Short of jacking off with friends I had never done anything sexually with a guy. Certainly never got blown by one. But again I was inspired by Coach Mancuso. How would Crazy Manc have forced another guy to suck him off?
That big, scary, shit-brick house of a man wouldn’t have been tender and gentle, no Sir. He wouldn’t have been patient or sweet. But he wouldn’t have rushed it either. He’d take his time. Make the poor cocksucker wallow in it. Force him to revel in his superior manhood. He’d want the stooge on his knees to know that he was serving a real man.
“Lick my balls. Kiss each one.” A shiver went up my body when he did this. Having another man worship the seat of my manhood, especially a specimen like Bruce Michell, was an incredible power trip. His massive form beneath me, his broad muscled shoulders, strong back, yet he was completely docile.
“Those are a man’s balls. Do you understand?” He nodded solemnly as I tea-bagged him, spreading my hairy gonads over his face. My cock on his forehead and my balls in his mouth. I held the sides of his head as his lapping tongue tended to my testes.
I imagined all sorts of wild scenarios in my head while he did this. Bruce was a naked captive, a defeated warrior, surrendered, ruined. I was going to ravage him. Stripped of his armor, disarmed. All of his strength and power would be mine. I pulled his lips off of my hairy scrotum and began pounding his mouth again while these far out thoughts raced through my mind. His size and his strength meant nothing, he was a weakling, my POW. He belonged to me.
Wolcott had trained him well, he deepthroated me eagerly. Maybe my smaller piece and gentler demeanor was a relief from what he was used to. When he brought me close to orgasm I yanked his hair and pulled him off me, exhaling as I kept myself from busting. I humped into his face, grinding my junk and my wiry pubic thatch against his face.
I hadn’t trimmed all summer, I was wild and unkempt down there with a big bush, bearded nuts and cactus spines of stubble at the base of my shaft. Usually I would have been self-conscious but now it made me feel manly. I wanted to rub it in his face, literally, my thick proud mane, when he was as bald as a little boy between his legs and everywhere else below his ears.
The sight of my curly dark brown pubes smearing against his handsome face drove me wild, made me want to dominate him even more. I wanted to put more of myself on him, in him.
“Get up, Brucie.” I ordered, my voice hoarse with lust. We went into his parents’ large bathroom, I dragged him by his neck without asking. He was too cowed to protest even while I saw the panic on his face.
I had him retrieve some of his mom’s lingerie, a pink bra and panty set. The panties strained to make it up past his hugely muscled quads, but to his obvious shame they were more than adequate at encasing his tiny genitals in their silk pouch. The bra was a nonstarter – his Superman pectorals and trapezius muscles were just too wide and massive, and I actually ripped the dainty piece trying to clip it over his back.
Instead I grabbed a handful of necklaces from his mom’s jewelry box on her night table, forced them over his head. Some of them were as tight as chokers around his broad neck, but many of them dangled between his great domed pecs. I wanted to decorate him. Make a woman of him.
Bracelets too, I put them around his wrists and his ankles. They jangled when he walked, it looked obscene, his big strong body decked out with gold and silver, chiming with each step when I sent him downstairs for more beers.
Bruce had been the paragon of All-American manhood to me, and I wanted to see him obscenely feminine, ruinously womanized, as he had been for Wolcott. That’s why I pushed him up against the bathroom sink and clumsily applied his mother’s lipstick to his big full lips. I had seen rapists do this to their bitch in prison movies. I got a giddy rush like I was defacing a famous and priceless statue.
I thought of adding more makeup but the ridiculously bright red lips were just the right amount of absurd that I still found sexy. I ran my hands along his sides, taking him in. The once proud warrior had been stripped and adorned with finery meant to humiliate him, dressed up and feathered to be paraded through the enemy city.
I turned him around and made him face the full length mirror, made him see what I’d done to him while I pressed my boner into his thighs and ran my hands all over his body. He quivered at the spectacle of himself but as always his little pink rocket was completely tumescent.
“Pretty little bitch. I’m gonna fuck you up the pussy just like your Daddy fucks your Mama.” I growled in my best Coach Mancuso baritone, licking his ear. He squatted down a bit and pushed his rump back into my groin obligingly.
“I’m going to put a baby in your belly. Breed you.” I rubbed his flat stomach up and down, imagining it swelling with my seed.
I spun him around again and held his hips. I pulled aside the tiny pouch of his panties and freed his stiffy. Then I took his mother’s lipstick and carefully painted the tip of his little dick cherry red. It looked ridiculous, clownish, the pale pink stalk with a bright red lollipop head, all no longer than my pointer finger. I got another rush from vandalizing his private parts like this. I had made a cruel joke of his pathetic manhood.
When I turned him around once more to face the mirror he gasped at his reflection. I grasped his pecs and diddled his nipples.
“I’m going to march you through the locker room, just like this. I want all your gym buddies to see you like this, Brucie. See how pretty you are.” I threatened him and he writhed in my grasp, clearly thrilled at the idea of such catastrophic exposure.
Next I reached between his legs and poked at his little hairless hole. I was surprised by how tight he was, as I had watched Wolcott sodomize him just three nights ago. I asked him if he was ready for me and he nodded. I led him back to his bedroom.
He retrieved a small vial from his backpack and reached behind himself to apply it. I watched him anoint himself for me then took it from him and rubbed the lube up and down my hard-on.
“Get on the bed. Lie on your back.” I wanted to take him like a bride on her wedding night. I pulled the pale pink panties down his thighs and off of his ankles, threw them on the floor. I got in between his spread legs, put them over my shoulder and jacked myself to my full rigidity, an iron bar poking at the poor guy. I poked around there for a few moments, watching him brace himself.
I did not wear a condom. If Hugh Wolcott’s old man jizzum was good enough to seed his insides, he would take mine too. I rubbed my bare cockhead against his hole and thrust forward, breaching him and making him gasp.
I gasped too. It was so warm and incredibly tight, and felt different than a girl’s pussy in so many ways. It almost hurt my dick going in, but I powered through. Burying myself in and invading him completely. I felt our bodies completely clasp together. He cried out weakly, and I ran my hands all over him, from his hips to his flat stomach to his bountiful bosom. I tweaked and twisted his nipples. I stuck my fingers under his armpits, jammed them into his mouth. I pulled and poked at his ears, his nose. I wanted him to know there was no part of him that I didn’t get to touch.