A gay story: Fuck Around and Find Out This is my first attempt at Male/Male erotica. I almost hesitated to put it in the Gay Male category because it’s one of those “previously straight guy’s first time” stories where the main character struggles with reluctance and shame. But that’s my own personal perspective from my youth. Thanks to RSchwuler and donaldelliott for their advice and assurance that these kind of fantasies are more common than most men realize, and not necessarily offensive to readers who are unreservedly gay. If you like these kind of stories, check those writers out. If you don’t, well, you’ve been warned.
All characters are at least 18 years old.
***
What the fuck had I done?
How had I ended up on my shoulders and knees on the thin futon on the floor of a high school’s theatre prop storage room, pinned down by an all-state defensive tackle’s gigantic hands spread out on my back, with his menacing cock nudging against my ass?
I felt my own tears on my face. I was crying from both the fear, and from the sudden clarity that my near-nakedness had brought — the reality of what I was doing, what I was letting Luke Wallace do to me.
What was I doing? Why had I thought I wanted this? The fear of the discomfort of a huge foreign object inside my body wasn’t the half of it. The reality was, that foreign object was a living, pulsing appendage of another young male, who was about to fuck me in the ass. I was letting him make a cock sleeve out of me. And now I couldn’t take it back. It was too late.
I wasn’t gay, I kept telling myself, even now. I liked girls … even though I was too shy, or too afraid of rejection, to do much about it. It was girls that I wanted to date, to kiss, to have sex with. I wasn’t romantically interested in boys. I didn’t want to kiss them.
At least, I dimly realized, at least he knew what he was doing. He hadn’t been all bluster. Mine wasn’t the first ass he had penetrated.
He had brought lube. Of course he had! I wouldn’t have had the nerve to carry a tube of lubricant to the cash register, for fear of being confronted by some stern adult asking for my ID. Luke had probably tossed it on the counter and announced to everyone in the vicinity that he was going to be deflowering someone tonight.
He had used that lube to wordlessly and purposefully prepare me with his fingers — rather aggressively, but effectively, skillfully even. I was surprised, actually, at how easily I had accommodated his fingers, properly lubricated. What was going to come next, I was afraid, would be a different story.
It didn’t surprise me to think that he had fucked girls in the ass before; but I had suspected his bragging about turning boys into sissies was bullshit. I had called him on it. He had told me, “Fuck around and find out.”
Now, I suspected his boasts were based on experience.
And that made me wonder, who were the other boys at Glenview High School who had been prostrate beneath Luke, writhing and groaning with his cock up their ass? Who were the other members of this Hall of Shame I was about to join?
The fact that I didn’t know their names wasn’t proof that they didn’t exist. My current situation rather implied that they did. But at least, I was lucid enough to realize, it meant Luke didn’t fuck and tell. Or at least he didn’t name names.
God, what had I gotten myself into? I dropped my forehead onto the mattress, and bit my lip. I just had to wait for this to be over. I had fucked around and now I was about to find out.
***
I was late getting to lunch. I had had student council business in the principal’s office, only for a few minutes, but now I had to get in line with all the freshmen and sophomores. And by the time I got my tray of mystery meat and over-salted green beans, most of the gang I normally sat with were finishing up their meals and heading out to grab a few minutes of spring sunshine.
So I was briefly alone at a table in the cafeteria. But not for long. A minute later, I heard the “ah-OOO-ga” sound of a vintage klaxon horn, the kind you might hear coming from a 1928 Packard in a Marx Brothers movie. It was Luke Wallace, the star defensive end from the football team, making a juvenile mouth sound to announce his presence, along with his entourage, as he so often did.
I turned and greeted them with a resigned grin as they helped themselves to the empty seats around me.
“Hey, Marty,” he greeted me, using a nickname that no one else used. My name is Robert Martin, and I go by Rob.
“Hi Luke,” I replied, and then to his cohort: “Guys.”
The fact is, I got along with Luke just fine, even though sometimes his relentless teasing got on my nerves. But Luke teased everyone. In truth, we weren’t as different as first appearances would suggest.
Yeah, Luke was an All-State football player. He was six-foot three and well-built, and annoyingly good-looking to boot, with a broad cheerful face and a mop of dark hair. He was of course popular with all the girls, and, according to rumors that he encouraged, a couple of the younger female teachers as well. But he wasn’t a dumb jock; that was just a role that for some reason he enjoyed playing. In truth he was a very good student. He was going to the Naval Academy.
