College Swimmer and the Twins, Pt. 1


The following fictional story includes sexual acts between young males. If you do not enjoy such stories or it is illegal to read such material in your jurisdiction, please do not continue.

Peter Rensteed slowly dried himself with a towel after his long and tiring workout. He felt good -- really good -- despite his aching muscles. His body was ready for the meet coming up in two weekends, and he felt confident he would do well. It was early summer, and the regional championships were scheduled in a city about 150 miles away. Peter's team was sending a small contingent of athletes who'd qualified for the competition, with Peter considered to be the "star" swimmer for the Westside Marlins.

Peter was a nationally ranked college swimmer, and swam for one of the large "state" universities in the southeast. He would begin his senior year in the upcoming fall semester. Last spring, he'd qualified for the NCAA championships for the first time -- and in two events. He was a sprinter, and had finished 23rd in the 50 free. That may not sound like much, but when you're swimming against about seventy of the nation's most elite swimmers, it said something to finish in the top third. He'd done even better in the 100 free, qualifying for consolations, and ending up 14th, enabling him to actually score a few points for his school! Now, looking back to those races some four months earlier, Peter smiled to himself. While many of his college teammates had seriously reduced training later in the spring, he had kept up a heavy schedule of practices, weight room workouts, and cross-training. For you see, Peter felt an obligation to help coach Mike Johnson of the Marlins -- the man who'd literally given him a second (and third) chance to make something of himself as a kid. It was an obligation he was proud to fulfill.

He had grown up an only child in the vast suburbs west of Chicago. Always a rambunctious and unruly kid, Pete had earned a reputation as something of a "bad boy" even in elementary school. Fighting, sassing teachers and other authority figures, and breaking the rules had always been part of his game plan. By middle school, the teenager was more than his parents could handle. His body was strong -- he'd discovered weights at a young age, and, by age 15, had already begun to develop a muscular and powerful physique. By high school, he was a star on the local gridiron, his name frequently in the local papers for his prowess on the football field. Only sheer luck had kept his name out of other sections of the same paper -- he and his buddies had already had a few minor scrapes with the law, and his status as a player on the high school team was tentative from week to week, as his grades fluctuated from barely passing to worse, and his behavior in school classes and hallways kept him constantly in danger of suspension or even worse punishment.

His parents both worked, and nobody had been there to give him the proper supervision he needed in those formative years. Home alone so much of the time, his idle hands became the devil's playthings, as the old saying went. Peter was drawn to a rougher crowd of kids, and his reputation as a party dude, daredevil, and general hell-raiser was well established by his mid-teens. On the football field, he was a king -- strong, tough and powerful, he was a linebacker feared by opposing players. By age 16, he was one tough guy -- with a man's physique, but a boy's sense of immortality and devil-may-care exuberance. He'd been grounded by his parents more times than he could remember -- and just as many times he'd simply climbed out his bedroom window and hit the streets with his buds. Nothing could tame him -- that was, until his Aunt Maggie came to stay awhile.

Maggie was his Dad's sister, and she was recovering from a serious illness -- one that had left her weak, almost feeble. But her mind was still sharp as a tack, as was her tongue. Late one evening, just the second day since her arrival, as he jumped to the ground from the low porch roof under his bedroom window, he was shocked to hear Maggie's soft voice call to him from the dark yard. "And where might you be off to at this hour, young man?" " Aunt Maggie. Didn't know you were up. What are you doing out here in the dark?" "Just looking at the stars," she replied, sitting in a lawn chair beside some shrubs. "And I repeat," she said sharply, "where are you sneaking off to this fine evening?" "Well, me and some friends just wanted to..." She abruptly interrupted, saying, "You mean some friends and I, not me and some friends." "Oh, um, right, some friends and I," Pete replied. "We were just going over to the movie Cineplex to see what was up. You won't tell Mom and Dad, will you?" "No, I won't tell. I won't have to, because you're not going. This is a school night. March yourself right back up to your room. In fact, I'll come in with you just to make sure you don't get lost. And remember, my room is next to yours, and I like to stay up and look out the window, so don't think you'll get past me!"

