Dads 'N' Lads
Episode XIII - Thirteen: After School Special
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Story Code: MMMBBbb/oral/anal/incest
Keith Peake turns off Broad Street. His truck rumbles beneath the sign.
Young Suds Car Wash.
The car wash's logo is a teen, beaming over his shoulder at you, suds-dripping cloth in hand, leaning against a gleaming car. The logo doesn't make the cartoon lad's ass overly prominent, but it's there. Shapely. Taut. Inviting. Make no mistake. A teen male's ass attracts business of all kinds.
Unfortunately, there's a shortage of underage eye candy at Keith's car wash. It's morning. The young lads -- known for being helpful, cheerful, clad in short, dirt-stained tee shirts that expose flat bellies and loose shorts that tend to ride down, especially when they're wet -- are in school. Keith must make do with older guys. The best-looking guy on the lot is Travis, Keith's shift supervisor. Travis is twenty. Wide-shouldered, blond, always sunny, and is always scheming to get laid. Keith waves at Travis. Travis, in the process of psyching up his flunkies, grins and waves back.
Travis huffs, claps his hands, and yells, "Let's do it!" The flunkies let out a yell like a football team breaking a huddle. Travis trots after Keith's truck.
They grow up so fast, Keith thinks. Maybe it really is because of all that sperm I put up 'em.
Keith remembers the day he first interviewed Travis. Travis' application had been in Keith's hand while Keith, crotch heating up, studied the lad from across his desk. Travis was a fine looking fifteen-year-old. Fresh-faced and eager as a puppy. He'd been slim and boyish. Those eyes had widened when Keith, quite casually, told him that if Travis wanted the job, Travis had to surrender his cherry hole. For a moment, Keith had thought that Travis might flee. Many boys did. Keith's muscled bulk sometimes freaked out the weaker kids. Keith smoothly coaxed Travis, promising him they'd both enjoy it. Buttfucking was, after all, how a boy became a young man. The purr in Keith's voice pinned Travis in place. Grinning, Keith had stood and strode around his desk to the lad. Naturally, Travis' eyes had fallen to the impossibly long ridge thrusting down the leg of Keith's jeans. Keith had run his fingers lightly down the teen's spine. Travis had shuddered when Keith's adult fingers cupped his butt.
Bend over, boy! Bend over for Keith Peake!
Keith had grinned when Travis leaned forward and propped his palms on the edge of the desk. Willing submission. What every pedophile yearns after. Travis shorts and underwear were soon looped around his ankles, his expression fearful as the awful sound of a man's zipper filled the silent room. Young Travis had moaned when the big man munched on his smooth cheeks. Travis' hollering and fist-pounding agony as Keith filled his tender butt with a foot of solid adult meat made the big man exult in his evilness.
"Hey boss!" Travis cries.
"Yo, Travis, how's it hanging?" Keith puts the truck in park. "Where's Adam?" Adam is Travis' younger brother. A sexy fourteen-year-old. Dumb but eager to please. The way Keith likes 'em. Adam hadn't been cherry when Keith first plowed him, and Travis and Adam are both coy on that subject.
"Lay off him, boss, he's in school! Give him a break!" Travis guffaws. "Geez, boss, how many times a day do you fuck a boy?"
"It's never enough, Travis. Never enough. How's the wife?"
"Ah, man, she's pregnant again!"
"You got big balls, Travis."
"Yeah, and I got you to thank, boss!"
A little later, Keith is working on the morning deposit -- the bank deposit, not some kid he's filling up with spunk, you fucking weird-assed pervert -- when his phone starts raising hell
Hmm. It's Jesse's ring.
"What's up, son?"
"Um. Dad. I think you ought to know this." Jesse sounds impish.
In the background, other boys' voices war in high-pitched cacophony. Keith grins. Ah, junior high. A caldron of lust. "Know what?"
A giggle. "Victor's dad is letting him fuck around."
A low whistle escapes Keith. Blood gushes to Keith's cock. "Really? Holy shit! About damn time! Fuck, son, I've been hot for my -- for your buddy for years!"
"He's doing everybody, Dad! He's talking like he's going to skip lunch and let guys fuck him in the upstairs bathroom!" Jesse's voice drops to a conspiratorial level. "I think he's a bigger slut than Aaron. Except I don't think Victor's that much into black kids, you know?"
"Bigger slut than Aaron, or you?"
"Well. You got a rival, sounds like." Keith's not too surprised by this news. These quiet kids, once unleashed, tend to reveal themselves as sex-crazed maniacs. And Keith knows things about Victor that Jesse doesn't. "You might see me cruising Calhoun this afternoon --"
"Nah, don't do that." There's a grin in Jesse's voice. "We want him for ourselves! You old fucks can get sloppy seconds off us kids!"
"Don't tell me you fucked him?"
Jesse giggles. He changes the subject. "Um. Vic's got diving practice this afternoon."
Devilish light twinkles in Keith's eyes. "Wanna go swimming?"
"Fuck no! I'm hanging at GWHS!"
"Suit yourself. Thanks, son. Love you."
"Fuck him hard, Dad! He needs it!" The connection drops.
For a moment, Keith remains seated at the desk.
Victor. Victor's free. Keith's mouth waters. Shit! I've been waiting for that bastard Gene to turn him loose for years now!
Goddamned. Victor Franco. The kid is hot. Sultry. The way he casually edges up to the diving platform, turns slowly to show off the twin bubbles of his ass -- barely contained in a skimpy Speedo -- Christ, what man wouldn't get a hardon for a kid like him? Keith, who always attended diving matches to support his son, had slobbered many times when young Victor stretched out his arms overhead, showing off those smooth, hairless pits. Of course, Keith Peake wasn't the only pedo in the audience slobbering the boys.
Keith's going to tap Victor's ass! He's excited as a kid at Christmas. As excited as he was when he fucked little Kevin. Or -- dare he admit it -- when Chase's little boyfriend, that way-too-young Tyler, sucked Keith off.
Well, good news must be spread. Keith scrolls through his contacts. He taps the one labelled THE JUDGE.
"Victor Franco. You interested?"
Another low whistle sounds. "Really? Well. Won't have to lean on Gene. Damn selfish Russian! But, hell, Peake -- you got lousy timing! I gotta a full docket today!" The voice sounds profoundly irritated.
"Get Lord to make you a video."
A pause. "I like the way you think, Peake."
"I know you do." Keith smiles., cupping his swelling groin. "I like getting sloppy seconds off Sheriff Lord. I just hope that cock doesn't ruin the kid."
"Yeah, well, that's the chance we gotta take. Thanks, Peake. Man! Hot damn! Victor Franco! That kid's born to take big cock!" Passion and lust quaver in the voice.
"All boys are," says Keith. "Later."
Morning light suffuses the room in downtown Ellicott Falls. The sound of a running shower fills the bedroom.
On the bed, a young, dumb, full of cum man stirs.
Stephen Antoniou grins when he wakes. Because he's that kind of guy. For him, every day is a wonder to be explored. He whips the tented sheet off his groin. His thick ten-inch piss hardon towers over his dark-furred belly. Stephen isn't merely proud of his cock. He's arrogant about it. Hell, if you'd heard the way his girlfriend babbles as he fucks her -- Stephen's keen on doggy style; it not so subtly reminds his women they're his beeyatches -- you'd know it too.
Big hard cocks rule the world. Don't forget it.
Stephen's broad chest is thickly furred with black hair sleek as a Doberman's fur, albeit finer. If he still shaved his body hair, the way he used to do when he swam competitively, you'd see a body so finely carved, so low in fat, you'd swear Praxiteles himself had crafted Stephen's form. Beneath that sleek belly hair there's a clearly defined six pack. You might expect to see shoulders like his toting bales of hay, or 2x4s, as he struts by casually and cheerfully shirtless. His pectorals are two muscular knolls buried beneath a forest of black moss. And when he runs his fingers through his glossy blue-black hair, he exposes a fascinating nest of dense armpit hair, and the ridge that denotes the deltoids swimmers are apt to develop.
The first thought of Stephen's day arrives.
Do I wanna fuck her?
Stephen's fist closes around his prancing shaft. A hardon like his could be fucked through a cinderblock wall. Stephen listens to the running shower and Leanne's lilting voice as she softly sings to herself. She's a vixen. A siren. Stephen loves to drive her slobberingly insane with the pure, poetic power of is driving hips.
Taking a deep breath, he jacks it. The image of her vulva is irresistible. If you're Stephen Antoniou, you were born to fuck.
Make no mistake. Stephen Antoniou's the kind of guy that those women who insist they're only interested in deep, committed relationship, drop their panties for in nightclub bathrooms. He's primitive as a Cro-Magnon, graceful as a panther. Every photon that reflects off his supple body stimulates the growling, howling, primitive parts of the brain.
Let the Woman's Junior Anti-Sex League rail against Stephen's type! Let them complain about his stupidity, his shallowness, his self-centeredness! All that noise just signifies they, too, are as captivated by Stephen's dark aura as a planet is by the Sun's gravity.
Stephen contemplates his favorite course of action.
Roll out of bed. Pull back the curtain. Shove her against the tile. Slam it home. Fill her with ten gallons of my best stuff!
Stephen's teeth are chalk white against his bronze skin. A scruffy, lustrous beard traces his jaw. His beard doesn't bristle. It's more like a teenager's soft peachfuzz. You kind of want to pet it.
Yeah. I need to fuck her! 'Cause if I don't --
Stephen shudders. What almost happened last week still perturbs him. Due to a temporary deficit in his pussy leger, Stephen had been oversupplied with cum. And worse, testosterone, the hormone God created to make men sexy and stupid. For that reason, it had made sense to Stephen to cruise past George Washington High School, beaming at the girls from his car window, waving, bobbing his head in rapt acknowledgment of the power those girls held over him.
If I do that again ... one of those girls is going to trot over and talk to me. I'm going to offer her a ride home. And fifteen minutes after that, I'm going to be fucking a sixteen-year-old girl in the back seat.
Clearly, to keep out of jail, Stephen must fuck Leanne right ow!
He begins to swing his legs out of bed, but falls back, cock still throbbing.
But what about Robin? She swears she can keep it a secret from her big sister. And I wouldn't mind a little change of scenery. But Robin and Leanne are together all the time. And Robin is twelve. Can I trust her?
Hell! what if I got her pregnant?
A slimy string of precum oozes free of Stephen's pisslit.
Stop thinking like this! You're crazy, man, you're fucking crazy!
"Leanne!" Stephen's voice is accented but not heavily. You might still hear the sunny Aegean in it.
No reply except for the pattering shower.
He rolls out of bed. Holy Mother of God, man! Look at those balls! Primed and ready to fire, they're pulled tight against his shaft. Each one is the size of, say, Ben Harrison's fist. This stud shoots cum like a stallion gushes piss.
Stephen swaggers towards the bathroom. His cock sways like a magic wand. His foreskin draws back, showing off the cheesy head. Still grinning, he pushes open the door. The shower curtain snaps open. naturally, Leanne's eyes fixate on Stephen's cock.
"No, no, no, sweetheart!" Leanne snatches a towel off the rack. "I ain't got time to wash your spunk out of me again."
Stephen chuckles. "Let me lick it out for you!"
She shuts off the tap. "I ain't got the time, sweetheart"
"Be late for work," Stephen purrs. Dark eyes smolder at her from beneath long lashes. "You know you'll have fun."
"Damn, honey, you know I want to! But, hell, if I'm late every time you're horny, they'll fire me! And I need this job. We both do!"
