warm callused palm on the small of his back, and pushed the grass rod in a few more inches. There was something at work in his body that was pushing him to be lewd, to want the whole of the object to be inside him. The barker pulled the object out, showed it to the audience of eyes, demonstrating the length that would soon travel inside the boy. It was not going to be a short journey either.

Tommy felt the instrument smoothly spreading open his hole, stretching his tender ass lips, lips that had never had anything touch them in this manner. There was something, however, this time different in the slickness, like a fine sand had been added to the lubricant, something rough and burning just a bit. He looked back and saw the barker surreptitiously sprinkle a white powder on the glass rod. The deeper it went the more it burned. He squeezed his hole to try to block any further penetration but he was in no position to resist, and the bulb stretched his hole open to its widest spot, the skin of his rectum spread so wide the powder came in contact with his whole rectum and made his entire insides light on fire, and like that, snap!, the bulb was in. He had an entire new feeling about the invader. He loved it! He squeezed it to make it go in deeper. He flexed his butt muscles to provoke it to penetrate him as much as possible.

The barker took note, raising a hand above the boy’s gyrating bottom, illustrating the transformation from human to unthinking animal. The circle of eyes started bouncing within the slots, eyes squinted, pupils became pinpricks of pleasure within their private booths. The barker returned to stroking the boy’s erection causing Tommy to further pleasure himself, writhing, rutting his pelvis, grinding it into the barker’s fist. 

“And now,” the barker announced with both of his hands in the air, the white lights turning to green and blue, “the moment you’ve been waiting for, the reason you’ve paid your admission to witness the taboo scene of carnal pleasure, what you were promised and will not see anywhere else, see here with your own two eyes. I give you the forbidden lust between the Lizard Man and the Otter Boy!”

In the aquatic light the mirror in front of Tommy swiveled open and the Lizard Man entered with a long scaly erection, split down the middle into two penises. The barker withdrew the glass rod and stepped back into the shadows, while the Lizard Man, his tail dragging along behind him, circled Tommy. Tommy’s eyes were wide and frightened. He knew this was just a man, but the disguise and the drug that was emanating inside his hole, was playing with his mind. He thought the man had contacts to make his pupils into vertical slits but they looked real enough, especially as they expanded and contracted as he came closer to him. The man’s tongue definitely was split as was his dick, and he made the most out of his tongue slithering it in and out of his extremely wide mouth. The man’s thin lips were chapped which only made him appear to have scales entirely over his face right down to the insides of mouth. That serpent tongue entered his ear and made a gushing sound that drowned out his own panicking cries. 

“Relax,” whispered Larry, the Lizard Man, “It’s just a show for the rubes.” The Lizard Man walked around Tommy’s face, jiggling his spit cocks, going to his other ear, whispering, “It’s a suit just like yours. Act like you’re scared.”

Tommy didn’t need to act, he was out-of-his-mind frightened and abhorred at the repulsive creature. The Lizard Man disappeared, but soon he felt a tongue flutter at his butthole. Then the tongue entered him and as revolted as he was knowing the man was eating his hole, his body reacted to the pleasure that he felt. Without wanting to, he nonetheless pushed out his spongy lips so the lizard tongue could go in deep. And deep it did, fluttering and weaving, a rapid in-out, over and over, following the maze that was his colon. How deep could that tongue go? He turned his head but only saw the hideous reptilian snout of the man pressed up to his butt, but he could feel him traveling obscenely fast and unbelievably deep into his yawning cavern. Nothing had prepared him for this kind of invasion that was at once a violation of his body but also as gratifying as itching a scratched non-stop. He shuddered on his hands and knees, wanting the Lizard Man to end this exquisite torture, but feared if it ended, what would happen next.

And it did stop, and this happened next: Tommy felt two small hard penises pushing at his hole.

The barker spoke softly, while the Lizard Man worked his dicks into Tommy. “As any biologist will tell you, male mammals have only one phallus, which they theorize is due to the fact that embryonically it comes as an extension of the tail or in humans from the tailbone.” With a pop, the Lizard Man’s cocks slithered into his hole, the man’s claws on either side of his butt cheeks pulling Tommy back further onto them. “These same biologists will tell you reptiles, lizards and snakes alike are born with two penises that emanate not from a tail but vestiges of legs. Imagine, gentlemen, double your pleasure, double your fun. Observe the pleasure in the Otter Boy’s face.”

