by R. Keith Peck

Story Codes: MM/public/heavy metal

Copyright 1995,2000 R. Keith Peck; All Rights Reserved

Last Posted: Sat, 20 Dec 1997 [Usenet]

The band plays on the stage. The air is blue with smoke, hot, and reeks of Miller and Budweiser. The kids cluster round the stage. The typical crowd -- jeans-clad, long haired, leather-jacketed, tattooed, dancing to the music. Wild. Pretty. I lean against the bar. I'm finishing a beer. And I'm watching him.

He doesn't dance. He thrashes.

I don't know what his pretty blue eyes see; they're clenched shut. He doesn't seem to care what's around him anyway. It's the music that holds him -- the roaring guitars, the throbbing bass, the wolf-like howl of the long haired lead singer.

He twists and turns in his thrash, carving a path in the crowd like a knife slashing into flesh. He doesn't care about the dancing crowd. He's a tornado, caught up in the wild jetstreams of the atmosphere around him: amplified, magnified, intensified. A young bundle of muscle and jeans.

His hair, if it hadn't been soaked with sweat, might be wheat blond. It's now the color of wet khaki. It's long, full. Wet strands of it reach out like the arms of a huge octopus. In quiescent moments between songs I see it hanging lank and exhausted between his heaving shoulder blades. Drops of sweat like little diamonds fly from it when he thrashes.

His face isn't pretty. It's beautiful. It's a man's face, softened with a late teen's beauty. Eyes bright like crystals in the hot light. Pretty pink lips pouting when in repose, snarling when not. Strong jaw.

His shirt is gone. His torso tapers ever so gently down to his waist. Big pink nipples on a slim but well- muscled chest. No hair nestles on his nipples or between his pecs; even his flat belly is bare. A small, wet tangle of hair, looking like seaweed spit up on a beach, shows when he raises his arms. The muscles in his back cord and knot like mating pythons.

His jeans cup his beautiful ass like a hand holding an egg. The seam rides high up his crack. The legs of the jeans are ripped, torn up into white strings. Wide swaths of smooth flesh peek through. There are two big rips right under his cheeks.

He isn't wearing underwear.

I drain my Bud. It's warm, but I don't really care. My ears ring from the music. I slam the bottle down. The bartender -- a tall amazon, black haired, her left arm thrust through a spiralling snake tattoo -- brings me another. I give her money.

The music stops. The silence is painful. Blood hammers in my ears.

The lead singer is named Wad. He screams into the mike, "Youfuckershadenough?"

The reply is primal and comes from many throats: "Fuck no!"

"Whatthefuckmoredoyouwant?" The words bleed together as Wad rams them out.

"Fuck you!" a solitary voice rings out, snarling like a lion.

I know it's him.

"ShityoufuckerI'llbeatyourgoddamnedfuckingass!" Wad's eyes are wild, his hair is a phosphorus explosion centered on his face. He's flying on coke, meth -- but they're just the sweet notes of the symphony, not the blistering theme.

"Play some fucking music!" Him again. Fuck is the dominating word of this conversation, and it is always shouted at a roar.

"What do you want to hear, fucker?" It's the guitar player. Wad's got a temper, goes off like a premature ejaculator in a porno shop. The guitar player is the peacemaker.

"Play some fucking music, asswipe!" A one track mind.

Wad snarls, throws a bottle into the crowd. Graceful as a stalking leopard he turns, spits something to the band, and the music explodes again. There are reasons that heavy metal bands are fascinated with nuclear weaponry -- the volume of both cannot be believed until heard.

The thrashing starts again. All rationality surrenders to the throbbing power of the music. I rest the cold bottle of Bud against my crotch. The coldness wars with the raging bulging heat straining to escape from that prison.

I want him.

I take a deep slug of Bud. I slip my right hand into my pocket. There's no lining in it, and I'm not wearing underwear -- I haven't worn underwear since I was twelve.

My cockhead is hot under my palm, like a hot coal or a sizzling chunk of beef. I work the foreskin a bit. A dribble of precum leaks out. It starts to run down my leg. I slip my finger under the skin, dig out some cheese.

I leave it on my fingertip for a moment. Some bimbo is looking at me. I don't know how old she is. Younger than him. She's in full regalia -- three nose rings, seven ear rings of silver daggers, jeans on her fat thighs like thin paint. Her Megadeth T-shirt's been ripped. You can see her bloated boobs. Her eyes are bright as she watches me finger my hardon. Her lips are parted.

