A gay story: Fuck Around and Find Out – Pt. 02 You would think that finding out that I had won a scholarship to Cornell would be the highlight of my month, the most memorable moment of my senior year. But at the time, it was only the second most life-altering event within 24 hours.
Number one was losing my virginity.
By getting fucked in the ass.
Because, yeah, I’m a guy.
It all happened within a week. I didn’t think of myself as gay; I still didn’t, afterwards. But I had allowed myself to get into a cycle of teasing with Luke Wallace, the all-state defensive tackle who liked to make outrageous boasts about how many virgins he had deflowered, including his male rivals who he “sissified” with his big cock.
.
After he had done it to me on a futon in a darkened theater prop storage room, we never spoke of it again. The only acknowledgment was that he was now calling me “Marty,” in public, a play on my last name. Or, in the private joke in my head, “Marti,” with a little heart above the “i.” Because he had boasted that his cock was going to turn my ass into a pussy, and me into a girl. It was bullshit, of course, but erotic bullshit.
And now everyone was calling me Marty.
I didn’t expect it to ever happen again. That wasn’t Luke’s style, I knew now. Luke was all about the conquest, and now that I was in his trophy case, he had lost interest. And, oddly enough, that was okay with me.
The thing was, the experience was mind-blowing. After the initial pain of being stretched open, I had found the sensation of being filled up to have been overwhelming and exhilarating. I hadn’t had an orgasm, but Luke’s hard appendage inside me had rhythmically massaged some part of me that I didn’t know existed, and made me feel like I was on the verge of one for several straight minutes.
So, yeah, I had liked it.
But the other thing was that the whole time, I felt shame and regret and humiliation. I felt used, like this object to be wrapped around a cock and thrust into and cum into, and then thrown away, like a tube sock or a pair of sister’s panties. I was horrified by my visions of other people seeing me and finding out, thinking less of me, seeing me as pathetic. And all of those feelings were all jumbled up with the memory of a five-minute near-orgasm.
I wanted to do it again.
So, I started spending my last few weeks of high school imagining, contemplating how, and with whom, I might repeat the experience.
Oh, I didn’t lose interest in girls. I hadn’t completely changed teams. But I had already come to the conclusion that I wasn’t going to get into a romantic relationship with anyone around here in the last three or four months before I left for college. And of course, for me and for the only girls I was interested in, romance or relationship was a prerequisite for sex.
But that just left more mental space for me to think about those people for whom sex had nothing to do with romance. Guys.
I took my yearbook to bed and tried to imagine which other boys might be candidates for the kind of illicit, forbidden, one-off encounter that I had had with Luke. Of course, I started with the other jocks. They would be the most likely to have that primal, hyper-masculine ethic of dominance and submission that got me on Luke Wallace’s radar screen.
I recognized what traits made guys physically attractive to women, and used that as a starting point. I considered the obvious candidates. Jim, the quarterback; not tall, but with ice blue eyes and a sparkling smile. Or Monte, his lithe, sleek wide receiver. I considered other sports. I looked through the pictures of the wrestling team… short, stocky guys with menacing stares; two thirds of them, of course, carrying even less than my own 145 pounds. The idea of being dominated by a 5’4″ sophomore gave me a strange quiver; but other than that, I realized that… I wasn’t getting *aroused* by the notion of seeing any of these guys naked, or being naked in front of them.
I thought about what had aroused me in the days leading up to my submission to Luke.
And, shit.
I remembered how Luke had teased me about not having a prom date, and had jokingly offered to “set me up” with one of the Plug Uglies, the big lumbering dudes of the football team’s offensive line. How that night, I had mentally run down the list, and with a strange, compelling pit growing in my stomach, locked in on the right tackle, Truck. Mack McGivens, but known to everyone as Mack Truck.
Truck was in a couple more of my overlapping social circles. Like Luke, he was a decent student, another one of the dozen or so of us in the few college prep classes at our high school. Like me, he played sports to be a part of the in crowd, not because he was any good. Although I’m not sure he realized it.
And because he was 6’4″ and big, I think he modeled himself after Luke. But whereas Luke had kind of a good-natured self-awareness of his “act,” Truck seemed deadly serious. He was loud and overbearing in groups, and insisted on trying to make jokes that didn’t land, that just made me wince and look the other way.
In smaller groups we actually got along okay. Truck and my non-athlete friend Brian and I liked the same rock music, and we had gone to some concerts together. He still tried to act as if he was the leader, the alpha of our little group, and he still insisted on trying to make every line a joke, but he was okay.