Peter had never known Maggie well -- he could remember hugs and kisses at a few scattered family get-togethers when he was a kid, but he had not seen her since he was maybe eleven or twelve. Now, here she was back in his life, cramping his style big-time. But what was he to do? She was not well, and he didn't want to do anything to upset her, and maybe worsen her condition. So, he reluctantly headed back inside with Maggie holding his arm for support.

The doctor had advised Maggie to begin a regular exercise program, and suggested swimming was her best choice -- strenuous, but the buoyancy in the water would be easier on her body. Maggie loved the idea -- she had been an adult fitness swimmer for years back home in California. The very next day, Peter's parents told him they would need his help, recruiting him to drive Maggie to the recreation center with an indoor pool where she would work out with a small group of adults for an hour late each afternoon.

"What? Why do I have to take her?" Peter yelled. "As soon as I get home from football practice, I have to take her to the dumb pool? That's not fair! When can I get my homework done?" Peter's Dad whipped a copy of Pete's last report card from his desk and waved it at the youth. "Look's like you haven't been hitting the books in a while. We know you've been hanging with your friends after practice -- going to the mall, over to that filthy pool hall. Well, now it's time to grow up a little and take on some real responsibility. You can take your books to the pool and do homework while Maggie swims."

Pete stormed from the room, cursing under his breath. But he stopped short when he saw Maggie standing on the stairs, within earshot of his Dad's den. He saw the pained look on her face and knew she'd heard everything. "I'm sorry to be such a burden to you, Peter," she said. "I think I can get a taxi to the pool and back." "Well, um, you don't have to do that, Aunt Maggie -- I guess I can take you, at least most days I can." "Well, that would be a great help to me," she answered.

Arriving at the pool the following day, Peter helped Maggie inside. He was about to split, thinking he could make a quick run to the mall and be back for Maggie in time, when he saw a kid from his math class walk onto the deck wearing one of those tight-fitting, revealing Speedo swimsuits. "Fairy," Pete muttered under his breath, but still gave a small nod as the kid smiled and waved to him. "What was that kid's name? Taylor? No, Trevor," thought Pete. Trevor came over and held up his fist to tap knuckles with Pete. "Hey, Pete, what are you doing here? Giving up on football to try a real sport?" said Trevor. "Whatever, dude," replied Pete. "Don't you feel a little funny runnin' around in those swimming suits that are smaller than underwear? Dude, it's like you can see everything a guy's got in those." As he said this, Peter found himself glancing downward at the swimmer's rather pronounced bulge, where it swelled the suit from his loins.

"Well, I can't exactly swim in pads and cleated shoes, can I?" Trevor asked. Noticing Pete's quick glance at his groin, Trevor added, "Besides, a real man doesn't have to cover himself with protection, or hide his anatomy. I'm a guy, and I'm proud of that. Why should I feel ashamed or embarrassed?" Pete replied, saying, "Hey, I'm a jock -- and damn proud of it. Nothing's tougher than football, and the best little swimboy is less an athlete than our junior bench warmers!" Trevor sized Pete up -- even under his jacket, it was obvious Pete had an impressive, muscular build. "I may not be able to tackle a guy and bring him to his knees the way you can," said Trevor. "I mean, it's plain to see you can outmuscle me any day of the week. But for endurance, stamina, speed -- I think you football guys wouldn't qualify to be towel-carriers for our school swim team!"

"Shit," Pete said sharply. He was about to put panty-boy in a headlock and do some serious hurting when Maggie appeared from the locker room and walked up beside him. "Hi, I'm Maggie, Peter's aunt," she said pleasantly, extending a frail hand toward Trevor. "Oh, I'm Trevor Martin. I'm on the high school swim team, as well as the local club team -- Westside Marlins," said Pete's schoolmate, shaking her hand. "Do you swim here on your own?" asked Maggie. "No, our teams practice here -- the rest of the school team will be here shortly." Maggie excused herself to join the adult group at the shallow end of the pool as Pete sulked away, plotting revenge of some vague sort on Speedo-boy. But Trevor wasn't quite finished with him. "Hey Pete," he called, "why don't you try out one of our practices? See how tough you really are!" Maggie overheard this, and echoed Trevor's statement. "Yes, dear, why don't you give swimming a try?" Just then, a group of giggling girls from the team walked onto the deck, and Pete nodded in their direction as he flatly stated, "That's why -- swimming is a sport for girls. Don't get water up your nose, Trevor." And with that, he returned to the car, and, realizing it was now too late to catch up with his buds, grabbed his history book and returned to the stands at poolside to catch up on some reading.