I spit at her.

She scurries out of her chair like a startled crab. She vanishes.

I pull the cheese out of my foreskin, smear it along the underside of my cock. I can smell the rich odor even in the bar's reek. My cock throbs in my jeans. I always do that, my private ritual I make to the wild gods of lust, when it's time to fuck.

The band thunders into a new song. I recognize it. It's the song I came to see them for. The music vibrates the concrete, rattles my boots, quakes the big bones in my thighs, stirs the hot semen in my balls. This is the song I live for. It's about stalking through the woods with a feral gleam in the eye. It's about raising a sharp sword and smashing it downward in the fury of war. It's about erections and sweat and tongues and muscles. It's about tilting one's head back and roaring at the sky.

This is the song about being male.

I down the beer. As I gulp little rivulets escape and run down my chin. I slam the beer down. A rush of liquid flame boils up from my crotch, pours up my spine, explodes into my brain.

Maybe I howl. I rip my shirt off, and I thrash to the music.

Hot, sweaty bodies collide against mine. There is energy in the collisions; I am gripped in the power, and I buck like a horse being broken. I don't see anything. The music doesn't require sight, it's a universe complete in itself. You can discover the texture of the song's reality as you ride the red waves behind your eyelids, as you feel the lightning erupt deep in your chest. You can feel your internal organs throb, pummeled by the sound.

I think, Civilization sucks. It's an instant of crystal clear thought. Then it's gone, tossed away in the torrent of noise.

The song rises. The guitarist break free, soars into his solo. The drums hammer. Did the gods in the old days have music like this? Did they trip on the glorious high of sound?

Then it ebbs, dies. That incredible universe fades around me. I open my eyes.

It's him.

His eyes are fixed on mine. I notice, for the first time, that his eyes are green. The green that's the color of one of Captain Kirk's old uniforms. The green that's the color of sunlight on spring leaves.

He grins. "Bad song, dude, ain't it?"

His jeans are wet with sweat. Looking down, I can see his bulge. I think his cock is hard. Music does to him what it does to me. I've stopped with my legs spread. He's between them. The insides of my knees are a half inch from the outside of his.

I encompass him.

Sweat glistens on the expanse of his chest like a polish. Streams of it pour from his underarms like little Niagras. His pectorals swell ever so gently, and sweat's beaded on his nipples. A pool of it has collected in his navel. He is smooth. Not the slightest hint of hair on that tanned torso.

We are two males, crotch to crotch.

"Ain't it, man," I say. I lift my eyes from his crotch to his face. His odor is incredible. Everyone in this fucking crowded bar has got to be able to smell this man. It's testosterone perfume. Ripe testicles dissolved in man sweat, sweetened with semen, steeped in jeans and jockstraps and jockeys. "Like your moves," I say. "What's your name?"

He grins easily and slowly. Pretty lips. I want between them. "What the fuck do you care, man?" He's dangerous. He starts to turn away.

I grab him. I seize the top of his pants, hook my fingers into the waist, swing him around. The knot of the top button presses against my palm. The blood is pounding in my crotch. The backs of my fingers are pressed against his groin. I feel muscles and smooth sweaty flesh, but still no hair.

"What's your name, man?" I demand. Another song has started.

He shifts his weight. If I hadn't been holding him by his wet jeans he'd have fallen. His eyes are hooded, like a wary snake. His face is stony.

Something is stirring down there.

"Name?" I demand.

"Josh." His voice is raspy.

Short for Joshua. "Like your moves, man." I pull him upright, release him. "Do it."


"Thrash, you fucker." I pop him hard on his hip. Leaving my hand clamped to his hip I spin him around. "Thrash."

The music roars. He cranes his neck upward. His gaze seems fixed on Wad's gyrating body. I feel through my hand his muscles tense. His hips start to move. I release him, and he begins his thrash.

I watch that ass of his move back and forth. I watch the wet jeans -- how they cling to the curves of his butt. No butt like the one before me has ever been more perfect. Melons? Grapefruits? There isn't anything to compare Josh's ass to.

The slits in the jeans, just below his ass, show me the smooth tanned skin. They are like big eyes, looking back at me.