Tommy couldn’t believe how much the two dicks were hurting him. One would have been intense enough, but both, were it not for the mask-muzzle over his mouth, he would be screaming for the Lizard Man to stop. The man kept pulling him back deeper on them and he tried to get away, but this tug-of-war only caused the man’s erections to swell harder, putting more pressure on stretching Tommy’s hole wider. And then there was the underlying, but growing, sense of pleasure Tommy was deriving from the penetration. Mix that with the white powder the barker had slid into him, mix that with the humiliation of being ravaged in front of an anonymous public—it made Tommy shake his head in a crazed way that made the onlookers think he was madly enjoying being fucked by this scaly monster.

The creature picked up its pace and Tommy instinctively impaled himself harder as he lost himself to the lust of the moment. He flung his ass back wildly trying to take even more of the Lizard Man’s dicks. The split dicks, the hard they got, the more they separated away from each other, the wider Tommy’s hole got spread. He heard a loud hissing behind him and a tongue that was whipping against his neck, then his hole got sprayed with jism that ran down his balls, dripped over his legs, and spontaneously, without touching himself, he came on the table, white spew pooling on the red leather.

Larry pulled out, patted Tommy on the head and before exiting the chamber hissed in his ear, “Good show, mate.”

“Now, gentlemen, who among you will come forward with an extra coin and a deep-seated need to satisfy his curiosity—who will be next?” One by one, out stepped a local store owner, the town librarian, a bespectacled college professor, a slick-hair barber, a old pharmacist, a greasy auto mechanic, and finally Coach Brandon, all taking turns coming out of their booth and pleasuring themselves inside the Otter Boy, while the Otter Boy pulled on his liberated dick and satisfied himself, time after time, man after man, with his furry paws.
 

[Fistcumslut]

so ... who will be the next? ??

[xtc303den]

Outstanding!

[shoreboy]

3. Upvote

A foot more and he’d reach it. Straining with every fiber in his upper torso he constricted his body tightly against the peg in his left hand, hanging, while his right arm reached far about his head. He knew the hole was there, somewhere. His right hand felt around until the dowel inserted into the recessed hole securely, allowing him to pull his entire one-eighty pounds of hard muscle up to the top of the climbing pegboard. His arms gleamed in sweaty muscle perfection, dripping pearls off his elbows, and he growled out his accomplishment for the others in the gym to hear above the din of the room. He gritted his teeth, biceps flexed to the max, and dropped off the pegs, landing with a thud on the padded gym floor.

Steve Reynolds turned up the volume on his earbuds to drown out the gym’s pop music, pounding heavy metal instead inside his skull as he strutted over to the leg press. His head bobbed to the heavy cords and the pounding beat. Before putting forty-five pound plates for his hamstring set, he examined in the mirror what the pegboard had done for his biceps. At five-ten, blond hair parted perfectly down the middle, shoulders cutting against the double heads of his biceps, the mass of his triceps, he couldn’t help but break into a sparkling smile at his reflection. He took out his phone and snapped a pic of his right arm pumped at a right angle. He lifted his perspiration-drenched Glastonbury sweatshirt, the one he’d cut the arm cut off of, and examined his abs. Ripped six-pack abs stood out like a sideways picket fence. Yeah, he’d tap that if given the chance. He swung his ass around and check out his bowling ball cheeks. Coach said he had the face of GQ model with a body of a porn star when coach fucked him silly last year. That motivated him to get to the gym every day without fail over the summer. Wait till the coach had him alone this year. What would he tell him in his ear? He held up his sweatshirt once more, then held up his phone and snapped. The pic was excellent and he immediately shared it to his feed for his countless followers. 

Having piled several large plates onto the leg press, he was just getting under it when Nick and Zack Demopoulos, the Greek twins, both seniors, both twenty pounds heavier than him, a few inches taller, both hot as shit, stood on either sides of the machine, leaning on the plates, looking down on him. Too big and steely to be swimmers, they were, however, big, fast and as powerful as jaguars on the athletic field, stars both of the school’s soccer team.

“You still doing that faggy water volleyball?” Nick said. The only way Steve Reynolds could tell them apart was Nick was the one with the crooked nose from the number of times he had broken it in fights. For twins, they had very different temperaments. Zack was more laid back, Nick much more aggressive. Reynolds didn’t hear what Nick was going on about and flicked out his earbuds. Nick leaned over the machine eyeballing Reynolds, prone on his back, legs sticking up in the air. Nick released the machine’s safety catch and the full weight plus Nick’s overhanging torso bore down on Reynolds. “What’s the matter? You don’t like soccer?” he asked snarling.

