Dude, Are You Serious?
Copyright © 2014 by Jonathan Longhorn (jonathan_longhorn at yahoo dot com). All rights reserved. Except for the use of less than two pages in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means is forbidden without the express written permission of the author. Express permission is granted to The Nifty Erotic Stories Archive for storage, indexing, retrieval, and display of this work.
Disclaimer: The material in this work is for mature audiences only and contains graphic sexual content and language. It is intended only for those aged 18 and older. All of the characters in this work are assumed to be at least 18 years of age.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and settings are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, names, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental. In the real world having sex without using a condom can be very dangerous to your health. Don’t ruin your life or your future. Slip it on before you slip it in.
Note: There are some references in this story and others, to things mentioned in another of my stories, Target Nemesis: The Tentacle Lord's Revenge, which you can find here: http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/sf-fantasy/target-nemesis-the-tentacle-lords-revenge.html. The story itself is about the movie that had been seen or was being watched by characters in several of my stories - in which an alien warlord bent on revenge, ‘has his way’ with an Earth Forces Brigade hero. While I hope that you would enjoy reading that story, it may be a bit brutal for some readers and you do not need to read that story first in order to understand or to enjoy this story.
All trademarks used in this work are the sole property of their owners and have been used without permission or endorsement.
Charles John Stockton, IV—Charley to almost everyone—looked over first one and then the other of his shoulders; left, right, left, and—right. He wanted … no … ‘needed’ to ensure that no one else was within hearing range. Not for ‘this’ conversation. A conversation that had begun during last period Study Hall and that had taken a sudden and unexpectedly bizarre spin.
He inhaled slowly as he took a moment for another look in both directions along one of the three main corridors in the labyrinth that made up the first floor of Complex ‘A’ of the high school. Finally, Charley allowed the air to slip even more slowly through his barely parted lips—satisfied that they were alone. As ‘alone’ as anyone could be when standing smack in the middle of 2,000+ students that were herding toward exit doors in what could only be explained as a stampede.
Yeah, that about summed it up.
He could almost see a regiment of Lord Q’a’s army hovering just beyond. Looking up and whirling around at the sound of pounding feet, cheers, laughter, and exuberant ‘yeah!s’ as the three sets of double doors burst open and the crush of humans spilled out into the afternoon sunlight. Spilled? More like ‘erupted’ from those doors and every other possible exit from the building.
He couldn’t help but smirk.
He could just imagine zombies diving for cover behind hedges and shrubs. Fearless as they were, he envisioned cyborgs, eyes gone wide, gulping and then disappearing into the beds of pickup trucks and into trash dumpsters … squeezing through sunroofs and shimming through open car windows….
His eyes rolled at the mental vision of tentacle creatures freezing in place as they joined crepe myrtle and mountain laurel plantings—their muscular bodies taking on the shape of a tree trunk; their tentacles reaching up and out and bent here and there like branches….
He saw Lord Q’a, himself. The fearless, self-absorbed, vindictive, ‘really pissed off’ self-proclaimed Ruler of the Universe sighing at the reaction of his warriors to a bunch of humans—not just ‘any’ humans but—‘teenagers’. Q’a’s eyes—‘all’ of them—squinting, then widening with the dawn of realization hitting him just in time. They were headed in his direction. Teenagers. Hundreds of teenagers. Thousands of them. Perhaps his warriors knew more than he in this particular case. He stepped aside and levitated upward to perch on a strange metal contraption that stood 30’ above the ground—with 4 arms protruding outward at the top; each capped by a lighting mechanism of sorts.
Charley’s nostrils flared and his eyes rolled as he admonished himself.
That should teach him to go to a late, late showing of something like Target Nemesis: The Tentacle Lord’s Revenge at 1:15 on a Friday morning … knowing full well that he had a day filled with an early morning practice, hours of class, and then another practice after school. Okay—‘that’ and the chili burrito and fries with ghost pepper cheese sauce probably didn’t help matters, either. He was still burping that shit. But it was ‘so’ good. What was he thinking? What was Chelsea thinking? Well, she really wasn’t thinking at all—she fell asleep 30 minutes into the flick.
How in Hell could she ‘sleep’?
Sleep? Through ‘this’ movie? Like … friggin’ … hell. Charley found himself strangely riveted by it. There was something … he wasn’t sure what ‘it’ was, but … a stripped naked superhero and savior of the Earth, dangling at the ends of multiple tentacles and being ravaged by the invading forces’ Supreme Commander.
Ravaged? As if. Lord Q’a had raped the fuck out of the poor guy.
It was riveting.
Kinda spellbinding, actually.
Okay, it was kinda gay. A warlord raping a superhero, but….
Okay, yeah—it was way seriously gay, but….
He wasn’t 100% sure but he was fairly certain that the action on the screen had nothing to do with the raging T-bone that he had the rest of the night. Yeah, how could it? Why would something so … so … so … very … gay … throw his dick into bonerville?