Maggie had finished her program, and her nephew could see the pain on her face as she wearily climbed the stairs to exit the water. He rushed over to her and grabbed her arm as she weakly tried to stand. "Well, I know I don't look it, but I FEEL a million times better than when I got here." Pete had to smile -- crazy Aunt Maggie! As they left, he glanced back to see Trevor and his teammates swimming up and down the lane. "What's so hard about that?" he thought to himself.

That night, Maggie couldn't stop talking about her trip to the pool, and how much good swimming did her. The possibility of Peter taking up swimming was broached -- he quickly put the notion down with a few sarcastic remarks, but he did want to show Speedo-boy up -- even if just once. He decided then and there he'd bring his suit the following day, hop in the pool, put stupid Trevor in his place, then get on with his life. That night in bed, he found himself thinking about Trevor -- and the form-fitting, skimpy swim suit he'd worn at the pool. "What is this? Why am I thinking about that jerk in his itsy-bitsy little suit? What the hell is up with that?" Pete wondered, as he lay awake, slowly touching and fondling himself the way he liked. Peter knew he wasn't a fag -- NO WAY! Yeah, a couple years ago, he and his friend Joey had been wrestling in the basement, stealing gropes and feels of each other's hard dicks through baggy shorts -- hell, there had been three or four such matches, but that was just curiosity, nothing more. A dude always wondered what the competition was sporting, didn't he? Since then, he'd explored the other side. Joey's little tramp neighbor Tiffany had given him head jobs that just about blew his mind, not to mention his nutload. She'd finally consented to his constant pressure to "put out", and the two had had a few quickie sessions at parties, car seats -- hell, even the mall bathroom, since then! He liked girls -- and that was that. Yet, drifting off to sleep, he pictured Trevor once again in his little bright blue suit, the fabric stretching to cover his "stuff".

Late the next afternoon, after escorting Maggie to the door of the women's locker room, Pete hurried to the men's room and threw on his old baggie board shorts he'd bought for summer days at Lake Michigan, then headed out to the pool, where he ran into Trevor and a couple other guys and girls from the team. Even in the non-flattering boardies, Pete knew he presented a picture of robust male health and fitness. His body was chiseled and rock-hard. His years of basement barbell work-outs and football team weight room drills had given him a body packed with muscle. His chest and pecs were like granite, his abs flat and rippled. His upper arms were popped, with hard, knotted muscles, and the cool vein raising the length of his bicep under the taut skin. He knew his legs could use some more work, but standing next to these skinny swimmers, he felt like the only man on deck. The others eyed him suspiciously, with Trevor finally saying, "What are you doing -- joining the swim team?" "Hell no," Pete replied. "Swimming's for you girls" -- and here, he nodded at both the girls and guys around him -- "I just wanted to show you that a real jock can kick your ass -- even in your own sport." Just then, Coach Mike Johnson walked up to the group. Mike was the head coach of both the Westside Marlins, an age-group team with kids from six years old up to college level, and the local high school team. "Hey," he said excitedly, "we have a new recruit? GREAT! I'm Mike Johnson," he said, giving Pete's hand a firm, manly shake. Trevor chuckled as they approached the assigned lanes, then whispered to Pete, "You won't last twenty minutes."

Unfortunately for Pete, Trevor was being too kind. After fifteen minutes, Pete was left at the pool gutter, gasping and coughing, his body screaming for air and relief. Mike came over to him and asked quietly, "How long have you been a swimmer, son?" "Uh, about fifteen minutes," replied the spent teen, his head hanging in shame and fury. "I see," said the coach. "No, coach, I don't think you see at all," interjected Maggie, who'd witnessed the spectacle from where she'd been swimming, and had now joined them. "You see," she continued, "my nephew is on the football team, and is convinced swimming is a sport for - how do you say it -- wusses? He came here today to put Trevor `in his place' as they say, but instead -- oh, move over Pete, honey -- Trevor is coming in for another flip turn. Better get out of the way."

