Date: Mon, 26 Jul 2021 02:51:54 +0000 From: Tom Subject: Bordertown Chapter 1 This story is my own creation and is intended for an audience appreciative of adult/adolecent sexual encounters, incest and a touch of cbt. Move on to the next story if you think you might be bothered. Or feel free to stop at any time and take a breather before continuing. It'll be chapter by chapter anyway. If this is illegal in your part of the world, you may want to reconsider continuing. It's up to you. This story is entirely fiction. it is not about you or me or anyone we know or have known. In our entire lives. Every writer needs feedback. You can send me some at the above address if you so desire. Please consider donating to help support the costs involved in running the Nifty Archive... after all, where would we be without them? http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html BORDERTOWN Chapter 1 I guess you begin to understand yourself slowly, over time and through experience. The first time I remember stepping back and saying "Wow, that's me," was when I went out for JV football at Saint Sebastian's Academy. St. Sebastian's was the mainstay of Catholic education in the city of San Antonio, where my mom, a single Catholic girl, gave birth to me in the Charity wing of St. Mary's hospital. Mom's older brother, my Uncle Max, a vaguely alcoholic Jesuit priest, was with us at that moment and assumed a kind of parental responsibility from the first time he held me, naked and squalling. "Look," he said, as my mom tells the story, "he's got a little hard on." Then I pissed in his face. Looking back, it seems he might have guessed right then about who I was going to be. None of us can predict the future though, right? I grew up with a couple million other Hispanic kids in San Antonio. My tio Max, like I said, was a priest and got all us cousins into Catholic school from the first grade on, even getting the parish to pay for our uniforms. My mother always told me, from day one, how handsome I looked in my khaki slacks and little blazer. I was little though, and that meant bullying. When I was ten, I cried about the other boys' mistreatment to Tio Max during confession and he told me I had to learn to fight back, even though Jesus would have certainly preferred me turning the other cheek. The parish relief fund came to the rescue again, tossing my Mom a few bucks for some self defense classes. There was a shabby Brazilian Jiu Jitsu studio, Crazy Monkey Defense, down the street from Saint Sebbie's. For mom it was ideal because I could walk there after school and she could finish her shift at Ruby's Tamale Factory while I was doing BJJ. So I got another uniform. If you know anything about BJJ you know that it's big on grappling and forcing opponents into submission. Though it was terrifying in the beginning watching the big kids and adults throwing each other around on the mats, something about the grabbing and groping was wildly appealing. I got such a little boy boner when I first saw a takedown with one guy's hand in another guy's crotch. That's for me, I thought. The Sifu, as the instructor was formally known, was a Korean immigrant, small and fast, like me. He had a fanatic's attention to cleanliness and if your whites weren't white, you got an ear full. And there was the mandatory shower before practice when we'd all strip and crowd into the small shower room, vying for a place under the weak spray of the three nozzles. There was a lot of skin on skin, as you might imagine and lots of big and little willies bobbing around as we tried to get in and out as soon as possible. The dick that wasn't bobbing around, was the Sifu's. It flopped around like a slow brown eel. It was a wonder to my eyes and it was all that I could do not to continuously stare as he skinned it back and carefully soaped and washed the purple head and pink inner foreskin. There were only a couple other kids my age in the class so we were forever assigned to each other during practice. The other Hispanic kid, Marco, didn't do much for me but Freddy, that fucking gringo fuck, was right up my alley. He'd been in the class a few months, was a little bigger than me and eyed me like he would a dead chicken on a hook in the mercado. By the time I got matched up with him instead of Marco who was more my size, I'd learned a few moves and I was quick. I saw the bloodlust in Freddy's little pig eyes and knew I'd be fighting his rage and not his brain. It took me all of thirty seconds to have him on his shoulders, left cheek down flat, ass in the air and my hand slammed into his crotch, squeezing his little package until he started crying. The Sifu, our instructor, had a man to man talk with me after that about how this art was about defense and how what I'd done was unsportsmanlike and certainly not defensive. I listened in apparent remorseful attention but I'd learned my first and greatest lesson about my sexuality: I relished the act of bashing a guy's junk. During the couple of years before middle school that I took BJJ, I had many similar opportunities, but I was careful. I didn't want to get caught again and didn't