The Glastonbury Swim Team

[ejaculaTe]

2 hours ago, shoreboy said:

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!

YES...!!!!!!!!!! 

[shoreboy]

4. Member of the Team

I woke up naked covered in mud with a mouth that tasted like a sick raccoon had thrown up in it. My head felt kicked in by a moose. After the automated sprinklers went on way before dawn, I had been feverishly hot but the wetness and cold made me stir. I had no idea where I was. It was still dark. I heard hissing like snakes around me, then water gushed periodically over my skin. It took a couple of good drenches to motivate me get moving. It was a struggle, I got to tell you, just to get on my hands and knees. One palm on the ground, rest; one bent knee, rest; another palm on the ground—rising up was obviously going to take a while. 

By the time I got on all fours, I had pieced together enough flashes of the previous evening to realize there was a narrative, if I followed it, which led to me struggling to crawl out of the bushes, being soaked by a cold spray, and caked in mud. I had been fucked for the first time in my life. That part was now clear. I remembered it was by my hot roommate, who I subsequently fisted and jerked off in his ass. This was also a premiere event. I was in back of the library, but looking around, saw no sign of said hot roommate, good ol' fist and cock taker, Drake Chadwick.

Pulling on clothes over a muddy body has got to be one of the most uncomfortable feelings in the world, but I’m not about to cross campus naked, so I suck it up and get back to the dorm uncomfortably but uneventfully. A Goth girl has done an all-nighter at the reception desk, and she wants to look at me as much as I want to be looked at. I slip up to my room, find it’s empty, and bring a towel to the group showers. I spend ten minutes just letting the warm spray wash over my head. When I get back to the room it’s still dark outside, and I lay on my bed, I swear, for two seconds, and instantly my alarm screams at me with the blinding sun shining through the open window.

Still no beefcake Drake.

Somehow I make it to the pool by seven a.m. For everyone but me this is first practice for the water polo team. Since I missed the tryouts, this is, by default, my tryout. I gotta admit to you, swimming’s my thing. I don’t know water polo from horsey polo. But it’s in a swimming pool, so how hard can it be.

I’m wearing the Levi cutoffs from home, which is the only swimsuit I own. I stand out from the rest of the team like some Okie cousin. Everyone's in identical red speedos, and everyone’s trying to avoid eye contact, which makes me even more self-conscious. Of course it’s Reznor, with his scruffy chin beard, who’s the first one to shout out to me in his Foghorn Leghorn drawl, “Nice shorts, Daisy Mae,” which makes several of his blond boys snicker. The best I can do with my cobweb-for-a-brain is to flip him the bird. Great come back, yeah, I know.

There’s an earsplitting whistle bouncing off all the white tiles. Coach Brandon descends stairs from his office on the floor above like a Greek god coming to earth from Mouth Olympus. He’s wearing white shorts, white sneakers and a clingy red tank top, which only accentuates his bronze body reflected in the glassy pool. I’m sure I’m not the only one who thinks this way. Drake, in his red speedo, follows closely down the stairs. His cheeks are even more flushed than yesterday when I first met him jacking off in our dorm room.
I recognize most everyone around the pool, but there are six older guys hanging out together. I figure they’re the ones that live in one of the townhouses. They’re older—only guys that are juniors and seniors get to live in the townhouses. I’ll leave out the commentary, but they’re six of the hottest bodies I’ve ever seen. All perfect V-shapes, six foot and up range, with lat spans like eagle's wings; a half dozen perfect specimens of the male form in every skin tone the good Creator blessed us with.

“Break into groups of four,” coach says. “Townhouse, split three and three. Hannigan and Fernandez, you’ll relay first and again fourth. Freestyle up and back, and make sure your team touches the wall.” 

The townhouse guys form two groups in lane one and two. Paxton the stutterer, wee Tommy (who looks like he's been up all night and has a happy smile plastered on his face), Rafiki and I line up in lane three. Dick-face Reznor, Steve Reynold (who also looks a little out of it, but, man, what a Gluteus to the Maximus the boy has), the towering van den Haus, and beefcake Drake form a line in lane four. I glance over at my roommate, but he’s busy studying Haus’ acned back. Still won't make eye contact. Whatever.

Coach gives out a shrill whistle again and Hannigan, Fernandez, Paxton, and Reznor dive in and crawl like madmen up the twenty-five yards to the end, submerge, twist and propel themselves off the far wall. They’re coming back, my boy Paxton’s ahead, with the two older guys in lanes one and two in hot pursuit, with Raznor’s bringing up the rear. Dip-shit is as slow as he is obnoxious. 

Paxton taps the wall and little Tommy does a giant leap over him and is in the lead for most of the first half, but two of the older boys from the townhouse catch up to him on the turnaround, and iron butt Steve Reynolds makes a huge effort and passes Tommy right before they touch the wall. The two swimmers from the townhouse were initially breaking away, but Raf’s large hands are making up some of the difference and shrinking their leads. House, by far the biggest guy on the team, is surprisingly fast. His shoulders roll powerfully; his traps bulge, flexing amazingly with each stroke. Both House and Raf tie with the older guys in the flip turn, and all four are neck-and-neck coming up to the wall.

Hannigan and Fernandez are still catching their wind from their first effort, while Drake and I get ready for our teammates to tap the wall. They simultaneously tap, and the four of us dive roughly at the same time. I’m swimming like crazy, making a big splashy mess, and I see Drake is about even with me on my right. I give it my all and am gaining ahead of Drake but not the older guys. Then on the flip turn (which you have to realize this is another of my firsts in the past eight hours), I kick against the wall as hard as I can and feel, I know it’s nuts, a little of Drake cum squirt out my non-virgin butthole. My head’s pivoting both ways to see if I’m ahead of Drake and the townhouse boys—and I’m in the lead! My lungs burn, but my adrenaline is propelling me like a torpedo, and I see the pool’s wall in sight. As I make the tap, coach blows the whistle and I realize our team wins. Yay me! Yay lane three! But before I can celebrate with my fellow lane-mates, coach says, “Okay, again.” 

By the fourth time we’ve gone through these relays, most of the underclassmen, including me, are ready for the showers. Our lane has won three of the four trials and I’d like to end feeling good about my first day at practice, to be told how good I did and, yes, I’m on the team, but coach says to split into two-man groups. I look over at Drake and he finds his toes are more interesting than meeting my eye. Raf slaps my shoulder and he and I line up in lane six. 

(Now, if you’ve been doing the math, you’d know there are fourteen of us—for those on their phones in the back of the class: eight underclassmen, six upperclassmen—and yes, this will be on the final.) We break up in our pairs and take up seven of the eight lanes. Raf gets in front of me, and we go through backstroke, breaststroke, butterfly, and then freestyle. I’m exhausted but Raf and I do a decent job, taking at least second or third and one time first in all four of the events. Pube-face Raznor swallows a bunch of pool water on his last crawl and hurls some of it back into the pool filter. “C-c-classy,” says Kenworth Paxton, his cheek scars folding into his smile.

Coach’s whistle shrieks a final time. He makes a final note on his clipboard, and fans the clipboard toward the showers. I follow Raf into the locker room and he introduces me to the townhouse guys. Their six names I immediately forget mostly because I’m trying not to stare—there’s a lot of flesh packed into those speedos. It strikes me how the townhouse guy’s packages are fully stuffed while all the underclassmen I met at dinner last night (except Raf, our dorm’s Resident Assistant, who I remember is a junior) seem to have crotches as flat as Ken dolls. Now that I’m looking at them, more like Barbies. 

Hannigan and Fernandez—their names I do recall—flank me as we walk through the rows of lockers. Hannigan tells me they’re co-captains and boyfriends. I’m sure their names will now stick. “You’re fast,” Hannigan says, “but you can’t keep twisting your head back and forth like you do.”

“Control that,” Fernandez adds, encouragingly, “you’ll get more speed. But you looked good out there.” He smacks my wet Levis, and I know I’m grinning like a goon.
They strip off their suit and Hannigan's got a massive Irish sausage surrounded by fiery red pubes, and Fernandez slides off his speedo and sports, not just a beautiful, meaty burrito, but the thickest black bush I’ve ever seen. It’s amazingly how he’s cropped it right to the edge of his speedo. The four other townhouse guys pass by clapping my shoulders and one smacks my butt—this hottie with a G.I. Joe jaw—welcoming me on board. At their lockers they all reveal an assortment of fat cocks, long cocks, cut and uncut. You gotta remember, at the lake back home, all I ever seen are old guys’ fifty- and sixty-year-old wieners, so taking in these young studs, it’s all I can do to not pop a boner in my fraying cutoffs—but then I freeze. 

What stops me mid-unbuttoning is seeing all the underclassmen, all those guys at last night’s dinner—stuttering Paxton, little Tommy, giant House, dick-face Raznor, bowling ball butt Steve Reynolds, even beefcake Drake—slowly peel off their swim suits, and every single one of them displays a shriveled cock compressed tightly inside a metal chastity cage. 
Just as I’m pulling down my Levis, the coach appears and says, “Dupree, my office.” Just a second ago there was a solemn droopiness hanging over the underclassmen. Suddenly, with those three words from the coach, the whole damn team turns into hooting and hollering idiots. I feel my cheeks burn without knowing why. Drake is barking and howling the loudest of all, the first time he’s looked at me all morning. He’s got a vengeful look in his eye that I totally don’t get. “Dupree. Now,” goes the coach. The two additional words makes the locker room explode into a bench-stomping, locker-banging, towel-snapping madhouse. I ascend away from the racket, looking back at the team with growing unease.

***

Apparently Coach Brandon shares his office with Coach Rocco. Anyway, that’s what the name plate on the desk kitty-corner to the coach’s desk reads. The guy’s sitting there, hairy legs up on his desk reading a magazine. He glances up when Coach Brandon and I come in. There’s all these photos of the soccer team in action on the wall behind him. Extra points if you guessed he’s the soccer coach. The guy’s more compact than Brandon, handsome in a smarmy, Mafioso kind of way. The legs of his blue gym shorts are loose and it’s very apparent, to me anyway, the guy’s forgotten to wear anything under them—yep, there’s his big Mafioso pecker—which is A-Okay with me. His dark eyes see what I’m looking at. The black brows scowl in disapproval but he also makes no adjustment to cover his wang—again, fine by me. His jet black hair is slicked straight back, and he’s got a heavy five-o’clock shadow even though it’s barely nine.

I say hey. He says nothing. Nice guy. Remind me not to sign up for the soccer team.

“How’d he do?” Coach Rocco goes. Seems like a real asshole if you want to know the truth. I’m mean, I’m right in the room for Christ sakes. Who does that?

Coach perches on the edge of his desk, and motions for me to take the metal chair by the door. I guess I’m gonna be here for a while. I’m still wet and the chair’s cold, but I’m not going to wuss out, so I just sit and look around the room. Next to my chair is an examination table with back rest bent at a forty-five degree angle. Probably in case of sport injuries, I reckon. Behind the coach in his corner there’s a fish tank humming away; Rocco’s corner has a lit up terrarium. A brilliant red fish swims around the aquarium, and in the rocks at the bottom, peaking out, looks like there’s an eel. Rocco’s terrarium has some kind of frog sitting in a pan of water and a large striped snake draped over some fake tree branches. Couple of animal lovers, I’m thinking.