Pete glared at her as he wearily hoisted himself onto the deck, getting splashed in the process by Trevor's flipping feet. The boy stood, an angry expression on his face, and turned to walk back to the locker room. Mike caught him by the shoulder, and smiling warmly, said to Pete, "You are quite the athlete -- I can tell by looking at you that you have what it takes to excel at any sport you choose. Why did you really come here today -- to put Trevor down? Because that would be quite a feat for a newbie -- Trevor is an excellent swimmer with many years of training under his belt. Still, with your build and musculature, you would make one hell of a sprinter. Trevor is a long-distance swimmer, and this practice was designed for him -- not a potential sprinter like yourself."

"Look, coach, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to put you down -- or your sport. Trevor just irked the shi...uh, the hell out of me yesterday, and I wanted to knock him down a peg or two. Guess it didn't go as planned," said Pete, as he watched Trevor executing another clean flip turn.

"I understand your aunt has joined the adult fitness group -- why don't you practice with us a few weeks -- just for an hour, matching her practices, not the two hours the rest of the team does. I'll write some sprint work-outs for you. What do you say, Pete -- will you give it a try? We desperately need a good sprinter, and a guy with your obvious strength may be just what we need." "Well, um, I don't know..." said Pete. But Maggie was standing just a few feet away, nodding and smiling at him, encouraging him. Without even thinking, he agreed to try -- for a week or so.

It was the worst week of his life -- he'd drive his aunt to the pool, then show up on deck -- battered and bruised from football practice, only to do another athletic workout unlike anything his body was prepared for. He wanted to up and quit so many times -- then he'd look to the other end of the pool to see his aunt struggling valiantly, churning through the water, often grimacing in pain, and he knew he couldn't quit -- not just yet, anyway. A week went by, with Mike giving him frequent pointers -- keep elbows high, body level, rapid kick rate, don't breathe off the walls -- so many little things he never knew. He'd gone swimming in the lake, or at the community outdoor pool for years -- that's why he thought what Trevor and the others did was no big deal -- he could keep up with them. Ha! He split his lane with a girl named Sarah -- a quiet, shy girl of 14 or so. She was a sprinter also. Pete could power his way through the water ahead of her the first 25, but coming back, Sarah would glide past him almost effortlessly -- her superior technique easily overcoming his bulky muscles. It ticked him off to be passed by a girl, but watching her stroke, he began to get better, improving day by day.

At the end of the second practice, Mike had timed him in a 50 free -- a 28.1 second effort. Pete was proud -- until he noticed the pool record board on the far wall, and saw a time of 21.6 seconds for the same distance! The week passed -- then a second week. Again, Mike timed him -- 26.0 flat. Only a two second improvement in two weeks! Pete was shocked when Mike told him how great that was. "Yeah, right -- all that work over two weeks and only two seconds faster?" Pete moaned. He was more surprised by what Mike told him next -- "Pete, it will take two months of solid work to cut another two seconds, and two years of constant training to cut two seconds after that. This is not a sport where you will set national records after a couple of months. It takes years of dedication."

Leaving the pool that day, Pete felt down. But Maggie hurried to him as best she could and hugged him firmly -- the first warmth she'd shown him since arriving weeks ago. "I'm so proud of you," was all she said. For some reason, it made him feel good that she was proud of him. A further surprise awaited him. A few moments later, Trevor - who had all but ignored him these past weeks -- came over to him, smiling. "Good job today, Pete. Your stroke is like 1,000 percent better than it was the first day you came. Here's something to help you get even faster." With that, Trevor handed him a small plastic bag -- inside was a team Speedo. "It's time you graduated from trunks to a real swimsuit, dude." Pete was speechless at the kind gesture -- most of the guys he'd been hanging with the past couple years were takers -- not givers. You always had to be on guard with them. Trevor's kind words and gesture were a new experience for the teen.