As the mental vision of retreating invasion forces evaporated into a fine mist, and—his breathing exercise completed, Charley drifted back into the moment. His eyes skimmed through the throng and he breathed a small sigh of relief. All potential witnesses seemed to be at a relatively safe distance from them—for now.
He felt the knot in his gut cinch a little tighter as he went over it … again … what he had just been told during Study Hall. It had replayed in his head for the 47th time in little more than what—eleven minutes? Yeah, maybe that long. Maybe only seven-point-three minutes. He shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other before steadying himself and taking a more firm stance.
He stared at the floor more than at the guy standing between him and a row of lockers. His locker. Chelsea’s locker. Right next to his. And his best friend—Ryan’s. And his other best friend—Bennett’s. And….
Hell, yeah he was stalling.
His brain was using the internal ‘pause button’ while it processed … ‘this.’
He supposed that this might be a good time to do something radical like … speak.
Yeah. Speak, Stockton! Speak!
Another quick look around. Immediate vicinity still clear. He leaned in and offered a hoarse whisper.
“Dude, are you … serious?” He leaned closer still. “You know, about…?”
Dillon Jamison briefly copied his friend and made a quick survey of the area. Scoping out any potential witnesses. He too checked for too-close-for-their-own-comfort ears. This was ‘so’ not the kind of conversation that he wanted to end up being broadcast through the campus grapevine. Hell—this was the kind of conversation that he never in a million years would have thought he’d be having with anyone—‘especially’ Charley Stockton.
‘This’ conversation? With Charley Stockton?
Seriously? Fuckin’ Hell if I know where it came from but yeah, I am. I really am serious.
He was unsure how it had even got started—well, other than noticing the raging boner in Charley’s pants every time that he saw him the entire day. Talk about riveting. However, before he even knew it or was able to control it, his mouth blew open and the words just started pouring out.
How? Why? He didn’t have a clue. To be honest, he was unsure he was ready to face the most obvious of the ‘hows’ and ‘whys’ of it right now.
Sure, it had been rattling around in his mind for a while. Okay, a long while. But that was where he had intended to keep it. In his mind and the darkness of his bedroom late at night when he took matters in hand. He sure as hell hadn’t walked into Study Hall this afternoon with a goal of saying what he was saying before he could stop himself from saying it.
There it was.
Rising to the surface once again.
He had taken note … again … of the raging bone in Charley’s pants when he walked up to the table, pulled out the chair directly across from him and offered a fist bump across the table that divided the two of them. He had silently wondered if Charley had swallowed a dozen of those little blue pills last night or something. This was obviously no sign of erectile dysfunction but more like all systems go in ‘T’-minus 3, 2, well—NOW!
Here he was.
Just a step or two away from the school’s undisputed #1 … god. Maybe co-god, if you took into consideration Rhett Applegate. Combined, the two of them easily had the makings for a second Mt. Olympus. They would be the first two that would take their throne and don crown and toga and…. Okay, maybe crown and jock strap, and….
Well, anyway—yeah, here he was, standing with god #1—Charley Stockton. And, they were having ‘that’ conversation all over again.
Satisfied that they were safe, he returned his attention back to the athlete standing in front of him. He felt his right knee bouncing like a loose fence slat in the path of an approaching tornado. Was he hyperventilating? No—he had to be breathing to hyperventilate and he was pretty sure he would pass out from lack of oxygen at any moment.
Charley ran his fingers through his hair and then readjusted his backpack on his shoulder. Dillon was gonna pass out. Or, worse—puke.
“You’re gonna pass out, dude. Breathe.”
Oh. Breathe. Yeah. We learned about that in science class. You have to breathe at least once a week. Right?
Dillon inhaled deeply, held it until his lungs started burning, and then let the air escape. Slowly. So slowly that he could swear that he felt his toenails growing. He finally nodded.
“So, seriously, dude.” Charley said with another quick perimeter scan. “You really wanna … you know?”
Yeah—if you only knew….
Yeah. If Charley only knew how stiff and musky that tee was. The tee that was stuffed between Dillon’s bed and the wall. He wouldn’t have to ask that question. Or, for that matter … if he knew about the plastic zipper bags with one of Charley’s sweaty jocks stuffed inside each. Or, for that matter, if Charley only knew about the….
Well, yeah—anyway. If he only knew.
Geez, he’d become a pervert. A genuine, red-blooded, All-American, boy next door, teenage pervert. When had all this happened? Where was he when all this happened? Well, okay, he was right here during his conversion into a teenage pervert because … well … okay, wrong time for self-psychobabble gabble.
Note to self: reserve time later for self-psychobabble gabble….
“Yeah, I know. Right?” A panic laugh. “Where the hell did this come from,” Dillon said with a nervous tick making his words come more like a cricket chirp. Smooth. Real smooth. How weird was that? He usually had a deep, husky, smoky voice. Usually. Yeah, ‘usually.’ Where was that voice when he needed it? “I mean, you know…,” he said with that faint tremor being followed by an aftershock or twenty that rocked him. What the hell was he thinking? “Just…. I mean, um…. You know … I mean….”