And I wasn’t quite the nerd that he liked to tease me about being. Yeah, I only carried about 145 pounds on my five-ten frame, but I did play sports — I ran cross-country and had played baseball. Because I wanted to fit it, and so I did what it took to earn a letter jacket. It was good for my college applications, like all my other extra-curricular activities. Yes, I was also a straight A student, and President of Student Council. So I knew I wasn’t unpopular. I knew I wasn’t bad-looking, although I was resigned to being thought of as “cute,” rather than strikingly handsome.
I could tell myself — and sometimes I told others — that all this activity was the reason I didn’t date. Had to build that resume, get a scholarship. But the real reason was that I was shy around girls. I could give a speech in front of two thousand people at a convocation, but put me alone with a pretty girl and I was tongue-tied.
It certainly wasn’t because I wasn’t interested in girls, or attracted to girls. Indeed, I seemed to have moved through a cycle of crushes on some of the prettiest, most popular girls in school — girls that my presence in clubs and classes gave me the opportunity to chat with, but never work up the nerve to ask to a movie or a dance. I would idolize them, put them on a pedestal; and I would refrain from sullying them by even masturbating to thoughts about them. And then they ended up “going steady” with somebody else, someone with more confidence and a less fragile ego.
So at the same time, I worked my way through the yearbook, jerking off to the images of other girls … bad girls who I imagined might seduce or trick me into sex. That way, I could have guilt-free orgasms, without defiling my image of the girls I wanted to date. Although I felt guilty anyway, afterwards. No, I was plenty interested in girls. I just lacked the confidence to act on it.
Meanwhile, back in the cafeteria Luke was taking up half of his side of the table, holding court. Apparently, the topic of conversation was that a star running back from a rival school was getting a scholarship to a Big Ten school. The guys weren’t happy about it.
Suddenly Luke noticed something on Jeff’s tray, and reached over to grab a Hostess Ding Dong off of it. “Where’d you get this?” he asked.
“Grabbed it from one of the freshman over at the brown bag table,” Jeff replied. “Why?”
Luke was turning the snack over in his hands, examining the wrapper. “Just seeing if it’s one of mine.” He looked at me and winked. “I’ve got a night job over at the snack factory, ya know.
“I fill about a thousand of these a night.”
I rolled my eyes as Luke’s entourage cackled, but I also allowed myself to smile along. Calling these guys sophomoric was an insult to underclassmen.
“Speaking of snack cakes, I’ll bet Jameson is a twinkie,” suggested Bill, who was one of our linebackers, changing the subject back to the Southfield running back.
“He can suck my dick,” grumbled Jeff, who played safety for us.
“He DID suck my dick,” Luke pronounced. “Every time I tackled him behind the line.”
They all laughed. I rolled my eyes again.
“Yeah, and what about their quarterback?” added Bill. “Man, we hogtied and buttfucked him!”
“Squealed like a pig!” Luke agreed, as the two of them high-fived. “Hogtied and BUTT-fucked!”
“What a bunch of sissy bitches,” Jeff snorted.
“What?” Luke suddenly demanded, and I realized he was looking directly at me. I must have been letting my bemusement show.
“Nothing,” I said, taking a bite and chewing before deciding to push my luck. “I just think it’s funny.”
“What’s funny?”
“I just don’t get how this insult works,” I heard myself saying. What was I doing? “Doesn’t butt-fucking another guy make you gay, too?”
Luke scowled.
“It’s only gay to suck dick. It’s gay to get fucked.”
“Uh huh,” I replied, skeptically.
“Anyway, the fact is, they all secretly want it.
“I don’t know how it is in cross country, Marty, but in football, the biggest dick is always the one that ends up on top. The guy on the bottom of the pile is the guy that belonged there in the first place.”
His buddies were nodding in agreement, as if Luke was reciting his own personal catechism.
“Fuck around and find out, dude,” he continued. I hoped no one saw me flinch; or realized that I had heard that as something more ominous than standard bluster.
“You’d be surprised how many guys just can’t wait to be turned into pussies,” he continued, “And I got just the tool for the job.”
Luke gestured as if he was grabbing his crotch. “Yeah, I call it the Pussifier,” he cackled. “‘Cause they may have assholes when I put it in, but by the time I’m done, they’ve got pussies.”
The guys all laughed, uproariously. I grinned and laughed along. But underneath the table, I realized, my penis was getting alarmingly hard inside my pants.
***
That night I was eager to get to bed early.