That night, Pete tried on his new suit at home -- it had OPHS printed on the front left side -- the Speedo emblem was on the right. Standing in front of the mirror, he felt almost naked in the small, thin piece of fabric. "How the hell would I ever wear this in public?" he wondered. The sight of his large male endowment -- yeah, he'd checked other guys in the locker room, and knew himself to be one of the "larger" boys at school -- barely covered in the shiny material, was strangely erotic to him, and he felt himself begin to harden and lengthen, stretching the suit in embarrassing ways. A rap at his bedroom door, and the sound of his aunt calling to him, quickly brought him back "under control", and he donned a pair of shorts and opened the door. Maggie, who was quickly recovering her health, stood there smiling at him. "I wanted to thank you for taking me to the pool every day -- you have no idea how this has helped my recovery," she said. "I can see how it helps you, Aunt Maggie -- I mean, you look so much stronger than a couple of weeks ago. I had no idea swimming would be so good for you," Pete said. "And for you," she replied. "I mean -- look at you. Staying home, doing your homework, getting better grades, no more late-night shenanigans..." "Well," Pete answered, "I'm just too tired these days to go out nights -- and, well, I just really want to get better at this sport. I mean, Coach Mike has done so much for me, and the other kids on the team -- well, they were really uncertain about me at first, but now, everyone -- even Trevor -- has welcomed me, made me part of the group."

Maggie smiled, saying, "And it's a far better group than the one you ran with before. These kids are serious about more than sports -- most of them get excellent grades as well." "I know, I know," said Pete. "But I miss my old friends -- they've been calling, asking what's happened to me, wanting me to hang with them." "Honey," Maggie said softly, "peer pressure is huge at your age. The important thing to do is pick the right peers -- pick the people who pressure you to better yourself, not take yourself to ever lower standards of behavior." On a sudden impulse, Pete threw his arms around his aunt and hugged her, appreciating her wisdom at long last.

Pete was accustomed to Sarah passing him in the last few yards, but it was a whole new experience when the younger kids from the Westside Marlins club team returned to practice after having much of September off. Pool time was precious, and Mike had to make the most of the time allotted, so combining the club and school teams at practice made sense. Suddenly, Pete found new competition -- and from a most unexpected source. Jason and Jeremy, twin ten year-olds, were thrust into the lane with him. Glancing disdainfully at the scrawny, gangly kids, Pete knew he could at least leave them in the dust. What he didn't know is that both lithe, blond boys were nationally ranked swimmers in the 10 and under age group -- and both could swim a 50 in under 27 seconds! Pete found himself fighting for his life -- and pride -- as he raced the "little kids" up and down the lane. Faster, faster -- hold your breath -- Pete felt like he was drowning -- suffocating -- he couldn't breathe -- whistles blowing - what was that? He was gasping, struggling, fighting for the surface...when he awoke, blanket and pillow nearly smothering him where he'd become entangled in his sleep. He wasn't at the pool, he was home, in bed, the alarm clock blaring him into consciousness. It was five forty-five a.m., and he was due at the pool at six-thirty for morning practice. He lay there for a few moments, remembering those days five years ago -- his first attempts at swimming, his struggles to keep pace with the little kids, his growing friendship with Trevor. God, had it been five years? Well, just about.

Now 21, Pete had gone on to swim with his high school team, actually making finals at the state championship his senior year. He'd quit the football team about a month after starting swimming, in large part due to the teasing his football buddies put him through -- the usual "You just want to be on the swim team to check out the girls in their wet swimsuits" to the ridicule about wearing a Speedo in front of people. "Dude, are you crazy? You're gonna wear a banana hammock in front of everyone? That's so gay, dude." But in the pool, he felt he could really test himself --prove himself -- make something of himself. Hanging with the swimmers nudged his grades up -- not straight As, but enough to get accepted to college, and on a swimming scholarship, no less! He'd become an integral part of the Westside Marlins club team through high school. And during summer school breaks, he was back home to swim with them still -- though now, as a college athlete and NCAA qualifier, he was viewed with awe and admiration by the younger kids. And nobody held him in higher esteem than Jason and Jeremy -- now 14, handsome as hell, and two of the top-ranked teen swimmers in the nation.

Driving through the morning darkness toward the pool, Pete's thoughts wandered back once again to that first year on the high school team. He was in the 11th grade, and Trevor was a senior. Their rivalry and competition has quickly faded as Peter became a regular member of the team. Then, there had been that night.