Charley stepped closer. A curtain of bewilderment was closing across his drop dead gorgeous face. Not the first curtain in the last few minutes. He cocked his head; like that would help him translate the gibberish coming out of the mouth of one of the gods of the school. Yeah. Yeah. He’d heard it all. He may have that classical handsomeosity going on but … Dillon? The guy could smile up at Lady Liberty and her knees would melt and she’d goo puddle on the spot. Dillon Jamison was Labrador puppy cute and adorable … with muscles.
“I … you … I … you, know…?”
Charley laid a firm hand on his friend’s muscular shoulder and eased him back against the locker behind him. ‘His’ locker, actually. The locker with ‘his’ books. The one where ‘his’ backpack hung when it wasn’t draped over his shoulder. The locker with ‘his’ condoms and an extra 2-pack of jocks for when his went missing—something that happened with a confusing frequency—‘his’ locker with an extra jersey, extra pocket tee … that airtight plastic container of cookies—chocolate chip … no nuts—that Chels had made for him….
Slick move there, Stockton. You just planted Dill between yourself and those chocolate chip cookies….
If that tentacle monkey, Lord Q’a went near them, watch out. There would be a throw down of all throw downs … goin’ down….
Charley found himself staring over Dillon’s shoulder. Taking in that locker door. His locker door. Did alien warlords eat chocolate chip cookies? Duh. Of course they did. ‘If’ they got their hands, erm, tentacles on them. He leaned slightly to the side and looked down to the floor in front of the lockers. No crumbs. No chocolate chips. Good, Q’a hadn’t been here—yet.
Dillon sucked in air. He was losing ground here. It had never been hard to talk to Charley. Hell—he’d been talking to Charley since before either of them had learned how to form ‘actual’ words.
This … should … not … be so … difficult!
Of course, they had never had ‘this’ conversation before. Oh, sure—they had talked about sex. Come on, already—they were teenage males. Of course they had sexversations from time to time. But, the sexversations up until ‘this’ one, well, they had been on a one-way street to girlville. That was for sure. This one had hung a left and gone south real fast.
Yeah, the words had just suddenly poured out of his mouth. He’d really said it. Not only had Charley heard him say it, but—Dillon heard himself say it. Of all the times for his voice to ring out in a tone that was precise, crystal clear … unmistakable. The moment the words left his lips, his lungs froze. He felt like he might pee. Right then. Right there. Pee like a race horse.
There they were, in the cafeteria that served as Study Hall Central in the afternoons. And, bam!
Those … 7 … words.
Can I give you a blow job?
Can I give you a blow job?
Charley sat there staring at him like he’d just been hit in the head with a baseball. He broke the stare between them and looked left … right … behind him … and, back.
Dude, did you just ask if…?
Dillon nodded. Yeah. Yeah, he did. Go figure that one.
Yeah, Charley. I did. I asked if I could give you a blow job.
More gazes around the cafeteria, checking their surroundings.
That incessant boner in Charley’s pants throbbed and danced and put in its two cents worth. Blow job! Blow job! Did you hear that? Blow job! Say yes! Say yes! Dude! Say yes!
In that brief moment, Dillon had a flash thought—dive out of the floor-to-ceiling windows that were just a few feet away. What was a little glass shard in the brain after what he’d just asked Charley Stockton? One glass shard. Fifty million glass shards. Holy fuck, what had he just done?
Holy fuck fuck!
He had just propositioned Charley Stockton!
Charley Stockton? The reigning #1 everything?
No wonder Charley had just sat there and stared at him. Hell—probably thinking through that stare of all the ways he could maim, torture, murderize him. Ways that he could dispose of the evidence and the body, and…. Well, okay. Maybe that was overboard. Charley Stockton sat there staring at him but he made no move to reach across the table and slug him or to drag him out of Study Hall and into some dark alcove where he could dismember him, body part by body part, organ by organ.
Thank God Charley was pure class. He could have gone ape shit monkey freak dog on his ass but no, he just sat there. Staring at him. Swallowing. Head tilting. Eyes clouded with doubt before going crystal clear in the comprehension of the question. Like you could misinterpret ‘that’ question. ‘That’ meaning.
They were more than classmates and teammates. They were tight friends. Not ‘best’ friends. They both had one of those. ‘Two’ in Charley’s case. Huh. Come to think of it, why weren’t they best friends? Okay, well Ellis, Bennett, and Ryan’s status on that list aside….
“Dude, are you serious?” Quick look around. Again. “You ‘really’ want to blow me?”
Charley looked around the cafeteria once again. His left hand drifted under the table. It fondled his aching nuts. It adjusted his throbbing cock. The same cock that was still screaming out its own response to the question—yes! Blow job! Over here! Blow job! Yes! Please … say … yes!
“Like, you know … ‘blow job’ blow me?”
“I don’t know, Charley. It’s … just…. I just … want….” He paused, closing his eyes for a moment. Breathe. Yeah, good time to do that again. Breathe. At least once per week. Had it already been a week since he last took a breath and…? Okay, yeah—breathe. Long. Deep. Breath. Shoulder shrug. Yeah, shrug it off. Good idea. He sighed heavily. On the verge of giving up. Yeah. Give up. Throw in the towel. Walk away. Accept defeat with whatever terms of surrender were placed on the table. Fall on the sword. Humiliation complete. “Maybe we should forget this conversation ever….”