“He did okay. He’s gonna need training, though,” coach says to Rocco. I just love being talked about in third person. I feel it’s my duty to give a short lecture on gender binary assumptions, but Rocco’s eyebrows tell me that this isn’t the audience for it. “A lot of training,” coach goes on to Rocco. “But the talent’s there. Wing man, I’m thinking, to start. We’ll see how he does. Might be a good hole, who knows.” Rocco hisses a laugh. Should I be aware of a double entendre in sport-speak? I’m sure I’m just being paranoid because Rocco’s eyes grow bored and they travel back to the Sports Illustrated he’s holding. “You’ll need a lot more discipline, too, son, but we’ll cover that soon enough.” Coach takes an uncomfortably long beat checking me out before he moves to his aquarium. He picks up a can of fish pellets from his desk and knocks some flakes into the water. The red fish jumps on them. “You’re a water mammal, comfortable in the water. Grew up beaver or otter country, all those Vermont rivers and ponds, eh?”

“Yep.” Don’t know where he’s going with this but I’m inclined to believe he’s saying I made the team. Just have to make it through some team philosophical tenets, is my guess.

“Yeah, I definitely see that in you.” Coach goes to a cabinet, unlocks it, and takes out a glass jar of what look like creepy, squirmy pink worms. He uncaps the lid, draws out a worm and drops it in the tank. The eel shoots straight by the startled fish, and gobbles the worm furiously in a couple of chomps. Ick. “But first I need you to decide something. You can stay with your warm-blooded mammal roots—and that’s perfectly okay if you do. Dolphins are warm blooded mammals after all. Very team oriented, and smart as heck. But the team can always use a cold-blooded shark. No need to decide here and now. Just think about it. Either way, though, first step is to make you a sea creature. We need to lose all this mammal hair. I’m sure you saw no one on the team has a follicle on their body. Up here,” he points to the sparse hair coating my chest, then lower. “And down there. You okay with that?”

“You want I should shave it?”

“I’m sure you’ve noticed all the swimmers at the Olympics are all smooth.”

“His armpits too,” Rocco pipes up behind his magazine.

“Armpits, too,” agrees Brandon.

“Yeah,” I say. “I can do it tonight.”

“No. We do it now. If that’s all right with you. Waxing is much better than a razor.” He tosses me a red speedo. “Slip those on. You’re a creature of the sea from now on. Got it?”

“Creature of the sea. Got it, coach.” It’s probably a stupid question, but sometimes I’m slow to catch on to things. “So does that mean I’m on the team?” I like to clarify. Sometimes more than once.

“Almost. Couple of indoctrinations that we can take care of right here, right now, and then you’ll be fully pledged.”

Should I be nervous that he’s slipping on a blue latex glove? Maybe it’s for reasons of hygiene I tell myself. “You make it sound like I’m joining a fraternity, coach.” Rocco looks up as I slip off my cutoffs and pull up the team’s red speedo. I make sure I pull on my member to plump it up, for Rocco’s benefit, before tucking it in place.

“I’d call it more like a brotherhood, son.” Coach Brandon lights a white candle and rotates it around watching the wax melts. “Same tradition that the soccer team has, right Coach Rocco?”

“Same traditions, Coach Brandon.”

“Now, up on the table on your back, Dupree.”

I climb on the cold metal table and lie back. Rocco looks up, grabs his water bottle and watches what the coach and I are up to. Coach swirls the melting wax around and sets the candle on the exam table. Then he does the craziest thing: he sticks his hand into the terrarium and pulls out the frog—or toad—or whatever. I’m not a biology major.

“So, this is Benjie, the team’s mascot. He’s a transfer toad from Arizona’s Sonoran Desert. This is Kyle Dupree, Benjie.” Coach holds the thing in his palm and—hand to God—the toad croaks in my face like he’s saying hello. “Tradition is all new players give Benjie a lick for good luck, isn’t that right Coach Rocco?”

“It’s tradition, Coach Brandon,” he says behind his magazine. “Not one athlete’s ever decline.”

“Yeah,” I say, climbing off the table, “well you just found your first one declining.”

Coach Brandon puts a hand on my chest and goddamn if he doesn’t flick his tongue over the toad’s back. “See. Tastes like chicken,” he laughs. Rocco comes up in back of Brandon, puts a hand on coach’s shoulder, and also darts his tongue across the mascot.

“Mm-mm. Tasty toady,” he jokes, displaying all his pearly teeth. “Every one of my boys have done it, same as all of Coach Brandon’s. C’mon, Dupree. You a pussy?”

One thing about me is don’t dare me something. So I frown, then, ready to be disgusted, stick out my tongue. Coach Brandon flips Benjie over and smashes the toad’s back across my tongue while squeezing it. All its little warts pop juice into my mouth. It’s disgusting, worse that I imagined—so goddamn nasty! Like licking a chalkboard eraser that’s soaked in a urinal. A rancid, gritty slime coats my mouth. Rocco hands me his water bottle and I swig back a ton, which only washes the nauseating pustules into my stomach. The gross taste fills my stomach, and after about half a minute a feeling builds like I’m going to puke. Coach’s putting Benjie back in his terrarium, while Coach Rocco reads my face and quickly grabs the waste basket. Just in time he puts it under my chin and I hurl last night’s burgers and curly fries.

I’m feel waves of nausea roiling inside my guts. I don’t thinking I’m done puking. I hope the coaches are prepared because I’m not a quiet puker. I’m dizzy and reach out a hand to Coach Rocco to steady myself. My second round ralphing is twice as violent and three times as loud as the first. I think I even hear some sympathetic groans from the team downstairs. Coach Rocco rubs my back. “It’ll pass, buddy,” he says. “Just hang in there.” 

When I look at him again, there’s something in his dark brown eyes that looks incredibly sympathetic. I don’t think I saw that before. When I retch a third time, a little less violently this time, into his metal trashcan, afterward I see a goddamn aura of goodness shimmering around him. My hero with a bronze bucket of puke! And when I look at Coach Brandon I see the same care and concern and—for Christ sakes!—honest to God, I see actual loving hearts pouring out the coach’s eyes, like little heart icons floating up the screen on an app. This vision feels so intense. Everywhere I look is the most wonderful sight. The whole office is the most loving, the most fantastic office in the world. If heaven was an office, this would be God’s office. I can’t get these thoughts out of my head: Jesus would be the receptionist outside; they’re would be a typing pool of angels in row after row. The pencils on the desk are the most perfect pencils God’s ever created. I gasp! That red fish is the most awesome red fish in the entire world, and I’m the one looking right at it and it’s looking back at me. It’s the red fish of perfection!

“Lie back, son. Just enjoy what you’re feeling. And, while you’re enjoying it,” Coach Brandon says, running a hand up and down my body—God it feel good, “let’s relieve you of this animal hair. Set free the beautiful sea creature inside you.” Is he really saying corny stuff like this? Does it matter? All that matters is his hand running over my body.

As I lie back feeling I feel all the love of the universe, all at the same time, in every inch of me. I watch the coach aim his beautiful white candle over my abdomen and lets the liquid flow out. It stings as it hits the skin above my bellybutton, and he smears it around with a flat wooden stick—but I don’t mind the pain. Pain is pleasure says the coach, and I believe whatever coach says. Either coach for that matter. Immediately, he applies a cloth swatch over the drying wax, waits a few seconds, then rips it off, pulling with it a rectangle of belly hair.

“Yow!” I place a hand over the now-smooth skin. “Shit, coach. That hurts,” I say, stupidly grinning.

“Exactly,” he says, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Rocco coughs a laugh and pulls off my speedo. I’m loving it, every second. I take Rocco’s hairy paw and run it over my hardening cock.

“So I don’t abuse you more than necessary, let’s use clippers to trim you,” says Coach Brandon. From his drawer he brings out barber clippers, snaps it on. He buzzes over the sparse hair on my chest, my arms, my legs, but he really goes to town on my crotch. Bunches of curly brown pubes he pulls out of the clipper blades. The vibration feels so good, I start trying to hump the clippers with my pelvis, which amuses manly Rocco. Rocco distracts me by twisting my very sensitive nipples.

With Coach Brandon satisfied he’s buzzed away enough of my body hair, he’s back with the hot wax. He drips over my short crotch curlies and he pushes it around with the wooden stick. He applies the rectangle swath and zips it off.

“Youch!” I feel half my pubic bone is smooth as a baby’s butt. He does this several more time, none of which hurts any less. In fact, the more he does it the more it hurts and the redder my skin gets. He feels his work running his hand over my bare crotch while avoiding my cock, but it doesn’t matter. It’s hard all by itself. Then coach drips wax over my balls. I let out a squelched yelp as Rocco bends down and plants his wet mouth on mine. Brandon rips off the wax from each ball, rubs each one with his thumb, and squeezes my entire sack to make sure all the hair is gone. I lose track of time as he rips off every follicle from my body.

“I need you to flip around, son.” He lowers the back rest so the tables perfectly flat. I’ve got a stiffy, but lay on my belly anyway pressing it into the cold metal. “I need you to spread your legs. A little wider.” I comply, as he pulls down my balls so their exposed. I know this is going to hurt but Rocco’s massaging my shoulders so I don’t care. If it hurts all the better as long as Rocco’s there. 

“Rocco,” I say with my face smashed on the exam table. “I’m so fucking high, Rocco. Rocco? I think I love you. And Coach Brandon, too. And I love all my teammates. Even ol’ pube chin Reznor.”

Rocco chuckles, still kneading my shoulder blades. “That’s Benjie, our magical bufo toad talking. Do you know what a bufo toad is?” I try shaking my head but am enjoying Rocco’s touch so much I can’t move. “A bufo toad has venom that’s an extremely potent psychedelic. Even the little taste I got gives me a buzz. Nothing like the amount you got though, buddy, but I’m with you, man. I love you, too. And I love the coach. And we love you.”

“You do?” When the wax hits the taint between my balls and asshole, I don’t know if the hot wax hurts more or coach ripping off the wax hurts more. Let’s call it a tie. As a consolation prize, Rocco grabs my hand and puts it down his shorts. I eagerly grab his thick member and start stroking him. I’m tripping so hard on how good his cock feels. The more I stroke him the more he likes it. Sex is the most magically thing in the universe!

Coach Brandon’s busy pulling open my butt cheeks, first one side, then the other, and waxing them. Each time the hot wax is getting closer to my hole. Ripping the wax off isn’t too bad here since I’m not that hairy around my hole. But the moment he drips the burning wax directly on my anus, I yowl while at the same time Roscoe groans as I crush his cock. Coach rips the last few hairs around my asshole off, and then he applies a cooling ointment and swirls it around my hole.

I’m looking over at Coach Rocco’s body: beautifully hairy, swirling circles of fur that twirl like sand dunes in the wind. The pattern his body hair makes is mesmerizing. There symmetry and geometry at play. I’m convinced there’s fractal algorithms that could be written that explains his beauty. I see those equations float by as I admire him. Sines and cosines, quadratic equations float through my head. And there’s a finger in my hole. Coach Brandon flips me over talking to me about something or other, his finger twisting in my hole. He tells me he saw my work last night behind the library fisting Drake Chadwick. I look up into his ocean blue eyes. There’s waves crashing in them, and he’s going on and on. “I have to say I was impressed. Chadwick said he’d never been fisted before, but I had to see for myself this morning. The poor boy. You destroyed that hole, Dupree. It’s almost a complete wreck. Eighteen, nineteen-year-olds. So many hormones running rampant through your body. You have so much passion in you. We have to control that passion. Lock it up.”

“Did he tell you he was the first one who ever fucked me, coach?” I feel I can tell him and Coach Rocco anything. He’s sticking an increasing number of digits in my hole. He’s got three fingers inside me. “You enjoying this, son?”

“Mm-hm.” I wince, then exhale as coach’s slides four fingers inside. It hurts so much I can’t stand how much I like it. The feeling of a man’s palm inside my body. I float between the pain of it and the idea of it, then the realization that a man has his palm inside me, the skin of his hand rests along the wall of my rectum. It’s just unfathomable. He lets it sit there, then starts twisting it around. What’s more unimaginable: the idea or the sensation? We’ll call it a draw and I reach over and stroke Rocco’s cock.