“Grrrrrr,” grunted Reynolds under the massive weight. He pushed up fiercely, and reinstated the safety catch. “No reason,” he said casually although a bit breathlessly. “Can only do so much with seven classes. Mind?” He pointed at Nick’s elbows to get off the machine. Nick backed off holding his hands in the air, all innocent. Ice wouldn’t melt in that hot mouth of his. 

The gym was a cacophony of after-class buzzing. Girls strained, moaned and stretched in the mirrors, pairs of boys at the free weights spotted each other, yelling, “You got this, it’s all you!” Plates clanked, footfalls fell heavily on running machines, an overlay of Lady Gaga blared over the loudspeakers, and ESPN commentators analyzed football plays on overhead flatscreens.

“Your coach must have some magic spell over you guys,” Zack said, a sliver of white teeth smiling above him. Reynolds pumped out a set of ten reps while Zack continued. “No one ever seems to want to get on any other team once they start under Coach Brandon. What’s the secret, Steve?”

Reynolds locked the safety catch again and let his legs drop to his sides, puffing. “Team spirit, what can I say, Zack?” There was something about the twins, some yin-yang that made them so tempting and formidable. Maybe it was how pleasing they were to look at, especially Zack. He had an arm perched above Reynolds revealing a thick mat of black armpit hair, matted down with sweat from his workout. Both the twins had dark brooding features, black curly hair, long eagle-beak noses, Nick’s slightly bent to one side; both had thin dark lips, sensually curved, brows that were big and always furrowed, eyes that glittered black as coal. 

“Team spirit? Nah,” Zack said, waving a finger back at him. “I say he’s got something on all of you.” He cocked a sly smile at Reynolds. Reynolds though Zack was the more cleaver of the two even though Nick was in honors society studying behavioral psychology, just like he was, whereas Zack slacked off majoring in musical theater. Not for nothing, Zach was a pretty good actor the two musicals he’d seen him in. The major itself, though, made Reynolds have his suspicions about Zack and his proclivities. He thought maybe they aligned with his own bent desires. It was hard to imagine, however, that he and Zack played on the same team with a twin brother like Nick. It was hard to fathom, but man, did the brothers towering above him make fine looking bookends.  

Reynolds pushed his legs up the fraction of an inch that allowed the safety latch to release. Nick leaned on the plates again adding his weight to frustrate Reynolds. “Looks like you need some juice to get through your sets,” he said. “Too much water between your ears.”

Reynolds roared to get his last two leg presses out. He was annoyed but not really pissed. He looked at Zack, who shrugged his shoulders giving him a what-can-I-do-he’s-my-brother look. He glanced back at Nick, a little intrigued. “You got juice?” he asked trying not to look too enticed.

“Shit, yeah,” Nick said, twisting his arm around to flex his delt and tricep. Reynolds had to acknowledge they were impressively large. “You don’t get these from just the gym.” Reynolds looked back at Zack. Zack had on a loose string tank so most of his chest was exposed. He flexed his pecs and beneath his chest’s thick pelt of clipped black fur, perfectly chiseled mounds of man-flesh rose like rock mountains.

Reynolds was startled by the size and also by the fact that Zack juiced. Nick, he figured, for sure, but Zack took him by surprise. “You have it?” Nick nodded. "Sell it?" Reynolds asked him in a hush voice.

Leaning down, Nick joked, “First one’s always free, m’ man.” 

“Let’s go then,” said Reynolds, getting up from his prone position. “I’ll get my gym bag.”

“Nah,” said Zack waving his hand. “Finish your routine, let’s not create a ruckus. Meet us at the Blackbox theater. I have my stuff stashed there. Know where that is?”

Reynolds nodded. He was pretty excited not only by the prospects of doing steroids for the first time, but doing steroids with the hot Demopoulos twins. Who knew where this would lead isolated as the Blackbox theater was? Maybe he could get Zack alone at some point and ditch annoying Nick. Or could it lead to a three-way. 

The brothers left the gym floor, and he finished the rest of his exercises quickly. He grabbed his gym bag out of his locker. The Blackbox wasn’t too far away, down the hall and through an underpass to an old part of the school. Still in his cutoff sweatshirt and shorts, he checked himself out in the full-length mirror at the end of the lockers and approved of what he saw. Lean, sinewy, pumped muscles that soon would be much more enhanced if Nick came through.