The other thing we had in common was that we didn’t date. I didn’t date because I was too shy, afraid of being rejected even though in retrospect I shouldn’t have been. Truck didn’t date because he had learned about rejection the hard way.
Because Truck was the poster boy for the Plug Uglies. His 240 pounds had already started to settle around his middle. He had deep-set eyes, one of them wandering, under a vaguely Cro-Magnon brow and an unruly mop of straw-colored hair. He had the bulbous nose of a sixty-year-old drunk, and crooked lips. And he was cursed with far more than his share of acne.
And as I looked at his picture in the yearbook in my bed that night, I realized that my penis had grown almost painfully stiff. Thinking about getting fucked by Truck.
Damn it, it was all Luke’s fault. He had planted this idea in my head, just as deeply and irrevocably as he had planted his cock in my rectum.
Luke had conquered me, and enslaved me. And now that he owned me, it was his right to sell or give me to someone else. And whether the guy knew it yet or not, that someone was Truck. And as a conquered, enslaved spoil of Luke’s “war” on his perceived rivals, it was my obligation to submit, to Luke and to my new master. The Bible said so! Right there in Ephesians: “Slaves, obey your masters…”
I realized that Luke had not only taught me to crave the feeling of a hard cock moving in and out of body again. He had conditioned me to associate that desire with being submissive, overpowered, and humiliated. And I couldn’t think of anything more humiliating than offering my ass up to Truck McGivens.
Now I just had to figure out how to make it happen.
****
It took a while. Prom came and went, and so did graduation. I went to prom with Karen Coleman, a nice girl to whom I was not particularly attracted, because she asked me, and I was terrible at saying no thank you. Truck didn’t go the prom, of course. Unlike me, no one asked him.
I felt badly for him. I was afraid of rejection because I had been told I was “cute” instead of “ruggedly handsome.” Truck was downright unattractive.
I overheard one of the cheerleaders calling him “pizza face,” which I found cruel, and also a little repulsive. Especially since I had been fantasizing about being cheek-to-cheek with him, doing a horizontal dance in his back seat.
He was smart enough, and he could be funny if he would just stop constantly trying so hard. Eh, but who was I kidding? He was a blowhard. We shared some friends and some tastes in music, or I wouldn’t spend any time around him at all. I felt like I was trying to rationalize my irrational obsession with being dominated and humiliated sexually.
After graduation, my daily opportunities to be distracted by multiple pretty girls evaporated. I knew the restaurants where some of them worked, but you can only eat so much pie. That was okay. I was heading into my last summer in this small town, perhaps ever. I was content to save some money at my part-time job, play frisbee, and hang out with my buddies. Including listening to music with Brian and Truck. Which I found myself choosing to do more and more often.
***
That’s how I ended up in my family room one late afternoon with the two of them. And, when Brian got up and explained that he had plans that evening, alone with Truck.
We were listening to ZZ Top. He was oblivious to what was going through my mind.
Then the song “Pearl Necklace” came on. The band’s naughty homage to blow jobs and titty-fucking. Truck sang along. Badly, and loudly.
I just grinned and tried not to look annoyed.
“So,” he leered at me, “Did you give Karen Coleman one of those after the prom?”
“Truck,” I chided him. I wasn’t going to answer that, even though the answer was “no.” Or maybe because the answer was “no.” Actually, I wasn’t opposed in principle to the idea of Karen stroking me until I spurted strings of personalized organic jewelry over her not-insubstantial cleavage. But I had avoided doing anything that she might interpret as intimacy. I was leaving town in a few weeks.
But Truck didn’t need to know any of that. And he appeared to be chastened by my silence.
“Did you have a good time, though?” he asked, suddenly seeming serious. “At the prom, in general, I mean.”
“Eh,” I said. “It was okay. Over-rated.”
“Still,” he mused. “One of those things everyone talks about.”
“You didn’t miss much.”
“Hrmn,” he said, looking away. Being more honest and vulnerable than I had ever seen him. “No one was going to go to the prom with me anyway.”
I looked at him and for the first time felt something other than, or in addition to, my twisted forbidden desire to submit to him sexually. I still hadn’t figured out how I was ever going to approach this, and this scenario hadn’t been on my radar screen. But before I could weigh the wisdom of it, I heard myself saying, “I would.”
He looked at me in confusion.
“I mean, if I was a girl.”
He furrowed his brow, and stared at me. Into my eyes. Then looked away.
“Mack,” I continued, free-lancing. “Just wait till you get to college. You’ll meet girls who are more interested in… intelligence and character.”