I had a recurring masturbatory fantasy involving my friend Tammy. Tammy lived down the road from me; our families had both moved here the same summer, almost three years ago; we met on the school bus on the first day of school. We became friends easily enough; but she had started dating an upperclassman (who had a car, of course) almost immediately, and so I precluded myself from ever developing a romantic interest in her. Which isn’t to say I didn’t have a sexual interest in her.
Tammy was quite pretty, with shoulder-length blonde hair, big brown eyes, and a very nicely shaped body. It was no wonder the older boys targetted her for acquisition from day one, and Mark Fletcher was the lucky winner. But I had ample opportunity to chat with her, without the need to worry about asking her out.
So in my fantasy, Tammy and I were what I would later call “fuckbuddies,” but with a twist. We had a magical ability to trade bodies. Tammy wanted to know what sex felt like for her boyfriend; so I could allow her to experience the sensations through my body. And of course, I wanted to know what sex felt like for a girl … even though at that point, I still didn’t know exactly what sex felt like for a young man.
I didn’t even know what sex felt like to a guy, why was I leaping ahead to wondering what it felt like for a girl? But I thought I had an idea of how good sex would feel for me with a girl. I knew how good my well-lubricated fist felt, stroking up and down the length of my dick, squeezing and releasing. Stroking in and out of a girl’s pussy would feel something like that, only better, I assumed.
What did it feel like for her? Maybe the intense sensitive sensations of warm wet friction felt similar. But what did it feel like to have something big and hard moving inside your body, pushing your internal organs out of its way? It was intimidating to think about, but surely it didn’t hurt, not after the first time; or else so many girls wouldn’t do it.
Yeah, I worried a little bit about this fantasy. Did it make me gay? I certainly couldn’t ask anybody about it. So I indulged myself in anonymous silence.
Tonight, I was picturing Tammy shimmying out of her jeans and panties to service Luke, the loud arrogant guy from lunch. I had to admit, the two of them would make an attractive couple — perhaps the two most perfect physical specimens in the school. I would pay to watch them in a live sex show.
And I was sure that Luke would jump at the chance to gather Tammy’s heavy breasts up in his gigantic hands and suck each of them in turn into his greedy mouth; to get her well-toned thighs wrapped around his long trunk and …
But first Tammy had to drop to her knees and pay homage to Luke’s famous cock, the doubtlessly huge, veiny tool that he like to brag had been up inside so many girls, and women, at Glenview High School and in the surrounding towns. Not to mention, based on his ridiculous boasts from today, in the willing mouths and asses of various young men that he saw as rivals to be subdued.
I envisioned Tammy undoing Luke’s belt and zipper, looking up into his smug face with her big doe eyes as she fished the monster out of his underwear. Then my perspective changed, and I was no longer watching Tammy. I was Tammy.
And Luke was filling my mouth — no, not my mouth, Tammy’s mouth!, I tried to convince myself — with his bulbous, spongy head, and with the thick, veiny shaft behind it. Thrusting rhythmically, working purposefully toward filling that mouth with spurt after spurt of thick, gooey cream. Enough to fill a thousand Ding Dongs.
And that’s as far as I got before I was ejaculating myself, uncontrollably, helplessly, into the Kleenex in my hand. A quarter of a Ding Dong’s worth.
***
Luke and I had three classes together the next day — there weren’t that many options for college prep classes in our small school — and I found myself unsettled and squirming in each of them, glancing over at him all too often, wondering whether he had somehow sensed my strange, inexplicable arousal during lunch the day before. He gave no such indication.
Then there were the athletic fields after school. Luke was on the track team, throwing the discus and shot-putting. I was the student manager of the baseball team. I had actually played the two previous years, and the coach of the team, Coach Hall, had become my mentor and sponsor. But I couldn’t hit a curve ball, and I was merely serviceable as an outfielder. I clearly wasn’t good enough to earn playing time over more talented underclassmen, and so after last season Coach Hall and I had had an honest conversation, and he had asked me to help him as an assistant for my senior year.
The sun was setting and the parking lot was almost empty by the time I left the gym. I had stayed after practice to organize some equipment and update the team statistics on Coach Hall’s computer. I was perturbed, but not alarmed, to realize when I got to my car that I had a flat tire.
I sighed and opened the trunk. We all carried jacks and spares in those days. I put the jack in place, then grabbed the tire iron to start removing the lug nuts.
And, shit. They were locked solid, virtually welded in place by a winter’s salt and moisture. I tried standing on the tire iron, but it just popped off the nut.
So I was relieved when Luke pulled up in his Camaro. It figured that he would also be the last person on campus tonight; he often stayed after track practice to lift weights. In fact, his coach had even given him a set of keys so he could train on his own.