***

The underpass echoed the squeaks from his shoes as he walked along the grey and white broken tile. There were older parts of the college, sure. Some buildings dated from the late eighteen hundreds. Some structures were built in the early nineteen twenties, thirties and forties. This section, however, was out of the ugly, boring nineteen-sixties. Institutional as a non-descript post office or police station; functional, drab and featureless. The underpass was half-lit with some of the fluorescent tubes removed to save on power, which only amplified the feeling of neglect. Not interesting enough to be spruced up by murals or even decorated with bulletin boards displaying club events; not dilapidated enough to be torn down and started afresh; this section of the school was lost in ennui that was as tangible as dead skin needing to be sloughed off. In the middle of the underpass he spotted a white porcelain drinking fountain. He bent over and twisted its metal knob. It dribbled a weak stream between metal prongs. Still he was thirsty enough to draw loud sips to quench his thirst. His slurps amplified through the empty hallway, and along with the dim light, made the whole passage seem sadly desolate.

The Blackbox entrance was around the corner from the underpass. He tested the door and found it open. It was one of the drama departments many theaters, the smallest and most infrequently used, in fact he couldn’t remember a single time it had a production in it over the course of his freshman year. True to its name, when he entered all he found was an empty black painted room void of any chairs or furniture, just a raised stage in the center surround by thick black curtains along all four sides. Zack was fooling around at a lighting board at one end, while Nick was bringing up a couple of grey folding chairs to the center of the platform. Nick was dressed in black slacks and shirt. Zack, at the lighting board, was dressed the same. Two bright spotlights came up as Nick approached the center. He unfolded the chairs meeting Reynolds in the middle under the klieg lights.

“You didn’t change,” observed Nick.

“Guess he’s excited,” Zack called on his way over to them. He held up an orange-tipped syringe between his fingers.

“Uh, so,” Reynolds said sitting across from Nick, a little nervous actually seeing the needle for the first time, “What? You shoot that in my leg or something?” He looked back and forth between the twins’ faces. “That’s what I read you do anyway.” 

Nick took the needle from Zack, removing the cap. “Nah, first time you gotta mainline it. Works faster,” he said, running a finger over Reynold’s many pronounced veins. “No problem finding a juicy one on you. You pumped ‘em nice. Gonna get you right here.” He held Reynolds' arm flat against his own leg and popped the needle in at an angle, drawing a large stream of blood swirling into the vial. “You gonna love this, dude. Just go with it.” Nick plunged the content into Reynolds’ bloodstream, and Reynolds’ head flew back as the drug hit his brain like an electric current.

“Fuck, wah,” Reynolds couldn’t finish the sentence as a thunderclap roared down from his brain through his nervous system straight out to his fingers and toes and especially from the center of his groin. He was blissed almost to the point of passing out from how good he felt. He’d never had this much of a rush flow through him. No finishing line, no swim meet win, not even an orgasm of a fist going up his butt for the first time could compete with the overwhelming ecstasy cascading through his mind and body. What was even more unbelievable was Zack unzipping his fly and presenting him with his fat, uncut Greek cock slapping him in his face a couple of times. It barely pulled him out of his revelry with an insatiable hunger that overtook him and he swallowed Zack member fully, slurping loudly, drool running down his cheeks, Zack’s hardening tool starting to go deeper down his throat. He couldn’t believe this was happening. He didn’t care if Nick saw it or not. In fact he liked that Nick was watching.

And Nick did see, and even more unbelievably, pulled off Reynolds’ shorts. “Oops, sorry dude. Must have mixed that point up with some crystal,” Nick admitted disingenuously. Once Reynolds gym shorts were off Nick spied the metal cage over Reynolds’ cock and balls. “What in hell?” Nick tapped against Reynolds’ chastity cage. “What the fuck is that?”

Reynolds couldn’t answer with Zack’s cock in his mouth and his brain was too fried from meth to assemble an answer that made sense. He forgot the question as soon as it was asked. All he knew was Zack’s cock in his mouth. The cage just was, part and parcel of his reality. Integrated for over a year. Something his coach wanted. Demanded. Insisted. Rewarded. Something everyone else acquiesced to. Unquestioningly. For the run of the fall season, a break at Christmas, and then again reattached for the rest of spring, free for the summer, now back locked up in fall for a second year. He felt his dick hardening while he sucked the hairy Greek, thick wiry black pubes tickling his nostrils, but knew his dick’s limits and it’d engorged as much as it would and then stopped. He’d soon turn his aroused state solely to his hole as he learned to do his freshman year. He knew he’d give it willingly to these two Greek gods, and, as the drug careened through not only his mind but throughout his body, he sensed they’d make good use of it. He’d be a fucking slut for both of them. No question.