until I met up with Freddy for a rematch. By then I was a bantam weight twelve year old and he'd turned into a pubescent moose with probably twenty pounds (if you counted the five pounds of pimples) on me. We should have never been matched but I think the Sifu wanted to teach me a lesson in humility. I'd had my hands in too many crotches and there were too many complaints. I was becoming a business risk. It wasn't very exciting. Freddy hadn't gotten any smarter, just brawn and zits, ending up in short order in the same position he found himself during our first meeting. This time I managed to slam my forearm into his crotch before I wrenched his package (which had grown respectfully, I have to say) counterclockwise, eliciting an adolescent croak , deeper, but not dissimilar to the squeal he'd emitted at our first meeting. But for the Sifu, Freddy's little piggy croak was the sound of money flying out of the till. Uncle Max was called in and I was dismissed from the Crazy Monkey with the advice to take up football as an outlet for my "energy". "Well Sobrino'" he remarked as we left, "looks like mission accomplished, as our president said. Anybody fucks with your skinny ass, you know what to do." But I was talking about my "ah ha" moment at St. Sebastian's, the "Premiere Catholic Academy of the Southwest," as the parents' handbook proudly proclaims. Uncle Max got me a full tuition scholarship, bought me new uniforms regularly and made sure I could hold my own athletically with the other boys. I still got picked on because I was small. But thanks to Uncle Max and BJJ, I only got picked on by the same guy once before he understood that my size wasn't at all indicative of the hurt I could inflict. I've known I was queer for as long as I can remember, though being the guy my Mom warned me about wasn't the easiest thing to integrate into my slowly developing self concept. But, yes I was gay, 100%, though I didn't know what to do with it. The way I was going to be gay unfolded a little more slowly. I decided to heed the sifu's advice and take up football which, next to confession, was the most important undertaking a Catholic boy in Texas could pursue. Even on the JV team, all the boys were bigger than me, though few were as fast and none were blessed with a more aggressive temperament. The coach quickly recognized both attributes and set out to take full advantage of them. I was, and remained throughout my football career, a defensive end and a gunner, the guy who focuses on the kick returner after a kickoff or punt. You'd think a guy my size would be at a disadvantage in those positions, but like I said, I was fast and I really enjoyed taking a guy down hard, the way you can with a good head of steam. My first JV game was on a Thursday afternoon against some podunk "Christian" (everybody knows you're not Christian if you're not Catholic) school across town. What a bunch of losers. All their mommies were there watching their precious little boys in their snow white football pants get their asses whipped. Those pants weren't ever going to be that white again, I'll tell you. Their quarterback was one of those sturdy blonde Lutheran types - Lutherans are the worst of the worst, Uncle Max says - with the whitest of the white pants, tight on his ass and in the crotch, his circumcised cock and balls showing plain as day through his jock. I was playing right defensive end and not much happened until third down when he decided to run the play right into my teeth. Get the first down through the little guy. Bad choice for him. I hit him hard just as he was coming off the center's ass with the ball, which squirted loose as he hit the grass with an oomph, followed closely with a girly scream as I grabbed his protruding package and savaged it with a quick twist of my strong left hand. He limped back to the bench where he stayed until the half and we were ahead by thirteen. We won that one 30 something to 6. They managed to score as I was taking a water break. Once he limped back onto the field, the sturdy blonde boy (remember these are 8th graders) refused to run to his left again, given his first encounter with me, the right defensive end. Confining themselves to one side of the field didn't do their offense any good. We celebrated like crazy in the locker room after the game was over; the grab ass in the shower worse than usual. When we were finally dressed and leaving for the team bus, Coach called me aside and asked me to wait, told the bus driver to leave and said he'd see that I got home. "Oh shit", I thought, "here it comes. Too much grab ass, I'll bet" He closed and locked the door to his office and gave me a look that said a thousand things, none of them good. Well, I have to say, this coach had some looks and I'll tell you, not all of them bad if you know what I mean. He was burly, an ex running back for UT El paso, a boat lift Cuban, Hispanic himself and like me, dark haired and olive skinned. As far as any of us could tell, he never wore underwear and there was always a ghostly outline of some hefty equipment on the right side of his gym shorts. He said, "drop your pants, kid". I