Eventually the circle parted and the assembled men looked at me. I knew that I was now expected to have my turn. To avail myself of the big man’s parted legs and his well-framed ass. I felt the eyes of all the other men upon me.
It evoked the feelings of the rare times that the coaches put me in, usually near the end of the game. The expectation, the demand to prove myself. The fear of imminent failure, that I somehow would ruin the play for our team. With sleepwalking feet I entered the center of the circle and got on my knees – I was naked, as I always slept naked- and forced my achingly hard cock into Bruce Mitchell’s perfect ass. His smooth body was steaming, each muscle pulsing. I was mounting a thoroughbred.
His pussy – and I knew that’s what it was, that the old man across the street had fucked a raw pussy out of Bruce’s tight asshole – was too tight, too boilingly hot for me. My cock spasmed. I gasped, feeling myself plummet like I was on a roller coaster. Unfortunately I was familiar with the sensation of cumming prematurely, busting my nut upon entry, and my unconscious brain played it in high fidelity.
It was a feeling of disjointment, my body not in sync with my mind, ejaculating before my nervous system had properly lined up an orgasm to reward me. As I woke up I heard the jeering laughter of the spectacting men watching me fail to properly fuck the quarterback. I felt my teammates spank my ass and jostle my shoulders, hooting and cheering me on sarcastically. I was a boy among men, a ridiculed buffoon and pantywaist just as much as poor Bruce. Opening my eyes, I could see my bed sheet tented up, and a welling wetness spreading from the top.
Just then my dad burst into my room, calling me to breakfast and remarking that it was nearly the afternoon. I looked at him in surprise, and then there was a long, awful moment where we both stared at the pup-tent in my sheet, my obvious boner. Morning wood. He smirked at my belated efforts to cover my crotch with a pillow, then left with a nod of approval when he saw that I was getting up.
Once the door was shut I whipped off the sheet and observed my softening penis and the enormous puddle still leaking from it. A wet dream. I couldn’t remember the last time I had succumbed to a nocturnal emission. I did my best to wipe up the sticky mess up with the sheet and threw on a pair of basketball shorts.
I was going to try to throw the sheets in the laundry but my Dad called for me again and I stumbled downstairs. I could barely taste the food and I didn’t say a word, just grunted at my parents’ statements. My mind was still floating out in that field, the strange out-sized stadium. I could feel the wet grass and mud on my bare feet, the glare of the floodlights. The brief, tantalizing sensation of that pussy around my cock. My thoughts drifted between that nowhere place and Wolcott’s backyard last night, where everything I had seen seemed equally impossible.
After breakfast I used the bathroom, splashing water on my face. My Dad was waiting for me in the hall. His arms were crossed. He took me aside, looking me up and down behind his glasses. He had a strange smile on his face. He gripped my arm and pulled me close to him, speaking in a low voice close to my ear.
“Listen son, I took care of the sheets. Don’t worry about it, I was your age once. But really, come on now. Your mother shouldn’t have to deal with that stuff.” He chided gently, poking my bare chest with his finger, and I lowered my head, feeling my cheeks burn. He peered at me, his face a curious mix, half disappointment and half amusement.
“You’re a big boy Stewie, you can clean up after yourself.” I opened my mouth, about to explain. I couldn’t decide whether it was more humiliating to admit to my father. Did I admit that at 24 years old I still had wet dreams, or let him believe that I was still jacking off under his roof, and lacked the decency and good sense to handle the evidence?
My voice caught in my throat and instead I just looked at him mutely, his disbelieving smirk. He found the whole situation funny. I felt my face grow even warmer with embarrassment, and I knew I was blushing furiously.
“It’s all right, jeez, you didn’t kill anybody.” He lightly slapped my shoulder and shook it around, laughing, defusing the weird tension. I mumbled an apology, grabbed a shirt and made a beeline out of the house.
Mr. Donaldson was in his yard watering his plants. He had what looked like the same Hawaiian shirt as yesterday, completely open to show off his barrel chest and beer belly. The pale skin was coated in dense, white hair.
“Hey there Stewie, hot enough for you?” I laughed weakly and waved at him.
As I opened my car door I looked down and saw that I had a hard-on, poking out the front of my nylon gym shorts. I couldn’t believe that such a mortifying interaction, with my own father, had led to me popping a chubby. Had he noticed? Had Mr. Donaldson? I had to wait in the gym parking lot a few moments for it to go down before getting out.
In the loud and crowded weight room I tried to focus on my workout but I was supremely conscious of all the men around me. I felt paranoid, as if they all somehow knew or suspected what had happened last night. What I had seen and what I had done. That I had witnessed an outrageous act of perversion, brutality and sodomy, and instead of fleeing in disgust I had taken my dick in my hand and masturbated to the sight. On all fours, like a dog, with my bare ass exposed to the night. I was a pud-pulling voyeur.
I knew it was ludicrous but I felt like I was in trouble, nervous yet excited at the prospect of being discovered by them. How would they react to learning that there was a pants-down peeping tom in their midst? A quick-trigger pervert who still got wet dreams and creamed his bed sheets? I knew I needed to put my head down and stop thinking about this or I would bone up again.
Later I noticed an extremely muscular guy, just a couple years older than me in, a skimpy tank top and what could only be described as booty shorts. Guys wore all sorts of stuff at the gym, plus it was the summer so usually his outfit wouldn’t have grabbed my attention but now it seemed provocative to me. Like he was putting his incredibly developed body on lewd display, for the benefit of me and all the other men in the room. Of course, he reminded me of Bruce and last night’s shocking exhibition.
Eventually he took the bench next to mine, and I observed him more closely. He was a good-looking guy, a classic gym bro, 230 lbs at least. His skin was tan and hairless. Every muscle bulged, he had mountainous pecs, huge shoulders. He looked almost ridiculous. Oranges in his calves, melons or cantaloupes stuffed under his chest and in the back of his shorts. Overripe fruit.
What really caught my eye was his ass. Its obscene width and firmness was irresistible. I noticed other guys ogle it as well. Steal discreet looks when his wide back was to them. How could you not look at such a specimen? Why else had he built up his ass to such proportions if he didn’t want people staring? I could have placed my water bottle atop that shelf and have him carry it around the gym for me.