Charley leaned in, just an inch from his friend’s face. He felt his own breath crash against Dillon’s face and then volley back at him.
“Nuh, uh … no way. Don’t wuss out on me, dude,” Charley said softly, his eyes searching Dillon’s. “Tell me why.”
“You know, just to, um…. Just to see what it’s … like.” Blushing. Dillon felt his cheeks burning. His neck was melting. He was sure that his neck was melting. He unlocked from Charley’s intense gaze, letting his eyes drift down to the floor. Maybe it would somehow open up and swallow him whole? How could he really explain ‘this’? “Um, just … curious. Need to, I don’t know … um … find out?”
Charley nearly jumped out of his N’Balance Cross Trainers when a hand roughly clamped on his shoulder and one of the guys from the football team ‘sup’d him and then moved on toward the exit doors and the student parking lot. He offered a too-late to be heard ‘‘sup’ back in the guy’s general direction and then looked back down the hall in the other direction. Rhett was hauling Cullen Lee Hargrove into that crawl space between two sets of lockers….
How weird was that?
He turned back to his friend who was studying the floor. He looked down to see what had suddenly fascinated Dillon down there. Nothing. It was just the floor, and—that dizzying tile pattern. The school board must have been smoking some wicked bad ass fucked up shit when they picked this design. Maybe it was on purpose? Maybe the design nullified the natural born thinking process in the students and that enabled the faculty to implant chips and they were all being programmed to become submissive, obedient….
Fuck. Maybe it was working.
Focus. Back to ‘here’ and ‘now’, Stockton. Maybe there ‘is’ a pod with my name on it…?
Charley finally forced his eyes away from those patterns and looked up. Dillon’s gun metal gray eyes were back on him. They were almost swirling with an unnamed storm that was brewing deep inside. Poor guy was riding on the tail of a mental tornado; he had to kind of admire him for opening up and being honest about what was going on inside his head.
Holy … fu….
He wants to … do … what?
Wow … and … um, wow!
He swallowed nervously, hoping nobody in the vicinity was picking up any of this conversation. Words. Vibes. Swallows. The fact that his dick had already come up with an answer of its own. What the fuck was with that, anyway? Dillon Jamieson had just propositioned him and his dick was soaring to aching proportions.
Yeah. His dick already had an answer. Now, it was throbbing and twitching, nervously waiting for his brain to catch up and get on the same page.
Sex was sex.
A teenager talking about sex was going to go into the bone zone no matter what. Hell, if the grass grew, a teenager’s dick was going to steel up. Nature of the beast. Right?
But, holy fuck!
Dillon had just…. He sure as hell had never expected ‘this’ tornado. Certainly never coming from Dillon Jamison. Hell—the guy was one of the school’s most envied, most admired, most sought after ‘stars’ in the athletic universe. Everyone. Girl. Guy. Teacher. Coach. Admin. Little mice in the Science Lab…. ‘Everyone’ … loved … Dillon.
Hell, ‘he’ loved Dillon, and ‘he’ was the king around these parts!
Another thought suddenly came to mind. Charley couldn’t help but wonder if Dillon was ‘just curious’ what it would be like—just like he said, or—was this a kind of adorably dorkified way for Dillon to test the ‘coming out’ waters? Was that it? Was Dillon coming out to him? Holy fuck a duck! That would set the grapevine ablaze if that was true and the buzz was that he came out. The much loved and admired Dillon Jamison? Gay?
Of course, it wouldn’t matter. Not in the least. Not to him, anyway. Dillon was his friend. A very close friend. He loved the guy. He would stand by him. He would defend him. He would support him. That’s what a ‘real’ friend would do.
But, seriously? Was that it? Was Dillon coming out to him?
And, why him? Why come to him? Why ‘come’ to him and why ‘come out’ to him? Yeah, they were classmates, teammates … friends…. Always had been. Always would be. No matter what. But….
Well, duh on that. Why not come to him? Dillon knew that Charley wouldn’t walk away or beat him to Hell and back or ‘out’ him to anyone else—not even Chelsea. Dillon trusted him.
That was the main cog in the cogwonker.
Dillon must have complete, unshakable trust in him. That had to be it, right?
Talk about being flattered. This was way beyond flattery, though. This was…. Hell, he didn’t know what this was but his dick was sure excited about the prospect. If it throbbed much longer it would start leaving a nice, shiny, juicy spot of evidence as to how excited it was by the whole idea. He reached down to slip a hand into his pocket—impromptu car key check—which was more of a chance to casually adjust his ever-growing problem; he hoped the whole time during the adjustment period that nobody would notice. That Dillon wouldn’t notice.
Wait … just … one … second. Seriously? Why ‘did’ he come to Charley with this subject? Beyond the trust factor, anyway? This…. This … whatever the hell this was?