Rocco’s fully erect, pulling off his shirt and dropping his shorts. He climbs on the table and positions his butt over my face. “I think he’s ready for Leon, coach,” he says. I pull his hips down and start rimming his dark, hairy asshole. “Aw, fuck, boy!” he cries. “Yeah, eat that hole. Suck on it.”

I do suck on it, as Coach Brandon pulls his palm out of me. I feel an intense emptiness, but hear Coach Brandon’s deep voice. “Dig in there, son.” 

I keep rimming in the darkness of Rocco’s butt. Even in the blackness, feeling his hair all over my face, more waves of the drug crash over me, unmoors me further from earth. Every hair in his crack glides across my face. My tongue’s gotten him so wet, when he rub his ass back and forth I feel at the bottom of the sea with long, soft strands of seaweed rolling with the ebb and flow of the tide, back and forth, across my tongue. I can’t tell what’s real anymore. Am I really tonguing this tasty, musky hole or am I seeing the surface of the ocean lying in a seaweed bed? Could it be both? I feel Rocco’s fingers go over my fingers. Both of us pull his butt cheeks open. More seaweed sails across my tongue.

“Get in there,” I hear him growl, as I sense him jerking his meat and splashing my hairless body with his spunk. Someone, must be my coach, licks it up.

I feel something at my own butthole—a sensual pop of some kind, which continues crawling deeper inside my body. I push Rocco’s butt up to see what it is. It’s a long striped dildo Coach Brandon’s feeding me, pushing in a couple of inches, pulling out a little, then pushing in more. “You like Leon, our coral snake?”

I look over at the terrarium and see the fake branches are missing its snake. “No!” I say, alarmed that Coach Brandon is pushing an actual snake into me. I could almost believe they’d fuck me with a live reptile.

“Careful so Leon does bite you,” teases the coach, letting the thing slide in really far. I feel, where its head is penetrating me deepest inside, there’s a sensation of pins and needles.
“I think Leon bit me,” I exclaim, panicked.

“You might start feeling paresthesia, a strange tingly, prickling feeling.” Rocco’s clinical, detached, like a doctor giving a prognosis. He flips around, pressing down his cock so I can suck it.

“Yeah, I feel that in my guts,” I respond. “Did Leon bite me?” He stuffs his leaking calzone into my mouth so I can’t talk anymore.

Coach Brandon appears by my head with the can of worms he’d fed the eel with. “Only one cure for Leon’s bite. And it needs to slither in through your dick.”

“Whaaaaa—?” Hard to talk with a cock down your throat.

“Sorry, can’t hear you, son,” Coach Brandon says, gripping my dick fiercely and slipping something inside the slit. I feel whatever it is squirming into me, inch by inch, down my piss shoot. Rocco pins down my shoulders down with his legs. I’m trying to spit him out. His cock clogs my windpipe. I’m spitting up massive amounts of mucus. I’m bucking on the table, trying to get the worm out of my cock, the serpent out of my ass, as the coaches laugh uproariously at my desperation. The slimy intruder I feel wiggling, drilling deeper and deeper into my cock. It’s so far down my shaft I’m convinced it’ll never be pulled out. The tingling in my colon crescendos until it feels like knives are plunging outward from my organs. The two men mock me with laughter that reverberates demonically in my ears. My head shakes back and forth denying the reality of snakes and worms and a cock that’s plunging so far down my through it’s being eaten by the serpent coming up through my entrails. I have a vision of Ouroboros, the snake that eats itself; the ancient gnostic symbol of unity with the divine.

In that instant the laughter ceases, echoes away like a thunderstorm passing into the distance. All that remains is the soft hum of the aquarium. Bubbles float calmly to the surface.

The coaches both have vanished. Well, no; no one’s vanished: Coach Rocco sits at his desk, hairy legs up, reading a Sports Illustrated; and Coach Brandon’s standing at his whiteboard, assigning van der Haus to goalkeeper, me as a right wing, and Fernandez as a left wing. He continues quietly writing in names for the other positions as I run my hands over my entirely smooth body—yes, dolphin or shark, I’ll have to get back to you on that. Even smooth armpits, I hear an echo of Rocco say. 

I squeeze my butt. No, nothing’s in my hole, no snake crawling up it, no worm in my cock. But, shit. Wait. What is that? I push down hard on metal that’s not budging, that’s trapped my cock inside a tiny cage. Huh. 

Officially, I guess, I’m a member of the team. Well, at least my member is.

[Pozitivly]

Just incredible!  Thank you!

[shoreboy]

5. The Boys Go Camping

The four of them stand roughly in a diamond formation. Tommy’s in front since he’s the smallest; Reznor, in hiking shorts and sporting a black eye, is in back of him on the left; Steve Reynolds’ on the right (the one holding up his phone to take the picture); then House, being the biggest, stands in the back. Tommy’s the only one smiling from ear to ear because they included him on their camping trip. The others are serious, mostly because they’re out of breath from the hike’s last mile which was entirely uphill. Tommy has, Reznor is beginning to realize, infinite, annoying energy—or so it seems the way Reznor’s looking at him in the photo.

You can see in background, behind the four of them, the Appalachian Trail is at its peak fall colors this Columbus Day weekend—or Indigenous Peoples Day as it’s billed at school. (FYI: Kyle Dupree had a knockdown, all out fist fight with Marlon Reznor in the locker room the previous Thursday over the name of the holiday. Dupree—Team Indigenous Peoples—ended up with a bloody lip; Reznor—Team Columbus—a black left eye.) The cloudless blue dome lights up the silver birch’s gold and yellow leaves, while the sugar maples are at their most intense oranges and reds. The evergreens—firs, blue spruces and hemlock pines—provide the dark green contrast that set off the dying forest’s leaves giving them such intense luminosity. The boys’ brightly colored down jackets also add a dazzling array of color to the photo, so say many of the commenters on Steve Reynolds’ Instagram account.

At the summit that provides the group a full 360 degree panorama of autumn colors, Reznor stops, his palms on his knees, bent over, catching his breath. “Yawl go ahead. I gotta stop here for a second.” Tommy in the lead, followed by Reynolds and House, stop and wait against some boulders. They let their backpacks ease up on the rocks. In between breaths, Reznor adds, “Whose goldarn idea was this anyway?”

Steve Reynold holds up his phone checking for signal bars. “Did you actually just use goldarn in a sentence?” he laughs, taking off his New England Patriots cap to wipe the sweat off his forehead.

“Fuck off, Reynolds.” Reznor pulls off his backpack and sets it on the ground. “We should just set up camp here.”

“Um, no,” Tommy informs him, with as little sarcasm as he dares against the group’s alpha, “because we’re still on the trail, and on the side of a mountain?”

House unknots the red kerchief around his neck and wipe the sweat from his brow. “You wanna fall into that ravine in the middle of the night taking a piss?” 

Reznor looks over the edge of the hiking trail at the river below. “Well, how much farther?”

“Maybe a mile?” Tommy guesses. He looks across at all the burnished leave covering the hillsides and sees the sun is quickly on its decent. “Not too far, but we should get going.”

Reznor huffs pulling on his pack. “Well, let’s go then.”

They hike down to a level glade where Tommy hops over rocks on a wet part of the trail. The rest of them follow, hopping rock to rock.

True to his word, a mile down the trail there’s a camp with a lean-to. They all unload their packs in the structure. House immediately starts gathering firewood. Tommy takes out a cooking pot and their freeze dried dinner, while Reznor lies against his pack in the lean-to, arms crossed behind his head. Steve Reynolds takes a selfie and then snaps a few more of the camp and his teammates. Everyone’s smiling in these, even Reznor.

It’s peacefully quiet. A few birds chirp in the branches of the colorful forest. House occasionally breaks the silence with a violent snap of wood across his knee. Tommy looks around contented, mixing water from his canteen into the chicken mac and cheese he brought for everyone. Reznor’s picking out M&Ms from his trail mix. Reynolds and House are being pyros seeing how big of a fire they can make. After it dies down, Tommy heats up their meal, then divides it into four bowls. Reznor doesn’t like it and goes back to his trail mix, but House loves it and scarfs down Reznor’s portion.

After dinner, sitting around the fire, a young red fox runs through the camp startling everyone. Reynolds’ pissed he didn’t have his phone out, but it’s all the rest of them can talk about till the sun goes down.

Reznor pulls out a bottle of Jack Daniels and passes it around. Tommy gets drunk quickly and passes out in the lean-to on top of his sleeping bag.

“Lightweight,” says Reznor.

“Give it a rest,” House tells him. “He did good getting us here today.”

Reznor looks at him in the campfire light. “I think there could have been an easier climb, is what I’m sayin’. Seems to me we did a lot more uphills than was necessary.”

Reynolds takes a swig and passes the bottle to House. “As happy as I am on this trip,” Reynolds says, “I still feel bad for St. Anthony’s. Terrible reason to cancel a game because some of the team ends up in the hospital.” House grunts in agreement, and passes Reznor the bottle. Reynolds goes on: “I knew one of the guys that O.D.’d. Barclay. We went to the same Jersey summer camp when we were kids.”

“Gave us a free weekend, didn’t it?” reasons Reznor. “Anyway, what kind of dealer laces coke with fentanyl? You gotta know your dealer. I heard he was just some random dude that someone knew that someone knew.”

A branch cracks in the dark beyond the campfire. “What was that?” House jumps up with a stick.

“Don’t yawl worry, big guy,” says Reznor. He starts to stand but wavers, deciding it’s better to keep close to the ground. “If that mister fox comes back to attack yawl, I’ll get him with this here bottle.”

Reynolds snorts and leans back on his elbows. Looking up, clouds obscure the stars. He lays all the way back, watching the campfire light up the trees above where leaves flutter like a million dark butterflies. It only takes a minutes before he’s snoring in the dirt.

“Probably good idea to get to the sleeping bag,” says House. He stumbles into the lean-to and passes out before he finishes unlacing his boots.

Reznor watches the fire die with his back up against the lean-to’s deck. He hugs his bare knees for warmth, strokes the sparse strands of hair on his chin. A dimple emerges. There’s a rare hint of contentment to his smile, a subtle slip of his smug mask behind which most people never see. It’s not too much longer before the campfire is just red embers illuminating his unlined face. The coals blur. His eyes close.

Tommy’s the first one up, too energetic for Reznor to deal with. He opens only one eye, not remembering how he made it to his sleeping bag. He watches Tommy bouncing around camp, gathering wood, building a small fire, mixing freeze dried eggs (the very thought makes him ill), and waits for someone else to get up. Reznor closes his one eye and turns over.

House and Reynolds stir, and Tommy’s has instant coffee ready for them. There’s sugar and powdered milk if they want, he tells them. Reynolds tousles his hair and House grunts his appreciation as they accepts their steaming cups. Neither wants to talk until they have some caffeine in their system. After they’ve downed some eggs, they rouse Reznor, who groans half-asleep. 

“If even one of you even mention eggs, I swear, I will projectile vomit in your general direction.” Reznor does take the coffee, though. “You have redeemed yourself in my eyes, sir.” Tommy’s smile is so big it looks like his head’s about to split in half.

After they break camp, Reznor says he’ll guide them back to the car. He’s sure he knows a faster way, he says, which won’t have as much climbing. The three others exchange dubious looks, but follow him down a path to the river. It’s somewhere around noon they realize they have no idea where they are. The sky’s overcast so they can’t get a fix from the sun which direction would point them to the trailhead. Reznor refuses to backtrack the way they came all morning since that would mean they’d be going back uphill. Besides, Reznor tells them, he’s sure all they have to do is follow the river and it’ll come out by Reynold's Prius. 

