The T-Bone Zone

© 2013


Jonathan Longhorn

Disclaimer:  Copyright 2013 by Jonathan Longhorn.  All rights reserved.  If you are under the age of 18 (or the legal age to read such stories in your community), please leave now.

Please remember this or any story here is fiction.  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.

All of the characters in this story are totally fictitious and are assumed to be at least 18 years of age.

Chapter 1

"That's it," Brecken James said with a soft but firm voice.  The cavernous locker room and weight training area was silent now; thinking they were alone, the two athletes had lingered in row five of the lockers.  "Mmm . . . yeah—just like . . . that."

Brecken's voice came husky and choked as his cock slid deeper into the velvety smooth warmth of the other athlete's mouth as he opened up and took it with a slurp and mmmph that nearly cried out I'm hungry . . . feed me.  "Yeah—just like that, man.  Go all the . . . way . . . down on it."

Chandler Dixon slid to a stop on the slick concrete floor between the showers and the row of lockers where his was located.  Did he hear what he thought he just heard?  It sounded like somebody was getting a blow job.  How hot was that?  Right here in the locker room?

Chandler's ears, now on full alert, zeroed in on the sounds coming from just around the corner from where he stood . . . naked and dripping, his towel hovering half the distance between his sopping wet hair and his suddenly awakening cock.  Twitch.  Twitch.  Twitching.  It was as though it had built in radar and it was locked on to that word that ruled a teenager's world right next to food, sports, and sleep.  That single word was all it took to spring his impressive slab of meat into action.


There was sex going on.


Right around the corner from where he was standing.

"Fuck yeah, man. . . .  Fuck . . . that's . . . good, T.  That's really good," Brecken cooed in unison with another mmmph and more slurping and smacking.  "Fuck, T. . . .  You ever done this for Dixon?"

Chandler's head snapped up so fast at that last question that he nearly banged it into the lockers he was hiding behind.  'T'?  Dixon?  `He' was Dixon.  Creeping forward like a warrior in full stealth mode approaching an enemy encampment, he made his way to the edge of the row of lockers.


By inch.

By inch.

Finally, he was as far as he could go without just stepping right out into the open and making himself known.  He pressed his naked, still dripping body back fully against the cool metal and held his breath.  So far . . . so good.  Steeling himself with a newfound curious resolve, he painstakingly made his about face—now he hugged the metal wall head on . . . chest, abs, thighs . . . twitching cock pressed into the coolness of the metal and he made a stealth mode move that would make his big brother, the USMC RECON-god proud.

His forehead slid along the locker wall until his left eye was able to focus down the oak bench that dissected Row 5 and Row 6.  He gazed past discarded, sopping towels, a t-shirt here, a jock strap there, a lone filthy white athletic sock dangled from a locker door that remained open long after its owner had departed, and—then . . .  his eye locked on Target One.

"What the hell?" he whispered so softly that he barely heard it himself.

Brecken James stood with his back to his own open locker door, a towel was haphazardly draped over his powerfully sculpted left shoulder.  His features contorted in a Hollywood handsome classically detailed face shrouded in . . . pure, total, complete . . . bliss.  Brecken's perfectly chiseled butt pistoned forward and back with each stroke of. . . .

Holy shit!

It really was a blow job!

Brecken friggin' James was getting a blow job right here?  In the locker room?  In front of his locker?  Hell with that; he was getting a blow job smack in front of Chandler's locker!  And—

That thought was obliterated from the processing center of Chandler's mind as he zeroed in and locked on Target Two.  He took in the sight of Brecken's monstrous cock as it slid in and out of those pouty lips and fucked its way into that waiting mouth.

Those pouty lips.

Lips that Chandler had known his entire life.

Pouty lips that were a major part of one of the cutest, boyishly handsome faces on the planet.

Turner Cahill was on that wooden bench.  Naked.  His own huge cock standing up and slapping against his tight 6-pak as he bobbed and swirled and sucked on Brecken's throbbing cock.  Brecken's throbbing cock . . . fucking Turner's mouth.  Brecken's huge, cathedral bell balls slapping against Turner's chin with each inward stroke.

Chandler's jaw nearly hit the concrete floor at his feet.  His breath caught in his lungs.  His own cock stopped its twitching and sailed straight into the T-bone Zone.

Holy Shit!  Holy Shit!  Holy Shit!

His best friend?  His lifelong best friend?  Turner Cahill was giving Brecken a blow job to end all blow jobs?  T was sucking cock?  


