Date: Tue, 30 Oct 2012 01:53:10 +0000 From: Rob Armstrong Subject: Spike's Piercing Parlour, Part Ten: Hallowe'en Family Balling 1 SPIKE'S PIERCING PARLOUR, PART TEN: HALLOWE'EN FAMILY BALLING 1 THIS STORY CONTAINS THEMES OF INCEST BETWEEN FATHERS AND THEIR 18/19 YR OLD SONS, WATERSPORTS AND DOMINATION. THESE CHARACTERS EXIST IN AN AIDS FREE, CONSEQUENCE FREE, FANTASY PARALLEL UNIVERSE AND ARE NOT TO BE EMULATED. PLEASE SUPPORT NIFTY WITH YOUR DONATIONS AND KEEP THIS INCREDIBLE RESOURCE GOING. SERIES FINALE part one Over the last couple of months Clay had come to realise what a complete dick Moose Bruckner was. And not in a good way. What was most painful was that Moose provided a mirror for how Clay himself used to be - some old dude had once said 'By their friends shall ye know them.' Well, oh shit. Moose was vain, arrogant, mean spirited and stupid. Clay saw it so clearly now. Since the summer he had gained a new perspective and learned to question things he had previously always taken for granted. Moose was also a mass of insecurities and that made him a bully. Everything was 'fag' to Moose if it fell outside his narrow view of what was normal. Learning was 'fag', reading was 'fag'. Like an ex-smoker, Clay found his former bad habits pretty hard to deal with in other people. Dad counselled caution, though. 'Keep ya cards close to your chest, son. The game ain't played out yet. Just remember how we dealt with those two assholes at the gym.' Even so, it wasn't easy to keep his dislike hidden. Moose picked up on it and a coolness had developed between them. But as one door closed, others opened. People outside the charmed circle of the 'popular' kids became visible to Clay. Without any special forethought, Clay just naturally drifted from group to group - the geeks, the nerds, the goths and, yes, the jocks too - curious about what he had been missing. One day, only four weeks into the semester, Clay came across the tail-end of an incident involving Oreo Joe in the hallway. The fat kid was standing by his locker, a spill of what looked like comic books on the floor, the nearby hulking mass of Moose Bruckner and his letterman cronies being the obvious culprits. Jeez. To think Clay had been one of them, not so very long ago. '... you're eighteen, for Chissakes,' Moose was lecturing Joe, 'You're too old for fuckin' comic books, lardass - an' if you can't find a chick blind enough to bang you, at least get my fuckin' ALGEBRA HOMEWORK FINISHED!' So that was what it was all about. Algebra may have been 'fag' to Moose, but it didn't stop him making use of those who were prepared to put in the hard slog. Moose and the other bullies sauntered off down the hall. Burning with supressed anger, Clay stepped in and began picking up Joe's stuff to spare him the humiliation. 'Here, let me help you with that, bro.' Joe stared at him in a mixture of shock and mute hero worship. Clay handed him the stack of books and Joe muttered his thanks - and something else that Clay couldn't make out. 'What was that last part, bro?' 'I... I said - they aren't comic books. They're graphic novels.' Clay glanced down at the Sci-fi and horror titles in Joe's hands and realised that the kid was embarrassed he had seen them. Clay looked at Joe in mock puzzlement and stuck his thumb in the direction Moose had taken. 'I know - Moose may not be able to read, but you'd think he'd at least be able to follow the pictures!' That earned a shy smile from Joe. Clay gave him a brief but tight hug. 'High School doesn't last forever, bro, keep the faith.' And before Joe could get even more embarrassed, Clay headed off to find Lenny Wiseman. He tracked him down eventually on his way into the john in one of the quieter areas of the school. Lenny raised a cynical eyebrow when Clay told him he wanted to talk. 'I'm not in the habit of doing the jocks' English homework, Larsen,' Lenny responded, 'and right now I need to pee. So unless you want to risk being seen going into the Men's Room with the school fag, we'll have to rescedule.' 'What?' Lenny had a way of derailing Clay's train of thought before it had even got up steam. 'No, screw that shit, I want to talk to you about Joe Foster.' He followed Lenny in. The john was empty except for the two of them. Refusing to be turned aside from his task, Lenny stepped up to the urinal and unzipped. 'Joe Foster?' Lenny quizzed him. 'You mean Oreo Joe? That lardass sci-fi nerd with the glasses and the bush of hair?' Clay was shocked. 