Tommy keeps his mouth shut but he’s pretty sure it’s a different river than the one they hiked along yesterday.

By four o’clock, the sun’s broken through the clouds very low on the horizon. No one will say it, but they’re a little panicked. Reynolds suggests they make a fire to sleep around, then tomorrow go back the way they came. Reznor swears they’re close to the trailhead and convinces them to soldier on for one more hour.

After the sun sets behind the mountain, dusk arrives quickly. In the gloom of the forest, crickets chirp in every direction. As night engulfs the four boys, the trail abruptly ends on a backcountry road. They hear men talking and yucking it up about twenty yards down the road. Four trailers, roughly in a square, are on the road’s far side. The boys pass some mud-caked trucks and a few old jeeps, gun racks and rifles in every vehicle. They peek around a trailer where a party seems to be going on. In the middle of the trailers there’s a campfire with a group of men in lawn chairs, sitting back, drinking clear liquid out of glass canning jars. The four boys look at each other. Reznor breaks off and comes up to the group of men.

“Yawl excuse me, gentlemen.” The group is spooked by the unexpected appearance of an outsider. They lean forward in the chair staring at Reznor. He forces a smile. “My boys and I seem to have gotten lost and we were wondering if you could kindly tell us where we might have ended up.”

Reznor counts nine men and two pit bulls that are growling. The lawn chair guys look at him with raised eyebrows. The pit bulls continue to snarl.

“You hush.” One of the men with a scraggly grey beard yanks the leash he holds on the dogs. “Lost you say? You sound like a southerner boy.”

“Yes, sir. That ah am.” Reznor really leans into his accent hoping to break the ice.

“Micky-G,” a guy with a bowl haircut says to the scraggly bearded man. He’s got a very bushy, dark goatee that he strokes as he speaks. “Ask him what a southern boy’s doing this far up north? Boy must be wicked lost.” Some lawn chair guys chuckle, clanging glass jars on their aluminum armrests.

“Well, sir,” Reznor says to the goateed man, “Ah attend Glastonbury College—that’d be a drive, I reckon, two hours south of here—but ma’ roots are from the Appalachian Mountains in the glorious state of Tennessee.” (Never mind Reznor’s from the swanky town of Belle Meade outside Nashville, and whose father is part owner of the Percy Warner Country Club.) The bushy goateed man’s eyes widen, impressed. “Yes, sir-ree,” Reznor goes on, “ma’ little dirt-spit of a town had a one room schoolhouse and ma’ teacher from first grade through high school was one Mrs. Irene Duckworth, and she took a shine to me from ma’ very first day. Made sure I had a scholarship the day I got my diploma. Her only stipulation being that I hightail it up north to one of those New England colleges she used to dream about. Bless-ed lady.”

“Hey, Shamus,” calls out a younger guy with overlapping triple chins. He leans forward and his aluminum chair painfully squeaks. “Didn’t your Betsy have a Mrs. Duckworth at Willard Hollow Elementary?”

Shamus, in a red MAGA cap, nods, and says, “Indeed she did. You, Furball, have quite the memory.”

Reznor gulps. Having lifted so much of his fictional story out of Kyle Dupree’s real life, he hopes the tale he spinning isn’t overly familiar to this crowd. “’Cept that Mrs. Duckworth,” says red cap Shamus, “was an Ar-lene not I-rene as I recall. Hey, you fellas,” MAGA cap says to the three boys hovering a ways away. “Come on over here by the fire so we can get a better look at cha.” 

House leads the way, with Reynolds and Tommy trailing in his shadow.

The old scraggly bearded guy, Micky-G, looks from House to Tommy, goes, “Well, now, you have got to be as big as he is small. How big you say you was fella?”

House looks around the lawn chair men. “Uh, six foot seven.”

“Yes, sir,” interjects Reznor, feeling he’s won over this crowd. “It’s why we call him house.”

“Now why’s that, boy?” asks Shamus, pushing up his MAGA cap.

“Um,” says Reznor, forcing himself to not roll his eyes. “Because he’s as big as one.”

Shamus looks at Reznor confused. “Big as one what?”

“I’m called House,” explains House, simply, “because I’m as big as a house.”

Shamus takes a beat, then explodes into phlegmatic laughter. The other men rock in their lawn chairs laughing, too. A couple of them slap their thighs. “Big as a house!” repeats Shamus, before he hocks a loogie in the dirt.

Reynold unobtrusively raises his camera, snaps a pic of these characters and, seeing he’s got a signal, posts it to his account. Under his breath he quietly sings the beginning of the Deliverance banjo song to House and Tommy: “Dum-du-dah-duh-dah-duh-dah-duh-dum…” Reznor gives him a warning glare.

“What’s that now?” a big bear of a man sporting a full black beard asks Reynolds. He’s at the far end of the circle, darkly outline beyond the campfire. “Was you singing the hillbilly song from that old movie?”

“No, sir. I definitely was not singing the hillbilly song from that old movie,” Reynold says, pocketing his phone.

“I question that, boy,” says the bear, leaning forward into the firelight. The top of his head is bald, but there’s a horseshoe of long black hair that hangs down to his shoulders. There’s an evil glint in his eye when he tells Reynolds, “You sure got a purty mouth.” Some of the lawn chair guys chuckle ominously. “That ring a bell?

Tommy jumps in all friendly smiles. “We were just hoping you guys could just point us in the right direction. Like maybe where does that road go to?” He points to the road they came from. “Could we just follow it into some town? Hopefully one that’s close by?”

A man with grey, wispy hair in a ponytail, set down his drink, and gets out of his chair. “Fellas,” he says to the circle. “I think these boys either come for our moonshine or our meth. Either way, I don’t think we outta let ‘em leave.”

The lawn chair men rise and start humming darkly the dueling banjo song they seem to be all too familiar with: “Dum-du-dah-duh-dah-duh-dah-duh-dum…”

The four boys look at one another, then tear off down the road as fast as their hiking boots let them. Reynolds tosses off his backpack and double-times it straight ahead shooting past the others. Three men in camo hunting vests grab House and throw him against a rusted truck. In his struggles his backpack falls off during the melee. Tommy and Reznor right away are picked off by their backpacks, and are struggling as they’re returned to the campfire. Reznor continues trying to banter his way out of this jam. Two guys, ushering him on either side, relieve him of his backpack, then toss him into one of the lawn chairs. Tommy’s thrown into the chair next to him. Both their packs are deposited at their feet. They peer down the road where House punches one of the camo guys, but the other two throw themselves on top of him. It looks from Reznor and Tommy’s vantage point that they’ve got House pinned to the ground. But suddenly the two guys fly straight in the air and House escapes into the woods with the one guy he punched before in hot pursuit.

The big bear with the black beard emerges from the shadows and looms over Reznor. He turns to the wispy ponytailed man, whose hair falls every which way after the altercation, and the triple chin young guy who’s never left his chair. “Lewis, Furball—park the little one in the woodshed. I’d like to have a word with my Appalachian buddy.”

Furball and Lewis, putting his ponytail back in a hair tie, pluck Tommy up. Tommy toes never touch the ground as they escort him to the woodshed and lock him inside. Reznor’s eyes dart back and forth at the men around his chair. Two of the camo guys stumble in from the road out of breath. Five men and two pit bulls surround Reznor. Not good odds for getting away. Lewis and Furball return making his odds even worse. 

MAGA capped Shamus steps out of the shadows. “What are we gonna do with him, Frank?”

Frank, the large bearded bear, says, “Like I said, we’re gonna start with a few questions, and then we’ll go from there.” Reznor looks around at the gathered men, then at Frank defiantly. “That’s a nice shiner you got, boy. How’d you get it?”

Reznor smiles, friendly-like. “Ran into a door.” 

Frank smacks him with back of his hand hard enough to send him and the chair sideways. Lewis and Shamus bend down and right him. “Let’s start over. Pretend I’m dark Santa,” he tells Reznor. “’I know when you’ve been bad or good, so be good for goodness sakes.”

Reznor rubs his face. “Dark Santa. Got it.”

Frank gets down on his haunches, eyes level to Reznor. “You really from Appalachia?”

“No. Suburb outside of Nashville.”

Frank nods. Smiles. “Dirt poor?”

Reznor takes a moment. Frank cocks his head, waiting, his hand rising a bit. “No. Filthy rich.”

Frank whacks him again spilling him out of the chair. “Fuck!” Reznor shouts, picking himself up. Furball helps him back into the chair. “What’d’ya do that for? That was the truth!”

“Don’t know.” Franks shrugs. “Just felt like it.” He motions to the bushy goatee guy to bring him a chair. Goatee brings one over and Frank plops down in it—knees against Reznor’s. “What’s your name? And you best tell the truth. Dark Santa can tell.”

Reznor scowls. “Reznor. Marlon Reznor.”

Franks says, “I should whack you just on account of your name.”

“Hey, I didn’t name me.”

Frank smiles at him, then leans forward and puts his palms on Reznor’s bare thighs. He sniffs. The boy has a pleasant, clean scent—not like anyone from around here. His hands go an uncomfortable distance up Reznor’s shorts. He squeezes the boy’s muscular quads, feels something stir in him. “Now, Marlon, honest injun. You come for Micky-G’s hooch or you come for my top-shelf tina?”

“Honest injun, we’re lost. All we want to do is get home.” Reznor’s jaw nervously clenches. He’s praying his eyes aren’t misting in front of this asshole. He’s pissed and scared at the same time, and Frank’s thumb is a hair’s breadth away from his metal cage—the last thing he wants exposed under these circumstances.

“You know, Marlon? I actually believe you,” Frank says. “Indeed I do.” He looks around the huddled men. “But you can see we can’t let you leave, now that you know what we got cooking up here.” Reznor’s about to speak, but Frank pulls his hands from Reznor’s shorts, puts a grimy finger to the boy’s lips. “Now don’t say that you’ll never tell, or that you won’t give away our little secret. We’ve heard that before. Some of us even fell for it, ended up doing time because of it. Ain’t that right, Shamus?”

MAGA cap says, “Damn straight.”

“Ain’t that right, Dougie?”

Dougie strokes his dark goatee, says, “Two friggin years, pardon my French.”

“Ain’t that right, Micky-G?”

“In the eighties, I served eleven months and they destroyed my still anyway, fuckin’ storm troopers,” says Micky-G. He’s brought over a glass jar filled to the brim. He still holds the pit bulls in his other hand. He hands the canning jar to Frank, who politely offers it to Reznor.

“What is that,” Reznor says.

“A peace offering, Marlon.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Not a request,” Dougie replies, pulling his goatee.

Reznor scans the men around him. Looks at the woodshed containing Tommy. Sees an eyeball looking at him through a knot in the woodshed door. “Give it.” Frank gives him the jar and Reznor sips it. He immediately sprays it on the ground. The men around him laugh.

“Smooth, huh?” says Frank, with a sneer. “Good as any Grey Goose in your daddy’s liquor cabinet, I bet. Ten times as butt-kicking. Go on again, ‘less you prefer Santa gives you a piece of coal.”

Reznor steels himself, and takes a large swig. It burns all the way down his gullet. He opens his mouth silently, sticks out his tongue then bears his teeth.

“Second gulp always goes down better,” Shamus snickers. Frank taps the bottom of the jar. Reznor lifts it to his lips and downs several gulps in a row. After swallowing he wildly shakes his head with his tongue hanging out. The men slow-clap his effort.

“You really go to that college?” Dougie asks, as Reznor composes himself. Reznor nods.

“C’mon now. Only a little left,” Frank says, pointing to the moonshine. 