Mack looked off to his right. He was reasonably intelligent. But not enough to realize he was being played.
“Too bad you’re not a girl.”
I swallowed hard. I hadn’t planned this. Fuck, what was I doing?
“I could be.”
He cleared his throat and looked back at me. “Huh. You’d make a … good girl.”
It was my turn to blush. And, helplessly, go fishing for a compliment.
“What… do you mean?”
He lowered his eyes. “I mean…”
“You mean I’m smart and funny and not shallow?” I offered, my head spinning with what I was doing.
“Huh. Yeah.” He was looking at my legs, extending down from my running shorts, crossed at the knees instead of the ankles. He couldn’t have missed my erection.
“We could pretend,” I found myself saying in a hoarse whisper.
He looked at me with apparent suspicion. But it didn’t feel like the suspicion of a guy who was freaked out by being approached for a same-sex encounter. It felt like the suspicion of someone who thought I was pulling his leg. In spite of the obvious hard-on in my pants.
“We could, huh?” he finally muttered.
I just shrugged. Being coy was the only card I knew how to play.
He cleared his throat and looked at me with his eyes narrowed under his prominent brow. “You need to be careful, Marty,” he finally said. “Someone might take you seriously.”
Yeah, I know, I thought to myself. Someone already has. But I just said, “Hmmm.”
He read my non-denial accurately. As I said, Truck was awkward, but he wasn’t dumb. I could almost hear the wheels spinning in his head. Despite the pounding in my own chest.
He looked around the room, and then put his hands on his knees and stood up. “I need to get going, too,” he announced. Oh, shit. I had outed myself and got rejected.
“But, um, Marty?” he ventured. “Uh… you want to hang out at my house on Friday night? I got the new Molly Hatchet album.”
Molly Hatchet? I hated Molly Hatchet. But I nodded in agreement. “Yeah, that sounds… good.”
“And, uh… my parents are going to be out of town.”
Uh huh. Okay. So this was going to happen. I figured neither one of us were going to invite Brian to join us to listen to albums.
“So, you know. If you want to… have a little prom night…”
***
I had two days. The clock was ticking. I needed to get out and do some of the shopping that I had been thinking about but afraid to do. I called in sick at work, and told my mom it was a day off, and I was going to drive into the city to do some back-to-school shopping. She thought that was a good idea. So much for a mother’s intuition.
Rockford was about an hour away, no big deal; and I wasn’t worried about running into anyone I knew there.
I started out at a large Goodwill store, gradually working up the nerve to start browsing through the women’s section, certain that people were watching me with curiosity or disdain. Hoping no one was going to say anything. Or call the cops.
Once I realized that no one was paying any attention to me, I allowed myself to linger between the rows. I found a rack of what passed for prom dresses. Of course, I couldn’t try anything on. But I had a rough idea that if I was a medium in men’s clothes, then I would need either a large or an extra-large in young women’s.
I picked out a couple of dresses that didn’t have too much of a plunging neckline, that wouldn’t highlight my lack of cleavage. They were both mid-length, probably cut above the knee, which I figured might only come down mid-thigh for me. Which I didn’t mind at all.
Draping them over one arm, I moved over to the shoes. I had no experience in walking in heels, but I didn’t figure I would be doing much dancing. At least not vertically, I thought with a nauseating thrill. After a couple of minutes, I found a pair of cream-colored pumps with low heels in a women’s size eleven. Probably something that someone’s grandma wore to church. They would have to do.
I finally worked up the nerve to go check out. There was a middle-aged woman behind the cash register. She made no comment as she rang me up.
Then I went and found a Beauty Supply store. I picked out some of the cheapest cosmetics I could find. Lipstick, blush, eye liner and shadow. I didn’t know what “foundation” was. It took me a while longer to get comfortable looking at the cheap wigs; even longer to work up the nerve to quickly put a couple on for the three seconds I let myself look in the mirror. They looked stupid.
I hadn’t cut my hair since Christmas, and I had spent enough time in the past few weeks looking in the mirror after a shower, before styling it with a blow-dryer (hoping to look like Jimmy Page), that I had decided that it could pass for a sassy little shag if I just let it air-dry. So I left the wigs and checked out.
I was on a roll now, so I went to the mall and sought out a higher-end department store, and walked right into the lingerie section, telling myself that I was obviously a stud who was shopping for a sexy gift for his hot girlfriend.