Stephen shrugs. For a moment, he considers pleading with Leanne.
Fuck me, honey! 'Cause if you don't, I'm gonna go after your kid sister. Or some cheerleader.
Though the jock blood flows thick and sluggish through his brain, not even Stephen Antoniou is dumb enough to try that route.
Sometime later, after Leanne departed, Stephen finishes breakfast. His erection has returned to slumberland. An impressive bulge stretches his skimpy briefs. Two tangerines and a soft zucchini. A mustache of pubic hair peers over the waistband.
He's deep in thought.
If I make her cum -- say, two or three times -- maybe the cheerleader won't turn me in.
Thoughts of jacking off don't enter Stephen's mind. He's had no need to handle his own meat since he was fourteen.
But I don't wanna make her cum! I just wanna get off!
Poor guy. He should've been born in the era of harems. Old-fashioned bigamous Mormonism was invented for hard-bodied studs like Stephen Antoniou. The modern world sucks.
What am I going to do?
You're going to go to work!
A slow grin dawns. Yeah, work. Maybe he can score some legal pussy there.
The American Ninja Dojo is just a few blocks from the Harrison Pool. Like much of downtown Ellicott Falls, it's a revamped turn-of-the-twentieth-century building with a thrillingly obsolescent electrical system. Stephen, after a brisk three block walk, enters the lobby. The receptionist waves at Stephen. He can't remember her name. He can remember she's a great fuck. He also remembers that she runs her mouth, and that had very nearly sunk his relationship with Leanne. Leanne is the cornerstone of Stephen's life, since she brings in the money. Scratch one receptionist.
In the locker room, Stephen changes into his uniform. His karategi is traditional: light white cotton. Stephen always keeps it open down to the belt. He's got a boss body; why not show it off? The karategi is scant below the waist. This shows off his loose, black shorts. These are cut high on his thighs. Stephen's Greek. Fuck this American shorts-down-to-your-knees bullshit. A few women have fainted when he demonstrates high kicks, because the loose legs often betray Stephen's choice of underwear. Today he ties a fundoshi around his waist. Loosely. Because a loose fundoshi allows his heavy genitalia to flail. Gets 'em every time.
He tries to meditate. Some days, when he's horny, it's easy to achieve an empty mind. All the blood is focused in his cock, leaving his brain nicely empty. Not today. Images keep intruding into the black peacefulness he seeks. Sexual images. Young images.
Damn! To fuck a cheerleader -- to fuck an elementary school girl -- hell, that'd give me bragging rights!
His class arrives. He's fully aware, in his light trance, of the attention focused on his crotch. In his cross-legged lotus posture, it's on show. He stands and beams. Soft sighs escape the gathered women.
Given his overabundance of testosterone, it's a wonder he doesn't kill these housewives. All eyes are on Stephen as he leads them through tai chi motions. Their obvious lust -- one or two of the women start showing wet spots at their groins -- goads Stephen. Which one? Which one is he going to fuck?
Ah yeah. There in the back.
Mrs. Elaine Harrison's eyes flash at him.
Stephen grins back.
Yeah. You need more of my juice, don't you, baby?
Stephen's one of those smoothly sinister guys who can turn demonic lust into radiant charm. Elaine Harrison sunbathes in it.
Class ends. One by one the women slip out. Elaine lingers, her eyes darting furtively to Stephen's body. Sweat has christened his karategi. An all-natural man, he doesn't desecrate himself with deodorant. His musk permeates the classroom. When they're alone, Elaine trots over wearing a shy smile. She pecks him on the cheek.
"You free?" Stephen murmurs into her ear.
Frustrated, she bites her lip. "I-- I-- can't. Not today."
"How about another weekend in Abingdon?" Stephen's not exactly sure he can wriggle free of Leanne so soon, but dammit, he'll work out the details later.
"I'll try. I gotta talk to Hank." Elaine Harrison slips a rolled-up dollar bill into Stephen's palm, then hastily chases after her girlfriends.
Stephen unrolls the bill. Silly girl. He never forgets a phone number.
He's got to be careful in the locker room. The Dojo's other instructors are present, and Stephen's pretty chubbed from the flood of memory. He had a damn good time with Elaine at that hotel up in Abingdon. They fucked all day and all night, which is Stephen's ideal of paradise. He's sure she'll wriggle free of Hank Harrison. Who wouldn't, if the reward was being stuffed by Stephen Antoniou's godlike cock?
Still. He hasn't scored anything for today.
In desperation, he chats up Suzie Grissom, the receptionist. She'd like to, naturally, but she can't leave the desk until four. And at four, Stephen will be giving young Victor Franco is diving lesson. Stephen gives her a cheery smile, picks up his gym bag, and struts down the street towards the Harrison Pool.
Maybe I could just walk by the high school -- the junior high -- just ogle them and jack off in the bushes --
As he arrives at the pool, Stephen realizes this was a stupid thought. The high school's let out for the day. Teenage staffers swarm, racing for the lifeguard towers or towards the arcade's cash registers.
Wonder who's missing?
There's something very strange about Stephen's boss. Hank Harrison. Something odd's going on between Hank and the teenaged staff. The male staff. Stephen's lost count of the times he's caught some teen lifeguard, trotting down the hall from Hank's office, wiping white goo off his lips. Or seen one hastily drawing up his trunks over his taut, round butt.
Stephen is no bigot. He has nothing against male-on-male activity. He himself has engaged in it, but only when he was a teen back on Mykonos. But it's not his thing any more. No. Stephen loves the shape of a woman. Her scent. Her high-pitched shrieks as his cockhead batters the gates of her womb.
Still, why are these boys sucking off -- or giving their butts to -- Hank Harrison? Shouldn't it be the other way around? Isn't that how it's supposed to work?
As a young, ambitious, but broke lad on Mykonos, Stephen early on discovered a great way to make money. He showed off his taut, young body atop the wave-skirted cliffs. Male and female tourists gathered to watch him. He never charged anything when he dove wearing the old briefs he used as swim trunks, but if they wanted to see his sleek, streamlined, twelve-year-old body diving naked into the blue Aegean, that cost them. He was soon able to buy his first pair of Speedos, which only helped the lad's cash flow.
The bulge in his black Speedo, swelling with pubescent energy, had tempted a perverted Frenchman to approach the fourteen-year-old Stephen with an irresistible offer.
Let me suck that, kid, and I'll make it worth your while.
As the lithe teen began cramming his fat meat down throat after throat, the Euros piled up. He drew the line, though, when they went for his butt. If one of those guys tried to slip even a finger up Stephen's tiny button, he slugged them. They got the message. The lad's high, round butt was for admiring, not for fucking. Stephen Antoniou was a top, dig?
So why haven't these dumb American hicks picked up on how the world works?
Well, if the boss is a fag -- that explains why is wife needs me!
The Natatorium's pool is smooth as glass. The huge space smells pungently of chlorine. Stephen's cock stirs. This smell always reminds him of the smell of the fresh young spunk he used to produce in gallons. The kind of spunk he churned out of his nuts when he was twelve and thirteen.
This afternoon's pupil leans against the wall outside the men's locker room, scuffing his tennis shoe on the wall.
"Sorry I'm late, Victor." Keys jangle as Stephen fishes them from his pocket.
"'S OK." Victor smiles shyly up at Stephen. He always smiles that way, as if he's revealing a delight in Stephen's nearness that normally he must mask. "No problem, Coach. Um. I was a bit late, too."
"Ready for a good workout?" Stephen's smile shines like the sun.
Victor nods eagerly.
Stephen turns the lock. "Let's get started."
Victor follows Stephen in.
Something transpires that Stephen's not aware of. I'm sure you can guess what it is. Victor's eyes laser in on his diving coach's ass globes. They're so big, powerful, and manly there's no way anyone could miss them even when they're masked, as they are, beneath the loose fabric of Stephen's shorts. Stephen's butt is designed and built to power the sexual poetry of his hips.
Victor's eyes blaze. Not because the quiet lad wants to drive his miniscule cock between those cheeks. No, it's not that; the day when Victor Franco is a top is so far off it may never arrive. What Victor is admiring is the supple grace of Stephen's ass. What Victor's doing is subconsciously measuring how hard and fast those manly hips can pump.
Victor, embarrassed, glances up, afraid he's given himself away. But thankfully he sees only the back of Coach Antoniou's head.
The locker room is clean and sanitary. It's more plush, featuring artificial turf for carpet and actual wooden lockers, than the cheap public lockers. The locker room needs to be enlarged. Last competition, there had barely been enough room in here for all the shrieking boys.
Victor's and Stephen's gym bags plop side by side on the bench.
Stephen strips off his karategi and hangs it in his locker. His shorts and briefs drop to his feet. He rummages in his bag for his Speedos. Dammit! They've have wormed their way down to the bottom. Frowning, he rummages for them.
Whoa. Check Victor out. Look at how wide his eyes are. Yeah, the thirteen-year old has been naked with his Coach before. But he's never been unleashed and naked. Coach's big cock, bobbing and swaying in that thick nest of coal-black pubic hair, hypnotizes him.
Stephen grins. He never misses a thing. His rummaging slows. He angles his body a smidgen towards Victor. Not that Stephen's queer or anything like that. He knows smooth lads like Victor are always fascinated by a man's hairy body. Let Víctor feast his eyes on his coach's glorious studliness.
Slack-jawed, rooted in place, Victor Franco stares.
Stephen's lazy, slightly swollen shaft drapes over those big, sweaty balls. The all-powerful funk of a stud's crotch sweat strips away the locker room's pristine, ascetic scent.
"I got a lot of hair down there, don't I?"
Victor blinks, realizes he's been caught staring, but can't say anything. He swallows nervously.
"Don't be shy. I know you can't help staring." Stephen remembers his own time as a boy, watching his big father strut naked through the house. He'd felt so small and insignificant. That had been a crucial moment in his life, for his father's nakedness hadn't crushed him. It had stimulated Stephen to be like him. A muscle-bound warrior, ready to do whatever it took to win.
A strange light flickers in Victor's eyes.
Well. Stephen's not going to be an effective coach while Victor worships him as the God of Masculinity. Time to step down from the pedestal on which Victor's placed him. Stephen tousles Victor's hair. "Come on. Move it. We're running late."
Victor's eyes flutter. Otherwise the overwhelmed boy doesn't move. Except, maybe, to breathe more deeply, as if the musk wafting from Stephen's crotch is a narcotic.
"Show me yours, Vic. Let's compare." He eases his crotch forward. This'll get Victor out of his inward-focused state.
"Um. What? You want to see ... m-- m-- my wiener?" A red flush spreads north from the boy's collar.
"No. I'm just trying to get you to change into your trunks." Stephen's grin softens to a warm, buttery smile. Once again, he tries to dissolve the border that's suddenly appeared between Coach and athlete. "It'll happen soon. Don't worry."
"Puberty. You'll get hairy down there. Like me. We all do." Stephen winks. "And it's awesome when it does!" He bends down and whispers in Victor's ear: "The girls go nuts for it!"
Stephen plants his naked ass on the bench, spreads his legs, and loops the Speedos around one ankle. A little frustrated, Stephen sighs. The boy's still deep inside himself. He speaks sharply: "Come on. Move your ass, Victor! Strip! We're running late!"
Victor swallows. He slowly peels his shirt off his shoulders. Victor's nipples are hard. Very strange, since the locker room is warm, even steamy. Funny. The boy's nips remind him of Leanne's, right before she starts squealing and thrashing in her orgasm, her cunt creaming and frothing round Stephen's plunging cock.