Wait! Surely Dillon didn’t think…?
Another quick survey. Final bell was at least 15 minutes ago. Enemy troops were dwindling now. There were still plenty of them around as they passed one way or the other but still—none of them were within hearing distance. Still no cyborgs. No zombies. No tentacle creatures. No … Lord Q’a—chocolate chip cookies with no nuts thief that he was. Rhett and Cullen Lee were still behind those lockers…. What was up with that?
Yeah, it was still safe. For now. Charley made another casual adjustment down below. An adjustment that did not go unnoticed by his dick. It throbbed against his knuckles. Throbbed, and—was that a whimper? Did dicks whimper?
He squared his shoulders and steeled himself; he had to ask—even unsure as he was that he wanted to hear the answer.
Uh oh. Busted!
His eyes returned to Dillon and it was obvious. Fuck! He had seen him do the dickjustment move!
So much for my life as a Stealth Operative…. You’re safe Bond, James Bond.
Deflect! Deflect! Deflect!
“Dude. You don't think that ‘I’…?” Another survey. Deep breath. Back to Dillon. “That I’m … you know…?”
A nervous chuckle escaped from Dillon’s lips. Lips which hooked Charley’s focus and reeled him in for some reason. Two. He had two lips. One above the other. One below the one above it. Full. Moist. Pouty. Wait. They were moving. Concentrate. Dillon was saying something.
“…. What? No, of course not! How could you possibly be? Hell, dude—you’ve got Chelsea, right?”
Charley had Chelsea.
They both nodded. Knowingly. One knowing what everyone ‘thought’ they knew. One knowing what only he and Chelsea knew.
“It’s just that…. You…. We’re buds right? At least … I hope we’re still buds after this conversation.” Dillon paused as Trey Rhome passed and gave him a nod. He nodded back and waited until Trey was beyond the hearing perimeter. “I know I can trust you with my rep here. This isn’t exactly the kinda thing that I want very many people to know about.”
Charley looked around, still a bit nervous about any of this convo being overhead. He exchanged silent jaw juts with Rhett Applegate who was standing about twenty-five feet away—looking about as much in panic mode as Dillon was right now. Strange. His tee was tucked when he hauled Cullen Lee behind those lockers. It looked like Rhett was in the bone zone, too.
Maybe him and Cullen Lee just had a similar conversation behind those lockers?
Yeah. Sure they did. Right. Like this was a common conversation between high school males. Right. Right. Yup. Yup. Yup.
Rhett took several deep breaths, ran his fingers through his hair, and then gazed up and down the corridor. Foot shifting just like Charley’s had been during this conversation. Anxious? Nervous? What was that about? Why did he haul him back behind the lockers? Where was Cullen Lee? Hopefully he wasn’t chopped and shredded and bagged and stuffed inside Rhett’s backpack.
Stranger things had happened around here.
Hell—even a tentacle warlord raping a superhero and turning him into his bitch.
Geez, Rhett was strangling the life out of the straps on his backpack. He’d have to find a desolate area on the way home to dig a shallow grave and coat it with Butterfinger wrappers and then, in the cloak of darkness, cover that backpack with dirt and stomp it in place. So the ‘murdered backpack’ police wouldn’t find it.
Geez, his imagination must have had a couple bowls of “Wheaties” this morning when he wasn’t looking. First Lord Q’a’s alien invasion armies and now Rhett strangling his backpack and now looking for a place to bury it. And, wondering about Cullen Lee’s shredded body, and….
He slowly shook his head and sighed.
How did he get into this conversation anyway? Oh. Wait. Ding! Ding! Ding! He knew the answer to this one! Wait. Coming. Coming. The answer was coming. Almost there…. Oh, yeah. Study Hall. He was definitely way too young for even an early onset of Alzheimer’s. Right?
They were sitting at an empty table during Study Hall with several hundred other students scattered around the cavernous cafeteria. Somehow, an empty table glowed its presence and whoosh—Charley and Dillon had aimed for it in full attack mode from opposing directions at the same moment. No worries. There were 20 chairs at that table. Go figure they aimed for chairs directly across from each other. They stood. They sat. They opened notebooks. They glanced at study notes and then immediately dove into talk mode instead. They never looked at any assignments the rest of the period. But, really? Who ever did? Not during Study Hall, anyway. Yeah. As if.
Those two young, very cool new assistant coaches—Coach Jarrell and Coach Stratham—were in the farthest corner of the Cafeteria, deep into a hushed conversation. Elderly Miss Pippenschraeder—Miss Poopenscooper to most of the kids—sat in another far corner totally lost in a romance novel with a nearly naked cowboy on the cover. She had quickly covered it with another book, but there was no mistaking what she was really reading.
Mr. Evans, the new Biology teacher stood by the now dark serving area—lost in his tablet and, from the looks of the front of his bulging suit pants, he was probably reading the X-rated version of what Miss Poopenscooper was surreptitiously reading. Poor guy. He ‘really’ needed to get laid. He was such a nice guy. Girls raced to his class every period and jockeyed for the front row desks or the front lab tables. It was like a teenaged girl Monday Night Mud Wrestling Throw Down on one of the cable channels up in the 900 range. He had to admit, even for a guy, the dude was smokin’.