T `sucked' cock?

When did T start sucking cock?

Why hadn't he told Chandler he sucked cock?


Why was he sucking Brecken's cock and not his?  

Okay, well—why wouldn't he suck Brecken's cock.  It was a monster.  His head tilted as he studied that chunk of meat more closely.  A beautiful monster.  Holy fuck a duck and quack it upside the head . . . that was one beautiful cock.  A monster.  Glistening.  Veins popping.  Helmet headed.  Balls slapping and swaying.  Spit slickened and drooling down its shaft.  The enormous head rose out of its sheath with each stroke of T's head as he slurped and sucked and pulled the skin back as far down that thick shaft as it would go.

That monster of a cock was owning T's mouth, and—more.  Holy Shit!  It was sliding between Turner's lips and fucking its way into his throat!  He was fucking deep throating that monster!

Turner's tongue swirling and twirling around it with each `in' and `out' of its assault on his mouth.  Turner's throat opening up and taking it . . . enveloping it . . . like it was that cock's true home. . . .

Holy Shit!  Holy Shit!  Holy Shit!

Wait!  Wait!  Wait!

Process this, Chandler!  Process!  Process!  Process!

Turner?  His best friend on the planet?  Giving their next best friend on the planet a blow job?

"Fuck, T. . . ." Brecken choked out through gasps.  "Fuck. . . .  Fuck. . . .  I'm gonna. . . ." His fingers laced into Turner Cahill's nearly bronze colored hair and held his head steady as his hips began hunching and snapping forward and back in a more animated motion.  

"Swallow for me, T," he whimpered as the first volley blasted out of his balls and splattered against the roof of Turner's mouth.  The second, third, and fourth followed suit and coated his tongue, the entire cave of his mouth and lubricated the way toward his waiting throat.  Five, six, seven, eight, sailed straight down Turner's throat as Brecken's cock impaled him completely.

"Fuck!  Take it, T.  Take it, you fucking cocksucker!"  Brecken held his friend's head even tighter—a combination of wanting Turner to take every last drop of his cum and his own need to hold on for dear life, lest his knees buckle and he collapse to the floor in a mass of quivering jelly.

At that moment of volcanic eruption, Chandler was unsure who was whimpering.  Was it Brecken?  Was it T?  Or, was it. . . .  He gulped as he watched Brecken's cock pulse and his entire body jerk as he unloaded down T's throat.  He subconsciously gulped again.  T swallowed, and Chandler subconsciously gulped.  Swallow.  Gulp.  Swallow.  Gulp.  It was as though that beautiful, monster cock was actually unloading down Chandler's throat instead of T's, but that would be. . . .

Fuck!  Fuck!  Fuck!

This was too much for him to . . . it was beyond his control . . . he couldn't stop it. . . .

His own rock hard cock exploded against the wall of lockers he was hiding behind.  Rope after rope of thick cum volcano'd out of Chandler's cock and smacked against the locker wall before him; silvery pools yielded to gravity and streamed downward as Chandler's cock throbbed and twitched and belched out a few remaining droplets.  His head was pressed so tightly into the wall of metal that he wondered if he would melt into it and find himself on the inside of one of the lockers within the next few seconds.

Somehow, he found the strength to peek around the corner one last time.  Brecken was gently running his fingers through Turner's hair as his best friend on the planet licked his still rock hard cock clean.  He couldn't help but take note that Turner had joined Brecken in his climax—his own chest and abs showing the evidence and his cock still throbbing and dribbling its last precious droplets, too.

Holy Shit!  Holy Shit!  Holy Shit!

Turner just gave Brecken a blow job?

Here—in the locker room?

A blow job, and—he . . . fucking . . . swallowed . . . it!

Holy shit.  He fucking swallowed it.

Chandler Dixon looked down and watched his own cock soaring upward once more.  Why?  Why was that the hottest thing he had ever seen?  These were his two best and closest, lifelong friends.  The three of them had grown up together from cribs and changing tables to football, baseball, soccer, wrestling, swimming. . . .  They had shared everything together their entire lives.  A soft snort escaped flaring nostrils and was quickly followed by a roll of his deep green eyes.

"Well," he whispered hoarsely.  "Apparently not everything. . . ."

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This is just the start of a story which may or may not be continued.  If there is enough interest, there MAY be additional chapters.  The interest shown in it will be a determining factor in continuing the story.

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