Slowly, eyes downcast, Victor starts unbuttoning his shorts. At last! Stephen stands, yanks his Speedos up, and packs his gear into a neat bulge. Because his cock is a little swollen -- damn, this is all Leanne's fault -- he spends an extra few seconds making sure it points due south.
His face cherry-red, Victor drops his shorts.
Stephen chuckles. Yeah. It's what he suspected. Victor's hard boy dick frolics in his briefs, bucking like a dolphin in the waves.
"Sorry," the lad murmurs. "Sorry."
"No worries. When I was your age, my cock was hard all the time." Stephen tousles Victor's hair again, then fishes in his bag for his goggles.
Victor stares at Coach Antoniou's swollen crotch. The white drawstrings, trailing down both sides of Stephen's bulge, makes it completely impossible to ignore that massive presence. It's big as a softball and looks like it's getting bigger. Victor emits a strangling sound.
Stephen looks sharply at the boy. "You OK?"
Victor nods. His face is so red he looks like a tomato.
"Then get ready!"
Victor, lips tight, shimmies his briefs down his smooth legs. There's a moist noise as his dick tears away from his sweaty groin. The spike pulsates. The kid reaches for his gray Speedos. Victor, head bent, eyes lowered, not daring to sneak another look at his coach's magnificent bulge, slips into his gear. The settle into place over his butt and his crotch. All through this, Stephen's eyes are fixed straight ahead, focused on a locker, while he fingercombs his black locks.
"Sorry." Biting his lip, Victor slips his hand into his Speedos and arranges his dick to one side. It creates a long, obvious ridge stretching across his groin. "Sorry."
"Just let it be," soothes Stephen.
A hint of a smile appears on Victor's lips. He cinches the drawstring.
"Lucky we're alone, huh?"
Stephen grins and slips his arm around Victor's shoulders. The lad's skin is hot, as if he's just escaped from an oven. He guides the boy out of the locker room. The Natatorium is still empty. Once again, the acridity of chlorine assaults their nostrils.
Stephen beams down at the boy. "If there were girls here, they'd be all over you!"
Victor eyes Stephen's prominent bulge. "They'd be after you, Coach. You're so big!"
"I'd let you have them when I was done with them!"
Young coach and younger athlete share a laugh. Stephen doesn't realize it, but this mutual, crude joke does far more to make Victor feel like a man, not a worshipper who should be kneeling before an altar.
Man and boy stride along the pool's edge. Stephen is back in the arena where he knows he's king. His gait shifts from a walk to a strut. His chest puffs up.
"I wish I still competed, like you," Stephen says.
"Yeah." His big bulge sways. He strokes the back of Victor's head. "I fucked so many girls, Victor. So many girls. They like young competitors."
"Um. Do you think my, uh, dick will, you know, get as big as yours?"
"Oh yeah. You're a growing boy. I know you're going to be huge, kid."
Victor, eyes flashing up at Coach Antoniou, shyly confesses, "They've been getting bigger."
"They? You've got two dicks?"
"Um. My balls, I mean. Over the last few weeks."
"See? I told you. You're going to have hair right where it counts real soon then." Stephen pats Victor's shoulder. "You'll be a man." He winks down at Victor. "You got a girl you want to screw, Victor?"
"Um. Not yet." Victor's eyes slide away. "But. Um, there's some I think about."
"I bet!" Stephen winks. "Chicks go crazy over a diver's body." Releasing Victor, his fists bunch, and his chest swells, and his hips sway, and he is young stud male radiant with glory. "They think we're gods!"
"Really! Come on. Let's warm up!"
First order of business is stretching. Stephen's elaborated this stage into a gymnastics-style workout. Man and boy mirror each other beneath the diving platform. They seat themselves, spreading their legs so wide they're this close to van Damme-style splits. They plant their palms between their thighs and lift themselves.
Oh no! He's staring at my junk again! Stephen just grins. What's a stud to do? He's built. He's handsome. He's hung. It's inevitable that he'll be the target of admiration for a growing junior high school age boy.
Nevertheless, the lad's not focused on the stretching.
"Come on, Victor! Stop skylarking and pay attention!"
Victor's eyes flick up. No blush, this time. In fact, there's a hint of sly narrowing to Victor's eyes.
The routine continues, disciplined as ever, for another five minutes. The muscles of the coach and his boy come into sharp focus.
"Um, coach," Victor says. "I don't think I'm doing this right."
Stephen pauses. His biceps strain. The muscles in his fur-coated thighs stand out in sharp relief. He inspects the boy. The boy's dick seems to be leaking into those gray Speedos. "I can tell. What's up?" Stephen blushes. That was a slip.
"I-- I-- I don't know."
"Can I help?"
Victor lowers his butt to the concrete. He pulls his feet and knees together. He wraps his arms round his legs and rocks back and forth. "It won't go down. I don't really feel like I'm in my own body, Coach." Suddenly Victor's eyes laser into Stephen's. "Maybe ... if you let me feel your muscles while, you know, you stretch, maybe I'll catch on."
Something's not adding up here but, since Stephen's no mathematician, he misses it. "You're just trying to get out of your workout, aren't you?"
Victor, wearing a hint of a smile, shakes his head. "No. Not me, Coach."
Stephen shrugs. That's true. Look at the kid's body! He's not one to shirk a good workout. "Sure. If it'll help, we'll try that."
Victor brightens and leaps to his feet. Stephen expects to feel Victor's palms on his shoulders. Maybe on his back. Wrong. The lad, eager as a kid on Christmas, kneels between Stephen's calves. He plants his hands on Stephen's thighs. On the inside, right above the knee. Slowly Victor's hands advance across the sleekly furred skin.
"Um, Victor. How's this going to help?"
Victor's eyes meet Stephen's. "You gonna work out?"
Stephen begins to exercise, kicking his legs wide, scissoring them shut, descending to the concrete then lifting himself up again.
"Wow," Victor breathes. "They feel like steel!" The boy follows every motion.
"This helping?" Stephen grunts, sweat trickling down his nose.
Victor nods. His dick twitches in his Speedos. The kid focuses on the man's crotch. The boy's fingertips knead the man's swollen muscles. Victor leans in. His hands slide closer and closer, moving slowly and steadily. Victor's pink tongue darts out to lick his dry lips.
Stephen's eyes track those slowly moving hands. So small. So warm. He watches some of his fur slide beneath them. He watches tufts pop out. Onwards and upwards the boy's hands move. Millimeter by millimeter.
Stephen feels himself swelling. That doesn't bother him. Contact on the inside of a man's thighs is guaranteed to send a sex signal to the brain. What knocks him off-kilter is the light in Victor's eyes. It reminds him of Leanne, when she's baked on weed, and she's staring at her boyfriend's nude body, sprawled on the couch, waiting for her. That kind of derangement is hot on a woman. But on a boy --
"Stop it, Victor!"
"It's OK, Coach. I'm almost there --"
"Knock it off, kid!" Stephen drops his butt to the concrete and seizes Victor's hands. "Enough! A quick stretch, then a swim."
Their swim, Stephen hopes, will shrink these bulges. Maybe it'll douse that strange glow in Victor's eyes. Stephen's beginning to suspect his bulge -- that orange-sized swelling in his Speedos he loves to casually emphasize -- might be the crux of Victor's distraction.
This boy is queer. That's the problem. Maybe he doesn't know it yet. But I'd bet he is.
The sight of Stephen's big cock, laying on his fat manballs, had awakened something in this quiet lad that should've been left dormant.
Victor suddenly leaps to his feet. His boner throbs prominently. The kid lets out a whoop. "Loser's got to do whatever the winner wants!"
"Well, I don't --"
Victor streaks towards the pool and launches himself. He surfaces, churning furiously. Water courses over Victor's working back and the twin hemispheres of his butt.
"You little sneak!"
Stephen, chuckling, saunters to the pool's edge. He flexes. Bobs on the balls of his feet. He dives. When he breaks the surface, Victor's a third of the way across, thrashing like mad. Stephen Antoniou, half-porpoise, churns down the same lane Victor's using. He paces himself, letting Victor make the turn off the far end. When Victor streaks past, heading for the other end, Stephen catches the boy's grin. Stephen executes his turn, then really pours it on. So does Victor. It's not as easy for Stephen to close the distance s he'd thought. The boy seems a maniac. But Victor Franco is swept aside by his coach's wake.
Stephen's palm slaps the pool's edge. "Winner!" he cries, shaking water from his eyes. "And still champion!" His legs kick smoothly.
Victor, still grinning, slaps the wall. "You cheated!"
Stephen, laughing, dunks the kid. "I don't cheat!"
The boy's eyes, still emitting that unsettling light, blaze from beneath moist eyelashes.
"Come on. We'll start with some gainers." He turns, grabs the pool's edge, and hoists himself. His knees land on the edge, spread, and Stephen's bulge is visible between his hairy, muscular thighs.
Victor pounces. His arms wrap around Stephen's legs. His face presses against that iron-hard ass. The lad's back arches. Man and boy topple back into the pool.
Stephen surfaces. "Dammit, Victor!"
Peals of laughter ring in his ear. The fall hasn't dislodged the thirteen-year-old boy. Stephen feels the boy's body plastered to his back. The lad's soft ear nuzzles his. The kid's arms and legs knot to Stephen's big, muscular frame. The little spike, barely contained by Victor's Speedos, throbs against the small of Stephen's back.
Damn. He's still got that hardon -- is he humping me?
Two small palms cup Stephen's bulge. Small fingers stroke at the potato.
"You're so big," Victor breathes. His fondling of his coach's massive equipment becomes frantic.
"Will mine get that big?" Victor's trembling palm caresses Stephen's bulge from top to bottom, then back up again.
"Please, coach! Let me just feel it!"
Stephen bucks hard. Victor tumbles off him. Again, he hoists himself onto the pool's edge. He shakes water out of his hair. Again, he makes the mistake of kneeling there, legs spread, a posture which forces his forbidden bulge to dominate the boy's mind.
Victor lunges. The lad's palms cup their target.
Stephen's head snaps around. Genuine anger flashes in his eyes. "Knock it off, Victor!"
Victor shrugs. His hands drop away, but his fingertips, stroking Stephen's inner thighs light as a feather, leave no doubt that he's still obsessed. The boy sinks into the pool, treading water, staring up at his coach's ass and bulge.
Stephen stands and adjusts his Speedo. "Get out of the damn pool, Victor."
Victor climbs out. For a moment, the pair stands side by side, suspiciously eyeing one another. Stephen's eyes flash a warning. Victor's eyes are insouciant.
What am I going to do with this little faggot?
Stephen inspects his star student. The kid's Speedos have ridden down a bit, exposing twin slivers of buttcheek. The sight of the boy's tight crack makes Stephen feel dizzy, as if he's been sucked up into a tornado. He can't allow the lad to go around showing off his ass. In a redneck town like Ellicott Falls, you can't be a thirteen-year-old queer. Stephen tugs the Speedos back into place and pats the boy's butt.
Victor just looks smug.
"So you got to do what I say. And I don't want you touching me with your hands down there. Got it."
Victor nods. Stephen, because he's a hot, dumb jock who doesn't understand the forces at play here, misinterprets Victor's smoldering look as resentment of his defeat.
"Let's dive, boy!"
Stephen climbs towards the platform. Victor watches his coach's supple muscles play. Biting his lip to hide a grin, he loosens his drawstrings. He eases the Speedos down, this time exposing not just the topmost hint of crack but a good inch of cleft. This is a trick he's learned from Jesse Peake. Jesse uses it to flirt with other divers when he's competing, but Victor's never been permitted to do that. Victor hopes it'll work. The boy climbs after his coach.