Whoa, that bulge had grown even larger in just those last few seconds of looking at him in Study Hall. Yeah. For sure. Mr. Evans needed to get laid. Lucky lady when that happened. The guy was obviously megadong’d. Maybe Dillon should proposition Mr. Evans since he wanted to see what it was like to go dong diving? Yeah. No. Dillon would freak and Mr. Evans was too good a dude to lose if they got caught.
Okay. Where was he in this mystery?
There they were—him and Dillon—claiming seats across from one another at the empty table in Study Hall with almost no other occupied tables near them. Dillon had seemed slightly off his game lately. Usually unflustered and focused, he had seemed off center. What was up with that? Why the hell had he noticed and asked? Look where it had got him—it got him into ‘this’ conversation. That’s where it got him.
“Of course we’re friends, bro. It’s cool. We’re tight. It’s just,” he couldn’t hold back a soft chuckle. “Well, I just never thought that we might be ‘that’ tight,” Charley snickered. He wondered if that comment blushed through his cheeks like they just did Dillon’s. Light bulb. Wait. Yeah. Wait. “What about Ellis? He’s your ‘best’ friend after all.”
Dillon rolled his eyes and snorted. Yeah, he was. Ellis was the best friend he’d ever had. But, Ellis was…. Well. Ellis … was … Ellis. He could just picture this conversation with ‘alpha dog’ Ellis. With ‘that’ personality? Right. Uh huh. Nuh uh. He wasn’t sure their friendship could survive this sort of request; even if it was ‘just’ curiosity, Ellis would hammer him to death about it. Or, worse—walk away and never speak to him again. He hoped that would not happen. But with Ellis? One just never knew what to expect. ‘Unpredictable’ was Ellis’ middle name.
Yeah—no. ‘So’ many reasons not to take ‘this’ curiosity to Ellis.
For some reason? Charley Stockton seemed more … safe? Trustworthy? Reliable? Less likely to go all Kung Fu Dick Wad on him. And, well, there was the sizzle factor. On the 1 to 10 scale Charley came in somewhere around … oh … say … 212.
“Ellis? Yeah, right. I like my balls right where they are, thank you very much.”
Charley sighed. Those chocolate chip cookies were so close … yet … so far away….
“But, Dude…. You and Ellis are….”
Charley let that one drift into hyper-non-existence. Yeah, they were talking about Ellis Blackwell, after all. Yeah maybe Dillon was right; Ellis was kind of intense. One never knew what could set Ellis off on one of his tirades. He was as high strung as a monkey on a ski lift. It was beyond him how Dillon and Ellis had become friends and how they had remained best friends ever since preschool. Ellis was a good athlete. He was a good guy. Usually. But there were those moments when he just turned into a total Alpha dick dork. The guy could be a real jerk. Opposites attract even in friendship, he guessed. No two guys in the school could be more opposite than Dillon and Ellis.
“Okay, yeah—Ellis can go a little maniacal at times.”
“A little? At times?”
Snickers collided between the two of them with that thought.
“I don’t know man,” Charley said with a slow shake of the head. “I mean. It’s like…. I’ve never…. I mean with a ‘guy’ … you know? I’m gonna have to think about this. You know? You can’t just spring something like ‘that’ on a guy and expect an immediate….” Wait. Pause. Survey the corridor. “Plus,” he leaned closer and lowered his voice. “What if Chels finds out? You ‘know’ she can’t keep her mouth shut.”
Dillon ran his fingers through his auburn, sun-streaked hair as he thought for a moment.
There ‘was’ Chelsea. Dear, sweet, beautiful, airhead, superficial, Ph.D. in Gossipology candidate in the making, severely high maintenance … Chelsea. Any more high maintenance and she’d be carrying a mini-mechanic in her designer clutch.
“Yeah, well, you’re right, there. Chelsea does have her fingers firmly wrapped around the grapevine. But she’ll ‘never’ find out. Right? I mean, shit, ‘I’m’ certainly not going to tell her and I doubt very strongly that you’d risk your balls being ripped off with those razor sharp lethal weapons that somehow pass as nails.”
Charley cringed at that thought. Yeah, that would so not be cool. Of course, in all the time that they had been together, she’d never even ‘seen’ his balls or his dick or any of his skin, other than the usual stuff—his chest, stomach, arms and legs. If she saw what he was packing down there she’d probably call the cops and have them pick him up for concealed weaponage.
Again, she’d have to actually ‘see’ it and how big it got when not painfully trapped and compressed by his jeans. He’d seen every inch of her and licked, slurped, swirled, tongue dove inside…. But she wouldn’t look at him down there. No look. No touch. Sure as hell no lick or suck or….
Okay, that was sad.
That was just really sad.