“Flat tire, Marty?” he asked, jovially but sympathetically.
“Yeah,” I replied. “I’ve got a spare, but I can’t get this one off.”
“Here, let me try,” he said, getting out of his car. “I’m an expert at getting off.”
I rolled my eyes, but instead of coming directly over, he opened his trunk, and pulled out a three-foot length of galvanized pipe. He inserted the pipe over the end of the tire iron and with one jerk, the lug nut moved.
“Just gotta have the right tool for the job,” he explained with a wink.
I gratefully let him loosen the other four nuts as well, then started working the jack while he went to grab the spare out of my open trunk.
“Jesus, Marty, your spare’s flat, too.”
Well, hell.
He stood up straight and looked around the empty parking lot. “Eh, just leave it here tonight. I can give you a ride home, and we can go into town and get your spare patched tomorrow.”
That worked. I would be riding the bus tomorrow morning, but I was happy to take him up on his offer.
Streaking past the beanfields on the way to my home, he asked me, “So, you decided where you’re going to school yet?”
“Not yet,” I replied. “Still hoping to hear about a couple of scholarships.” Everyone knew I had been accepted into Cornell, but my family wasn’t going to be able to afford it without financial aid.
“You’ll get it,” he assured, with more than a bit of a grumble in his voice. “You always do.”
“Jesus, Luke,” I responded. “Don’t sound so happy for me.”
“Eh, sorry,” he acknowledged. “But I do get pissed off a little bit about how you’re always right, always first. In class, I mean.”
I arched my eyebrows in surprise. “Really?”
“Yeah, really! It’s like in chemistry last year. Solomon grades on the curve. If you had gotten a 92, you still would have had the highest score, but my 85 would have been an A-. But, no, you had to get a 98, and so I got a B.”
Hmm. That had never occurred to me. But then again, Luke, you got into the Naval Academy. You’re still ticked off about a B in junior chemistry?
“I’m just trying to do my best,” I said, meekly. Then added, “Just like you do.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t like finishing second.” That was Luke, I figured. I thought back to his comment the other day about how in his world, the biggest dick always ended up on top, and felt a little shiver.
He wasn’t being rational, though. “Well,” I countered, gingerly, “Maybe you ought to play football a little less hard, and then maybe I could make the team.”
He stared at me wide-eyed for a moment, then burst into laughter. I laughed too, in relief. “Touche,” he said.
I smiled. I wasn’t surprised that Luke knew the word, but I was a little surprised that he used it. He wouldn’t have done so in front of his entourage. It wouldn’t have fit his “image.”
He changed the subject. “So, who are you asking to the prom?”
“I’m not even sure I’m going,” I replied.
“Jesus, guy, you’ve got to go to prom. Only losers don’t go to prom.”
I knew Luke was taking Andrea Godby, one of the cheerleaders. They had been an item for at least a year. Andrea was a hottie, all right, but I had never been attracted to her. Partly because of the way she tolerated Luke’s bragging, real or imaginary, about all the girls he fucked on the downlow.
“I’m not dating anyone right now,” I offered, weakly.
“So what?” he snorted. “It’s not like you’ve got to marry your prom date.” Although, actually, I thought, it kind of was, at least around here. I’ll bet half the seniors in this high school married their prom dates within a year.
I shrugged, so he continued. “Anyway, you’re never dating anyone. What’s up with that? Makes people think you’re a fag.”
I looked at him in dismay. “People think I’m a … fag?” I didn’t like using the word, but it was his word.
He looked away for a moment, then looked back at me sympathetically. “Nah,” he said. “I mean, not really. And no one who matters.”
He was actually being nice to me. But not for long.
“Hey, I think most of the Plug Uglies are still looking for prom dates.”
I laughed out loud at that. The Plug Uglies were the guys on the offensive line on the football team. And they were all big. And ugly. Some of them were as tall as Luke; some of them were substantially heavier. None of them were the athletes he was, however.
“So?”
“I’m just sayin’. If you’re not going to ask a girl to the prom, I could set you up with one of them.”
“Uh huh,” I responded. Rather than, “Fuck you.” Sarcasm was more my style. Plus that, I was a little surprised to have felt a tiny shiver at the suggestion. He just looked at me with a lop-sided smirking grin.
“You know, you could carry it off,” he added. “The prom dress, I mean. Andrea would kill for your legs.
“And anyway, it’s not gay if you’re actually a girl.”