stood frozen there with my mouth open, not believing what I heard. "Drop them, I said", he roared, grabbing the front of my shirt and pulling my face close to his, my feet six inches off the ground, his spittle hot sparks on my skin. He dropped me and when I regained my balance, I took off my shoes and slipped anxiously out of my khakis. He was looking at me differently now, as he wiped his mouth and allowed a big, menacing grin to overtake his lips. "Now the shirt," he whispered. I unbuttoned my shirt and dropped it to the floor, standing naked but for my jockeys. Coach slowly took off his shirt, grabbed my arm roughly and pulled me to his broad hairless chest. I saw a pair of meaty, dark cherry nipples before he dropped my arm, put his hand behind my head and pulled my face to his. As he forced his tongue into my mouth he grabbed the front of my briefs and began to squeeze. I was in agony and heaven at the same time, my pubescent libido exploding with pain and pleasure as he sucked my tongue and tortured my junk. I was panting like a summer dog when he released me, witnessing the boner I got despite the pain. Maybe he had one too. "Now", he rasped, "don't ever let me see you do that again. Don't ever let me see you. Got it?" "And don't let the refs see you either because if they do, I'll suspend your ass from the JV before you have a chance to enjoy the fruits of your little game, and forget high school varsity and that college scholarship. Be smart, kid. Enjoy yourself - but be smart." He told me to get dressed and without further words, he drove me home, a Townes Van Zandt cassette wailing mournfully the whole way. I got a few more good hits in that season, sly grapples from the middle of a pile up and quick elbows during a good hit. Nothing particularly satisfying but stimulating enough to keep me focused on the game. In the process, I learned more about myself than I wanted to or should have, at my age, I guess. But I did. I was almost fourteen and I knew I looked forward to a lifetime of ball bashing. In the short term, I wanted Coach and those dark cherry nipples in my mouth. I wondered how I could piss him off again enough to grant me another private audience. I thought about it a lot the next day, daydreaming in freshman math and at night before sleep came. It was kind of weird what happened that night when I thought about my encounter with Coach Ruiz-Bueso. Hector or Heck to the other coaches, in case you wanted to know. Anyway, what happened was that when I was trying to go to sleep, I liked to put my finger in my foreskin and rub it around the head of my cock. This had always been soothing to me when times were hard at our house (and they were more often than not) and I'd often fall asleep like that, with my forefinger sandwiched in the warmth of that tender space. That night I was doing my self-soothing routine and my cock started to jerk, swelling around my finger and shooting stuff all over my hand. I was not so naive as to misidentify this event - I knew about cumming from overheard talk in the locker room - but Tio Max had omitted the basics of manhood from his pep talks, so I was unprepared, though not frightened when the event occurred. My immediate concern was what to do with the stuff. It was starting to drip from my hand and puddle in my navel on its way down my side and on to the bed. I didn't want to deal with my mom about this so I quickly slurped the cum off my fingers, letting its warm stickiness linger on my tongue. "Not bad" I thought. "I'll bet Coach's is even better." I wouldn't get verification of that until my junior year on the night I started at defensive end on the varsity squad for the first time. We were playing in the semi finals of the Bishop's league on a crisp fall Texas night against Holy Trinity from Temple. Hicks from the sticks, The guy who started at right defensive end all year got a broken ankle in our last regular season game so Coach had to put his bets on me and my speed. I hadn't grown much but I'd gotten faster and meaner. My size had not gone unnoticed by the Temple coach and they ran the first play straight at me. The full back knocked me on my surprised ass good but the boys from the defensive backfield were quickly on him so his gain was just a few yards. I had the wind knocked out of me so the refs took a time out to see I was ok, giving Coach Bueso a chance to throw the evil eye in my direction. They ran the next play at me and it became clear right then that I was their game plan. They only got a couple of yards that time so their quarterback decided to drop back for a deep pass. I took off like a kamikaze up the middle and nailed him with his arm in the air. He hit the turf with me on his ass and my hand in his crotch. I gave his junk my signature twist, hopped up innocently and trotted back to our line, fingers crossed that the refs didn't notice my playfulness. They didn't, but their coach sure did and he was livid, marching out on the field, shouting and waving his arms around as he headed straight for me. Turns out the quarterback was his kid, a senior headed for a scholarship at Holy Cross, pending