'Jeez, Lenny. Lardass? Really? That's exactly what Moose called him just now.' Lenny had the grace to look shamefaced. 'Okay, now I KNOW I'm in trouble - I guess even minorities have prejudices. What about him?' Clay took a breath. 'He needs help, man. The guy's a mess.' 'Oh? And you thought you'd ask the school fag to give him a makeover?' Clay sighed. Lenny seemed determined to misinterpret him. 'A restyle wouldn't hurt the guy. But I think he's into me and he's real unhappy about it. I thought maybe you could teach him a little something about courage and self respect.' Lenny looked at him, genuinely startled, lost for words for once. Clay held his gaze. 'Dude, you're the bravest sonofabitch I know.' He looked down. Lenny hadn't pissed a drop. The proximity of Clay's hot jock body had triggered a hardon. Lenny's dick was massive on such a little guy. Without a word, Clay dropped to his knees and took it all the way down his throat. Lenny thrust instinctively before trying to pull away. 'Larsen! What the fuck are you doing?' Clay took his mouth off that juicy dick only for a moment. 'Apologising.' And then he was back on, giving Lenny the benefit of cocksucking skills learned over a long summer. Lenny was panting now. He looked round furtively. 'But... ungh... but what if someone walks in?' In answer Clay simply rose to his feet, still vigorously swallowing Lenny's cock, lifting the boy with ease, his hands cupping that magnificent ass. Lenny supported himself with his hands on Clay's shoulders, delighting in the chance to feel up the muscles there. Clay walked the two of them into the nearest cubicle and shut the door. For the next few minutes there were only the sounds of Clay grunting around that delicious cock and Lenny's moans of delight. Then, whispered: 'I don't know, Clay... I... I've never done it before...' 'That's okay, fella - how about you take MY ass instead?' And then there was a whole lot more moaning and groaning and the sounds of flesh on flesh as Clay taught Lenny a few things of his own. Over the next few weeks, football practice focused in the main on training for the team's first major fixture of the season against their arch-rivals, Woodmont High... ... which just so happened to fall upon October 31st. Hallowe'en. While Coach Farello kept all the guys busy out on the field, both he and Symansky kept Clay even busier in the sports office afterwards, with the two of them reaming out his ass. Symansky had been more than happy to help Clay and his father set Farello up for his initiation into mansex. And since Farello's awakening, both older and younger coaches had become pretty damned close in an almost father/son relationship of their own. Weekly 'parent-teacher' evenings had developed, where Symansky and Farello met with Thor and Clay. They were joined by Coach Rogers of Woodmont High, and his pets Don Collins and his twin sons. No football strategies were discussed - hardly a great idea with the coach of the rival team present - but a good deal of focus was devoted to the sons' development. The development of their stiff cocks, mainly, and the capacity of their steaming holes to take dick. Coach Symansky, especially, was fascinated by the arrangement between Rogers and the Collins. He couldn't get enough of those hot twins being commanded to tag team their dad - every time Rogers ordered them to spit roast or double dick him, Symansky groaned out loud and would drive his dick deeper into whosever hole he happened to be drilling at the time. 'Yeah, good dogs, tie yo father's cunt,' Rogers would encourage Mason and Mitch, 'Cum up his chute. Make him yo bitch! Good puppies! Good puppies!' Don Collins' tongue would be lolling out and his boys would swoop in to lick it. Their tongues would flash over each other's faces, wet and eager, growling with passion and nipping at each other. Symansky would stare avidly at their incestuous, bestial mating and jism would hose out of his dick like a fire hydrant. Rogers would usually give him leave to felch the twins' piss and cum out of their father's ass afterwards. If Symansky was feeling generous, he would share it with his boy Farello. 'So how come you go by the handle Pigmaster2in1, Coach?' Clay asked Rogers one time. Rogers nuzzled his ear. 