It took a while, but I finally found an A-cup bra with a 38-inch chest measurement. Then I got the matching panties. And a garter belt, and a pair of nylon stockings. All in ivory, just like in my fantasy.
That night, after everyone else had gone to bed, I slipped into the bathroom and began experimenting with make-up. I had no idea what I was doing, and everything I tried looked terrible. I didn’t want to look like a clown. Eventually, just like with my hair, I decided to just go with lipstick and let my clear complexion and my slightly androgynous features speak for themselves.
Tomorrow I would find out if it worked.
***
I knocked on Truck’s front door, dressed in my normal shorts and t-shirt, a backpack slung over my back. When he opened the door, the very first thing that registered with me was the overwhelming scent of Brut, or some other overpowering men’s cologne. He must have bathed in it.
Before dressing himself in a leopard-print rayon shirt, and the black slacks of what was probably a leisure suit. I couldn’t help grinning a bit. Okay, he was getting into this, too.
“Hey, Rob,” he said, quietly, holding the door open for me. I stepped inside.
“Call me Marti,” I replied, mentally replacing the assumed “y” with a lower-case “i.” With a heart over it.
“Give me a minute?” I asked, beginning the familiar path toward his bathroom. I didn’t trust myself to not fuck this up with “So, we’re really doing this?”
I got into the bathroom, stripped out of my clothes, and ran some water in the sink to get my hair wet and scrunch it up into what I hoped was a brunette version of a Goldie Hawn shag.
Then I dressed myself in the outfit I had assembled, and finally, applied some pink lipstick. Then I stepped into the low heels, and began to walk, unsteadily, but consciously with a provocative heel-toe, heel-toe strut, back down the hallway.
Mack was fidgeting on the sofa. When he saw me, he stood up, looking both uncertain and… huge.
“Jesus, Rob,” he said.
“Marti,” I reminded him.
“Marty,” he replied. “Damn, you look…”
I probably blushed, and did an awkward 360, letting him see the plunging back of my gold lame’ prom dress.
“So, you’re all dressed up for prom,” he ventured. “You… want to dance?”
I wasn’t sure what he had in mind, or what music he could possibly put on. I definitely didn’t want to fast dance in these heels; not that I felt like I could move like a girl anyway. But I nodded, and he went over to the stereo, and pulled out the Bad Company Straight Shooter album, and dropped the needle at the start of “Feel Like Makin’ Love.”
Oh. Well. Huh. I had to admit I was impressed. At least for the first couple of minutes, this ballad wouldn’t be a bad song for me to bury my face in his shoulder, and let him pretend he was at the actual prom.
I waded into his cloud of cologne and his waiting arms, which he closed around me once I got close enough. Good song choice or not, I was feeling awkward, and I was sure he was, too. So the easiest thing to do was to break off eye contact, rest my forehead on his chin, drape my wrists over his shoulders, and let his hands wander over my sides and my bare back as we swayed in a slow circle.
For two minutes. Then the song got to the chorus, and the guitar’s power chords burst out of the speakers. And Truck began to reflexively thrust his hips into my stomach in time with the music. And I could feel his arousal.
I had no experience with judging cock size by feel with my belly. But I could tell he was hard.
Fortunately, the bridge returned to the more languorous pace, and we could continue our clumsy approximation of a slow dance. Only during the rave-up at the end did I begin to feel silly. When the song ended, he pulled away from me.
“You want something to drink?” he asked.
“Sure,” I replied. Again, I didn’t know what he had in mind. I wasn’t much of a drinker, but I figured I could nurse whatever he came up with. It turned out that he had an ice bucket and a couple of diet cokes on the shelf of the china cabinet. He handed me my glass, and then he sat down on the sofa. One of those crushed velour numbers with an autumnal floral pattern of oranges, yellows, and browns.
I wasn’t sure what he expected next. Jesus, I didn’t want to make out with him. Then I noticed the towel on the seat beside him. Huh. He really had been thinking ahead, and we were on the same page.
So instead of taking a seat, I walked up to him, swaying as seductively as I could manage, and dropped to my knees between his thighs.
I tried to think of something clever and sexy to say, to add to the illusion that I was a lusty teenaged girl eager to serve him, to reward him for taking me to the prom, but I couldn’t come up with anything.
I reached up and undid his belt buckle, and unsnapped the button above the fly of his slacks. He planted his feet and pushed his butt up off the sofa, and helped me draw his pants down his thighs. He was wearing black briefs, and they were bulging. I put my fingers into the waistband and drew them down.