I realized that my mouth was open. I realized that I still hadn’t said “fuck you.” Instead, I was running in my mind down the offensive line. Hulking, lumbering dudes with the beginnings of potbellies. Charlie. Alan. Steve. Bruce. And at right tackle, Truck. Mack, actually, but since sixth grade he had been Mack Truck — bigger and taller than Luke, but with his weight already around his middle instead of his chest; and with bad acne and one eye crossed. I shuddered.
He pulled into my driveway, and stopped the car but didn’t turn it off. I just thanked him for the ride, and got out and went inside, conscious of the fact that he wasn’t pulling away as I walked up the steps.
That night, I traded bodies with Tammy and masturbated furiously to the thought of me being her, on her on her back underneath Luke, her thighs up around his waist, feeling him thrusting up inside her; no, face it, inside me, making me feel delightfully full. Arching my back so he could take my heavy breasts into his wet and dangerous mouth, closing his lips, his teeth, around my nipples, each in turn.
But as my orgasm approached, in the seconds where I reached that point where it was inevitable, where I could no longer control my thoughts any more than I could stop my imminent ejaculation, I suddenly had a different, disturbing image.
I was on my back, all right, but I was in the back seat of Truck’s Monte Carlo, in a shimmering prom dress that was bunched up around my waist, my long legs in stockings, wrapped around his clumsily-thrusting, fleshy torso as he jack-hammered a fat, ugly cock up into my guts.
My cream-colored silk panties already dangling as a trophy from his rear-view mirror.
I looked down to where Truck’s pelvis was slapping against my bottom and the backs of my thighs. And I didn’t see the neat triangle of Tammy’s golden pubic hair. I saw my penis, desperate and hard, flopping helplessly against my belly with each thrust of Truck’s hips.
And then I was spurting into the kleenex.
And then I was done, and awash in shame.
***
The next day I got a ride into town and back, patched my spare tire, and got home at the usual time. And found that the day’s mail included my scholarship offer.
The school guidance counselor had been notified the same day. She stopped me in the hallway, congratulated me, and got my permission to include it in the morning announcements.
I spent the rest of the day getting congratulations. From teachers. From girls. Even from the Plug Uglies. And from Luke, grudgingly.
“Thanks, Luke,” I said, as the other guys dispersed and we were left standing alone by my locker. He lingered a moment. I felt a little uncomfortable, as if he was looking at me with resentment, viewing me as a rival. Like the Southfield running back.
It felt weird, unsettling.
“You had to go and do it, didn’t ya?” he muttered.
What, I thought? Get a scholarship to a top school? Take one trophy that wasn’t ending up in your loaded trophy case?
We were friends. Not best buddies, but certainly, two guys who comfortably co-existed in the overlapping top social circles in our school. He had certainly been friendly enough two nights ago when he helped me with my flat tire, gave me a ride home.
Rescued me. Like a damsel in distress.
I was getting angry with him for making me feel this way. I was also feeling a strange, nauseating compulsion to placate him.
“Don’t worry, big guy,” I told him. I couldn’t believe what I was about to say. “The biggest dick always ends up on top.”
He glared at me, but I managed to maintain eye contact. “That’s right,” he said.
“So?” I offered, as a follow-up. Not, “So prove it.” That would have been too much. I was into subtlety. Luke wasn’t; but he was smart enough to know it when he saw it. I was going to fuck around and find out.
He leaned in to me and whispered, “Theater prop storage room. After practice.”
***
And that’s how I ended up on my hands and knees on the thin futon on the floor of a high school’s storage room, pinned down by Luke’s gigantic hands spread out on my back, with his cock buried in my ass. Finding out.
Ten minutes earlier, I had taken one last deep breath and turned the handle on the storage room door, halfway hoping it would be locked. It wasn’t. I stepped inside and closed it behind me.
“Over here,” I heard Luke rasp. He was at the far end of the darkened room, beyond a couple of rows of shelving units and racks of theatrical costumes, barely illuminated by a flashlight on the floor.
I still half-expected three of his henchmen to step out of the shadows to beat me to a pulp for being a faggot. But it was just the two of us, and Luke was keeping his voice low. He didn’t want to get caught, either. I guessed that was a good sign.
My heart pounding, I stepped toward him. I could barely see his lopsided grin, or his eyes, which seemed to have a certain wildness to them. He held up a paper bag. “Here,” he said. “Put these on.”
I took the bag and looked into it, but couldn’t make out the pile of fabric inside. So I reached in and pulled out … a cheerleader’s sweater. I flinched a bit, knowing that the next item I pulled out would be a cute little pleated skirt. Well, it didn’t surprise me. He had as much as told me that he was going to make me a girl.