My cock is a burning log thrust down my jeans. It looks as if I've shoved a night stick down them. The fabric bulges and strains around the long shape. I can feel every inch of cloth stroking and stimulating my rod. A fire is burning behind my eyes.

I never succumb to temptation. I always take what I want.

I slip my right hand into his slit. His skin's hot. I feel him jump as I touch him. My fingers probe inwards, between the firm cheeks. There's no hair. I slide on satin. His hot flesh enfolds me.

Embedded in his crack. Fingers above his hole.

I see Josh turn and look at me. His eyes are like meteors burning through the atmosphere. His lips part. He rolls his butt slowly as I stroke the smoothness he has between his cheeks.

His thrash motions end. He shoves his butt back at me and holds still.

I put my other hand on his hip and pull him back closer. There's no resistance. He's as much a prisoner of the moment as me.

I slip my fingers down his crack. The texture of the flesh changes. His jeans press tightly against my hand; I shove relentlessly onward. Did denim rip? The music throbs, it rules me, and I don't care.

His fingers suddenly touch my cock just as I touch his asshole. I feel him explore its length. I shudder, rub my fingertips over the sweaty pucker he carries between his legs. Blood roars in my head as we stroke each other's organs.

"How thick is it?" he asks. His fingers ease ever so slowly and lightly on my roaring hardon.

"I'll crack your fucking bones, man," I say.

"How long is it?" Josh asks. He can't reach low enough to get to my cockhead.

"You'll bleed."

I slip two fingers into him. He tenses. I feel the movement of his muscles against me. The dankness of his secret hole enfolds my finger. I probe deep into him; he squirms. Mucus squishes between my fingertips.

"It burns," he breathes. "Go easy, man."

I reach up with my other hand. I seize a nipple between my fingernails. I think of crushing a tick, then squeeze. He gasps, twists. His asshole convulses around my fingers. It feels as if his butt is trying to swallow me. I slip another finger in alongside; Josh bucks against me. He grinds his ass against my crotch.

"You hot for cock?" I ask.

"Yeah, man ... "

I sink my fingers into his asshole until the webbing hangs on his tight muscle. Sweat is pouring down the crack of his ass. There's a perfect trinity of fingers crammed up his butt; he's writhing like Jesus on the cross.

He loves it.

"Drop your pants."

"Here?" There's horror in his voice.

"Drop your pants, asswipe, or you'll get nothing."

There's a pause. He removes his hand from my cock. The pressure his jeans exert on the hand I've crammed in his butt lessens. I feel the denim move downwards, but it's hanging up on my wrist.

I don't want to leave his butt. His asshole is heaven. How great the gods are, to have built men and given them cocks and assholes.

To mate with Josh I have to let him go. So I withdraw, roughly. He gasps. With my mucus-streaked hand I yank the wet jeans down.

The gates of heaven are closed tightly before my jean- sheathed throbbing rod. And they're hairless, and tanned, and delectable. Josh's is the ass that the Romans conquered the Mediterranean for. Josh's ass made many a man a pederast when Josh was a boy. If I had a son, I'd want him to have an ass like this.

If anyone else is watching this spectacle, I don't care. The world is an ellipse with two foci: me, and Josh.

I unbutton my fly. I extract my hardon from my pants. I have to drop my jeans down below my ass to perform this maneuver. I see Josh looking over his shoulder, trying to get a look at my dick. I don't want him to see it. Let him wonder.

"Turn around, slut."

He obeys.

My foreskin has drawn back a bit. I'm all shiny with leaking fluid. I figure it's enough lube for him. I begin to force my cock down to the horizontal. It's as if I'm bending an iron shaft. I leave pecker tracks on his butt as I shove it down his valley. The sweat and the prelube make the operation go easy.

I nestle the apple-sized head of my cock against his pucker. I adjust his position -- press between his shoulder blades, bending him over just slightly. His hair is wet between my fingers. I grip him by the hips.

I take the plunge.

It's lucky that Wad is screaming some lyric. Josh's scream joins with him, blends, mingles.

One swift stroke. Balls to the wall.

Heaven ripples in electric waves along my cock. His muscles writhe in the heat, in the agony. He is trying to shit me out. I am too much for him. I gyrate my hips, and my cockhead -- so far away from me, buried in his body next to his pulsing heart -- flails around at his sweet insides. His asshole flutters, farts nervously.