And there it was. My heart was pounding as I came face to face with Mack Truck’s cock. The second one, other than my own, that I had ever seen up close and personal. But whereas Luke Wallace’s schlong had first appeared to me hanging down, heavy and dangerous, awaiting my attentions to bring it to life, Truck was already engorged. And he was all knob.
In my limited exposure to porn, I had not seen anything like this. It really was a giant mushroom, a plump lavender half-globe atop a relatively slender, pale stalk emerging from a dense thicket of straw-colored pubic hair. Frankly, it was as far from attractive as Truck was.
I gently wrapped my right hand around the shaft — one hand was all it took — and used my thumb to lightly swipe the glistening drop of pre-cum that had gathered at the single eye of his oddly-shaped trouser toad. Then I drew the lubricant down and tickled at what I knew was the sensitive wrinkled flesh just below it.
Truck jerked upwards like he had received an electric shock. Then he exhaled and relaxed a bit, and as I looked up at him I saw he had opened his eyes and was watching me intently. I wondered what I looked like from his vantage point — on my knees between his wide-spread thighs, my shoulders bare except for the narrow straps that held up a shimmering prom dress. I wondered if I looked ridiculous and pathetic — like I felt — or whether maybe with my tousled hair and admittedly clear complexion and pink lips and blue eyes looking up at him, if I might pass for sexy. Like I also felt.
I wondered if the girl who had given this dress to Goodwill had knelt before her date after her prom and worshipped his cock. Like I was getting ready to worship Mack Truck.
I leaned forward and placed my tongue on the fleshy underside of his cock, aware now of a clean but musky scent that was finally able to cut through the scent of his cologne. I drew my tongue up, flicking back and forth across his frenulum, and finally gathering up the next droplet of salty pre-ejaculate that had already pooled around the slit.
“Fuck…” he hissed. But it sounded like an oath of approval.
I placed my lips on his glans and kissed it, then parted them and began to lick around it, tracing my way around the pronounced ridge at the top, then back down to the indentation at the bottom. With my other hand, I sought out his ball sack, which was hairy and wrinkled like a walnut and drawn up tightly against the base of his shaft. But it was soft to the touch, and I could feel the way his testicles moved around inside it, recoiling from my unfamiliar touch, then relaxing against my fingers. I felt his hand on my head, his fingers moving through my curly hair, exploring, not forcibly.
I had to open my mouth almost as wide as it would go to engulf his knob, and I drew it in carefully, making sure not to scrape it with my teeth. He gasped, and by the time I cleared his corona and closed my lips around his shaft, I felt like my mouth was already full. I could feel the spongy flesh yielding, compressed against the roof of my mouth. I wanted to bob up and down on him, but could only take in another inch at most.
He began flexing his hips, probably instinctively, moaning slightly. I responded with a muted moan or two of my own, consciously, intentionally, using the seal of my lips to caress the veins on his shaft, mapping them, committing them to memory. I wanted to make this good for him.
But not too good. I wasn’t opposed to the idea of sucking him to completion, letting him spurt his first pent-up load into my mouth. The notion was shockingly hot. And he was an eighteen-year-old virgin; I had no doubt he would recover quickly. But I really didn’t want to make small talk during his refractory period.
Apparently, we were still on the same page. I didn’t know how long I had been there, fellating Truck on my knees. Maybe five minutes, because the last song on the album side concluded and I could hear the turntable arm lifting and returning to its cradle, leaving us in ominous silence. And then Truck leaned forward and put his hands under my bare arms and lifted me up.
He stood up and kicked his shoes off from where his slacks had pooled around them, and then shook himself free. He offered me one hand, almost gallantly, and I took it and let him help me up. Then he put his hands on my waist and maneuvered me onto the other end of the sofa, my dress hiking up around the tops of my thighs, my pretty stocking tops and garter straps coming into view. And then he got on his knees between my legs.
I thought he might take off my panties at this point, but he simply pulled them to one side.
I had had this fantasy for weeks now; it had become very specific as I had played it over and over again in my mind. I had imagined watching my penis and balls bounce around as I got fucked, but I wasn’t going to see that. As I had considered, Truck probably didn’t want that vivid a reminder that he was having a homosexual encounter. He wanted, or needed, to maintain the illusion that I was a girl. Well…
… the moment I had spread my slender legs and let him settle his 240-pound frame between them, I should have known that from that point on, I would be getting whatever Truck wanted. And I found that idea thrilling.