Pete was not only swimming for his school team -- he had also joined the Marlins club team, and his first actual swim meet was scheduled for a day in early December. The meet was in a city about a 45 minute drive from the suburb where Pete and Trevor lived, and Trevor's parents had agreed to drive the boys there. It was decided Pete would spend the night at the Martin's home. Everyone enjoyed a big spaghetti dinner -- "carbo loading", as Trevor explained to the novice. Trevor's folks and little sister retired early, leaving the teen boys to play some video games in Trevor's room. Pete had noticed Trevor had one double bed in his room -- not twin beds as Pete had thought. He assumed he would just sleep on the floor with a pillow and blanket. After some gaming time, the boys decided to get some sleep. Pete stripped to his boxers and said, "Got a blanket for me? And a pillow? I'll just stretch out here next to your desk." "Don't be crazy -- you can't sleep on the floor. This bed is big enough for the both of us," replied Trevor.

By this time, Trevor had also removed his shirt and jeans, and Pete once again noticed -- as he had in the locker room on several occasions -- that Trevor was wearing a pair of skimpy bikini briefs -- one of the chain store brands. The waistband said `Jake Taylor' on it, and the briefs were extremely narrow along the sides, but with a full pouch in front, and seat in the back. This particular pair was light gray. Pete found it fascinating that Trevor defied "convention", and wore such small bikini-style briefs instead of the ubiquitous boxers seen on males their age. He'd wanted to ask Trevor about this, but had shied away from broaching the subject for fear it might seem odd for one teen male to ask something about another dude's choice of underwear. Anyone in the locker room might overhear such a question. But now, it was just the two of them.

"Trev," Pete asked, "why do you prefer small briefs over the boxers most guys wear?" "I just find them more comfortable -- more supportive of my, well, of my equipment, I guess," Trevor responded. "Guess I've been in Speedos so long, it just feels more natural to keep my boys snug instead of all flopping around." Pete chuckled, then said, "Well, I guess that makes sense." But he was astounded by Trevor's next remark. "Would you like to try on a pair to see how comfortable they are?" Without waiting for an answer, the older boy went to a drawer and pulled out a pair of light blue briefs matching the ones he wore, and handed them to Peter. "Here -- try these. I think we're the same size."

Peter wasn't sure how to respond. If he tossed them aside and said "no way", Trevor might take it as an insult. On the other hand, he didn't want to seem too eager to don the small, sexy little briefs. But holding them in his hand, he could feel the softness of the fabric, and curiosity got the best of him. Turning to face shyly away from Trevor, he skimmed down his boxers and pulled the briefs on. Looking up, he caught his reflection in the mirror -- and gasped at how small and revealing they were on his muscular frame. Within seconds, Trevor was standing beside him, and they both looked in the mirror, admiring each other's healthy young male physiques. Pete was taken aback when Trevor reached over and gently slid the waistband of his briefs down slightly in front, saying, "Here, wear them a little lower in the front -- they really accentuate your awesome hip flexors. See?" Glancing back in the mirror, Pete did see what Trevor meant -- the low-riding briefs revealed the awesome cut of his rippling abs, and the sharp contoured lines of his hip flexors where they curved toward his groin area. Pete also became aware of one other thing -- he was rapidly growing aroused in the briefs, his hardening cock beginning to tent the thin fabric in front. "Yeah, they are comfortable," Pete said, turning quickly away from Trevor, "but I will just put my boxers back on for now." He quickly stripped the briefs over his thighs and calves, then pulled on his old, worn boxers -- the ones, he suddenly realized, that had the gaping fly in front -- the fly that let his now-stiff dick jump out for all the world to see.

Trying not to be conspicuous, Pete struggled valiantly to stuff his erect member back in the fly, but it just wouldn't stay there. As if it had a mind of it's own, his mushroom head and veiny shaft just kept popping through that damn fly! Trevor, noticing Pete "fiddling" with his front, asked his friend, "Are you OK?" and stepped around Peter to see what was wrong. Pete blushed as he shyly said, "I, um, I seem to be having a little problem." Trevor said, "Hmmm, looks like sort of a big problem to me." Then both boys began to laugh as Pete finally got his tackle stored inside his boxers, though they were tented obscenely, and stretched nearly to the point of ripping.