On the platform, high above the pool, Stephen bounces on the balls of his feet. No doubt about it. His bulge has swollen. He had to adjust himself during the climb. His fat meat slowly advances across his groin towards his hip.
What a day, man. What a day. All I want to do is fuck a hot chick. Leanne blew me off. Elaine Harrison put me off. I screwed around and missed my chance to score a cheerleader. Now I got this little boy after me. Man, God hates me!
His mind flashes back:
Stephen Antoniou, a fourteen-year-old stud, six-pack, smooth pectorals, pitch-black down in his pits, body baked the shade of dark honey. Soft fuzz on his upper lip. Frolicking in the surf on Mykonos. Fully developed, but still wearing briefs sized for a twelve-year-old boy.
A man. A German -- or was it a Swede? -- swimming up from behind. His hand, thrust between Stephen's smooth thighs, cupping Stephen's ample bulge. Shocked look over shoulder. The feel of the man's thumb, rubbing swelling shaft. Fingertips slithering in through the gap between briefs and balls.
Money, boy? You want money?
Leaving the surf. Cupping both hands over his erection. Their search for a private nook in the beachside cliffs. The man's tongue, extending towards a swaying strand of teenaged precum. The glorious fireworks as Stephen delivered his milk to the German's -- or Swede's -- throat.
He doesn't remember how much he was paid. Just the thrilling release of orgasm.
Atop the platform, Stephen's eyes close. His fists bunch. His shoulders tense. Hot steamy breath puffs against the base of his spine.
More breathing. Right above his Speedos. He turns at the waist, hiding his swelling bulge from the kid.
"Uh, Coach, are we going to dive?" Victor looks up, meeting Stephen's eyes. He licks his lips.
Is that challenge in the young lad's eyes?
"Fuck yeah, we're going to dive!"
Taking deep breaths, squeezing his fists to damp down on the energy surging in his body, Stephen strolls to the edge of the platform. His toes curl over the precipice's lip. As a lad, Stephen used to climb cliffs overlooking the Aegean, displaying himself. To tourists. To friends. To anyone who wanted to look at a male in his prime.
Fortunately, there's no one in the Natatorium to see his outrageously distended Speedos. The smoked glass window panes keep the laughing, shrieking throng in the outdoor pool from seeing how deviant Stephen's beginning to feel. Ten throbbing inches of deviancy.
"Um. Coach? Are you OK?" Victor's voice lilts.
Goddamn. Is Stephen going queer? He thought he'd put all that stuff behind him.
Worse, is he going to give in to his pedophilia? The lad's lips are so sweet. What would happen if he turned and showed Victor his titanic erection?
A satanic voice thunders in the nethermost pit of Stephen's soul:
Do it. He wants you. Do it. Make him drink your strength. Do it!
But Stephen can't! The thought of it is hot, but the actuality is insane! Jesus H. Christ, this is the Twenty First Century, a deranged time ruled by the timid and fearful, where literally everyone fears the titanic power of a man's hard cock. If he tries, Victor'll freak, the cops will chain him, the media will crow, the sex offender's registry will acquire another line, the cell door will slam shut, the upright and just people will chuckle about prison rape.
"Gainers?" Victor urges. "Didn't you say something about gainers, coach?"
"Did I? I don't remember. Gainers. Yeah. Gainers." His hardon twitches, strains, seeking, as all hardons do, freedom and release.
Stephen is silent.
Victor, his eyes bright, slides his arm round Stephen's waist. Victor turns his unresisting coach to face him. He smirks.
"Wow! You got a hardon. Like me!" The lad's eyes glow like an altar boy's in candlelight. "You got a huge cock, coach!" Victor's chest swells. He's panting, as if he's just finished twenty laps in the pool.
Stephen can't say a word. He swallows nervously. Part of him wants to pull away and hide. Another part of him, wordless and all powerful, pins him in place. Displayed to the kid's awe-filled eyes.
"I wish I was as big as you!"
A strange and terrifying feeling seizes Stephen. It feels like a swarm of electric bees, buzzing around in his bulge. His nostrils flare. His eyes blaze at Victor. "Yeah," he says hoarsely. "I bet you do."
The man's cock leaps in his Speedos. The boy doesn't miss it. His little Vienna sausage echoes the man's mighty wand.
"Tiny dick," Stephen breathes. "You're nowhere near my size. Are you, boy?"
Overwhelmed by his coach's manifest supremacy, Victor shudders. The boy murmurs, "Please. Can I see it?"
Victor nods. "I've never seen you hard. Please, coach? Please let me see it".
One last look around. No one's present to see the sin he's about to commit. They're alone. Man and boy. He nods curtly.
Victor hooks a finger in his coach's Speedos. He tugs them open. Just a bit. Not enough for Stephen's fat ten-inch hardon to escape. It lurches upwards and wedges between Stephen's flat, sleekly-furred belly and the drawstring. The boy shoots a shy look up at his coach's face. Then Victor's thumb caresses the hot and steamy shaft.
A boy's touching my cock.
Yeah, a boy -- a thirteen-year-old -- is handling Stephen's privates. Not a tourist, eager to gobble Stephen's meat for money. But a boy. Who just wants to get a whiff of the wonder that is Stephen Antoniou. He feels Victor's thumb stroking his cock. The passes are light. Feathery.
Whatever demon spoke to me -- thank you! Fuck, this is how it's supposed to be!
Not a word escapes Stephen. A shudder runs through his body.
This feels good. This feels right. Letting a kid -- yeah, a fucking kid -- touch my junk.
What really stokes Stephen's fire is the look in Victor's eyes as he stares at Stephen's hard cock. Surely the Magi, kneeling before Christ, looked down on the son of God with the same worshipful expression.
I wish he was a girl.
Stephen touches Victor's cheeks. Not a trace of down. Maybe he can pretend that, when this happens -- Stephen knows for sure that something's going to happen -- this boy is a girl. Obsessed by his erection, as they all naturally are. But Stephen can't sustain that illusion. Victor's build -- a wedge tapering down from strong shoulders to trim waist, then swelling again into the succulent curves of his butt -- is pure boy.
"Do you want to see any more of me?" Stephen croaks.
"Yeah! All of you!"
Victor yanks the black Speedos down Stephen's hairy thighs.
Stephen's throbbing masculinity explodes into the boy's face. The man's giant balls quiver only inches from the kid's lips. Moisture from the swim plasters Stephen's pubic thatch to his skin. The pale skin of his sack glows against that black nest. The fat shaft thrusts skyward like Excalibur.
Victor falls to his knees.
Stephen's cock sways, hypnotic as a cobra.
"Yeah. I know."
The man and the boy lock gazes. Between their eyes, Stephen's cock throbs.
This is right. This is so right. A boy, kneeling, in front of me. Worshipping me. 'Cause he knows he's worshipping the man he's going to be. He's worshipping his future.
Stephen's chest swells. His cock twitches into maximum hardness. His cockhead, wearing the foreskin like a scarf, sizzles with melting cheese. Hard as adamantium, the fuckshaft slaps the seal-like fur coating the man's flat belly.
Victor, wide-eyed, nods. "You're leaking!"
A line of precum begins to descend from Stephen's cock.
"Yeah. Us men do that, you know, when we're excited."
The lad twirls the strand of precum around his fingers. He gazes at the melting strand.
Stephen stretches. This pushes his cock towards Victor's face. The lad's hot breath wafts over it.
I can take this exactly where I want it to go. This kid is mine!
"Gonna be hard diving with this thing."
"I can fix that!" Victor pops his finger in his mouth. It emerges, free of precum, wet with spit.
Victor nods eagerly.
"Show me, boy. Show me how you handle ... this!"
It's all a blur. Something warm and wet and rich with delightful sin flutters on Stephen's cockhead. His eyes refuse to believe what they're seeing.
Holy shit. It's happening. A boy -- a thirteen-year-old boy -- is sucking his cock.
Stephen stares down. Jesus. Why is he so turned on? Lips are lips -- so why does the sight and feeling of this boy, slobbering on his mammoth rod, send Stephen arcing into the stratosphere? Is there some kind of potent magic in the sight of his cockcheese smearing the kid's lips?
Oh, fuck it!
"Blow me, boy!"
Victor's mouth oozes over Stephen's steaming meat. It takes everything Stephen can muster to keep from ramming his cock down the kid's throat.
That'd be hot. Making the boy choke.
Every muscle on Stephen's body stands out. His fingers clamp Victor's head. His biceps bulge. Stephen's hips twitch. Forward, of course. Victor's lips stretch around the fat cockhead. Spit streams from the corners of the boy's lips. Stephen's hips thrust again. The soft fluttering of Victor's tongue ripples under the flare of Stephen's cockhead. A dimple forms on Stephen's buttock as he readies for a good, solid pump.
"Get ready, Vic! Here I come!"
The man thrusts. The boy gargles. The big cockhead lodges in the back of the boy's mouth.
"What do you think of my thick cock, kid?"
Damn right Stephen Antoniou has a thick cock. Every girl -- I mean every single one -- squeaks when he sinks into their cunts. Their eyes bulge, just like Victor's are. Some of them, for a few moments, even beg him to take it out. No chick has ever swallowed his meat. Only faggots. Men, like those tourists. And maybe, just maybe, this sweet young boy.
"Don't give up, kid! Don't give up! Stephen's gonna give you all of it! You gotta take it all, kid, if you're gonna help me out!"
Stephen's thighs strain. Victor's slobber courses down the underside of the manshaft. The kid's boner dances a jitterbug in his gray Speedos.
"Open up," Stephen growls. "I got what you need, kid!"
Yeah. That's the right mentality to adopt when you're getting it on with a boy.
Victors eyes blaze as inch after inch of cock invades him. We can't see it, but trust me: a white slimy trail of cockcheese christens Victor's tongue and the insides of his cheeks. The massive head pushes beyond the kid's uvula. Victor's hands crawl over his coach's thighs and clasp the base. Victor looks like he's chugging Pepsi from a bottle.
Stephen's upper lip curls into a sneer.
"Yeah, you like it, don't you?"
One by one, moving like a spider, Stephen's fingers crawl to the back of the boy's head. His palms cup the cranium. Stephen's eyes shut. He stares into a private, blood-red vista. Growls escape him as his body seeks satisfaction in the kid's throat.
"Take it all, Victor!"
The sneer turns fierce. Energy surges. The man's biceps strain. His hips drill forward. He feels his pupil gagging.
Fuck it. I wanna proper blow job!
Stephen's apple-sized cockhead thrusts deeper into Victor's throat. The lad convulses, coughing up a huge wad of mucous. It clings like a facehugger to Stephen's crotch fur. Strands of goo sway from Stephen's tight balls. The kid's throat is distended from the invading monstrosity.
"Come on, boy! Choke on it!"
Stephen stabs forward. His cockhead pushes deeper. A bulge sinks down Victor's throat. The kid's gagging eggs Stephen on.
"Come on, be a good boy, take it all, you know I got what you need, kid!"
Onward the man drives. Victor's throat swells. Inch after inch sinks between the boy's stretched lips. Stephen's a sculpture of cut musculature and swollen balls.
"All of it, all of it -- you can choke all you want, Vic, I love how it feels -- but you're gonna swallow my cock!"
Victor's breath ruffles his pubic thatch. Shuddering, Stephen groans. When he looks down, he expects to see tears streaming down Victor's face. What's this? The young diver's eyes shine. Victor's mouth gapes. His jaw looks to be on the verge of dislocation. The kid expresses his submission to the man's godlike power by sliding his tongue out, licking the hollow between Stephen's rampant cock and his swollen balls.