'Hows about me an' yo dad show youse!' Clay spent the next half hour sitting on Rogers' fearsome dick - nothing he couldn't handle by now, of course - except that, in Rogers' game, Dad would come up behind Clay, slide his dick up his chute on top of the first, and mercilessly double dick him until he came his load. Before withdrawing, however, Dad would piss all over Rogers' dick and fill Clay's ass. Then Symansky would come along - as it were - and the process would be repeated. By the time Farello had filled his hole, Clay was full to bursting. He moaned and groaned and Rogers ordered Farello to stay put. Then Rogers himself let fly his various juices and Clay thought his insides would rupture. Instead it was his dick that exploded, coating Coach Rogers' face, neck and chest. Rogers and Farello carried him into the Head Coach's personal shower cubicle where they finally unplugged him and released a tsunami of piss and cum over the two of them. Mitch, Mason and their father were quick to lap up what remained. When everyone was sated at these sessions - if only temporarily - the strategy discussed involved what was to take place AFTER the big game on Hallowe'en. For everything to work, the coaches of both schools had to be in on the scheme and everything had to be planned meticulously. Timing was everything and had to be accurate down to the last second. Fortunately, timing was something a true sportsman was good at... October 31st arrived, clear and crisp as a fall day should. All day Clay fought down the butterflies in his stomach. Time and again his mentors had told him to focus on the game and forget about what was to follow, but it wasn't easy. He was nervous AND excited at the same time. Dad, too, told him to set it aside. HE was responsible for the other stuff now - at least until after the game - and would spend the day co-ordinating any final arrangements with Spike and Doc Schultz. The floodlights were blinding as Clay and Moose led the rest of the squad out onto the field, to a deafening chorus of cheers from the home crowd. The visitors from New Jersey, too, were treated to a gracious reception. Blinking against the light, Clay could just about make out Len Wiseman sitting up in the bleachers with some hot young bear cub. Cool. Dad was down in the front rows reserved for the players' parents, chatting amiably with some of the other fathers. Now that the teams had run out all of them sat forward, watching avidly, reliving their own glory days and fantasizing it was still them out there, not their sons. Woodmont won the coin toss and elected to receive. Then the starting whistle cut through the hubub and sliced the clean night air. It was on! For the next hour or so, all thoughts other than football fled from Clay's mind and he played well, marshalling his defenders and acquiting himself with honor. In the end it was the home team that emerged victorious but, all in all, it had been a rather lacklustre first encounter on both sides. Clay and his team-mates were left feeling a weird combination of triumph mixed in with anticlimax. Not to worry, Clay thought. There was plenty of climax yet to come. As they trooped back in off the field, he noted that both Dad and Len had disapeared from their respective spots. Good. They'd left before the end of the game, as arranged. In the locker room Moose threw down his helmet like a disappointed brat at Christmas. 'Was that what we broke our fuckin' asses training for?' he griped, 'Man that last quarter was FAG! Fuckin' FAG!' 'Bruckner, show some respect for your equipment and pick up that helmet!' barked Coach Farello as he went by, 'And while you're at it - quit being such a sore winner!' That got a laugh from the rest of the squad and Moose sat down in a sulk. Automatically he ran his hand through his mane of hair, his pride and joy, as he always did when he felt put upon by the world and needed to reassure himself. Clay clapped a hand on his back. 'Hey, bro, what say we hit the showers fast, cut loose from this place and go let off some steam?' Moose looked at him uncertainly. They hadn't been that close lately. 'You sure, man? Just you and me?' Clay spread his arms wide. 'The whole frickin team, man. We should all go out - big guys night out. It's fuckin Hallowe'en, for chrissakes. Let's see if we can't treat ourselves to a few tricks - you know what I'm saying?' Moose grinned in spite of his bad mood. But then he frowned at Clay to silence him - too late, Coach Farello had heard everything. 'Matter of fact,' said Farello, stroking his chin, 'that isn't such a fool idea, Larsen. You could all use some down-time.' 