"Did putting on my briefs get you, well, excited like that?" Trevor inquired. "Well, I'm not sure -- maybe. Just sometimes, well, you know, it gets hard for no damn reason. Stupid thing just likes to embarrass me, I guess," Pete replied. "I know what you mean," Trevor said, "I'm always popping boners at the weirdest times." At this comment, he glanced down at his own crotch -- following his gaze, Pete looked down to see Trevor's hard, straining cock forming a ridge of meat under the tight gray material, his cockhead snaking toward Trevor's right hip and pushing up to the waistband. Pete looked longer than he knew he should -- it was just that he'd never seen another guy hard -- even in underwear, and the sight was alluring to him for reasons he couldn't quite explain. Then he quickly picked his discarded pair off the floor and handed them to Trevor. But Trevor wouldn't take them, pushing Pete's hand away, saying, "Go ahead and keep them -- I've got plenty." But Pete said, "No, dude, I couldn't keep your underwear -- that would be sorta strange." "No one would know -- just hold onto them for now," Trevor said. "No, man, here, take them back," Pete said again. But Trevor again refused to accept the proffered item. Soon, the boys were laughing, as they struggled to give and reject the tiny little bikini briefs. As so often happens with teenaged boys full of piss and vinegar, the struggle soon became more of a wrestling match, with each trying to conquer and control the other.

It was fortunate that Trevor had a large room, with a wide open space between his bed and desk -- plenty of room to `rassle. And it was also fortunate that Trevor's room was at the far end of the house, away from other family members' rooms. Though their voices and grunts stayed low, anyone listening at the door would have heard the sounds of struggling as the two teen boys waged `war'. Pete had grabbed Trev's wrist, trying to force the briefs into his hand. Trevor twisted free and jumped behind Pete, wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him to the floor. Though Trevor was on top, Pete used his superior strength to quickly gain the upper hand, grabbing Trevor's thinner upper arm in a firm grip and pulling him down beside him, then rolling on top. Trevor ducked his head between Pete's arm and chest, trying to squirm loose, while at the same time inhaling a strong whiff of Pete's masculine underarm odor -- a whiff that set his head spinning. Shifting, Trevor got his head down near Pete's hip, and strained with all his might to get next to, rather than under, Pete. Now, Pete found his head down near Trev's hip -- with Trevor's legs splayed apart, Pete was shocked to see the Trevor's little bikini had pulled and stretched away from the older youth's groin area. The gaping opening along the side of Trevor's scrotum gave Pete a close-up view of the high school senior's pubic area -- the soft, curly dark hairs above the root, and the base of Trevor's cock shaft. As Pete pushed harder against Trevor's top leg, the gap opened even wider, and Pete was amazed to see his opponent's nutsac spill from the confines of the small bikini, and dangle against his upper thigh, completely exposed to the cool night air. Likewise, he was astounded -- and quite excited -- to see that Trevor's shaft was completely hard, trapped beneath the layer of soft gray cotton, but straining, even yearning, to break as free as his smaller, round traveling companions now were.

Though Pete knew he could win on strength alone, a wicked thought raced into his mind. Using his one free hand, he placed it on Trevor's quivering thigh, then quickly rubbed upward on the thigh until his fingers wrapped themselves around the older boy's testicles. And he began to squeeze, though not hard enough to injure. Trevor's struggles immediately ceased when his mind registered the predicament he was in -- his foe literally had him `by the balls.' Pete edged his way to Trevor's side, while never relinquishing his grip on the prize. Quickly, Pete was kneeling beside and above a compliant Trevor, whose eyes were open wide in a mix of fear and desire, staring into Pete's smirking face, wondering what fate would befall him. "Do you give? Do you cry `uncle'? asked Pete. Trevor said nothing, just remained quiet, helpless, on the floor. Pete shifted his hold -- just a little -- and tightened his grip. "Uncle, uncle", gasped Trevor, surrendering at last to the superior athlete. Pete smiled and released his hold on the other boy's sac, but subtly brushed his fingers along the long, hard shaft still barely clothed by the bikini -- just to emphasize to Trevor that he, Peter, was the dominant alpha male in the room. As his fingers brushed past the tip of the hard cock, he withdrew them as he felt dampness. Looking down, he snickered as he saw a large wet spot soaking the gray fabric where Trevor's cocktip rubbed against it. Trevor was beginning to leak sex fluids from his dick, and Pete has gotten some on his fingertips! Smirking again, Pete wiped his fingers on Trevor's chest, stood up, and said, "Well, Trevor, if you're that determined for me to hold onto your briefs, then so be it. Who am I to argue?" With that, he scooped up the light blue bikini and placed it into his sport bag.