Stephen's eyes narrow to slits. Fuck, what a tight throat! It squirms on his shaft, milking precum. Withdrawing his cock, Stephen roars. The fat boyfucker, coated with slime, emerges with a disgusting slurp.
"Here, get your breath!"
Victor belches. The boy sucks in air. Victor's hands seize his coach's buttocks. The lad's fingertips knead Stephen's hard cheeks. Stephen rams back in. To the root in one brutal blow. His hips work and twist.
"Now, kid, I'm gonna fuck your brains out."
Together, man and boy work. The boy, naturally, knows his duty is to get that precious spunk to explode from the man's balls. The man, of course, knows his duty is to hold out against the kid's relentless slurping. Those brief moments when his balls rest on Victor's chin cause Stephen to sigh. All the minutes he spends pumping and stroking like a stud are accompanied by growling and bellowing.
The skullfucking is rough. Stephen pins Victor's head in place, driving his shaft in and out with powerful thrusts. Sometimes he deals out half-length strokes, allowing Victor to gulp a lungful of air, so they don't have to go through the bullshit of getting the massive cockhead back down Victor's throat.
"Use that tongue, kid! You know what I need!"
Stephen fucks Victor's face faster and faster. The big man's breath explodes from him. His massive body looms over the crouching boy. Sweat plasters his body hair to his steaming skin. Power and energy and mastery sizzle in his brain.
Is this action too hard on the lad?
Nah. Victor's fine, albeit dizzy. His eyes are closed. His Speedos are a swamp of leaking boy precum.
Suddenly it becomes very important that Stephen display himself. Even if the goofballs outdoors in the public pool can't see them through the motherfucking smoked glass, he wants to pretend he's showing off. Stephen rotates their bodies, Victor's knees shifting so that fabulous cock doesn't escape his gullet. Stephen ends up facing the public pool, hips undulating back and forth, his crotch sawing at the kid's mouth. High on the diving platform, Stephen spreads his legs wide and pounds away, mouthfucking his student.
"Hey fuckheads!" he calls. "Look at me! I'm doing it! With a kid!"
It doesn't matter that only Victor hears Stephen. The confession stokes the fires in Stephen's balls.
What if someone was in the hall? One of Hank's teen bitches? What if they're watching me molest Victor right now?
Stephen's eyes roll up.
Oh shit. That's hot!
What if, maybe, Hank Harrison himself strolled in, and caught his twenty-nine-year-old diving coach and a thirteen-year-old student Doin' the Deed.
I'd tell him his wife sucked my cock the same damn way this kid's doing right now. Then I'd ask him to join in.
What if I video this? Just shot down my torso, so no one can see my face. Everyone would see Victor, a kid, blowing me, a man. No one would have any idea who's cock he was choking on. I could put it on the Internet --
Stephen's eyes stray down Victor's back. The kid's Speedos have pulled down. Boycrack is on display. Realization slugs him.
He's got a hole down there. Bet you that boycunt is tight!
A fantasy of Victor's tiny ring sizzles in his mind. Stephen pictures himself slipping a hand up Victor's shorts and fingering it, grinning at the kid the way he grins at Leanne when he's horning. Pictures Victor kneeling on the bed Stephen shares with Leanne, looking over his shoulder at his diving coach, while Stephen peels the kid's round cheeks apart.
I've got a huge cock. He's got a tight, small hole. There's no way I can get it up there -- is there?
For a moment man and boy lock eyes. The shaft saws away. The look of adoration, of veneration, of worship on Victor's face sends a forbidden tingle coursing through Stephen.
I can take this wherever the fuck I want to, can't I?
"You like my cock, kid?"
Cheeks swollen, Victor nods eagerly.
"Fuck, Vic. You're good. Suck me off!"
Stephen's hips shift to overdrive. Victor's gurgling and choking sends electricity sizzling through him.
"You wanna blow me all afternoon, boy? Kneel at my feet? Choking on my dick?"
Of course Victor does! Everyone wants Stephen Antoniou's big cock!
Sweat streaming down his body, Stephen decides he needs the Leanne special. He slams in to the hilt, almost burying the kid's face in pubic hair.
Stephen's thatch almost masks Victor's eyes as they seek out is master's.
"Put your finger up my butt."
A thrill shudders up Stephen's spine as the kid works his finger into his crack. It explores Stephen's hairy furrow before settling on the pucker. It doesn't go in easy. Victor's finger is bone dry, and Stephen's hole is tight. The man grunts and squints. The lad worms his forefinger in. He grimaces; it burns.
"You feel that swollen place?"
"Poke it -- oh man!"
Victor's finger hits the spot. Stephen's eyes roll up. Victor stabs at it with gusto.
"No, no, kid, jab at it, hold it, and move your finger in a circle -- fuck yeah!"
Breath puffs from the coach's undulating body as if he were a steam locomotive pulling into a station.
"Oh, fuck, Vic, I'm gonna blow out the back of your head!"
Stephen roars and seizes Victor's head. He rams so hard his balls thud on the boy's chin. Like a fully automatic weapon, the big cock unloads bullets of jism into Victor's stomach. Stephen thrashes as if some fucking awesome Norwegian death metal was the soundtrack to this illegal scene. Stephen's balls, already stud-grade, are overcharged by the very nature of this immoral, lewd, and thoroughly hot coupling. Victor's throat works, desperate to swallow his coach's precious load. He's got no real choice, for if he doesn't, he'll drown in cum.
Check Victor out. It's hard to see his face, given Stephen's thick bush, but trust me. Those crinkles at the edges of his eyes means he's smiling. Yep, he's an addict, and he's grooving on the hot juice his stud coach pours into him.
Stephen shudders and relaxes. "Oh fuck I needed that!" He looks down. "You OK?"
Victor, mouth happily stuffed, merely nods. His tongue traces a slimy circle on the base of Stephen's shaft.
Stephen extracts his kidfucker from the boy's throat. The shaft, slightly softened, emerges coated with mucous, webbed with cum, and shiny with spit. The man and the boy stare at the slackening shaft.
"Man, that was something."
"Can I suck it again, coach?" Victor grabs it, scooping up with his tongue stray jism like ice cream.
"Later. Later." He winces. "Oh, kid, that feels nice." He pulls his groin away.
"It tasted really good!" Victor wipes his lips with the back of his hand. Then he belches. The smell of spunk billows around them both. He giggles. "Sorry."
"You didn't get it all. Clean me up, boy!"
Victor grins shyly. His tongue flickers along Stephen's shaft, finding the odd clot or the escaped strand and devouring it. With each touch the rubbery organ leaps. Finally, the man's organ shines with the boy's spit.
"Good job," says Stephen, hefting his cock, inspecting it. He snickers. "Hey! I got some pubes on your face." One by one, he plucks off his wiry escapees while the boy beams up at him.
"You think we can practice now, coach?" Victor asks. "I mean, 'cause if you want me to suck you again, I will, but --"
"Let's do some diving!"
Victor stands. His Speedos outline his stiff, twitching dick.
"You want me to pull your trunks up, coach?"
"Yeah. I think that's a damn good idea, Vic.":
As soon as Victor pats Stephen's bulge into place, the lad follows his coach to the platforms edge. They begin.
Since Stephen's getting paid to improve Victor's diving, he runs the lad through an intense set. Balls drained, it's much easier for Stephen to focus on his job. Those slivers of buttcheek, and that inch or so of cleft the kid's showing off ... well, that keeps the back of Stephen's mind churning.
Stephen establishes a different training routine. Instead of calling up instructions from the pool side -- or standing beside Victor up on the platform, adjusting his posture -- today Stephen treads water in the pool, watching everything. And when the kid surfaces after a dive, Stephen slips an arm around Victor's trim waist, delivering his verdict into the kid's ear, pressing his giant bulge against the boy's taut ass. The warmth of the kid's body feels like sunrise after a cold, cold night. Sucking cock doesn't shield Victor from Stephen's criticism when a poor dive warrants it. Stephen's serious about competition. Victor is meant to perform for men. His insignificant hardon, which repeated gropes verify is still there, is no excuse.
Victor never uses the ladder. Like his coach, he just pulls himself up the side. Unlike his coach, however, he consciously lifts his butt high in the air, looking like a tailless puppy wagging away. His eyes smolder at Stephen over his shoulder.
He wants me to fuck him. He's got no idea what that means. No idea whatsoever.
"Damn, Victor," Stephen purrs. He adjusts himself as he treads water. "If you were a girl, I'd make a baby in you."
The way Victor grins -- the way a vampire grins when some idiot has hired him as night watchman at a blood bank -- urges Stephen's bulge towards a full erection.
"I'm not a girl, coach. I'm a boy. But I wouldn't say no to your babies."
Stephen groans. "Vic, I split you open."
"Um," murmurs Victor, crouched, butt high, Speedos clinging, his young balls swelling the gray spandex between his creamy thighs. "It's getting close to time for me to go."
"You, uh, want to knock off early?" Victor's eyes flash.
"Fuck yeah, boy, I do!"
Victor stands. His hardon leaps in his Speedos. He reaches down for Stephen's extended hand. Stephen crawls out of the pool.
"Another hardon, huh, coach?"
"Yeah. Another hardon, kid."
Dripping, man and boy face each other. Victor's eyes devour the giant cock. The man's eyes rake down the lad's spine to those cheeks. Neither needs to speak. Victor licks his lips. Looks up at Stephen.
The coach folds his arms across his chest. Stephen, chest swelling, nods. Victor hooks his index finger around the drawstring and --
Stephen almost jumps out of his Speedos. So does Victor. The two whirl.
The Natatorium door crashes open. A pair of objects, screaming blue murder, shoot across the concrete deck. Like comets the twin bundles plunge into the pool. Water fountains and twin booms echo through the vast space. A muscular, broad shouldered, trim waisted family stud looms in the doorway.
"Still here?" calls Hank Harrison. "I thought you'd be gone by now."
Stephen and Victor trade abashed looks. Victor's fingers slink away.
"Um, just going," Stephen calls over his shoulder. Christ, he's lucky to have his back to his boss. He does not need to get fired because Hank Harrison saw Stephen waving his giant hardon in the face of a young pupil.
"Hey, Victor," says Hank, his eyes cool. "How's your Da?"
"Oh. Uh. He's fine."
"Yo, Vic!" screams a voice from the pool.
Grinning, the thirteen-year-old stud shoots Victor thumbs up. Ben -- about as far from an A student as you can get, but no idiot when it comes to sex --- has correctly guessed what was about to happen between the boy and his coach.
Bobbing on his feet, Victor just smirks.
Stephen's oblivious to this. It's Hank he's worried about. Christ, he's fucking the boss' wife -- and, now, one of the boss' underage customers. Jesus, if this gets out, there are going to be pieces of Stephen Antoniou all over Chatauqua County, and a bloody machete hidden in someone's basement.
Hank strides into the Natatorium. He wears swim trunks. Paying no attention to Victor or Stephen, he heads towards the pool, where his sons are engaged in a furious bout of dunking.
Christ, he's got a hardon too! Fucker's hung like a Shetland pony!
"If you guys are done," says Hank, "I'm gonna have a private dip in the pool." He pauses. "With my sons." He clears his throat. "You guys, uh, gonna be long in the locker?"
Stephen glances down at Victor. The lad nods urgently.
"Um, yeah, boss. Um. Gonna work on some ... some ..."