He was the king of the school and she was the queen. And she had him locked up like a beast in a cave or something. For all the sex that he ‘wasn’t’ getting, his dick might as well be locked in one of those cock cage things from that ‘Adult’ store on the other side of Trestle Ridge—the shop was called Bent Horn Kink: Leather & Lace. Nearly everyone jokingly just called it Welcome to Kinkville—with her holding the only key. A key that she’d ‘never’ use. Wait. What? No! The shiver at that thought went all the way down his spine and somehow kicked him in his nuts on the road to his ankles.
“I don’t know man. It’s like she’s got some bizarre way of finding stuff out, stuff like….” Charley’s hazel eyes continued to scan the corridor they were in when he wasn’t peering into his classmate’s gun metal gray eyes or getting dizzy from the weird floor tile patterns. Or maybe, it wasn’t the floor tiles. Could he even do this? Should he even be considering it? What would that say about him? On the other hand—a blow job! A real … live … blow job! His dick bone throbbed in agreement. Yeah, he got the point. He knew where his dick was standing on the idea.
“I don’t know. I’m gonna have to think about this, bro.”
Another gaze down the hallway.
Ah, there was Cullen Lee. He looked … irritated, or—something … but all in one piece. No sign of blood or missing body parts; although—the button was popped and his zipper was halfway down and he was on the same train to bonerville. Must be an epidemic. Maybe those Q’alians had brought some hard-on virus with them when they entered Earth’s atmos…. Wait. That was a movie. Just … a … movie. Yeah. A movie. Only … a … movie….
Huh, Rhett had disappeared in the last few seconds before this latest survey. Cullen Lee looked in their direction and offered a smile—a forced smile—he nodded and then inhaled deeply and turned on his heel; he disappeared around the next corner before Charley could offer any sort of ‘red flag’ about the button and the zipper, and—that ‘very’ obvious boner.
Dillon looked up suddenly. The gears were spinning. Wait. Was there a glimmer of hope in that ‘think about’ comment or was it the high-beamed headlights of an 18-wheeler barreling down the highway?
Well, at least that wasn’t an outright ‘no’. I can work with that.
“That’s cool, man,” Dillon said, briefly glancing down at the bizarre floor tiles, hiding the battle raging inside his soul between his disappointment in the non-commitment of Charley’s response and the hope that there was actual ‘hope’ in that non-commitment. “I know you’ve never gone there with another guy or anything, and….” He trailed off as another of the team walked by and fisted Charley’s bicep. A little too hard, apparently. Charley winced and reached up to rub his arm. Dillon forced a smile and an eye roll. “Thanks for not beating the shit out of me for bringing up the idea.”
Charley’s brow furrowed as a lopsided smirk spread. “Dude, you know I don’t shit beat my closest friends.” He glanced at the retreating bicep marauder as he burst through the doors and raced out into the glaring afternoon sunlight. “Not usually anyway.”
Dillon’s head tilted slightly as that sank in. Gray eyes locked onto and searched hazel eyes. Eyes you could so easily lose yourself in.
“Closest … friends?”
Charley rolled his eyes and stepped forward with a look of utter exasperation. How could Dillon not know this? He grabbed Dillon’s shirt and pulled him close to his face. Twinkling hazel eyes locked onto gray.
“Yes, Dill…. ‘Closest’ friends. You are seriously in the tightest of my circle, you dork.” He nodded in response to the rising brow on his friend’s forehead. “You’re stuck with me, dawg. Get over it.”
“Besides—you’re one of the few friends that I have, who have the ‘Chelsea Seal of Approval’. She thinks you’re not only cute and hot but … smart, adorable, a cuddle pup….” He rolled his head on his chiseled shoulders as he considered how much she loved Dillon. “Besides, dude—she’s always going on and on and on about you and your artistic abilities. Beyond that awesome athletic talent, your fashion sense, your taste in everything from food to dogs to cologne to….” Shudder. “Which flowers for what occasion…. It’s a little disgusting in fact. Think you could tone down that crap now and then? It can really burst the bubb….”
Dillon started to rebut some of that Charley sarcasm, but suddenly—stood up straight, pulled away from Charley’s grasp and then turned toward his locker.
“Here she comes!” he whispered urgently.
Charley spun in the direction of Dillon’s nod and smiled innocently—he hoped it looked innocent, anyway—as Chelsea scampered through the crowd, after breaking away from some of her own volleyball and cheerleading minions, jumping into his arms and sending both of them crashing into the lockers beside Dillon.
“Hi Sweetie,” Chelsea said in that effervescent bubble brewing cheerleader tone that could either stoke you up or tear you down like nails on a chalk board. She kissed Charley on the cheek and then winked. “Hi Dillon!”
“Hey, babe,” Charley choked out as her designer-of-the-moment clutch purse was planted deep into his gut.
“’sup, Chelsea,” Dillon said with a genuine smile. Yes—she was an airhead and seriously high maintenance but he ‘really’ liked her, and most of all—she was dating Charley. He was no dummy. Stroke Chelsea? Get more Charley time. His eyes caught the cascading colorama of polish on her daggers, er—fingernails. “Love the cascade there, darling. Fabulous. Really.”