I unbuttoned my shirt and dropped it on the floor, and pulled on the sweater. It was a little tight around the shoulders, and didn’t come down to my navel. “Good, good,” Luke chortled. “Go on.”
So I unbuckled my belt, kicked off my sneakers, and dropped my jeans. Nervous as I was, I could tell that I was nevertheless tenting my briefs. Luke could tell, too, and he snickered a bit. “Those too,” he ordered.
So I stepped out of my underwear, looking down at how my penis was arching up away from my body, pale and pink in the flashlight’s glow. Then I pulled the skirt up my legs and over my small, round ass. The elastic waistband hung low around my hips, and my erection was still making the front of the skirt jut out ridiculously. Still, I suddenly wished I had a mirror.
Meanwhile Luke had undone his pants, and had shoved them down his thick thighs. And there it was. In contrast to my prong — smooth and rigid and childishly enthusiastic — Luke’s manhood was a slab of meat hanging between his legs, marbled with veins, just now beginning to extend and thicken.
I was flushed, and intimidated, and embarassed. It was obvious that my entire body was sexually excited to have been naked in front of him. His body was more laconic, as if his interest in this encounter was based on something other than sexual gratification. Or, as if his schlong was waiting for tribute before showing engagement.
“You make a pretty cheerleader,” he croaked. I just gulped in response.
“Now get on your knees.”
He placed a hand on the top of my head and pushed down. Not very hard. It didn’t take much.
It’s where I wanted to be; I just wanted him to put me there.
I was face to face with another penis for the first time in my life; and not just any penis, but the most legendary one in Glenview High School. I could feel the heat radiating from it as it rose to meet me. Semi-flaccid, it was as long as mine was, hard; and I felt a shiver of fear and awe as I contemplated it doubling in size like mine did.
I put one hand around it and felt it twitch and stiffen. It was hot, five degrees hotter than the skin on my palm. I gave it a slight squeeze and his knob flared. Fortunately, Luke was a shower, not a grower. He was bigger than me, no question, but not some monster.
“Lick it,” he ordered.
I extended my tongue, tentatively, and touched it to the soft, wrinkled flesh beneath his knob. A little pearl of pre-cum appeared at the tip, and I didn’t have to be told to lap it up.
“Good girl. Now suck it.”
I opened my mouth and leaned forward, feeling the crown of his head pushing past my lips and onto my tongue; closing my lips around the shaft. It was warm and fleshy, at least on the surface. Iron hard below that. I drew it in as far as I could and then pulled back, lips sealed, instinctively. Just like in my shameful fantasies.
“Yeah,” Luke growled, with satisfaction in his gravelly voice. “That’s good.”
It was good, I thought, ashamed to be pleased. But, Luke would know.
“Look at you, down on your knees, sucking cock.”
I hummed an affirmation around the rigid pole of flesh that was slowly moving in and out of my mouth.
“You’re a real cocksucker, now,” he grunted. “Aren’t you, Marti?”
Marti, I processed. Marti with an “i,” dotted with a heart. I hummed again.
“AREN’T you?”
I nodded vigorously, feeling how that made the head of his cock press against the roof of my mouth.
“Say it,” he demanded.
I opened my mouth to let him slip out, and surprised myself with how much saliva slid out with it, coating my chin. I looked up into his leering face, swallowed hard, and replied, “I’m a cocksucker.”
“Damn straight,” he muttered.
Without being told, I reached up and cupped his balls, heavy and potent in his loose sack. I couldn’t believe I was doing this. I shouldn’t be here. But as long as I was, I couldn’t deny that it was thrilling. Sickeningly thrilling.
Maybe, I thought, the best thing that could happen now was for me to bring him off, let him cum in my mouth, give him that victory, and get out of here with my anal virginity intact. But I also wasn’t completely disappointed when he wrapped his own fist around his rod and withdrew it.
“Turn around,” he rasped. And I did, still on my knees, knowing intuitively how to position myself. I knee-walked up onto the futon, and lowered my hands and shoulders to the mattress.
I squeezed my eyes shut, sensing him moving behind me. Then I felt the cool gel of the lubricant that he had brought along; the blunt but bearable pressure of a finger opening me up, then two, less bearable, twisting and scissoring to open me up. That was unexpected but I would soon realize how much I appreciated it.