After weeks of denying and obsessing about and embracing this lurid scenario, I was on my back with my ponderous, homely friend Truck on his knees between my stocking clad legs, a shiny prom dress hiked up around my waist and obscuring my flat chest, just like I had imagined, except for being on Truck’s family room sofa instead of the backseat of his car. But at the crucial moment, as he reached down with one hand and began to draw his huge, fleshy knob up and down over my puckered anus, he was ever so slightly changing the script, as if telling me, “Sorry, Marti, we’re going to do it my way from here on out.”
So god damn hot.
I watched him twist around and retrieve the tube of lubricant with his other hand, out of the purse that I had so obviously left open, displaying nothing but a lipstick and lube. He squirted a large dollop over his swollen glans, and began to work it down the shaft, using his other hand to offer the lube to me.
Of course. He was getting ready to stick his dick up into my clenching little asshole, but he wasn’t comfortable touching me there with his fingers. What a newbie. Whereas I had a world of experience. Whatever. I quickly applied a generous glob on myself, and used my middle finger to work it in.
I recalled that once Luke had lubed himself up and got me in The Position, he had just lined his cock up and pushed it in. There had been resistance and short-lived pain, but there had never been any question that He Was Going In.
Truck’s knob was so big, and so soft and spongy (as knobs are), that it wasn’t getting a foothold, so to speak, in my anal ring, even as I tried to relax, tried to help out by pushing back against it. I briefly worried… oh, shit, what if after all this, he’s not hard or aroused enough to get it in?
I wanted humiliation. What’s more humiliating than dressing as a girl and offering up your ass for the pleasure of the ugliest guy in school? Well… maybe, doing all that and finding out, “Nah, this isn’t exciting enough. You’re not worthy of fucking…”
And just then, he found just the right angle, and pop!, I felt a couple of inches pushing into me. “Unngh!!!” I heard myself groan, loud enough for the neighbors to hear, a quarter mile away. It hurt, yes, but I already knew that I would adapt to it. I knew his glans was inside me now, and what I could feel myself squeezing with my sphincter was the much firmer shaft just behind his crown. And any shortcomings he might have had in terms of rigidity were quickly resolved, as I felt him responding to the rhythmic pulsing that my anus was doing around him.
Mack’s dick was in my ass.
Mack Truck’s dick was in my ass!
Oh Jesus, what had I done? I had let my hormone-addled teenaged mind trick me into forgetting how much this hurt and how shameful it was.
“Fuuuuuckkk…” he moaned, holding his cock motionless inside me as we adjusted to each other, but lowering himself down onto his elbows so his stomach spread out over mine and I could feel the heat from his chest hovering just over me. And the astringent aroma of his aftershave enveloping me.
“Jesus, Marti, that feels so good,” he hissed.
“Uh huh?” I gasped out, sounding unsure of myself. Of course it feels good to you, you jerk, I thought; although I figured it would feel good to me, too, soon enough.
I was genuinely overwhelmed with sensation, but not beyond hamming it up a bit. I had to remember that he was the virgin; I was the wanton seductress, at least in his mind. “So… big,” I grunted, giving him what I knew he must crave. He slipped in a little more, and I added, “So… full…” even though I really wasn’t, yet.
He started moving inside me, very short little thrusts, no more than an inch. The sloppy wet friction already felt more good than bad, soothing rather than irritating my still-protesting anal ring.
I had explored myself enough to know how much wider my rectum got after the first couple of inches, and now I could imagine Truck’s big mushroom head expanding to the size of a tennis ball inside me, his broad crown massaging every billowing wall with each short, insistent stroke.
“Mack,” I whispered.
“Yeah?”
“Fuck me,” I told him.
And so he did. Oh, God, did he.
Truck had no skill, no technique. But he had 240 pounds to put behind the blunt instrument with which he was pummeling my insides. I felt myself moving my stockinged thighs up around his legs, around his thick waist. He leaned forward, looming over me now, thankfully taking his weight on his elbows. The mass of him was still overwhelming. Almost as overwhelming as his cologne. God, it was like driving past a chemical plant.
Almost instinctively, I found my hands running up Truck’s sides, then under his shirt and up over his back, pulling him into an embrace, holding on against the coming onslaught. I quivered as I realized that I could feel the pimples and acne scars on his back against my palms and the undersides of my forearms. The rest of his body was no more appealing than his face, but this was the body that was enjoying mine, impaling mine, claiming mine.
One of the things I remembered about getting fucked by Luke, after the initial pain subsided, was how insanely erotic it felt to sense the depth of each stroke. I really hadn’t felt anything inside me but fullness and pressure, but as my sphincter adjusted to him, it had felt so exciting to feel every centimeter of his shaft sliding through it, so unbelievably much of it, feeling like he was even longer than he was, impossibly long, my God could he be that long? My God is he going to come out my throat?