"I...I ...guess we should get some sleep," said a flushed Trevor, now rising from the floor and tucking his jewels back inside the leg opening, then adjusting the briefs to better cover himself. "Yeah, I guess so," replied Pete. Both boys quickly hopped into bed, scooting as far from each other as possible.

But sleep did not come easily to Pete -- his mind was racing with crazy thoughts and images about the events of the evening. For over an hour, he watched as the illuminated numbers on the small clock changed. Next to him, Trevor breathed softly, regularly, certainly asleep, thought Pete. "Trev?" "Trev, are you awake?" he called quietly, but heard no reply. Now, more wicked thoughts were racing through Peter's mind. "I wonder if Trevor is still hard?" "I wonder if his dick leaks that stuff even when he's asleep?" Without fully comprehending why, but thinking he just wanted to satisfy his own curiosity, Peter slowly turned on his side and stealthily reached a hand under the sheet until his fingers rested lightly on his friend's hip. No reaction came from Trevor. Gently, he slid his fingers over toward the sleeping boy's male organ. Yes! It was still hard, firm. Pete lightly let his fingers explore, discovering that the wet spot on the boy's bikini had now dried, though his cockhead was still snuggled tightly into a fold of the cotton fabric. "Can I make him leak -- even in his sleep?" wondered Pete, as he slowly rubbed the sensitive undershaft, a place Pete knew from his own masturbatory practices to be especially sensitive. And very soon, Pete discovered that even in sleep, a boy's sex organ remains at the ready. He soon felt Trevor's dick swell, and felt a small drop of dampness form where his tip pushed against the fabric of the briefs. But suddenly, without warning, Pete faced a real dilemma. He found that his own organ had become completely aroused -- as he brushed Trevor's leaking tool, he felt himself begin to leak. And then -- in a flash -- uncontrollably -- his own hot seed was gushing into his boxers, his dick squirting uncontrollably. "Oh no," he muttered aloud, "I can't believe I shot a load into my boxers."

As quietly as he could, he slipped off the bed and headed for the bathroom adjoining Trevor's room. He was stopped in his tracks by Trevor's voice calling to him from the bed. "So, once you clean yourself up, are you going to finish me off?" " were awake? The whole time?" squeaked Pete in embarrassment. "Yeah Pete, I was awake. I guess I should have said something, dude, but I was ... wondering...just wondering what you had in mind when you reached for me. I was going to say something, but, well, it just felt so good when you touched me down there, so damn good. I didn't want to stop you."

"I'm sorry, Trevor. I don't know what came over me. I had no right to touch you like that. I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say." Trevor turned on the light. He could see the look of shame and embarrassment on his teammate's face. "It's no big deal, Pete. We're just a couple of horny dudes, seeing what's what. Man, you get me all worked up, shoot your own load, then walk away? What kind of a bud are you? That's just not right, man." Pete was suddenly overcome with a desire to sate the older buck -- to make him plead for mercy and cry `uncle' as he had earlier. He remembered those past weeks of sleeplessness, as he would lie in his bed and fantasize about Trevor's prominent bulge, sheathed in that small blue Speedo. He knew then and there what he had to do -- needed to do. He walked back to the bed, climbed on top of a surprised Trevor, yanked his little bikini down to his thighs, then wrapped his fist around the hard cock now waving from Trevor's groin. Quick as a flash, his fingers encircled the stiff, slick prick and began furiously pumping up and down. Trevor, wide-eyed, gasped as he felt the fingers sliding up and down his tube of manflesh. In less than a minute, his cock erupted, spraying his seed upward onto his chest and belly. "Looks like we both need to clean up," stated Peter, matter-of-factly.

The two boys, their need for a sexual release now satisfied, made their way to the bathroom, where they cleaned themselves, then returned to bed. Shucking his soiled, wet boxers, Pete donned the little blue bikini Trevor had loaned him, then crawled into bed. Other than a wet spot, Trevor's briefs were still wearable. He, too, climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. "Are you warm enough, Pete? Do you need another blanket?" Trevor asked. "No, I'm good," came the reply. "OK, `night then," sighed Trevor. "Good night, Trev. Sweet dreams."