the successful completion of this season. Who knew. The ref gave their coach a technical foul and, after he yelled a little more, the game got underway again. They pretty well quit fucking wih me after that but we lost anyway. And I guess the kid got his scholarship to Holy Cross. Out of the playoffs, we left the field in a fair state of dejection, pitching helmets around in the locker room and generally feeling sorry for ourselves. Coach Bueso came in and told us we played a good game, assuring us that we'd make the finals next year if we stayed with our practice and training routines . When he was done and we all felt a little better, hopeful of things to come, he crooked his finger at me and told me to meet him by his car. A couple of the other guys had seen my foray into the quarterback's groin and gave me sympathetic looks, knowing how Coach could rag at you if you fucked up and got under his skin. He was leaning against his Mustang when I came to the darkened parking lot next to the stadium. He was smoking a cigarette and looking like a ripped pachuco from a telenovela. Like the dusk that gathered around us, his face was darkened by a five o'clock shadow that hid his expression but suggested approaching with caution. He wore jeans that were tight enough to push his package off to the right, an inviting prominence apparent to me even in the approaching darkness. Moving only one finger of his hand, he motioned me over to the Mustang. I moved cautiously toward him, understanding for the first time the allure of darkness and shadow and the men who inhabited them. When I was a foot or so from him he flicked his cigarette toward the unlighted stadium where, for me, the pain of loss still lingered, unseen and heavy. I was about to discover greater and more physical pain as we came face to face in those shadows. Coach grabbed me and threw me on the front quarter panel of the mustang, positioning himself between my legs, the bulge in his jeans pressing into my groin. "I told you not to get caught, didn't I punk?", he whispered menacingly in my ear, pressing me into the warm metal of the Mustang. He hit me in the chest with both fists twice in rapid succession, knocking the breath out of me before pressing his mouth to mine. He breathed for me. It was a weird sensation, to have the air knocked out of me and have it replaced with the hot residue of Coach' breath. He tasted like Old Spice smelled, with a vague tinge of guajillo peppers that flavored the birria he'd eaten before the game . As he continued to press me against the Mustang, he gradually allowed me to breathe on my own and his facial assault became a long, wet, tongue heavy kiss. He remained between my legs, his hardness grinding into my own. I gave as good as I got, pushing my meat against his, my precum flowing into my jockeys with each thrust. He broke with me after a few minutes of this and, grabbing my soggy crotch, began to squeeze and pull me downward until I was on my knees in front of him, my face inches above his worn gila skin boots. In the heavy darkness of the parking lot, I heard the buttons of his 501s pop open one by one, then felt the hot stream of his piss cover my head and face, a warm blanket of his relief, that, running across and down my neck, I found surprisingly erotic. He remained silent through all this, as I moaned softly and clutched at his calves. Finally he spoke, saying, "You like that, huh, little man? Well there's more than piss in this fire hose. Put it in your mouth and let's see if you can find the way to my forgiveness." What else could I do? I grasped the fat brownness that I knew was in front of me, unseen but hard and throbbing in my hand. His foreskin was loose and slid back easily , unwashed funk assaulting my nose, his precum vaguely salty on my lips and tongue. I had never sucked a cock before but knew instantly I would do so again. As I tried desperately to get as much of his seven inches in my mouth and throat as I could, I grabbed at his balls with my other hand but he slapped my head hard and said, "you can try that shit with gringo boys but nobody plays with my balls without my permission. Suck boy. Just suck." I was apparently a natural because in less than a minute Coach blasted my mouth and face with a load of cum that would do a burro proud. His orgasm was soundless - maybe a short grunt as his cum spewed into my mouth. I tried desperately to ingest all the sticky, alkaline stuff but my ability to swallow was overwhelmed by the force and quantity of his discharge. Cum ran down my face and onto my shirt and jeans as Coach pulled me to my feet and pressed his mouth to mine, sucking the remnants of his excitement into his own mouth, together with my tongue and my breath. I was on the verge of cumming myself when he slammed his knee into my groin with a force that took away the rest of my breath and gave my balls the kind of pain I never knew existed. I came then in rhythmic spasms, pleasure mingled with agony, my white jockeys filling with cum from the most fantastic orgasm I'd ever experienced. "Weird," I thought as I fell through Coaches' arms to the pavement.