I start to breed this buck. I stroke him. I leave a huge vacuum in him as I pull out; his moist walls collapse as my invader withdraws. I power back in, slamming into him like a hockey player ramming the goal. His muscles turn to Jell-O as I stroke him.

I hold him steady as I ride. How great it is to be male, to be prisoner to unwholesome lusts.

Like a stallion servicing a mare I stroke him. How I wish I could be him, to feel my cock up my own asshole. How I wish I would never leave his asshole, that I could ride this glorious train forever, that the stairway of heaven would rise endlessly.

Josh starts backing up into my thrusts. His head is twisted partly to one side. His eyes are clenched, his lips parted. Why don't they make sculptures of men in that kind of bliss? Josh skewers himself on my cock, taking his pleasure from my pounding pole.

My balls are flailing like mad between our legs. They ram against his, then flop back against my asshole.

"Fuckme fuckme fuckme ... " he chants. Josh is coming.

Jean-clad butts are writhing and twisting to the pounding music just in front of Josh. Tight man ass, slim boy ass. Josh's cock fires enormous loads of semen onto them. My colt is shooting his bolt. His cream is fired in eight inch ropes of smooth jism; I've fucked it out of him without Josh touching his prick.

This only happens when two males fuck.

I keep riding Josh. The flood of jism has died, but he's not a wuss; he stays impaled on my cock, writhing in demonic pleasure. He's submitting to me and loving it. He's the boy being initiated into the mysteries of sperm. He's feeling that cave between his legs yawn open, feeling that craving that demands that his cave be filled.

I'm the master of the herd, and Josh is my mate, and we are bound by our flesh and by the power of the moment.

Something makes me look to one side. There's the bimbo. She's watching us, her big lips gaping open. Lip gloss shines. Her eyes are fastened to my immense rod probing between Josh's sweet cheeks. Has Josh fucked her? I draw him firmly back to me, grind my pubic hairs into his smooth ass like a carpenter polishing fine wood. My thighs are pressed to his ass. I smile at her. I pump Josh. He's mine.

She gasps. Josh fires another load. It's just as powerful as before, sperming the hot butts in front of him. I feel the vibrations of his moan through my chest, which I've firmly plastered to his sweaty back. His colon ripples. Ecstatic waves travel up the long length of my rod. She can't give him this.

Mucus drips from my cock. It slides in a slow tide down Josh's thighs, caressing his muscles. It drips off my balls. Farts erupt from his ass as I pulverize him.

I look over. She's gone. Fainted, maybe. Who cares?

We fuck. It lasts.

When I'm ready, I blow my load in him. The explosion is tremendous. Sperm shoots up from my bloated balls with all the force of the demon winds that a nuclear blast raises. I feel it course through the big tube in my cock like a raging river of lava.

I ram into him. I'm in him deep -- deeper than I've ever been. He howls and squirms and begins to cream again. My seed erupts into his bowels. I'm firing it ten feet up his back alley. Silver spots appear before my eyes, boiling hot like molten silver. I feel like I'm pissing sperm.

A young guy with blond hair gets a dollop of Josh's cum on the back of his muscled, tanned neck. He turns, sees Josh buck his unspeakable pleasure, sees my grimace as I jet into my mate. The guy wipes the white hot sperm off his neck. He looks at the substance as it oozes over his fingertips, webbing them together. He grins, shoves his fingers between his lips. They emerge glistening only with spit. He turns back to his music, howls, arm upthrust and fist clenched.

Sperm is leaking from Josh's hole. It feels like hot, thick crude oil as it oozes over my balls. Josh feels like a slut inside: hot, wet, slimy, tight. I've made him mine. He's my possession. Whenever I want to mount him, he'll spread. He'll spread for any male.

I start to ease it out of him. His bowels rumble like an angry San Andreas.

"Like it, dude?" I whisper.

"Oh, man ... oh, man."

When I pull out of him, there's a huge explosion of jism from his hole. It's as if I've given him an enema of jism. It blasts out with a loud farting noise. Semen coats the backs of Josh's thighs. Grinning, I stuff my prick into my pants.

I grip him by the shoulder to hold him up. "What do you feel like?"

"You fucker. I feel ... I feel ... like fucking!" His hands seek my cock again.

I love being a man.


Author E-Mail [9/2000]: darth.vader@bigpond.com

WWW [9/2000]: http://thepornwright.gay.web1000.com