Because when that sticky hand moved to grab me and hold me by my hip, the next thing I felt against my sensitive puckered anus was the fat, fleshy knob of Luke’s cock. The Pussifier. And when he started to push that in, I felt an explosion of sharp, bright pain.
Pain can be dull, round, hollow. It can feel as deep as the E string on a bass guitar. Getting punched in the balls feels like that. Or pain can be the high E string on a Fender Stratocaster, played at the 15th fret. This pain was like that, and it would have been worse if Luke didn’t hold still for a moment and then sink into me extremely slowly.
That’s when he applied more lube, and pushed until I felt his pubic hair against the crack of my ass. Then he pulled back out, just a bit, and eased back in, promptly reclaiming the vacated territory. And again. And again. Fucking me. “This. Belongs. To. Me.” The initial penetration had been a violation. This was fucking.
My brain was scrambled, failing to process the explosion of sensations and thought fragments that were cascading through it like a jar of marbles spilling down a stairway. Those instants of lucidity, the realization that Luke did indeed know what he was doing; that the rumors and boasts were true; that I was the newest member of a shameful secret society; bouncing around in my head with absurd similes and strobe-lit images of heaven and hell. Mostly hell, but an alluring, captivating hell. I wasn’t sure which way was up or down or front or back, until finally Luke’s harsh raspy whisper seated me back in reality.
“God, if only Coach Hall could see you now, huh?”
I moaned at the awful thought, and Luke took notice and laughed. “Yeah. Just imagine what he would think. Just imagine him standing in the doorway over there right now, watching you get fucked in the ass.”
I did. I opened my eyes — I hadn’t realized I had them closed — and looked toward the door, which of course remained closed. But I couldn’t help myself; my mind was conjuring an image of my baseball coach, my Physics teacher, my college application sponsor — standing in the doorway, eyes wide, mouth agape, watching my defilement. Disappointment. Disgust. The image made me clinch, which Luke obviously enjoyed.
I realized that he was now starting to move in and out of me faster, and my body was now ready to find it pleasurable. His hips were moving, not deeply, but steadily, and I was pushing my own back against him. He was truly fucking me now, and my body hadn’t just given up its resistance, my body was welcoming it.
With Coach Hall watching.
He pushed me down so my chest and shoulders were on the mattress, as was the side of my face, with my head turned to one side. My hands were still splayed open on the futon on either side of my shoulders, my elbows bent, as if I might try to push myself back up on all fours.
Luke was having none of that. Without changing the rhythm of his hips thrusting steadily, purposefully, in and out of me, he moved his right hand from my shoulder blade to my wrist, and pulled my arm back so it was across my lower back. I didn’t resist. I had a vague sense of what he was doing, and something inside my head made me want to comply.
He took my other wrist and pulled it into place, crossing my hands behind my back and then wrapping them up in one of his large, strong paws. The position made me feel … even more taken.. Like a hostage now. Somehow, the thought actually relieved me, relaxed me. He was thrusting ever more vigorously now, but it was causing me less pain. The stretched-to-the-point-of-tearing sensation at my anal ring was feeling more now like an irritation, an itch that was, in fact, getting scratched. The blunted, blurred sensation of fullness beyond that was becoming something more than tolerable.
Something terrible was happening. Something horrible. It was starting to feel good. Shit. I was surrendering myself to powerful and exciting sensations that I couldn’t deny and couldn’t resist.
He was not just thrusting now, but rocking; gyrating his hips, making the column of flesh with which he was plumbing my depths stab into me at new angles, boring me out like the cylinders on the 350 engine of his Camaro. Like scraping the insides out of a pumpkin. But despite the violence of these mental images, it didn’t hurt. I was too excited to hurt.
And then he found a way to excite me even more.
“Who ya goin’ to the prom with now, Marti?” Luke panted into my ear. I was in no condition to answer, of course.
“Not Beth Davis, I don’t think. Girls don’t go to the prom with sissies.”
Somewhere in my brain it occurred to me that this banter must excite him as much as it did me — why else would be be doing it? And, why wasn’t it pushing him over the edge? I mean, it was almost pushing me over the edge, and I wasn’t the one with a well-lubed tight virgin ass milking my cock.
He could certainly tell that I was pushing back against him now, fucking him back.
I felt him now pushing me forward, off my knees, flat down on my stomach now, trapping my penis against the mattress. He released my wrists but I just let my arms flop to my sides. And then I felt him following me down, his thighs inside mine, his body against my back. He had pushed the sweater up under my armpits, and the skirt was bunched around my waist. His hipbones were bracketing my entire ass, that’s how much wider his body was than mine; and his long flat stomach was hot on the small of my back. I felt one of his forearms snake around my shoulders, pressing up against my upper chest, pulling me back against his own shuddering pectorals.