“You sick motherfucker. Suck my brother’s dick, faggot,” Nick taunted him. He pulled the folding chair out from under Reynolds who fell to his knees, keeping his mouth attached to Zack’s huge, fully erect cock. Nick brought out a fuckbench from behind one of the heavy black drapes and told Reynolds to climb on it. Zack encouraged him to climb onto it, the whole time continuing the contact between his cock and the swimmer’s mouth. Nick riffled through Reynolds’ gym bag and found his phone. “Open it, shitbag,” he ordered, handing it to Reynolds. Reynolds paused hesitant, which made Zack pull out of his mouth, waving his dark member with its plum purple head bulging and leaking a stream of pre-cum, enticing him with it like a matador in front of a bull. Reynolds’ brows furrowed in frustration and he unlocked the phone for Nick. Zack rewarded Reynolds with his dick as Reynolds positioned himself onto the arm and leg rests of the fuckbench. Zack held Reynolds’ head steady as he started rocking his dick deeper down Reynolds’ throat. Nick snapped a close-up photo on Reynolds’ phone—“Blackmail insurance,” he said—and then started assembling some equipment at the edge of the raised platform while his brother took pleasure in Reynolds’ mouth, adding a finger across the swimmer’s exposed butthole. Reynolds was in a frenzy, feverish, sweating profusely, his fantasy of having Zack play with his butthole complete while he weighed Zacks heavy balls in his hand, totally unaware of the mechanical device with protruding dildo being set up behind him.

Zack watched his brother setting up the fuck machine whose wires ran to a laptop at the lighting station. Knowing what Reynolds was in for started making him leak even more in anticipation. He had to admit the swimmer had incredible oral skills. His velvet mouth and wet slippery tongue rolled over his knob sending him over the edge. “I’m gonna cum, Nick,” he called out to his twin.

“Go for it, bro,” Nick called back from the lighting station. “Almost ready.” 

Zack increased his rhythm, skull-fucking Reynolds with deeper and more violent strokes. “Wished I could return the favor,” he told Reynolds. Reynolds tried to speak forgetting he was going down one of the most delicious fat cocks he’d ever given head to, maybe even as good as coach’s. He garbled something unintelligible in response. “Yeah, whatever you said,” Zack responded. “Maybe another time.” He thrust his leaking tool deep down Reynolds’ throat and then exploded spasm after spasm of spunk, gurgling down the horned up jock’s gullet. Spit and sperm ran out of Reynolds’ mouth as he choked on the vast amount of cum Zack shot in him. Reynolds shook his head in pleasure mixed with disbelief, the first moment he began coming off the initial rush of crystal. Fuck, did he feel good. He couldn’t wait for what would come next.

“Meanwhile,” Nick said, laying a strap over the back of Reynolds’ Glastonbury sweatshirt and cinching it tight, then securing individual leg restraints over his naked legs and thighs, “time for us to get to the main event. Bro, latch his arms and wrists.” Zack bent down and looked Reynolds in the face. He held the guy’s face in his hands and kissed him, swallowing some of his own cum in the process. He smiled and Reynolds smiled back in a haze of pleasure and innocence. Zack then proceeded to bind the sophomore’s forearms to the arm rests. He stood up and zipped up his hairy crotch from Reynolds’ view. It was only then that Reynolds realized he couldn’t move.

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” Nick said, grabbing Reynolds’ sweatshirt hood and draping it down over his head. “I don’t want anyone knowing who you are. Don’t know how long you’re gonna last and I don’t want anyone missing you tonight. This is my thesis project, a kind of update of the old Yale Milgram experiment from the nineteen-sixties, to see how much empathy is out there in the digital world. You’re a psych major, right?” Reynolds nodded but still confused, feeling a rising panic in the pit of his stomach. “You remember Milgram tested subjects telling them it was okay to shock another subject to the point of near death, proving anyone would submit to authority figures given the opportunity, would ‘just follow orders.’ My proposition is that in this brave new world of anonymous social media, there isn’t any authority at all so people are just complete fucks jobs. Soulless, guiltless, fucks. Hope for your sake I’m wrong, but I doubt it. Got him locked down, bro?” 

Reynold felt Zack push a load of grease into his hole, and followed it up with a protrusion at the edge of his asshole, something that felt like a hard dick ready to fuck him. "Yepper," answered Zack.