"Some stretching!" Victor calls. His eyes swivel back to Stephen's Speedos.
Hank sighs, clearly irked. "Fine. Fine. Take your time. Hey Ben! Hey Tim! Make it quick! We'll, uh, go back to my office."
"Aw Dad!" whines the younger boy. "I wanted to get my butt f--"
"Shhh!" Hank's hiss obliterates the rest of Tim's whine. Tim, treading water, looks sheepishly at Stephen and Victor.
Victor, smiling a secretive smile, wraps his arms around Stephen's thigh. Silently, he drags his coach toward the locker room. His forearm, brushing the underside of Stephen's balls, makes the coach's erection lurch. Stephen catches it just in time and jams it back down.
"Uh, see you tomorrow, boss?" calls Stephen, hoping the eager way he holds the small of Victor's back isn't giving him away.
"Yeah. Tomorrow." Hank is gruff. Folding his arms, the big man stands on the edge of the pools, watching his sons frolic. His eyes glint. The long ridge in his trunks bounces shamelessly. He glances over at the entwined coach and boy. His eyes laser in on Victor's ass.
Fuck! Hank thinks. If it wasn't for that goddamned straight lunk, I'd be fucking Victor right now!
As they trudge towards the locker door -- not fast enough, Stephen thinks -- he feels Victor's breath against his cock. He glances down. The kid grins up at him.
"You make me hot, Victor."
The quiet lad beams happily. The adoration in the thirteen-year-old's eyes works magic. Stephen struts tall. He shoots an irritated look over his shoulder at the family man nervously supervising his sons. Christ, Stephen's fired fifty-five gallons of fresh spunk up Hank's wife's cunt! He's gotten away with molesting a thirteen-year-old boy, right here, on that dumbass's property! Who's the real master here? Fuck Hank Harrison!
He struts on, his big thighs now drawing Victor with him. He shoots contemptuous looks back at the trio.
Hey! Little boy! Yeah, the youngest one. Come here! I'm gonna teach you how to lick my big cock. That's something your stupid fucking dad won't ever do! Stephen smirks. Yeah. Fucking the boss' wife. Molesting his youngest son. That's Stephen Antoniou to a T!
The door swings shut behind them. Victor yanks. Stephen's Speedos fall to his feet. The man's huge erection swings upright. Victor Franco drops to his knees. The lad seizes the shaft, bends it horizontal, and begins to nurse.
"Damn, Vic! I didn't know you were this horny!"
Stephen stumbles backwards across the tiled floor, drawing the boy after him. His broad shoulder's bang into a locker. This is perfect, because it allows Victor's lips to engulf his cockhead. His hips undulate, driving his cockhead deep. Slobber boils between boy's lips and man's cock. His fingers entwine in Victor's hair. The man guides the boy, setting a slow pace. Something he can savor.
"Jesus, that's so hot, kid!" Stephen stares down, watching Victor work his manshaft. But something else draws his eye.
Not even Leanne's ass is that hot!
He's in heaven. Those fluttering lips -- those hungry lunges down his shaft -- send ecstasy rippling along his nerves. Stephen Antoniou is this boy's lord and master. Yeah. Stephen needs a boy between his thighs, slurping on his prong, forever and ever, amen.
"Um. Coach?" Victor kisses the pisslit.
"Could you ... get me pregnant?"
Stephen chuckles. "No way, Victor. No way. I'd break you in two."
"Yeah, but -- in my health class, I learned -- you know, when a man likes a boy -- he can put his -- he can put his cock into the boy." His tongue swipes up a pearl of precum. "You know, up the boy's butt!"
What a fucking weird message to be pushing in any health class! Stephen thinks. "I know, but you're too small!"
"Do you like me, coach?"
"More than anything! Now. Just suck me. I can't fuck you in the butt. It won't fit."
"Yes, It will! I've seen Mr. --" Victor stops suddenly, realizing that maybe's he's said too much.
"It won't fit, kid. I'll bust you open."
"Please," Victor begs. "Please. Let's try!"
Stephen ruffles Victor's hair. "You want me ... to put this --" he twitches his cock "-- in your tiny little hole?"
Victor nods eagerly.
"There's no way I can get my thing up your butt. It's tiny!"
"I-- I wanna -- I gotta try! Please, coach? Please, would you buttfuck me?"
That word sends an evil thrill through Stephen's heart. Stephen feels the way Eve must've felt, when the Serpent tempted her with his prehensile reptilian dong. Fascinated but fearful of the consequences. "Victor, you're crazy. Come on! Put your mouth back on it. Suck me!"
A cunning look comes over the youngster's face. He reaches up and cups Stephen's big balls, measuring the load of seed within. Yep. They're full. Quivering.
Slowly, Victor stands.
"If you don't want to buttfuck me, well, I guess I don't want to suck your cock." Victor turns away
Heat flares through Stephen. What the fuck? Who the hell is this little cocktease to defy Stephen Antoniou? No one -- absolutely no one -- leaves Stephen Antoniou high and dry. The stud's eyes flash. He seizes Victor's shoulder and whirls the kid around.
"Blow me, Victor!"
Giggling softly, Victor twists away. He scurries to the far wall. He presses his palms against the tile. His back arches. Two half-cheeks peer over his Speedos, looking like Tom Sawyer's eyes spying over the neighbor's whitewashed fence. He bobs on his feet, rolling his superb butt from side to side.
"Last chance, coach. Molest my butt."
"You're a little shit, kid!"
Victor grins over his shoulder. He pats his rump. "Come on!" He plays his trump card. He kicks his legs open. His silky ball bag is drawn up tight. The muscles of his ass and thigh ripple as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. "You know you got to!"
Damn. Who can guess what goes on in the minds of these quiet kids?
For a moment, Stephen stretches between two poles. His fears: of busting the boy open. Of Hank busting through the door while Stephen's riding. His lust: that sweet ass, bobbing and weaving before his eyes, swaying and beckoning. His sense of danger almost overpowers his lust. But that luscious immature ass -- two smooth peaches pressed tightly together, creating a deep furrow hiding the target -- can't be resisted. Stephen's erection bucks like a stallion, whipping long strands of precum. His left foot steps forward.
"Yeah, come on, coach! Fuck me!"
"All right, all right, Victor! I'll fuck you! Hey! What are you --"
What's up with this damn kid? He was over there, butt on show, begging for Stephen, and now he's running to a locker. Stephen's brows knit, at first, when the kid pulls a bottle of transparent fluid from his gym bag. Then they shoot up.
How the hell does a thirteen-year-old know about lube?
Speechless, the coach watches the boy strip. Watches his star pupil coat an index finger. Watches, slack-jawed, as Victor bends over. The mouthwatering sight of Victor's bubble butt mesmerizes of Stephen. Even so lewdly displayed, Victor's pucker is hidden in that deep cleft. The kid's finger finds it. He grinds away at it, and the same hazy look films his eyes that a junky gets when heroin begins to gush through his veins.
"You put it here, coach!" The kid giggles. "I want to feel your big dick here!" His feet spread.
Oh Jesus. I can't do it! It's impossible.
The ring is tiny. No bigger than a blueberry. But it reminds Stephen of a cunt. It's Inflamed. Engorged. It squirms around Victor's finger as the gleaming digit thrusts.
"See?" says Victor, his face upside down between his thighs. "Goes right in!"
Breathing heavily, fisting his cock, Stephen growls, "You've done this before, haven't you?"
Victor just nods.
"Who? Who did you?"
For a moment, Victor doesn't respond. Then he stands upright. Eyes downcast, he announces, "My Da -- my Dad."
"Oh my God." Stephen seizes his cock at the base, stemming the explosion of cum. He gargles and strangles. Eventually, he's able to croak, "Your Dad molests you?"
"Yeah." Victor swishes his butt. His eyebrows bob.
"How long has your Dad been molesting you?"
Victor's finger slips from his hole. "Da's always molested me." The kid's eyes smolder. "Now I want everyone to molest me!" He crooks that lube-bedewed finger at Stephen.
Stephen remembers some vague requirement mumbled by some official about having to report child molestation. But it'd be stupid to rat on himself, wouldn't it? His cock's so stiff it feels about to burst. Knowing he's embracing evil, Stephen struts towards the boy with the greasy butthole.
Fuck it. Don't resist. Wallow in it.
A hungry expression glows on Victor's face. Stephen sees it. Yeah. The junior high school lad is hot for Stephen Antoniou's stud, adult cock.
"Turn around, Victor. Like you were. Yeah. Good boy. That's nice. That's what I want to see." Stephen runs trembling fingers over the kid's butt. Nope, not a woman's butt. That hemisphere is a sack of hard muscle, squirming and eager. "Fuck, kid! I'm gonna put my rod in you!"
"Hurry up, coach!" Victor whines. "I need cock!"
Stephen plants his feet outboard of Victor's. His cockhead paints a trail of precum down Victor's spine as he squats. When his cockhead starts burrowing into the cleft, he shudders.
"Get ready," Stephen growls.
Victor's eyes close. His lips part. He works his butt, moving it so at last his slick butthole rests against coach's apple-sized cockhead. His tiny Cheerio nibbles on the head.
Stephen stares down, not quite believing what he's about to do. His giant ten-inch shaft bridges the sweaty, musky space between his furry groin and Victor's taut, naked, underage buttcheeks. Here's Stephen's last chance to exit the road he's taken. To avoid becoming a full-fledged child molester.
Fuck that! I'm gonna bag me a boy.
One hand aiming his cock, Stephen seizes Victor by the hips with the other. He thrusts. He expects the boy's cunt to resist. It doesn't. It balloons open into lewd, rubbery welcome.
"Oomph!" Victor's eyes flare wide.
"Yeah, it's a big cock, isn't it, kid?" A fierce snarl disfigures Stephen's face.
"Bigger than your Dad's?"
Stephen thrusts. The lad's butthole irises wider and wider. The socket engulfs the invading cockhead.
"Stop squirming, you little cunt, or I'll cum before I get it all in!"
Yeah, it's a big cock. The biggest the oversexed kid has taken today. It stretches Victor to the point of pain. Victor blinks away tears.
"Slow down! Slow down!" The boy gasps when Stephen thrusts again. "Oh, God, coach, it's fucking huge!"
This pause leaves man and boy frozen in the moment where the widest part of Stephen's shaft, that inch or two behind the flared ridge of his cockhead, stretches Victor's tender anus to maximum.
"I said stop squirming!"
"I'm sorry! I can't help it! It's too big! Take it out, coach! It hurts!"
"Fuck that!" Stephen rams another inch in. "You wanted it, now you gotta take it!"
Victor's eyes roll up. A shudder runs up his body from his toes to his head. "Thanks, coach!" Victor pushes his butt back. More adult shaft slides up his guts.
"Yeah!" Stephen hisses. "Fucking little whore, aren't you, boy?"
Victor nods eagerly.
The man jabs another two inches in. Half his cock is inside the boy. Jesus Christ, the kid's tight. Tight! Stephen soars. It takes the last dregs of his willpower to keep from emptying his balls into the kid right now. Jesus, he could jet all day fucking boys!
"Take it, kid!"
Another thrust. Victor whimpers, melting as the man's heat fills his bowels. His ring spasms, trying to eject the invader.
"Does it hurt?" Stephen's eyes blaze with feral light.
"A little. Not much. Not anymore."
Stephen slams home, balls to the wall. His giant weapon throbs in Victor's guts. "Now does it hurt?"
For a long while, Victor can't answer. Head tilted back, mouth wide, he emits strangling sounds. Stephen's cock is the longest that's ever been up there. Four inches of virgin bowels are being molested by the man's bludgeon.