Chelsea grinned with pride and finger danced showing off her latest inspiration of green, turquoise, powder blue, chartreuse….
Yeah, stroke Chelsea, get more Charley time.
If only ‘he’ could really ‘stroke’ Charley the way he wanted….
“Oh my God, Dillon!”
The shrillness was such a stratospheric pitch that it could have made a cat lay scrambled eggs. Make nearby lockers burst into flames….
He quickly looked around. Was he on fire? Was he about to be attacked from behind by alien tentacle creatures? Zombies had hit the halls? Cyborgs were readying their weapons? He turned full-circle looking for the invasion force from that wicked cool Sci-Fi movie over at the Stagecoach Multiplex, Target Nemesis: The Tentacle Lord’s Revenge.
Thankfully he was probably safe after that ear-splitting squeal. Invading aliens would be exploding like shattering glass from a high pitched tone like that. Zombie goo would be dripping down the walls. Cyborg parts would be bouncing and rolling along the geospasmodic tiles. Tentacles would be hanging precariously from light fixtures and rafters….
He offered a quiet sigh of relief at finding no invasion force ready to do unspeakable things to them. So what was Chelsea shrieking abo…?
“I … love … that … shirt! Oh my God, Dillon—pistachio is so perfect with your skin tone. It really just makes you glow and it makes your muscles pop,” she beamed as she nudged her boyfriend in the ribs. “See, babe? Guys ‘can’ look really good in pastels.”
Glow? Pop? I sound like a home remodel….
Charley rolled his eyes and looked pleadingly at Dillon for assistance, here.
Pistachio? Skin tone? Well, yeah—for a fruit-n-slurp freeze over at Burkeholder & Tinkermann’s—B&T’s Way Station. On the other hand, the color did look good on Dillon. Of course, Dillon was the total package wrapped up in boy-next-door cute as fuckness. He looked good in everything.
“It is ‘so’ hard to get Charley to try anything besides pocket tees or jerseys or that friggin’ Letterman’s jacket.” She slipped behind him and slid a hand around and up inside his charcoal gray and black Kenny Chesney ‘No Shoes Nation’ tee. The shirt followed her hand as it travelled even higher. “Of course, it’s nice to run my hands up here when you’re in a tee,” she purred softly.
Charley sighed and shook his head. That was really unfair. He had other stuff besides the pocket tees. There were those Polos. The Henleys. Those flannel button ups. Mostly in grays or blues or reds or blacks or plaid…. Those sleeveless…. Okay, maybe she had a point.
His eyes focused on the bottom of Charley’s shirt as Chelsea inched it upward. As it rose above the waistband of his jeans, Dillon noted that he was wearing those two-tone navy blue boxer briefs today. He liked to see Charley in those. Or, those other ones—the ones with the mesh pouch. Yeah. The mesh pouch. That was sexy as fucking hell on Charley.
Up. Up. And, there was that trail. Looking almost like someone grabbed a piece of artist’s charcoal and lovingly dragged it down his taut stomach, pointing the way to…. God, he loved that trail. He’d stared at it in the locker room every day for … how long? He’d envied and hated the water in the showers as it cascaded down Charley’s perfectly chiseled chest and slalomed along those magnificently carved abs and then licked its way through that trail before it hit the treasure of all treasures. And, that ass. Oh holiest of fuck fantasies! That magnificent ass. God—the things he could do to that ass….
And, then there was that long, thick, beautiful slab of meat that gently curved down and over those plump twin orbs of delight. Oh, the stolen lip licks. The stroke offs. The mind boggling orgasms as a result of lusting for that deliciously perfect cock. Wondering what it would taste like. How it would feel on his tongue. Getting a powerful blast of Charley’s wonderful, totally masculine, intimate scent. He just couldn’t get enough of….
Chelsea was still chattering away. Something about ‘changing’ Charley. But, her words were bouncing off the soft sponge that used to be his head. The muddle of his brain was spreading outward. Now—Dillon was solely focused on that tantalizing flash of skin … that trail his tongue would dearly love to follow … that magnificent body just waiting to be worshiped … ravaged … plundered.
And, oh did he want to worship … ravage … and plunder that body. All over. Every … spectacular … inch.
Why the hell would she want to ‘change’ Charley? How could she possibly think that she could change perfection? Was she insane? Charley was so fucking perfect just like this. Well, okay—‘naked’ would be the absolute of perfect, like in the showers, the locker room … his bedroom….
Stop right now!
You’re gonna bone in front of Chelsea over her boyfriend’s body and she’s going to catch you and she’ll….
“Dillon…. You’re blushing even more than Charley was when I first walked up. What are you two up to?” She tilted her head and looked suspiciously over Dillon’s frame—head-to-toe. She had snagged the top ‘prize’ of the school but still, Dillon was devastatingly handsome. She scrunched her nose teasingly.
“What were you guys talking about?” Chelsea said suspiciously as she proceeded to wrap herself more completely, more—possessively—around Charley. “You both look as guilty as sin.”
END of Chapter 1
To be continued . . .
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