'What?' Moose gasped, 'Seriously, Coach? You're gonna let us go?' 'On two conditions. First, I come along to keep an eye on all you clowns and, secondly - you have to invite the other team as well!' 'What?' It was Clay griping this time. 'But Coach, the enemy?' 'It's good sportsmanship, Larsen - and Bruckner, if you're opening your mouth to inform us all the 'Sportsmanship is fag', I will seriously consider asking Coach Symansky to demote you to second string.' That shut him up. 'Now I don't know if Coach Rogers will consent to it,' Farello went on, 'but I'll sound him out for you.' Clay had a sudden thought. 'Oh, but Coach - what about all our parents? Our folks are all here for the game. And the other team's, as well, and they've come all the way from New Jersey!' Coach Farello held up a calming hand. 'Take it easy, Larsen, last time I checked the Jersey Tunnel was still open for business. That doesn't need to be a problem. As for the dads and Coach Rogers, perhaps I can persuade Coach Symansky to show them some hospitality at his favorite sports bar over on East 54th.' So that was settled then. Farello marched off to make all the necessary arrangements. Moose, Clay and the rest of the team started stripping off with more enthusiasm, now that they had plans. 'Huh,' remarked Moose as they headed for the showers, 'Farello's human. Who knew?' Then he soured again. 'But where the fuck we gonna go? None of us are over twenty-one. Farello ain't gonna ID us...' 'So we all ditch him,' said Clay, 'Believe me, bro, I know a few places that operate, shall we say, under the radar.' 'Really? No shit?' By now quite a few of the guys were listening in over the sound of running water. Clay addressed them all. 'For starters... haven't any of you ever thought of getting... a tattoo...?' This was greeted with murmurs of approval. 'Hey... Cool idea, Larsen,' some said. 'Yeah,' said Clay with a smile, 'Just came to me...' Over an hour and a half later, Coaches Symansky and Rogers were playing host to a large crowd of athletic looking men in the East 54th Street sports bar. With both teams out for the evening, plus a few substitutes on either side, that accounted for nearly thirty fathers they had to babysit. They packed the place out and, with a few drinks inside these men, their conversation had turned from civilised small talk to good-natured bantering - the rivalry between the two schools extended to the fathers' generation too, it seemed, and the fun-poking ran back and forth from Manhattan to the Jersey Shore. Rogers caught Symansky's eye across the room and gave a sly nod to his fellow conspirator. It was time. 'Well, sorry to break up the party,' Rogers announced, tapping his wristwatch, 'but the Jersey contingent at least oughtta think about rounding up our boys and start heading home.' As anticipated this was met with a chorus of rebellion and denial. 'Not yet, Rogers!' 'Jeez, they're only young once, let them go mad a little!' Rogers shrugged helplessly at Symansky. Symansky took up the baton. 'Are we gonna let these Jersey pussies wimp out on us?' he asked his own coterie of fathers. 'Noooo!' was the resounding vote. One of the Manhattan dads fished a card from his pocket and waved it at the assembled throng. 'Hey, I was talking to that guy with the blond Mohawk before the game - where'd he go, by the way? - anyways, he tipped me off about this joint on the lower East Side...' Now the chorus turned bawdy and exciteable. 'Wooooh!' 'Yeah,' said the dad, 'He told me it was this underground joint. He promised there'd be... dark corners...' 'Wooooooooh!' '...and... nakedness...' 'Woooooooooooh!' '... and willing, pliant young things, anxious to relieve the stress of your day!' 'WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!' 'I dunno,' said another dad, 'I'm gonna get shit from my wife if she finds out I been to some lap joint.' 'So don't keep the matchbooks, dumbass,' said a third, 'And grow a pair! You're married, not dead!' 'Oh the hell with it,' said the wet blanket, 'been too long since I saw any nubile young women naked, anyway!' And there was yet another cheer at his conversion to the cause. 'Okay, then,' Symansky said to the first speaker with a shrug, 'Show us your amazing girly bar. What's it called?' The first dad flipped the card over and peered at the front. 'It's some joint named 'Spike's'.' END OF PART TEN: THE SERIES WILL CONCLUDE IN THE NEXT CHAPTER