Reznor feels the moonshine starting to impact him. The men double in number as his eyes cross. Maybe he’ll pass out and be out of this nightmare. He lifts the jar and finishes it, but then Shamus is right there, taking a cork out of a jug with his teeth, and refills his glass. “No,” Reznor says, forcing the canning jar on Frank. “I can’t. Nuh-uh. Nope. Negative. Nose-spray-Jose.” The group laughs.

“Okay,” Frank says, accepting the jar. He puts his thick finger under Reznor’s chin. “So, Marlon, let me ask you. You really go to that Glastonbury College?” Reznor nods slowly so his brain won’t fall out. Frank goes on, “Kyle Dupree goes there. Know him?”

“Besst friends,” Reznor says trying to minimize his slurring. “Team-mate. Good buddy. Gave me this here black eye.” Reznor points to the wrong eye, corrects himself. “This black eye.” He snorts a laugh at his mistake.

Lewis pulls on his ponytail, says, “That sounds like our boy.” 

“Guy’s a douche.” Reznor’s head bobs forward beginning to fade. 

“Lightweight,” Frank says. To a couple of the men around him, he instructs, “Get him inside and strip him. Once he’s tied to the bed, Lewis, give him a big ol’ booty bump from the last batch. I don’t want to fuck a passed out drunk.” Lewis and Shamus grab Reznor under his arms and take him up the steps into Frank’s trailer.

Reynolds and House, having circled back, silently crouch down in the bushes. They watch Frank take sips of Reznor’s rejected moonshine. Macky-G yanks his dogs’ leashes and leads them up the steps of the farthest trailer. House nudges Reynolds as the camo guy he punched comes back into camp. He’s talking to the other two, as Furball waves good night. They hear a truck sputter off. 

Frank looks at his trailer and throws a piece of firewood into the flames. A cascade of sparks fly up into the black night. He tosses the remains of the moonshine into the fire, where it explodes into a small fireball that poofs back his hair. Slowly he gets out of his chair, and climbs the steps of his trailer.

“Who got a point?” Franks calls up into the trailer. Wayne opens the door for him, flips his ponytail. He hands him an orange cap syringe before shutting the door.

***

“You catch all that?” House asks Reynolds.

Reynolds whispers back, “Afraid so.”

House gives him the once over. “Didn’t take you for the heroic rescue type.”

Reynold snorts. “I’m not. Came back because this is the only place I get any bars.” Reynolds shows him his phone screen.

House considers this. “Well, I’m thinking if we get Tommy out, the three of us can take on the rest of these hicks. Most of them are old or fat, or both.”

"Are you nuts, man? They’ve gotta be loaded up the ass with weapons. They gotta fuckin’ meth lab! And this is Vermont, for Christ sake. Live free or die, and all that.” Reynolds scurries away from the bushes deeper into the woods.

House mumbles to himself, “That’s New Hampshire, doofus.” He follows the light of the phone. Once he catches up to Reynolds, he’s incredulously. “You’re texting someone, now?”

“Hang on.” Reynolds punches in a few numbers. “No. Calling.”

After a couple of rings a voice says hello.

“Dupree?”

“Yes. Who’s this?” A beat. “Steve Reynolds? That you?”

“Yes,” he rasps.

“Why are you whispering? You’re the last person I’d ever thought I’d hear from.”

“Dupree, where are you?”

“I came home after the cancelled game. I’m sitting in my bedroom with my dog. To what do I have the privilege of this call?”

“We got lost camping and stumbled on this backwoods hillbilly meth lab. And they’re about to rape Reznor.” There’s a long silence. “Dupree, you there?”

“Yeah. Waldo, no, we’re not playing ball. Lay down. Good boy. Yeah, well, why call me? Shouldn’t you call the police or something?”

“One: we don’t know where we are. Two: they said they know you?”

“Who? The hillbilly meth guys?”

“Yeah, this big Frank guy, and a Dougie. Who else House?” House whispers into the phone: “Lewis, Shamus, a Micky-G.”

“Micky-G? You dopes. You’re at Micky-G’s still? Hoo-wee!” Hysterical laughter erupts from the phone. “You in the deep end of the pool, my friends! Deep doo-doo.” More laughter.

“It’s not funny, asshole. Reznor’s about to get raped and Tommy’s probably next. House and I are out near their trailers, but … listen, you gotta get here and talk these bumpkins into letting them go. Stop laughing!”

Besides the laughter, there’s barking coming from the phone. Reynolds cover the speaker worried someone’s going to hear it. Finally Kyle returns in a normal voice. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I’ll ask my mom’s boyfriend to take me there. It’ll take a while though. There’s like four trailers together, right?” Reynolds confirms this. “Okay, whatever you do, do not try to stop them. They’ll string you up or shoot you. You do not want to mess with these guys. They might look like yokels, but they’ll drop you like a buck on the first day of deer season. You got it?”

“Fuck Dupree. Get here as fast as you can!” Reynolds says. “Hurry,” House adds.

There’s three beeps when Reynolds and House hang up.

I reach across to the other twin bed in my room and scratch Waldo’s ears. I go in and ask Jacob to drive me to Micky-G and Frank’s camp. ASAP. I’ll explain on the way. He’s down with in, no questions, though my mom’s got plenty of them. I give her the short version saying my teammates got lost and we need to bail them out.

So I might have exaggerated how dangerous those guys are. But I know those trailers house enough weapons to arm a small Latin American country. Strangers and guns are a bad mixed in these parts. And if Reznor takes one for the team, well, that’s karmic justice. I’m still kind of pissed at him for the sucker punch he threw. Honestly, those trailer guys are more formidable in a bowling alley than they are in a dark alley. Well, except Frank. Frank’s a special case, especially if he’s been partying. You wanna avoid Frank in that case.

True story: One afternoon, Frank slams ‘bout half a gram of his product, and this gigantic brown bear, fresh out of six months hibernation, chooses to stroll into his camp. The bear’s ready to eat anything and everything, and can’t believe there’s this big fat meal standing in front of him. He roars, gets up on his two legs towering over Frank, gonna maul him to death and eat him—no doubt about it. And what does Frank do? Run away? Go get his shotgun? Nope. Frank, amped up as shit, picks up a nearby ax and with an even louder roar than the bear—swear on a stack of bibles—chops the animal right through his skull down to his nether regions, splits the fucker in one fell swoop right in two. Grisliest thing—pardon the pun—you ever did see.

Yup, Frank is one bear you do not want to poke. My advice for Reznor: best let him do the poking. I mean, how bad could it be?

***

To say Reznor wakes up naked, gagged, tied to a bed, would be incorrect. That’s because he never was exactly asleep, so technically he could never have woken up. Out of it, yes. He still is, but after something cold and wet squirts into his rectum, he’s been agitated ever since. Wired, drunk and now horny as fuck—it’s a weird combo.

He pulls on the ropes that have him spread eagle on his stomach. The bare mattress he’s on is piss stained and strongly smells like it. He’s blurry-eyed looking around, straining to make sense of his surroundings. Staring at the wall ahead seems to ground him. Trying not to think about his dick straining against its cage doesn’t help. The faded blue walls at twelve o’clock gradual comes into focus. There’s a woman. It’s an old poster, torn, and tattered. It’s Sarah Palin in a red, white and blue bikini toting a rifle. Next to it is a black and white Dirty Harry movie poster. Clint Eastwood aims a 44 magnum at his head, with the words “Go ahead, make my day” surrounding the weapon. It shouldn’t be much of a surprise, then, that the wall to his right has racks and racks of guns: AK-47s, AR-15s, shotguns, rifles; wood grained, camouflaged, matte black metal. On his left, an open closet door with a chest of drawers inside, the top strewn with an assortment of handguns. He can only guess what fun stuff is inside those drawers. Behind him is the bedroom door, a light switch, and one more poster: a kitten dangling precariously from a rope under the words “Hang in there baby.” Spread eagle naked on a pee-stained mattress surrounded by an armory of firearms, and an inspirational kitten poster: Reznor thinks he must be in some absurdist’s idea of hell.

This notion is confirmed when Frank enters the room. In the bright room his eyes are more menacing. He’s shirtless, two full sleeves of tattoos, both tits pierced with doorknockers, and a big belly hanging over his belt. His hair never ceases it seems. His black beard and long black hair meld into the fur that coats his shoulders and, as he closes the door behind him, Reznor sees fur that extends over every inch of his back. So why is Reznor’s dick still swelling painfully looking at this overly hirsute man, a sight that should revolt him?

He’s not so deluded as to think his straight. C’mon, that would be crazy. it’s just a subject best put out of mind. In high school the Bible Club was, for lack of a better word, a God send. He enjoyed the girls in the club. They were perfect dating material, and in Tennessee, often the prettiest. Certainly demure, submissive, willing to “hold off” till marriage. The second God send came in the form of Coach Brandon’s required celibacy. It concentrated all those raging hormones on one thing, and one thing only: winning! So far he found he could have it all: he was rich, cool, hip, smart, very handsome, a drop-dead body, killer six-pack abs, a broad chest, chiseled jaw. He’d do him if he could. So why the straining inside his cage for the hairy ape?

It’s the booze and drugs they pumped in him, he decides, that’s driving this perverse desire. Frank kneels in back of him on the bed. He slips a hand between Reznor’s legs and rumbles a deep belly laugh as he fondles Reznor’s chastity device. “The boys told me, but I had to see for myself,” Frank says, “you perverted little pig.” He flips Reznor over, which strains Reznor’s limbs as his arms and legs cross over. “And not a hair on you.” He bends over and sucks on one of Reznor’s tits. Reznor struggles, but this causes Frank to more fiercely suck and then to bite his nipple. He runs his tongue under each of Reznor’s smooth arm pits, then down his broad chest and tight abs.

Frank grabs the metal cage, speaking to it. “How you doin’ in there, little guy?” He runs a finger along the metal strips, gliding a coarse finger over the area of skin he can touch. It stimulates Reznor and causes him immense discomfort as his prick desperately wants to enlarge but can’t. 

“Would you look at that? A whole bunch of drool coming out of your little guy. Hate to tell you, bud, but you sprung a bad leak.” He laughs as he runs his thumb over the tip of Reznor’s dick, making Reznor wag his head back and forth in agony. He moans loudly behind the cloth knotted around his head. He bites on the gag, saliva trailing over his cheeks. “Guess I don’t have to give you a reach-around, bud,” Frank says, flipping Reznor back on his stomach. “It’s all about daddy.”

Reznor hears Frank’s belt being unbuckled, pants unzipped, boots being kicked in the corner. Naked, Frank’s large, hairy thighs plop next to Reznor’s head. Reznor watches Frank uncaps a needle and sticks it in his arm. There’s an instance of swirling blood in the vial, then Frank flushes a shitload of pure methamphetamine into his body. His head rocks back for a second before he’s suddenly back up on his feet. “Fuck, yeah,” he yells, then smacks Reznor’s ass. “Fuck, yeah. I’m gonna rip your ass till it’s wider than the Grand fucking Canyon.”

Reznor feels a wet liquid running down his butt crack. “This works out, I just might keep you as my new pet.” Frank’s knees push Reznor’s legs apart. “Fuck, yeah. Fuck, yeah, make you my whore. That booty bump doing it for you, boy? I can give you more. I could make you good twenty-four seven. Keep you on a leash tied up here in this room. Keep you high and happy the rest of your days. Make you into a slammin’ meth whore. What’d’ya say?” Suddenly, Frank’s cock rams up his ass straight up to his balls. The pain makes Reznor scream, though it’s muffled by the gag.