Truck wasn’t giving me that. His thrusts just didn’t last as long. I could feel the hot flesh easing into me, making my anus sing, like a rock vocalist holding a note for a full measure; but just as I was looking forward to another four beats of that trembling note, I would feel his wiry pubic hair against my scrotum and his balls pressing up against my perineum, and he was all the way in, and then pulling back out again.
It was different, but Truck was giving me what he had, and he was giving me his all, and that was exciting too. I was plenty stretched open. The sense of fullness from the bulbous presence inside me was unmistakable. If anything, his big knob was probably nudging that one little sensitive place with every stroke instead of doing all of its work further up inside me. Yeah, that worked.
I realized my eyes had been shut, and so I opened them and looked up at him. His eyes were screwed shut, his mouth a twisted grimace. Then suddenly he opened his eyes, and we were gazing at each other — or at least, I was gazing at him, and he was looking back at me with one eye, while the other wandered off to his right. Our faces inches apart.
He parted his lips as if to say something; but instead, a trickle of drool accidentally slipped out and landed on my upper lip. Gross. But I was in no position, or mood, to protest.
And it scarcely mattered that I had his saliva on my lips, because then he leaned down and smashed his mouth against mine. Ugh, Truck was kissing me. I hadn’t contemplated that. But incredibly, I was kissing him back. It was so wrong and so natural. His thick tongue probed into my mouth, and I let my tongue swirl around it; then when he withdrew it, I let mine follow, into his mouth.
He sealed his lips around my tongue and sucked. Almost too hard. But not quite.
Oh, God. I was kissing Truck.
I was fucking Truck.
I was making love to Truck.
Well, let’s not get carried away, I managed to tell myself.
But something else was happening. The first time I did this, I recalled, one of the powerful sensations — one of the things that made me have to try it again — was the sense of being on the edge of an orgasm for several minutes in a row.
I was feeling that again, but I suddenly realized that I wasn’t on the edge anymore. I was… oh, oh, oh… I was cumming…
My cock had worked its way up out of waistband of my pretty panties and was pinned between my stomach and his, and now I felt it, the first spurt of my orgasm rocketing up through it, throbbing against him. Then I felt it, warm and wet, spreading out over my belly and the folds of my bunched-up prom dress and the lacy garter belt around my waist.
And he felt it, too, I knew; if he didn’t feel my cock twitching against him, he surely felt the involuntary spasming of my anus, choking his shaft mid-thrust. He paused in his relentless in-and-out for a moment, and groaned, then pushed all the way in, and held still.
The sound that he made, alerting me of his orgasm a full second before I could feel it myself, was bestial. But it wasn’t the bellow of a bull elephant. It sounded more like the death rattle of a water buffalo. And then I felt him pulsing inside me, and I knew that Mack Truck was inseminating my bowels.
I didn’t realize how hard I had been breathing until I started to catch my breath. Truck sat up on his haunches, still buried in me. He was still wearing his rayon shirt, although several buttons had come undone, both at the neckline, and one right in the middle of his burgeoning pot belly.
If you eroticize humiliation and shame, wait until you experience a post-orgasmic slump while the ugliest guy in school still has his fat dick slowly softening inside your well-greased ass. That takes the cake.
When he leaned back and finally slipped out of me with a plop, I could feel slimy liquid seeping out of me, down my crack. Lube, and semen, and who knows what else. Good thing he had laid out a towel.
“Heh,” he mumbled. Then, “heh heh.” That sounded more like a laugh. An evil one.
“Yeah,” was all I offered in response.
“I wanna do it again,” he growled.
Oh. Huh. Jesus, once again, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. And I had just had an orgasm of my own. I had kind of planned on getting the hell out of here at this point. But I had gone to a lot of trouble, and after all, I was his prom date.
“C’mon, Dinah Moe,” he chortled, making a Frank Zappa reference. “Buns up kneelin’.”
Oh, Christ.
“Get me ready,” he commanded. Followed by that wicked, “Heh heh.”
Anyway, I was wrong about what takes the cake. If you get off on humiliation and shame, wait until you lower your face into the pungent, matted crotch of the ugliest guy in school and take his fat, limp, sticky penis into your mouth and coax him back to life.