“I’ve got you wired to a live feed. The upvotes work arithmetically. First ten votes push the rubber dick in an inch, the next twenty pumps up the dildo’s girth an inch, the next thirty makes the piston go a little faster, forty, another inch deeper, fifty, another inch wider, so on and so forth. Downvotes work the same way but in reverse. Given the option we’ll see how much goes in that direction and we’ll see if the public has any sympathy for you and your hole.”

“Guys, fuck, don’t do this,” Reynolds was able to spit out, testing the reality that this was really happening. He still tasted Zack, still had a pleasurably hum of eroticism running through him, didn’t know if the idea of being fucked was such a bad idea, but didn’t like he couldn’t move his arms or legs, not even a fraction. “Can’t we just play?”

“Later maybe, Steve,” Zack said.

“Yeah, Steve. Later,” Nick said snidely. “We’ll see how much the internet thinks you should take if anything is left of you. You’ve got the potential of a two foot horse cock aimed at your shithole, more if the interweb deems it. You’re at their mercy, whoever ‘they’ are. My guess is you’re going to be a complete bloody trainwreck when we check back later.”

“I think,” added Zack to reassure Reynolds, “people are going to be more empathetic than my brother thinks.”

“That would only be true,” posited Nick, “if they could see his face, but he’s only a body on YouTube. No audio, all they’ll see is thrashing. Potentially.” Reynolds felt the initial sensation of the dildo pushing in an inch. “Looks like you’ve been spotted by a few gawkers. By the IP address looks like their from this campus, but the hits are starting to grow wider. I have a running banner of stats under the video but I’m sure all eyes will be glued to your ass and how it’s taking the punishment.” A hiss of air came from the mechanical box and Reynolds felt the cock expand inside his ass and also started moving faster in and out. “Think you’ve already got a fan club forming. New York and New Jersey just lit up.” At the moment it teased his ass. He’d taken much more locked up last spring under coach’s guidance. A fist, double penetration, a small eggplant, a large eggplant—no holding back what a locked up hormonal eighteen-year-old would do to satisfy his pent up urges—but this was an ominous test like he could never imagine. 
Nick and Zack walked off the platform. Reynolds, fearing his plight, began yelling for help in the muffled room. “Save your breath, Steve,” Zack said. “This stage is virtually soundproof and, besides, hardly anyone come down here anymore.”

Another inch went in deeper while another inch stretched him wider as the oscillation increased. The twins were gathering up their belongings when they heard a cry from the platform and heard the undulation of the fuck machine increase more rapidly than before. Nick checked the laptop. “They’re starting to share it across different social media, it’s spreading to Europe, too. Look, someone created a hashtag. That’s gonna leave a mark.”

“Maybe we should stay and monitor so it doesn’t get out of hand.” Zack sounded genuinely concerned.

“Nah, besides, Reynolds is a fuckin’ perve. Who else locks his junk up in a cage? He can take it and if he can’t, whose fault is that?” The twins exited and the Blackbox door clanked shut behind them like a tomb. 

Within minutes the video feed went viral. It was retweeted, additional hashtags were shared, Russian bots flooded the stream, hackers programmed algorithms to deluge the upvote counter just to see what would happen. What started arithmetically—one plus two plus three—became exponential increases—four times five times six—something Nick hadn’t thought of but Reynolds felt the growth expanding inside his colon, a digital virus, an epidemic spreading inside his analog hole. Two dicks, three, four, a fist, double fists, triple. The sensation outstripped his body's real-time experiences. 

Steve Reynolds’ phone sat mounted on a tripod next to him, only a few feet away, impartial, capturing his ever-increasing torment, dispassionate, observing his growing misery objectively, both judge and jury emotionless. Upvotes flooded the counter ticking up faster and faster. Who knew how high it would go before it stopped? Or if it even would stop. Regardless, his hole opened wider, he was penetrated deeper. His anguish became endless agony, the excruciation bottomless, the suffering relentless; all the while the machine rattled on and on and on and on, as the counter ticked higher, ever higher.
 

[damsonffpig]

Hot chapter so has the Swimming Coach got all of his team locked in tight chastity cages......and begging?  OINK

Cant wait for the next chapter...

[bottomboyam]

So hot. 

[garsento]

More?

[eastexan]

Is it going to continue?

[YEGfaggot]

Fuck this story is steamy af! I need more 😈🐷😏

[shoreboy]

For @Pozitivly and @YEGfaggot you’ve inspired me to see if there’s more in this story. Looks like the swim team is set to get back together. Cumming soon!