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, that’s good, that’s good, that’s very good,” says Frank as he’s humping him. He fully pulls out so he can fuck Reznor’s ass again and hear him scream. Reznor bites down on the cloth in his mouth, breathing so rapidly he on the verge of hyperventilating. His rag’s overflowing saliva. Frank pulls out leaving just the tip of his fat cockhead in his hole. He teases him, only giving him his cock’s first inch over and over. Franks rushing and caught in this hypnotic, pleasurable loop. It’s got to be the booty bump, because, unbelievably, Reznor’s slowly willing to open up for the man as he teases him. He even starts to crave more than an initial inch. Unable to stop himself, Reznor pushes up just a little of his hole up to Frank. It's too small to see but Frank senses it in his cock, like a cobra senses the smallest movement of a rodent. Reznor’s stops clenching his sphincter for a second, and Frank snaps out of his spell and strikes, his entire cock rams back in up to the hilt of the boy’s hole. Who’s to say the cobra doesn’t enjoy the mouse’s shriek. Again and again, Reznor’s in pain and screeching. Frank laughs, enjoying alternately teasing the boy’s hole then destroying it. 

“Boy, you’ve had got the sweetest butthole I have ever fucked.” Frank stops momentarily, with his cock fully up Reznor ass. In a conflicted haze, Reznor doesn’t know what to expect, or even what he wants, but he begins feeling heat deep inside his colon. Hot piss starts sputtering out his ass. As Franks relieves himself, he whispers his continual blathering in his ear: “Oh, yeah. Every morning this is how we’ll start. Relieving my morning piss in your sweet little hole. Love this hole. Poz you up. Love your sweet little boy hole. But I’m gonna see that it don’t stay that way. No. You hear me? Yeah,” he says, pumping away inside Reznor’s body. “I want my pussy boy to have a big sloppy man cunt. Big hanging lips. Pull out your innards. Give you a big prolapse. Fuck that prolapse. Eat that prolapse. I know you want that. Don’t you want that, boy?”

Reznor’s confused. The meth and moonshine follow these babbling words. His constricted cock wants it, too. But there’s a part of him rejecting, fighting these ideas flowing in his ear. It’s his respectability, his sense of self that has him repeating no through his gag. 

Frank becomes aware of what Reznor’s saying quietly under his gag. He pulls out and smacks Reznor’s ass hard.

“Don’t you contradict me, boy.” He rams his cock back in, pulling up Reznor’s hips so he can rapid-fire fuck him. “Tell me you want it, boy. Tell me you want me to cunt you, ram my foot all the way up your ass, all the way to your fuckin’ throat.” Talking to him like this, Frank is trying to get his cock back as hard as it was. He’s semi-flaccid but still inside Reznor. “Tell daddy what he wants to hear. Tell daddy.”

“Fuck! You!” Reznor yells through his gag, his last attempt to cling to his ego.

Frank abruptly pulls out. Gets off the bed. Reznor hears him pick up his pants and rip out his belt. Frank then wails on Reznor’s ass, striking him repeatedly. Reznor’s ass is on fire, flailing around the mattress trying to avoid being struck. “Don’t you disrespect me,” he says, repeatedly whipping Reznor. “Don’t. You. Ever. Disrespect. Me!” Each time letting the belt fly, taking chunks out of Reznor’s butt cheeks. In an uncontrollable rage, he screams, “I will fucking kill you if you ever speak to me that way again, you hear me?” He stops belting him. Hysterical crying comes from the mattress. He whips Reznor’s bleeding ass once more to get an answer. “I said, did you hear me?”

“Yes, I hear you,” Reznor sobs, as articulate as he can through the wet cloth. The area below his face is drench in tears, drool, and snot. His tortured butt burns. He tries to suppress his sobs but loses the battle. 

“You going to be good?” Frank asks him, a little calmer now, out of breath. 

Reznor quickly nods his head, says, “Mm-hm, I’ll be good.” There’s a long silence. No movement, only heavy breathing. Somehow it’s more terror-producing than the beating. He’s not sure what the maniac will do next. But then he feels the rope around one of his ankles untie, then the other. He looks in front of the bed and sees naked Frank, one big coat of black fur, lowering himself until he’s eye to eye. He unties his gag. Reznor sniffs back mucus.

“You understand why I beat you?” Frank’s face is all shamefully contrite. He wipes Reznor’s tears with a thumb.

“Yes, sir. I understand.” It’s the first time he breathes freely in a while.

“I don’t like it any more than you do, but you made me.” Reznor nods, even as silent tears keep flowing. Frank’s all calm reason. “I’m going to untie you, boy, and I want to see proper gratitude from you. You understand what I’m saying,” he says, stroking his hard on. Reznor sniffs again and nods. “Good. All right then.” Frank unbinds his arms. Reznor curls into a ball holding his knees and gently rocks. “Gratitude, I said, boy.” Frank’s on the bed, kneeling next to Reznor’s head, his erection an inch away from Reznor’s mouth. “Show daddy how grateful you are when he shows you mercy.” He brushes his cock against Reznor’s lips.

Reznor opens his mouth and accepts Frank’s member. He runs his tongue over his drooling cockhead as Frank keeps pushing it further into his mouth. Lying on his side he sucks the man, as a palm in back of his head pushes him forward, the cock going deeper into his throat until he retches. Frank immediately pulls out and smack Reznor across the face. Reznor curls up again, while Frank verbally rages at him. The slap makes Reznor think faster now. He loudly pleads for forgiveness, realizes he needs to get on the floor, must kneel before Frank. He spreads Frank legs and starts sucking him in earnest, swirling his palm around the man’s fat member and tonguing him deeper and faster. Frank spits up pre-cum like a geyser the more submissive he gets. He licks his shaft and is pushed down to lick his hairy balls. Frank leans back, spreads his cheeks and tells him to get to work on his asshole. Reznor suppresses his desire to puke at the man’s acrid smell, and pulls his legs down so he can get back to dick sucking. On his elbows, Frank watches with pleasure having the pretty sandy-haired boy bob up and down on his cock, pushing his face into his black patch of pubes, grabbing his head, pushing it down.

On the verge of gagging a second time, fearing what that will lead to, Reznor makes a decision. He clamps down his teeth as hard as he can. He’ll castrate this fucker if that what it takes. Frank jumps up roaring in pain, holding his bloody crotch.

It takes a moment for the men outside to realize it’s Frank who yelling. Lewis and Shamus along with two of the camo men crash into the bedroom. They witness Frank, his dick bloody but still attached, beating the living shit out of Reznor. Frank’s in a frenzy, knocking Reznor’s head repeatedly against the Dirty Harry poster until he breaks through the trailer’s plaster wall. After Reznor's fallen, he starts kicking him. The four men restrain Frank on the bed to stop him from killing the kid. They keep him there until he regains some of his sanity. Frank assures them he’s okay, and runs into the bathroom to treat his more than injured pride.

Reznor wakes up—this time actually awakens after Frank beats him unconscious. He’s cold. Aware enough to realize he’s still naked, outside, the wind blowing over him on a chilly October night. This time he’s upright, standing, or more accurately, hanging by his arms, spread eagle in the middle of a group of empty lawn chairs. The campfire’s last embers smolder, providing little warmth. What light there is comes from the surrounding trailers’ windows. A few remaining men from earlier in the evening mill about. No Frank in sight.
His face heavily beaten, mouth swollen, caked blood under his nose, Reznor speaks slowly like a thousand year old man coming out of a thousand year sleep. “Might,” he says, feeling his jaw might be broken, “one of you gentlemen, please, be so kind, as to untie me?” They look fearfully in back of him.

“My boys know better than that,” says a familiar deep voice coming up behind him. Frank comes around Reznor’s side, ducks under the rope. He’s in jeans, boots and a dark wool sweater now. “You are strung up,” he says pointing to the beam above him, “where we usually skin our deer.” Reznor’s struggling to come back to full consciousness, hindered by moonshine and meth, and now overlaid by pain. If he doesn’t move, the pain is bearable. He finds his legs are stuck apart, tied to stakes in the ground. But there’s something niggling at the edge of his consciously, something terrifying if he looks straight at it. He refuses to look at it. But as he’s beginning to take in his environment and his situation, he’s aware that while Frank points to the beam above his head, what he’s pointing with is a chainsaw. 

Frank pulls the cord and the chain saw whirs to life. Frank gives it a few good revs, until he sees comprehension and then, finally, what he’s after, absolute horror in Reznor’s face.
Frank lets the chainsaw idle to a soft purr. “You know,” Frank says, walking up to him, “in olden times, when someone tried to kill the king and missed the mark, do you know what they’d do to that person?” Reznor’s piss flows through his chastity cage puddling in the dirt. “Do you know what drawn and quartered means?” Reznor sobs. Shaking. Frank puts his face inches from Reznor’s, both hands on the chainsaw’s handle that, for the moment, pointing to the ground. He gives a few revs, then tilts the spinning blade up between Reznor’s legs so he feels its breeze. Revs it loudly. “I asked you a question, boy,” he shouts over the machine. He opens the throttle to a full roar. “Do you even remember my fucking question anymore!?”

To be continued…

[shoreboy]

Thank you @Pozitivly

[YEGfaggot]

Mmmmm I can't wait to see what's next 😈🐷

[TiggerBottom]

Ho. Lee. Shit.

You, @shoreboy, are one AMAZING fucking author!! Thank you SO MUCH for what you've done so far. Looking forward to the next installment.

[TopDad2]

Each superbly drawn-out  episode drags us (albeit willingly) deeper into those dark fantasizes we all have, but only some get to live! Thanks for sharing your tales, and talent!! You've got a huge pool (pun intended) of "...Swim Team" fans eagerly awaiting a deep dive into another wet episode. You've got me wondering what specialized attention Coach provides the hot townhouse team studs? Greater privilege deserves greater and deeper commitment.

[RawCuriosity]

The American Horror Story we deserve. 

[shoreboy]

On 4/10/2022 at 5:25 AM, TopDad2 said:

You've got me wondering what specialized attention Coach provides the hot townhouse team studs? Greater privilege deserves greater and deeper commitment.

Got to imagine Coach has some secrets he wouldn’t want exposed. First, though, some loose ends to tie up.

[JerseyPupHole]

Shoreboy, you amaze me with your ability to weave tales that take situations I'd never think to associate with arousal and make them beyond hot. Like Reznor himself, I keep getting turned-on by things I don't expect. And it's entirely your fault. Bravo.

[shoreboy]

On 4/13/2022 at 9:29 AM, tampahole said:

Shoreboy, you amaze me with your ability to weave tales that take situations I'd never think to associate with arousal and make them beyond hot. Like Reznor himself, I keep getting turned-on by things I don't expect. And it's entirely your fault. Bravo.

Speaking of Raznor, exactly to that end, @tampahole , here's chapter 6.

[shoreboy]

6. Moons of Mars

Reznor felt Tommy over-prepared for a simple overnight camping trip. He might reconsider this opinion since one of the many things Tommy brought, a pocket knife, has been in use ever since Reznor was dragged into Frank’s trailer. Tommy’s been prying a board off the back of the woodshed for twenty minutes. So far he’s managed to get off a nail at the top and one at the bottom. When he sees Reznor unconscious and dragged back out of the trailer by MAGA-hat man and wispy ponytail guy, he picks up the urgency of getting off the other bottom nail. His shaking hand makes him cut himself, which makes the pocket knife slippery, but after several failed attempts, he gets the second bottom nail wedged loose. The plank doesn’t come all the way off, but it’s enough to be able to push the plank to the side. It’s barely enough space for him to wiggle through, but because of his compact size he escapes. 

Back in the open air, he peers around the woodshed. Reznor’s naked strung up by his arms. He sees the big bear of a man, Frank, return. He’s in Reznor’s face threatening him with a chainsaw between his legs. He can’t hear what Frank’s saying because of all the noise from the chainsaw, but abruptly Frank’s screams at Reznor for him to answer him if he remembers his question.