So I ended up with my face on the hot velour of Truck’s parents’ sofa, on my shoulders and knees, as he placed his big hands on my plump little buttocks and parted them and pushed back inside me again. Chortling now, with that “Heh heh… Heh heh” chuckle. Gaining in confidence. And, relieved of the need for that first orgasm, ready now to go on a Slow Ride.
We hadn’t bothered to put any music on, but I have no doubt he would have fucked me right through “Stairway to Heaven,” “Free Bird,” and “Green Grass and High Tides” back-to-back. I just closed my eyes and let it happen. I felt his hands move all over me. In this position, he could push my dress up and caress my back, or pull it down and use it for leverage as he sawed into me. He could stroke his hands down my thighs to my stocking tops or grab me by the shoulders to pound into me harder. He could place a hand around the back of my neck and let me know, without so many words, that he owned me. “Heh heh… heh heh.”
I didn’t cum this time. But I did revisit that frustrating, infuriating, exquisite sensation of being on the edge of cumming. For maybe half an hour. Until he splattered my insides again with his jism. It was a good thing I couldn’t get pregnant, I thought. I’d be knocked up for sure. So much for Cornell. I’d have to marry Truck and bear him a brood of ugly, irrationally arrogant babies.
I think after his second orgasm inside me, Mack was as emotionally spent as I was. He didn’t say much as I finally got up and went back to the bathroom. I sponged off with a washcloth, and then rinsed and rinsed and rinsed it before hanging it up. Then I put my shorts and t-shirt and Adidas running shoes back on.
When I came out, Mack had pulled his pants back on. He still looked disheveled — well, more disheveled than usual, that is. And he had got into his dad’s liquor cabinet and poured himself a glass of something brown.
I could use something myself, I thought. But I didn’t trust myself. I needed to go, and drive around for a couple of hours until I knew for sure my parents had gone to bed.
I summoned up one last burst of confidence to role-play. I walked up to him, with my panties crumpled in one hand, and when I was face to face with him, I jammed them into his breast pocket. A souvenir of our date.
“Thanks for taking me to the prom,” I said.
He walked me to the door.
I had a sudden urge to push up on my tiptoes and give him an affectionate peck on the lips. But no, not now; I had removed the costume that made this insane little charade possible. I was back in my boy clothes.
I did it anyway.
***
A group of us were in the high school parking lot, getting ready to play basketball. Nine of us, including some underclassmen. I felt my heartrate pick up when Truck’s Monte Carlo pulled into the lot.
He pulled himself out of the driver’s seat and stretched. He was tall and chunky in his mis-matched tank top and gym shorts. He looked goofy, pulling a headband around his mop of hair.
“Let’s do it, dudes,” he called as he strode toward us, as if the game couldn’t start without him. I fell into step beside him as we headed for the court.
“Truck!!?!” I heard Greg Turner call out from behind me. We all turned toward him. He was near the passenger door of Mack’s car, pointing into it with a wild-eyed expression on his face.
Pointing at the ivory panties hanging from the rearview mirror.
“What the fuck, dude?” Greg continued. “You been holdin’ out on us?”
My stomach flip-flopped as the rest of the gang gathered and peered into the driver’s compartment.
“Truck, my man! You scored!?”
Truck shrugged and gave a lopsided grin. Of course, I had to be looking right at him to notice that. And so when he looked right at me, our eyes locked. Shit. Everyone had to see it. Everyone had to know.
“Who’s the lucky girl, Truck?” asked Randy Kline.
“Not a girl,” Truck drawled, momentarily stopping the laughter in its tracks, and stopping my heart. Oh, Jesus, Truck, I thought. The jig is up. Hell, he might as well just strip me naked and fuck me here on the trunk of his Monte Carlo in the high school parking lot for everyone to see.
Although damn it, a part of me found that image kind of hot. The part of me inside my gym trunks…
“Not a… girl?” Greg stammered, befuddled.
“Nope,” Truck deadpanned. “Your mom.”
The gang burst out in laughter. No one noticed me almost collapsing in relief.
We picked teams and started a game.
Playing full court basketball, I was quick enough, and had a decent enough shot, that I was a middling teammate. Truck, lumbering up and down the court, was useless against the fast break. But when someone missed a shot, he was able to get under the basket, a force to be reckoned with. A bull elephant. Or at least a water buffalo.
Whenever we took a break, I found myself looking at him. Huffing, out of breath, the way he had after fucking me in the ass.
And then I would glance out at the parking lot, at his Monte Carlo.
Where my panties hung from the rear-view mirror. And where the cramped back seat beckoned.
Well. There would be time for that later.