A gay story: The Neighborhood Hero Pt. 03
CW: over the top, far-fetched smutty work of fantasy. Humiliation, exposure, rough and reluctance/non-consensual elements, tons of SPH. Not nice. Skip it if it’s not your thing. Otherwise, enjoy.
All characters depicted are well over 18 years of age.
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For the next week I refrained from jacking off, and stayed away from Wolcott’s window. I put myself through some intense workouts at the gym, training with a particularly athletic friend of mine. He even had me spar in boxing gloves with him. I felt keyed up and strong. I was sweating testosterone.
I was just as horny as I’d been the past few days, constantly hard up in my pants, but I felt focused. It was like the fog in my mind had lifted, The confusion was gone and my goal was clear, tangible.
Even my Dad remarked on my renewed discipline and vigor. If only he knew what was motivating me.
On Saturday I made my move. I texted Bruce to see if he wanted to hang. When he responded I basically invited myself over. His parents were both out. We hung out in his childhood bedroom. The walls were lined with team photos and pennants, and his shelves were weighed down with awards. It even smelled like him, Old Spice, fresh sweat and clean laundry.
We made a little small talk and eventually I produced a large, well-rolled blunt supplied by a friend.
“Bruce, you want to smoke?” He laughed nervously. I forced myself to maintain eye contact until he looked down. I reminded myself that even if he didn’t know it yet, I was in the driver seat. I wasn’t some starstruck kid anymore. Despite his demigod physique and his past as a champ, I knew what he was, deep down.
I offered again and he balked. I laughed, and in a harsh voice I said.
“Come on, don’t be a pussy.” He winced at the epithet, unaccustomed to that kind of language from one of his adoring fans. I stared him down until he relented with a bashful shrug.
We leaned out of his open window. I sidled right next to him and passed the blunt, watching as he inhaled. He didn’t shift away from my body so I threw an arm around his big waist. I felt him flinch but he didn’t force me off him, and he eventually relaxed into my grip.
As we shared the joint I lightly squeezed his haunch, rubbing slightly. I wanted to push this, see how much affection he would accept, how much attention and imposition I could get away with. When the blunt was almost done I held it up to his lips and had him smoke it. I was getting boned up now, being so close to him and having this big stallion of a man let me do what I wanted.
“Hey, let’s shotgun. Come here.” He looked confused at the suggestion but the weed already had him dazed and pacified. As I suspected, he was a lightweight. I turned towards him and grabbed his shoulder to have him face me.
“Suck this in.” I ordered, then took a big hit into my throat and held it there. I pulled his head down and brought my lips to his. I stared into his eyes as I exhaled two lungfuls of acrid weed smoke directly into his respiratory system. I thought of Wolcott blowing cigar smoke into his face. I wanted to do all the stuff that the old man had done to him. I left my mouth up against his, feeling how soft his big lips were. Bruce accepted my kiss and my polluting cloud, then we giggled at the intimacy of it.
Without asking I connected my phone to his soundsystem and put on some music.
Bruce asked if I wanted anything to drink and I told him to go get us beers. He smiled to himself and bowed his head a little bit. The big man really liked being told what to do. When he reappeared I told him to open my beer for me. The gratuitous order made him quiver a bit, and I winked at him. I kept my eyes on his, making him blush and look away.
I focussed on keeping my gaze steady and my face blank. Ironically, I found that I was emulating a man that Bruce and I both knew well. The head coach of the Vikings Football Team. Coach Mancuso was like a brick wall. He never smiled or laughed or offered any of the facial cues that put a person at ease.
As I remembered him, he had always just stared, his voice a low growl or a bark depending on his level of agitation he was. He seemed to expect complete acquiescence from everyone he dealt with. Even the other coaches and our fathers had appeared to be scared of him. Wanted to please him.
Emboldened by the beer, weed, and lust, as well as all the sordid things I knew about Bruce, I found it easy to imitate our former coach’s swagger and domineering attitude. To take up more space, make my steps wide and heavy. I gratuitously scratched my package, hands down my waistband just like Coach’s always was. After all, I knew I was packing something much bigger than that little thing Bruce had between his legs. When I caught him looking I gave him a wink. All I was missing was a pair of aviators and a mouthful of Skoal.
“Thanks buddy.” I said, accepting the second round. I paused, hesitating for a moment, then reached over and slapped him on his large, pert ass. I watched his big buttock jiggle in his gym shorts and dared myself to cup it in my hand. It felt firm but welcoming – his perky can was made to be fondled like this. Felt up. He trembled at my touch but he didn’t resist, didn’t slap my groping hand away.
“Damn you’ve got huge glutes man. Your ass is amazing, Brucie. How much can you squat?” He told me his PR almost sheepishly.
“Holy shit!” I exclaimed, spitting some of my beer on his neck. He blushed, pleased with being praised for his body. I put my hands on back on his big ass.
“You’re fucking incredible man.” I ran my hand up his ass and thighs, like I was admiring his quads and hamstrings. I was, but I was also brazenly feeling him up. Bruce just remained obediently in place even as my hand squeezed his inner thigh or my fingers traced his crack while squeezing his cheek. I muttered about his dump truck appreciatively then gave him a hard slap on the ass, watching mesmerized as it shook. He was as docile as a showhorse.
I put my beer on his dresser and stepped in front of him. My hands traced up his sides and rested upon the swollen dome of his chest. I looked at him, right into his handsome, timid face. I gave him my best Coach Mancuso stare and he dropped his own gaze shyly.
“Take your shirt off, show me those pecs.” He demurred, shaking his head, looking confused and bashful. I grabbed the fabric and began lifting it off of him. Astonishingly he raised his hands above his head and let me undress him. Let me strip the shirt right off his back. I laughed at how easy he was making this and tossed it across the room, then put my hands back on his body.
“Fuck man, it’s like granite. You’re a fucking superhero.” I ran my hand over his enormous, shaven chest. Then I walked behind him, standing close. My hands went back to his waist and ran back up to his chest. I squeezed both pecs at once, and leaned in to whisper into his ear.
“Seriously, you’ve got a better rack than most chicks.” I nearly licked his ear lobe when I said this, I was so close to him. I knew he could feel my hot breath on his ear and neck. I knew it stank of beer and weed. I groped his chest, truly fondling his breasts, even fingering one of his nipples. He gasped but remained stock still in my grasp.