"Does it hurt?" Stephen hisses, grinding away.
Something in Stephen's voice tells Victor that this'll be really, really hot if he admits it. The boy looks over his shoulder. Stephen's whiskers scour his cheek. The kid nods meekly.
"Told you." Stephen begins to withdraw. "But it's too late now. I'm gonna fuck you, victor. I'm gonna fuck you and you're going to drip my juice all day!"
Stephen snaps his hips back. The emptiness makes Victor howl. So, too, does Stephen's full-strength plunge. The man jackhammers the boy. Victor's pain swiftly melts. For a few moments, he passively takes what Stephen gives. But no boy is immune to the power of a stud adult male. The boy's hips twitch. They swivel.
Stephen snarls. The boy whimpers. The huge cockhead bulges the lad's anus. His little shitter strains, trying to spit the mammoth invader out. Stephen's eyes roll up and his mouth gapes. For the man, the sensation is heaven. He's felt nothing so tight, so warm, so rubbery, so alive, so lubricious as this thirteen-year-old boy's tight ass.
"Take it!" Stephen growls. He churns. No gentleness, no mercy. The lewd squelching would be funny if this scene -- man fucking boy -- wasn't so hot. "Am I a better fuck than your Dad?"
Victor nods. Eagerly, and honestly. He's beginning to get a glimpse of how badly his Da's tight rein has deprived him. Victor Franco needs inches!
Stephen's balls, heavy with seed, slap against Victor's immature spheres. He's doing it, but he can't believe it. Up a boy's butt. The kid's asshole is a thousand times sweeter than any cunt he's bred. It's alive. It milks him. It's hungry for the sauce boiling in Stephen's sweaty bag.
"You like buttfucking me, coach?" Victor gasps.
In answer, Stephen whips his cock almost entirely free. Stares down at the gleaming instrument. He's proud of it
Yeah, boy, he tells it. Your fucking kids now!
Stephen rams it to the hilt up Victor's butt. "Damn right I like it!" Stephen licks the sweat from Victor's ear. "You like my big cock, boy?"
"Fuck me, coach!"
The young man fucks the young boy. Inch after slimy inch of adult dong slithers up and down the boy's squirming chute. Wow. The kid's wet up there. Wetter even than a woman. The smell of chlorine sizzles in Stephen's nostrils. Sweat trickles down the bridge of his nose, over his back, over his hard, working buttocks.
He whips his cock back, leaving only the head embedded. "Show me how much you need it!" He moans. "Damn, kid!" Stephen marvels, watching Victor back up onto his meat. "You fucking need me, don't you?"
"Yeah," Victor breathes.
"What do you need, Victor?"
"I need your cock up me, coach!"
Victor squeals under Stephen's relentless strokes. The fucking is hard and brutal. This is how a man does a boy. It's all about power, sweat, and testosterone. The boy absorbs what the man gives, grows from it, becomes an adult -- or fails, and remains forever second rate. It's the law of the human jungle that people have thoroughly forgotten.
Muscles ripple along Stephen's body. His hips pound Victor's upturned butt. Foam flecks the coach's stud balls. Both faces are twisted and screwed tight with pleasure. Both the man and boy are in private worlds of forbidden ultimate sin, united by the eternal bond of mancock up boyhole.
The meat-on-meat sound of rampant fucking echoes off the metal lockers. Sometimes, a soft boyish cry of ouch! or too deep! or harder! Faster! penetrates the erotic symphony of groaning and yowling.
Under his coach's aggressive pounding, Victor's supple body turns to whorish butter. Gone is any pretense of this hurting. The lad soared through pain long ago. Fuck, Victor loves this! If only Da would fuck him this hard! Use him! Breed him! A tremendous feeling surges through Victor's body, a feeling as if he's a balloon full of hot air, rising higher and higher into regions of ever decreasing pressure.
He's going to explode! Soon! Just a few more strokes!
Stephen fucks. He's a flesh machine, built to screw and pump and roar and spurt. A boyfucking stud god, a messiah whose gospel is spunk and whose flock attends middle school. The boy's tight rectum worships his godlike prong.
Fuck! Why did he ever try to resist? He should've been doing this a long time ago!
Why do it with just Victor? Isn't the world full of boys? Boys who need big men like me? Real men, full of testosterone, vitality, vigor, and strength? And cum! Boys need cum!
How many boys has he changed clothes with in locker rooms? Hasn't he always suspected their eyes crept to his junk, big and hairy between his powerful thighs?
Yeah. Those boys were interested. Those boys wanted to play. They might be shy. They might not be mature enough to articulate the desire flooding their bloodstream. But they wanted to join the world of men, and the route there lay through the magic gate of Stephen Antoniou's sperm-swollen nutsack.
Stephen's not going gay. He's going pedo. He likes 'em smooth. Supple. Young. Stupid. Horny. Boy.
Victor's eyes fly open. What the hell's going on in his butt?
Stephen jets. A mighty river of spunk cascades into Victor's guts. The hidden lakes of kidspunk stashed up there are drowned in the flood. Stephen juices, roaring and sputtering, his groin plastered to Victor's quavering ass, his cock bucking and thrashing, his balls vomiting a gallon of sperm.
Poor Victor. Look at the disappointment in his eyes. He was right on the cusp of -- of -- exploding. His boydick bounces off his smooth belly. A few drops of precum drizzle from it, but nothing else. Damn. Victor had been so sure Stephen's big cock would get him past this problem!
Stephen withdraws a hard, proud cock. Farts chase his meat but not a drop of spunk escapes victor's hungry chute. Stephen's cock thrusts out of his groin like a sword. His eyes glitter.
"I'd fuck you again, Victor," he gasps. "But I got you pregnant enough for one day."
Victor, eyeing his coach's stiff meat, smiles a small smile. "You sure?"
Stephen pats the kid on the rump. "Come on. Let's get dressed before we get caught."
Both skip a shower. Both seem to revel in the musky, sweaty steam rising from their bodies. They watch one another as they dress. Stephen runs his fingers through his tousled locks. Gotta look right for Leanne.
"What's your phone number?"
"You already got it, coach!"
"Sorry. I was trying to make a joke. Let's hook up -- tomorrow?"
"Well, not here. I gotta coach Jesse tomorrow."
Victor winks. "You think you can handle two boys at once, coach?"
Stephen thinks, or hopes, that's a hint. His chest swells. "You think two boys are enough for Stephen Antoniou?"
Broad Street hums with traffic. Warm afternoon sunlight gleams on the Ellicott Falls police cruiser. Inside is officer Max Garnett. Officer Garnett feels pretty cocky. He's just busted old Mrs. Shelly Wingdale for speeding. Doing 35 in a 25. Sounds harsh, doesn't it? Well, Mrs. Wingdale was driving her Smart car on the sidewalk. Mrs. Wingdale is fucking nuts.
Officer Garnett, waiting at the stoplight nearest the Young Suds Car Wash, takes a sweet gander at the lithe cracker boys cleaning the interior of a bigassed Dodge pickup. Many officers in the mostly-African-descended EFPD have a crude, primal appreciation for these young, dumb white hicks. Ah, the way they squirm when they catch sight of black cock. And the way they squeal when their cherries pop. Yes, Officer Garnett, like many cops, is a racist, but because he's smarter than most, he knows white people are perpetually on the bottom of the heaving, sweating dogpile.
Officer Garnett, who likes meat on his chicken, hankers after white trash boys between fifteen and seventeen. Young Suds is the perfect place to find this kind of eye candy. Speedo Satu4rdays at the carwash are famous through much of western North Carolina. Even the drag queens take time out of their incessant pissing to show up on this days, hooting at a bunch of very surprised rednecks. Bunch of young white teens, sloppy suds on a car, bronze skin, rippling muscles. Nothing finer!
Between his muscular thighs, Officer Garnett's big cock swells. Could he pull in to the car wash, crook his finger at a pretty one -- say, that little guy with the long chestnut hair pulled into a ponytail -- drive out to that abandoned farm up north, and have a quickie?
The police radio chatters in the background. Officer Garnett's fingers drum. Yeah. He needs to fuck a hot cracker hole.
Before he can cut across traffic, the cell buzzes. Not Garnett's personal phone, but the departmental cell. The one Sheriff John Lord reserves for "special situations." Can't have these types of messages flowing out over the police network; those channels are recorded and archived, and if the lid ever gets blown on this sweet pedo underground here in Chatauqua County, those recordings will be used as evidence.
The message is simple.
bring this boy to hq asap
There's an attached picture. Officer Garnett whistles.
"Fuuuuuck," he murmurs. "No wonder Lord wants him."
The picture shows a kid on a diving platform. Maybe not quite a kid. He looks somewhere in the range of twelve to fourteen. Fine body on that crackerboy. You can see a lot of it, because his gray Speedos are barely covering his pubescent bulge. The photo captures the kid mid-motion, with his arm raised, exposing a smooth armpit. There's a serious, intent look on the lad's face.
Another message arrives.
Name is victor prob near Harrison P
Figures. Officer Garnett acknowledges. He knows how to handle these sorts of APBs. Siren blaring, he cuts across Broad Street's three lanes. He turns onto Lee Street. Cruising through downtown Ellicott Falls, he flips off the statue of that street's namesake loser general, the infamous Robert E.
Garnett parks at CCBC. Teens, taut butts barely hidden by their athletic gear, streak past him into the building. Fortunately, Garnett's big black cock is packed tight in his jockstrap. Garnett moves swiftly. He enters CCBC with a wave. Inspecting each of the gyms, his eyes roam sleek young body after sleek young body.
No Victor. But damn if Garnett's jockstrap isn't a little wet with precum.
To Harrison Pool, then. Both the cacophonous public pool and the tomb-quiet Natatorium are also Victor-free zones. Garnett sighs with frustration.
On a whim, he strikes out for Founder's Park.
Ol' Chase Peake, sitting at a bench with some chick to whom he sells weed, waves and grins. Garnett waves back. That kid can suck a mean cock. Sells shitty weed, though. Garnett, having been burned twice by Peake, now raids the confiscated stuff kept in EFPD's basement.
Garnett walks on. A merry-go-round, heavily laden with skinny pre-teen boys, squeaks as it slowly rotates. He struts past, knowing his tight uniform shows off his magnificent physique to the scrawny little Oyster crackers.
Sudden activity at the restroom catches his eye.
First to emerge is a man. Garnett doesn't know his name. Does recognize him as someone he's encountered before. Big, tough, mean motherfucker. A biker, laden with tattoos. He's got the close-cropped, angry-eyed look of an Aryan wannabe. Quite possibly racist, though no Swastikas or cross-in-circle inks his visible skin. Good build, nicely shown off by his tank top. Garnett wouldn't mind searching his cavities. The biker buckles his belt. He freezes when he sees garnet, then turns away slightly. His head bobs furtively then he scuttles off across the park.
"Hey, wait, I didn't --"
The boy calling after the biker is Garnett's quarry. This Victor kid. Something very hot must've gone on in that bathroom when the kid and the man were alone in their, for Victor is tugging his shorts in place. Victor looks wistfully at the retreating man. Shrugs. Then his eyes lock with Officer Garnett's. He blinks.
Garnett crooks his finger. The boy trots over.
"Is your name Victor?" Garnett asks. His voice is deep and resonant.
The kid nods.
"Let's go down to the station. The Sheriff wants to have a talk with you." Garnett lays a hand on the kid's shoulder. This lad might be young, but there's some good muscle on him. He smiles benevolently. "You're not in trouble for what you did in there with that man."