Something had clicked in him, too. I was no longer an ass to be fucked with his cock. I was a body to be owned, possessed, by his entire being.
I couldn’t tell now whether my eyes were closed or not; whether the storeroom door was closed or halfway open; whether the images I was seeing were real or imagined. But what I was seeing was every girl I had ever had a crush on …
one by one …
appearing in the dim light from the open door …
one replacing the other, or entering the room one after another, making room in silence for the next one around the perimeter …
Pretty girls, in their faded jeans and pastel sweaters, stopped in their tracks …
stunned looks on their faces … eyes wide, jaws dropping open …
some raising their hands to cover their gaping mouths, others biting their lower lips …
shocked … appalled …
aroused.
I felt a sudden, ludicrous wave of regret I couldn’t see myself as they saw me. Prone, naked from the waist down, a ridiculous cheerleader skirt bunched around my waist and a sweater pushed up under my armpits, covered by the All-State defensive tackle, his own tight t-shirt riding up on his back, his jeans still around his ankles, his muscular ass clenching and unclenching as he rode me, obviously burying his unseen cock in my ass. And my ass, pushing back against him, having surrendered to him, now willingly, eagerly accepting his violation.
I had never witnessed, let alone participated in, another person’s orgasm. But I could tell his was coming.
And then he was there, plunging one final time and holding still, and I could feel him pulsing inside me, discharging his lethal payload, that warm slippery potent goo that could make girls into mothers and boys into sissies. I couldn’t actually feel the spurting semen itself, but I knew it was there, spreading up and inward and throughout every inch of my bowels, coating the walls of my intestines, diffusing through the thin membranes on its mission to irrevocably alter my nature, to “pussify” me.
And my degradation was amplified by Luke’s exhaltation of his victorious, glorious climax. I couldn’t see Luke’s face, but I sensed his posture of celebration. I remembered seeing him on the field after sacking the quarterback — standing over his conquest, dropping his shoulders, extending and flexing his arms, tilting his head back and bellowing at the sky. It seemed to me that Luke was doing that now, proclaiming himself the dominant silverback of the rainforest, reveling in his triumph and his orgasm.
And it was me, my body, specifically my delicate asshole, the tightly-stretched flesh around my anal ring, that had given it to him. Luke, the champion, the alpha, the stud who loved to brag that he had deflowered so many girls, satiated so many adult women. Cumming in little ol’ me. In my delirium I felt I should be proud.
I could feel his heart pounding against my back. And I could feel the moment when his rigid cock began to relax, and he began to deflate inside me. He took his forearm from around my chest and pushed himself up, and a moment later I felt the thick heavy fullness that I come to accept as part of me, sliding back out of me. I felt empty even before his corona caught briefly against the grip of my sphincter, and then pulled free with a plop.
He managed to give me a slap on one ass cheek and rasp out, “Good girl.”
He said nothing else as he stood and pulled up his jeans in the darkness behind me.
I wondered if Luke felt the same wave of shame in his post-orgasmic slump as I always did. My own orgasm was going to have to wait until later. Anyway, I was dealing with plenty of shame without it.
“Don’t leave yet,” he was instructing me, as he fastened his belt. “Wait at least ten minutes.” Then he was gone. He needn’t have worried. I would be in no condition to move, physically or emotionally, any time soon.
***
The next day at school, I had those three classes with Luke. I purposefully avoided making eye contact with him, but I felt like he was pretty much ignoring me anyway. I had always wondered … how many of the rumors and stories he encouraged were true? But this time I wondered, how many girls at Glenview High School had come to school the day after giving Luke their virginity, ashamed or hopeful, and found themselves totally ignored by him?
And how many boys?
At any rate, my fears that everyone would look at me differently, be able to sense a change in me, were all unfounded. I felt like I was walking a little gingerly, but nothing that anyone noticed. No one was looking at me with a knowing grin and thinking, “Ah, he’s not a virgin any more.” Much less, “Ah, he’s not a boy any more.”
Life just went on, the way it does for everyone the day and the week after they have sex for the first time, no matter what gender they or their partner were.
I was still attracted to girls, and I was still too shy to risk asking anyone out. Eventually one of them asked me out. Karen Coleman asked me to the prom.
So, no, I didn’t go to the prom with the right tackle from the offensive line. Although a pair of my ivory silk panties did end up hanging from his rear view mirror. But that is another story.