The chainsaw idles softly as Frank waits for an answer.

“Yes, I remember … the question,” Reznor manages to get out. Each word muttered is painful, but Tommy recognizes a familiar, sarcastic glint in Reznor’s eye. “I’ll take ‘What is drawn and quartered’ … for a thousand, Alex.” Frank threatens Reznor with another rev of the chainsaw. “Mm-kay, Mm-kay.” Reznor spits a wad of bloody saliva on the ground. His head bobs forward and back, while Frank revs the chainsaw to encourage Reznor to continue. 

Reznor is one horrible, bloody mess. It’s not helping Reznor for Tommy to watch this scene from the shadows, so he scampers off to search for anything that might free his friend.

Reznor raises his head looking into Frank’s dark eyes. “Drawn and quartered. A man gets each limb tied to four horses.” Reznor’s legs give out. He hangs only by his arms. “And the horses pull off his limbs in four directions.” Bloody drool strings from his mouth.

“Right you are,” says Frank. “But since we don’t have no horses, I’m left with this quandary. What to do? And then it hits me. I’ll saw off each one of your limbs, tourniquet you, cauterize you, till you’re just one stumpy torso. Then I’m going to keep your torso permanently on my bed and fuck you till you—“

“Frank, that’s enough!” Dougie, pulling on his goatee, protests. “For fuck sake, you already scared the piss out of the kid.”

One of the camo guys steps forward, goes, “Yeah, Frank. Fun’s fun, but you take it too far, man.”

Frank’s eyebrows raise defensively. “You agree, Cosmo?”

The other camo guy says, “Yeah, I agree with Vic, Frank. Look at him hangin’ there. You think he’s gonna talk?”

“What about you, Lewis?”

Grey ponytail guy steps forward. “I think he’ll turn on you, Frank. He’s got every reason to turn you in.”

House jumps out of the bushes, fists ponytail guy’s head, sending him to the dirt. Reynold’s is right beside House filming Frank, the camo guys, Dougie, and Lewis on the ground. “Back off!” House shouts at Frank. He doesn’t have Frank’s girth (or chainsaw), but he out-matches the big bear in height and brawn. Now that he’s close enough to see what he’s done to Reznor, he’s fucking pissed as hell, too. “Now! Back. The fuck. Off!”

Steve Reynolds holds up his phone. “You’ll all be wanted by morning. Just have to hit send. Best thing would be to let him go.”

Frank revs the chainsaw again. “Or what, pretty boy?” He revs the blades, grounds his stance preparing to send the spinning teeth up through Reznor’s caged balls. “You gonna shoot me with your iPhone?” 

Reznor looks up a final time at his assailant. He prays his end is quick. He looks into Frank’s eyes. His last sight on Earth.

“Nope.” Tommy aims a rifle. “Gonna shoot you with a gun.” Abruptly Frank’s face, in a split second, becomes a plume of blood and brains exploding out of his head. The head bursts like a watermelon covering Reznor’s face and body with the man’s detritus. The remnant body that once was Frank, no longer includes a head. Bits of skull, teeth, tongue, eyes—slap Reznor’s face; steaming gore drips to the ground. Reznor watches as it takes a surreal couple of seconds for Frank’s body to realize it has no brains before it tumbles in a heap to the ground. The chainsaw sputters in the dirt, then grinds to a halt. Everyone looks to the top step of Frank’s trailer where the shot rang out. Tommy eyes the remaining men around the camp not lowering the rifle but swinging the muzzle back and forth.

The far trailer door bursts open and Micky-G steps out holding frantically barking pit bulls. “What the hell is all this hullabaloo?” Micky-G yanks back his dogs. 

Headlights flood the scene as a beat-up red pickup rolls up to the trailers. Waldo leaps out of the back and trots over, jumping playfully on top of the two pit bulls and excitedly sniffs their rear ends. Kyle and Jacob get out of the cab trying to make sense of what’s occurred. In the headlights, House and Reynolds are cutting Reznor down. “Fuckin’ hell!” Kyle says running over to Reznor. He takes off his jacket and wraps it over Reznor’s shoulders. 

Shamus steps out of the shadows adjusting his cap then gives Lewis a hand up. Lewis feebly tries to tell Reynolds that he didn’t he meant it about not letting his friend go. “Nah,” Lewis wheedles, “I was trying to buy some time for Frank to come to his senses.”

“The fuck you were, asshole,” Reynolds fires back. “Yours is the only photo I didn’t delete. If I were you, I’d crawl back to whatever backwoods hole you came out of.”

House takes the kerchief off his neck and wipes Reznor’s bloody face. “Cops I’m sure will know who you are.”

“And where you live,” says Tommy, coming off trailer steps, slinging the gun strap over his shoulder.

“Maybe you’ll get a day’s head start,” says Reynolds.

Tommy adds, “If you’re lucky.”

“But I wouldn’t count on it.” House comes up to the guy and shoves him into the shadows, with Shamus trailing after him out of camp.

“Cosmo, Vic, Dougie,” Jacob says, crossing over to them. “You let him rape a kid? What’s your wife and kids gonna think about you?”

“No!” The three men are panicked, trying to explain themselves all at once. Excuses fly: things got out of hand; it was just supposed to be to scare the kid; how were they to know Franks was tweaked; they saved the kid from being beaten to death, didn’t they? 

Jacob’s not buying any of it, and they argue all talking over each another, pleading with Jacob that they’ll take care of the body; that they never saw any of these boys in camp. Cosmo suggests, “Maybe Frank had a hunting accident.” “No one’s seen him for a while,” proposes Vic. “A bear might have got him,” Dougie adds. Vic advises Jacob to get the boys out of here. Everyone nods in agreement. “We’ll right this mess,” Vic says.

“Kyle!” shouts Micky-G. “Get your damn dog off Trixie. She’s in heat.” Waldo’s humping the brown and white pit bull having the time of his life. “You’re responsible if there’s a litter, I’m telling you that right now, dammit.”

***

Reznor sits silently between me and Jacob on the drive to my house. House, Tommy and Reynolds—and a very happy Waldo—ride in the bed of the truck. Jacob says tomorrow he’ll take the boys back to their Prius, but tonight everyone’s spending the night at my house. “That okay with you, buddy?” he says to Reznor.

“Huh?” Reznor says, glassy-eyed, his head swaying with the bouncing of the truck over the rough road.

We troop into the house, where mom, upset at first seeing one of the boy’s badly beaten, but then snaps into professional nurse mode, attends to Reznor—Band-Aids, iodine, Neosporin. Reznor’s injuries are extensive but are superficial, she says, nothing broken, some bruises but nothing worse. She sends him to the shower, where he steeps for a long time. Privately she tells me he’s pretty traumatized and wants to know why. I give her the PG-version leaving out some of the more gory secondhand details Tommy and Reynolds provided. Frank’s dead, I tell her. That little guy Tommy shot him. Good for him, she says. Frank always was an evil piece of shit. Mom! I say. Language.

After his shower I see mom’s right about Reznor being traumatized; he barely speaks, which is totally un-Reznor. While she finishes patching up his face in the bathroom, me, Jacob and the other guys want to know how Tommy pulled off the shot. Tommy says he took the Ruger rifle out of Frank’s bedroom, one he was familiar with from hunting with his dad. He felt bad about how it splattered Reznor in the face, but he couldn’t see any way around it. He didn’t say anything about killing a man, and we didn’t ask. We all-too-quickly moved on to praising his smarts, bravery and marksmanship. We put the subject to bed when mom and Reznor come back in.

Ultimately, mom is a mom, and isn’t satisfied until everyone’s had grilled cheese sandwiches and is sitting with hot cocoa in front of the wood stove. After midnight the guys get sleepy and crash in the living room. House has his sleeping bag laid out on the couch, Reynolds is scrunched up on the love seat, and Tommy’s happy curled up with Waldo on the shag carpet.

In the darkness of my bedroom, I’m looking at the luminescent stars I’ve had forever on my ceiling. Reznor’s in the other twin bed in my room. He hasn’t spoken since Frank was shot, when House and Reynolds cut him down. Just let him be, is my mom’s advice, before she and Jacob went off to his trailer.

I think he’s fallen asleep, and I’m just about to myself when I hear a very hoarse voice say, “I can’t believe you have glow-in-the-dark decals on you ceiling. What are you, Dupree? Nine?”

I try not to get all defensive; this is Reznor after all, and I gotta be nice to him. “They’re educational. And they’re highly accurate,” I tell him. “Look. There’s Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, and the bright one in the little dipper’s tail is Polaris, the North Star.”

He thinks about this for a second, takes in the vast array of stars on my ceiling. “Yawl are a fuckin’ freak.” 

At least a little of the ornery Raznor’s back. I lie shirtless with my arms behind my head. Unlike the dorm, my old trailer is warm. I can smell my pits and they’re pretty rank. We’re in the dark but Reznor’s outlined by the moon streaming in through the window. His blond hair appears blue in this light. After a long time laying on his back looking at my stars, he says, “I’ll bet you still have your teddy bear,” he says. I see his eyes are wide open staring up. 

“That’s what Waldo’s for.” 

Another span of time passes. An idea occurs to me. “I bet,” I say, breaking the silence, “that you never had a teddy bear. That’s what’s wrong with you, Reznor. Lack of stuffed animal bonding at an early age.”

His response surprises me. “Yawl right ‘bout that. No teddy bear.” He grunts trying to put his arms above his head. He eventually manages to lace his fingers, and is mirroring me in his bed. “But I did have me a black Scotty dog. Use to drag it with me everywhere.” 

“Did it have a name?”

“Yeah. Scotty.” We both chuckle. Reznor exhales, and then turns on his side. Groans. He lets an arm hang off his bed, trailing a finger over my linoleum floor. “It had red buttons for eyes. I pulled one of the button eyes off by accident one time. I would not be consoled until my sweet old nanny sewed it back on. I was worried I had permanently damaged Scotty’s eyesight but nanny assured me he could see just fine. My father took him away shortly after that. Said I was too old for it. I was seven. Second grade.”

Of all people, I’m surprised I like sharing the room with Reznor tonight. Drake hasn’t talked to me much since that first night in back of the library. But this guy, who I think of mostly as a dick, there’s something I like about his Scotty dog story. Maybe it’s knowing what he went through tonight; or maybe—and I’m just spit-balling here—there’s an attraction we both don’t want to admit to, and it’s easier to just punch each other in the face then act on it. I don’t know, I’m not a psych major.

“When I was seven,” I tell him, “my dad put up these decals on the ceiling. One of the last things he did. He loved looking at the stars. That’s his telescope in the corner. Story time with him was always about planets and constellation. All the stories that came from the sky.”

Reznor props himself up on an elbow and looks at the telescope by the window. “What happened to him?”

“Cancer.” I look at his work above me. “During hospice, whenever he had the energy, he’d get on a ladder and add on to it. Made the sky exactly as I’d see it every September first, he told me, my birthday.”

“Stars don’t stay in one place,” Raznor says.

“Sure they do. Once a year. It’s like Earth’s this merry-go-round, and if you choose a spot, choose one day, every year when you get back to it, all the stars will line up exactly as they were the year before. So those stars up there, they’re the same stars that appear every first day of September. Forever and always. Even long after we’re not here to look at them.”

Reznor lays back down and looks up at the glowing dots. “Crazy.”

“Word.” I point straight above us at a constellation. “Pegasus dominates the summer sky.”

“I don’t see it.”

“Sure. It’s upside down.” I throw off my blankets and flip my head to the end of the bed, so I see it right side up. “There, that bright star there is his nose. That square, those four stars, are his flank—where the wings come from. And those stars are his forward legs flying into the air.”