"Oh. OK. Why?"
Garnett grins. "Sheriff just wants to meet you."
The boy blinks. "Oh."
"You don't have to be anywhere, do you? Like with your Mom or your Dad?"
"Um. My Da gets home late tonight. I've got to be home for him."
"You'll be done before then." Garnett eyes the kid's butt. It swells prominently against those shorts. "Maybe."
Garnett might like his white boys a tad older, but this Victor kid does something to him. The kid moves like a song, graceful and sure. The boy's ass, like twin peaches, is certainly enough to get Garnett down on hands and knees and start lapping at it. Begging to see it. Touching it. Molesting it. Garnett, unable to resist the temptation, slips a hand on the kid's butt, guiding the boy along the sidewalk. He walks proudly. No one ever suspects cops.
Victor smiles shyly up into the stern, black face.
The cop and the boy slide into the patrol car. Officer Garnett picks up the phone.
Got him on the way
He starts up the car.
Victor asks, "So ... what's going to happen?"
Garnett winks. "Something you'll never forget, kid."
In the old days, the Ellicott Falls Police Department occupied a simple, charming brick building across Main Street from City Hall. As time passed, and the town grew, that old brick building sprouted additions: new wings, a larger jail. But not even that expansion proved adequate to contain Chatauqua County's criminal class. Back in the '70s, a three-story jail was constructed for both the city police department and the county sheriff's department. Many interesting things happen in this jail. We'll get to them later.
Right now, let's duck into the old police station and check in on Sheriff John Lord.
The Sheriff's ground floor office, located in the back at the end of a long corridor, is about twenty feet by twenty feet. The walls are painted pale gray and dark gray. The linoleum floor, pierced by two drains, has seen a lot of use and hasn't been recently renovated. In fact, you can still see the scuff marks where old-school filing cabinets stood. On the desk sits a computer, currently off. Except for a stained dayplanner, the desk is otherwise bare. Behind the desk, on a long table, is communications equipment. The cell Sheriff Lord used to text Garnett earlier sits by an old-school radio mike.
There's one male in the room.
The teen, head down and clad in an orange jumpsuit, stands in front of the desk. His wrists are manacled; his ankles are not. He'd be more presentable if his dark blond hair wasn't in disarray. His tan is the kind of tan teens get when they lounge with their buddies beside some rural stream, smoking weed, talking shit, telling stories about the girls they pretend to have fucked, demonstrating their prowess with deft, graceful hip thrusts. If you ignore the surliness in his eyes -- you shouldn't, for that emotion only enhances his allure -- you could picture the teen pleasantly smiling, a fresh-faced lad standing in a wheat field, pitchfork in hand, chewing straw, nodding benignly at his bellowing Dad while scheming how to get back to that stream and his half-naked buddies.
If only his jumpsuit had been unzipped a little further -- the zipper dangles just an inch below his bare, hairless navel, exposing a V of sinewy torso -- and pulled off his shoulders, we could ogle his tight teen buttcheeks. Trust me. Though slim, they're smooth and sculpted by a master who appreciates the beauty of teenaged male ass.
His name? Hayden Ryan. His blue eyes stare at the day planner laying on the desk. His upper lip, kissed by golden down, trembles.
The lad waits.
Pictures festoon the walls. The pictures are of that man with the deep, sinister, rumbling voice. Sheriff John Lord. Some of the pictures show Lord in uniform, smiling as he clasps a city father's hand, or cutting a ribbon when Chatauqua County Boy's Club opened. Many pictures show John Lord's big palms casually resting on the shoulders of Cub Scouts. White Cub Scouts. White junior high wrestlers with Republican Party banners in the background. White boys in CCBC gear.
Surly Hayden Ryan finds these pictures creepy enough. But another set disturbs him deeply.
This set features Lord from his days as a hunky running back. He wears a Penn State jersey. Number 66. Number 66's haircut is the shaved-side-flat-top style of the '90s. In many pictures, Lord's jersey has ridden up, exposing a hard, carved belly, gleaming like obsidian. This exposure isn't what really disturbs Hayden. It's Lord's knowing smile. As if he's participating in something best kept secret. And that goddamned bulging crotch, which seems to be at the focus of every picture.
He's not even wearing a jockstrap! Hayden Ryan thinks.
Voices echo in the hall. Hayden stiffens. Maybe they'll go past the office, head out the back door, stomp across the courtyard to the jail, just like the last sets of boots have.
But they don't.
Clop-clop. The boots halt just outside the door. The knob snicks.
Enter Sheriff John Lord.
It's hard to see, since that fucking orange jumpsuit is so baggy, but you might think that Hayden Ryan's just clenched his buttocks. The maneuver recalls a castle slamming the gate shut when a besieging army unleashes a battering ram.
John Lord. Six foot five. Skin gleaming like oiled obsidian. Shoulders so wide he must angle them to get through the door. Waist so narrow he must've modeled for Tom of Finland. His neck is broad as a minotaur's. His uniform sleeves bulge around biceps the size of bowling balls; the rolled-up cuffs expose forearms the size of bowling pins. Shirt buttons strain over titanic pectorals. A .45 automatic gleams in his holster. His leather belt squeaks. Boots clunk on the floor, a sound like oncoming doom.
Fuck yeah, Sheriff Lord's bulge is ginormous, as you'd expect on an exemplar of the master race. The fabric of his trousers, tight enough to be a wrestler's singlet, hides nothing. Descending Lord's thigh is a long, long, thick bulge. Lord's cock, even limp, is big enough to make a stallion cross his hind legs, murmur "Sorry," and slink off in shame. An anaconda, watching John Lord emerge naked from a swim, might decide it needed to fatten up a bit. In those tight trousers, you can see the ridge of his cockhead. That ridge shifts downward as Lord eyes the back of Hayden's neck.
Poor, doomed Hayden swallows nervously.
"Hey, West," Lord calls to the officer waiting in the corridor.
Officer West is young. Call him twenty-three. He's not as pure, unsullied black as his boss. His skin is the color of polished dark oak. He's lithe and wiry. A grin forms on his pleasant round face.
"You monitor that channel, you hear? I want to know when they find the Franco kid."
West pats his chest, where the outline of a phone is visible.
Lord nods. The door shuts. Lord turns. The Sheriff's eyes rake nervous Hayden Ryan's backside from top to bottom. His eyes fastened on the nape of Ryan's neck. Kid needs a haircut, but Lord doesn't mind. Nibbling on a boy's neck hair is one of Lord's many pleasures. His big paw descends on Hayden's shoulder.
"That's -- that's racist, you n-- nigger!"
Lord grins. "Yes, it is. And I am a nigger. And a racist, you worthless piece of cracker shit!"
Lord's fingertips trail down the back of the seventeen-year-old's arm, stopping at the manacles. Lord unlocks these and tosses them aside. Lord leans close to Hayden's ear. The blond hair rustles as the black Sheriff's breath caresses the redneck's ear.
"I like white meat."
Hayden rubs his wrists. "You're a pervert. This whole fucking county's run by goddamned perverts!"
"Lucky for us." Lord's big paw engulfs one of Hayden's cheeks.
"Faggot!" snarls Hayden, close to tears.
Lord whispers into Hayden's ear. "Pedophile. I'm a pedophile, not a faggot. Learn the difference, you stupid cracker."
Lord digs his fingers into the teen's crack.
"You got a sweet ass, Hayden. Remember the intake room?"
Hayden nods, blushing hard. Yeah, he remembers the jail's intake room.
"You remember that big mirror Officer Scott made you stand in front of while he --" Lord sniggered "-- searched your cavities?"
Hayden bites his lip.
"I was behind it. And a lot of my buddies -- you know, the pedos who run Chatauqua County. We all really appreciated this butt, kid. You got a sweet little rosebud, Hayden. We all bid on it. Guess who won?" Lord's big paw caresses the orange fabric. "Officer Scott said your junk still smelled like pussy. Who was that girl they caught you fucking?"
Lord's interest in Hayden's shriveled white prong is criminal -- a matter to be handled by the DA -- not sexual. Lord's sexual fantasies have revolved around Hayden Ryan's golden-down-frosted butt since yesterday. Only visions of Victor Franco's smooth butt have chased that picture from Lord's depraved mind.
"Pervert!" Hayden snarls.
"You're the one," Lord purrs, fingers kneading, "who got caught down Peach Orchard lane, fucking Jenny Bowman bent over the trunk of your car."
"We're in love!" Hayden means it.
"She's twelve," purrs Lord. "And that's statutory rape, kid. Age of consent in Chatauqua County is eighteen." His paw creeps between Hayden's thighs and gropes the teen's balls. The teen tenses. "This is the choice you've got, kid," Lord says, his voice rumbling and sinister as thunder. "You give me this --" his hand slides across Hayden's butt "-- you give it to me. You bend over. You spread your skinny legs. You show me that pink hole. You lock back at me, from between your thighs, and you beg me to put my cock up you. You do this -- and all that'll happen to you is a few months down at the Farm."
"And if I don't?" Hayden is pouty.
"Then it's a trial in front of the Judge. For statutory rape. A long time in lockup. And a lifetime on the sexual offenders list. You'll be marked. Forever."
Tears glimmer in Hayden's eyes. "Please -- don't put that up my butt?"
Lord grins. "Put what, cracker?"
"So you wanna spend time in jail? Getting buttfucked every day in the shower? Them crazy people go for smooth white boys like you."
"No! I--" Hayden sags. He draws into himself. Slowly his head turns. He stares into the Sheriff's predatory eyes. "Will I live?"
"Maybe. If I fuck you nice and gentle."
Hayden sags. "Then let's do it."
"Smart move, cracker." Lord unfastens his belt and drapes it on the desk. He's reaching for his fly when a rap sounds at the door. "Yeah?"
Officer West's voice sounds. "Garnett's here with the Franco kid."
Lord's smug grin expands, becoming something triumphant. His hand moves from his crotch and takes the manacles. Hayden winces as Sheriff Lord shackles him.
"Well, pretty boy. We're gonna have to consummate this plea bargain tomorrow. The Sheriff's got a hot date."
Hayden, wearing a look like a man reprieved from the gallows, is escorted from the Sheriff's office by a young, crew-cut cop.
Lord leans out his door, looking down the long corridor towards the lobby at the front of the station. His voice booms: "Send Garnett and the kid in!" He looks at West. "You got any free space on that phone?"
Officer West grins. "Shit, Sheriff, I got enough space for a thirty-minute flick!"
Sheriff Lord pulls West inside and closes the door. It's a thick door. Soundproof. He leans on West. The two cops share a laugh.
"You ever seen this Franco kid?" asks Lord.
Wes nods eagerly. "Oh yeah.
Lord goes on as if West hadn't reacted. "Shit! The boy's got the finest ass in all Chatauqua County! Goddamned, if you'd ever seen that kid parading around in that little swim suit of his. Christ, West, he's got the sweetest peaches you've ever seen! I would've been up him years ago, if it weren't for his damn Russian father!"
"What's that Gene dude got on us?"
"Fuck if I know. Ask the Judge."
West palms his groin. "I like these white kids"
"Cracker ass is the best there is," says Lord. "Been after white kids since I played ball. White girls are fine, especially if you get 'em pregnant. But, fuck, if you want a god time, fuck a white seventh grade boy! Man, that's where it's at!"
- The adventures of -
- Victor Franco and His Amazing Ass -
- will conclude (no bullshit, this time) in -
- Episode XIV: Thirteen - My Two Dads -