Reznor flips off his bedding and struggles to get his head at the end of the bed, too. Once he settles, he contemplates it for a while. “Okay. I guess I see it. Where’s it back legs?”

“No back legs.”

“See, that’s what I hate about this shit. People just make up whatever they want to see. No logic in it.”

“Yep. No logic to it.” I put my arms again behind my head. “People always make up what they want to see, what they want to believe.” 

“Did your dad put in planets too?” he wants to know. “I think I see Saturn. And that red one?”

“Yep. That red dot right in the corner, that’s Mars—god of war.” I point above his bed where the ceiling hits the wall. “If you stare long enough, you can see two moons. Phobos and Deimos. Means fear and dread in Greek. They were Mars’ sons, fear and dread. Took ‘em to every battle, which makes sense for the god of war, right?.”

“Dupree, yawl have too much stuff in your head.”

I look over at him. “I would not disagree with you.” It’s nice having him in my room. 

“You a virgin.” He snorts. He’s propped up again on an elbow facing me. “Virgo, the virgin if you’re born September first.”

I flip on my elbow to look back. In just his boxers the contours of his body are amazing. Such deep shadows define his pecs and his abs. I’m trying not to get too caught up in what a defined body he has, trying to ignore a little stirring down below. It’s funny cuz we’re in the pool in speedos all the time, and I’ve been able to tuck that little tidbit onto a back-burner brain cell—so I’m not sure why it’s now being put on the front-burner.

Adjusting myself nonchalantly, I flip on my back and ask him when's his birthday? He says February third. “Aquarius. The water bearer,” I say, pointing to the constellation over my bed. “There you are, right above Pegasus.”

“Stupid sign. Water bearer. What’s that even mean? What am I, a waiter? Would yawl like sparkling or tap this evening.”

He cracks me up. I hear snoring coming through my bedroom door from the living room, so I keep my voice low. “No, he’s a great sign. He’s the famous Ganymede, Jupiter’s largest moon, the largest moon actually in the entire solar system—there, see it next to Jupiter? And also Zeus’ young lover.”

“Shut up.”

“No, seriously. He was the most beautiful mortal Zeus had ever laid eyes on. Born royalty, the son of the king of Troy, Zeus falls in love with him and snatches him to Olympus for himself. Poured his wine, a most honored position on Mount Olympus. Pissed his wife off, but she got plenty on the side, so both of them were happy gods.”

“You’re saying Zeus was gay?”

“Well, bi, but he’s just a made up story. But it gave legitimacy to men loving men back in the day. These stories have been around as long as the Bible, Christianity, Buddhism, Islam—you name it. It’s all stories we tell ourselves to explain ourselves to ourselves.”

“Except the Bible is true.”

“If you say so.” I know not to get into it with Reznor about religion. We had this fight in the dining hall many times. “Anyway, worse thing than being the most beautiful boy that the king of the gods takes a shining to and immortalizes in the night sky.” 

I didn't see when it started, but Reznor’s silently shaking on the bed. He’s crying and trying not to cry at the same time, which makes his sob worse. He sits up with his face in his hands ashamed.

“Hey, what is it?” I ask, sitting up myself.

He looks at me in with an angry and anguished face. “Or a fat hillbilly snatches you off and fucks you silly in his trailer.” He looks at me defiantly and adds, “And maybe you like it.”
I’m across from him, our knees are almost touching. I put a hand on his leg. 

“Knocked it off,” he says in a raspy voice, flicking my hand away. I can see his face is streaming tears now, no sobs, just tears trailing over his cheeks. I switch beds and sit next to him. “Leave me alone.” I put my arm around him regardless of his protests.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. 

“Why are you sorry? Yawl didn’t fuck me or hit me or try to cut me in half with a chainsaw. Yawl weren’t the one that saw his face explode or told all these fucked up things he was going to do. It’s shit I can’t un-hear or un-see, Dupree.”

“Tell me what you saw.”

“What my life was going to turn into. Maybe it was the drugs they gave me, but as he was telling it to me I saw it like it was real, was already my life. Like, he was going to keep me fucked up on meth, and fuck me all the time, and give me a cunt. And you know the most fucked up part?” I shrug, rubbing his back, encouraging him to let it out. “Part of me wanted it—wanted to run away from my life and be his meth whore. Isn’t that fucked up?”

“Nah, it isn’t.”

“This big hairy man was going to keep me as his personal slave—be his, what’d you call him—his Ganymede. I’d be his sex toy. And I couldn’t do anything about it. He was going to fist me every day until I had a gaping pussy. He was going to beat me raw if I didn’t obey his every word. And it’s so fucked up but part of me liked it. Wanted it. To have a real life physically-abusive daddy, not the psychologically-abusive one I got right now. I’ve been to enough shrinks to know how fucked up I am, Dupree. Even now, my dick wants to get hard when I talk about it.” He takes my hand and makes me feel his metal cage. He’s leaking in his boxers. And for fuck sake, I can’t help it, but a bulge is rising in my gym shorts once he put my hand on his crotch. 

Reznor notices, too. His head snaps up, seeing my shorts rise. “What the fuck, man?” he says alarmed. “Where’s yawl’s cage.” He grabs my growing erection.

I hold up a finger to my lips to bring his voice down. “I only wear it at school when I have to. It’s a crumby little lock. Easy enough to pick.”

“Get mine off,” he says. I hesitate. “Please, or I’ll tell everyone and then you’ll be off the team.”

“You’re blackmailing me?”

“If I have to.”

“Reznor, given what you’ve been through, you’re still a dick.” I frown. Quietly I slip into the bathroom and grab a bobby pin. When I get back he’s slipped off his boxers, and looking at his hard body, outlined by a full moon in my window, it only gets my dick tenting even more in my shorts.

“Hurry,” he says, desperately clutching himself, like he urgently has to take a piss.

“You’ve had this on for months. Chill,” I say.

“Dupree,” he says, like the cage is burning him, “get it off.”

I kneel between his legs. It takes ten second for me to fiddle with the lock before its open. Another two second for Reznor to pull off the top casing and the ring around his balls. And there it is. His beautify penis. I have to say, Reznor’s got one of the most phenomenal members I have ever seen. Once the chastity device is off, it’s immediately hard, like one of those self-inflating rafts. It’s thick, cut, with a perfectly formed large, mushroom head. There’s little in the way of veins except a thick ridge on top right down the middle. Since I’m kneeling in front of him like I’m worshiping it, there’s nothing to do but actually worship it. My mouth does down all the way in one go to the root.

“Ah, shit,” he pants.

I look up at him with my tongue hanging out—he’s gritting his teeth with a look of relief I’ve never seen him express—and go back down on his shaft. He’s shuddering with pleasure. I never thought this would happen, but there you go—life always throws the unexpected at you. Which is why I’m not too surprised when he pulls me up on his bed, and spreads his legs.

Two choices present itself: fuck him or rim him. I spread his bruised cheeks and lick his asshole. His breath catches in his throat, and he looks at me astonished. I dig my tongue in his hole and he tries to suppress a moan as best he can. I pull his ass lips apart and penetrate deeper. He pushes up my head to look at me.

“That’s where I shit, man,” he says, in excited disbelief.

“Yeah, and I was just sucking where your piss comes out.” I tell him. “Body parts can multitask, or didn’t you know that?”

He answers by pushing my head back between his legs. Aside from his tight body, he’s got a glorious, sweet puckered hole. It’s so tight but winking madly. I swear his lips are kissing mine, both of us intensely responding to each other. I swirl my tongue around and into his hole, and he’s rotating his hips because of it. I give his hole a variety of rimming techniques. I flatten my tongue and give him a long, wet lap—which I can tell his hole loves by flaring out—then drill inside him with a pointed tip and flicker it till he gasps some more. 

“Push out,” I encourage him. He does and his hole opens like a tiny, budding flower. I take advantage and pull those petals apart, and dive inside him much deeper where the pink petals turn to a deep red well. I’ve had many teachers, most of the older men from the lake, who have over the years shared their rimming knowledge with me, and I love sharing that now with Reznor. “It doesn’t have to hurt,” I tell him looking over his luscious balls. I lick them, too. Pop one testicle in my mouth, then the other. He gives me a rare Reznor smile, albeit one that’s extremely filthy. He pushes my head back down wanting me to eat his hole more. The boy knows what he wants.

He’s relaxed and it’s easy to ply his ass lips farther apart with two fingers. My tongue run three-sixty clockwise around the inside of his hole, then in reverse. I drool and push the saliva inside him, twirl my middle finger in deep until I feel his prostate. I rub it till his excited as hell, in full heat. I love playing with his body; everything's new to him. He’s drawing in breaths excitedly and I know he’s primed for cock, specifically, my cock. 

I reach into the nightstand between the beds and pull out my lube. I slip out of my gym shorts springing my woody, grease my pole and tenderly slick up his hole. Slowly I plunge headlong into the warmest, softest hole you can imagine. He is so wet, wanting to be fucked. There’s nothing forced. His ass lips flare as my cock penetrates him, pushing back my foreskin feeling my cockhead burrow into his hole. His libido matches mine—I want to fuck him and he so wants to be fucked. His eyes are closed and I don’t mind just looking at his features as I slide inch by inch inside him. His full lips peel apart in astonishment, revealing his bright teeth reflected in the cool moonlight. The scruff of his chin for the first time I find attractive, feel it with my fingers, gather it in my mouth, as I’m stroke my cock with his velvety sphincter. Within his body he’s clutching me tightly, but his hips rock so that I know he wants more of me. I reply with three-quarters of my cock enjoying the last few inches of opening him up. His eyes flash, encouraging me to go on all the way. As I grind my hips, swirling my cock to stir his colon, he reaches up, grabs my hand. He flings my hand across his face, smacks himself with my palm. Hard. It startles me, this thunderclap across his face.

Reznor looks at me to see my reaction. I guess I’m more puzzled than anything. I want to pleasure myself in his ass not cause him harm. But as I’m fucking him down to my balls, he takes my hands and places them around his neck. “Please,” is all he says. I’m not sure what to do. I put my hands on either side of his face, but he grabs my wrists and puts my hands back on his neck. As I fuck him, I gently squeeze his neck, my thumbs at his windpipe. “Harder,” he rasps. I keep fucking his hole and, I knows it’s perverse, but my hands at his throat gets me leaking inside him. His hole is extra wet now, more slippery than before. This increased lubrication intensifies the pleasure I feel in my cockhead. My shaft is slick. I fuck him harder. I tighten my grip. Reznor’s face begins to turn red. “Hurt me, Kyle,” he gasps. He’s starts stroking his erect cock. The harder I squeeze my hands around him the faster he strokes. He nods his head as he looks pleadingly in my eyes. I choke him in earnest, seeing his face turn purple, his eyes bulging. And as fucked up as that is, I can’t stop myself from fucking him harder, and feel him shooting hot ropes of cum onto my chest, which makes me cum, hard, inside him. I hold his neck in my hands, shaking, until his eyes go blank.

I release my stranglehold and he heaves hoarsely for breath. His hands reach up and grab my shoulders as he stares up at the ceiling. He’s not with me. There’s a shell of a person my cock is inside of, but Raznor’s somewhere else. It takes a moment for his breathing to coming back to normal, his eye to glow alive again. He keeps hold of my shoulders, squints his eyes with intense concentration. He whispers, “I see it.” I look at his face, then over my shoulder to see what he’s looking at. My cock oozes out of him, and I feel a small flood of my sperm dribble out. His eyes are fixed in the corner of the room. “Fear and dread,” he says, dazed, staring at Mars. 

“Fear and dread,” I echo.

[negchaserlooking]

Holy shit!

[BoYGaSM]

WOW!