Dude, Are You Serious?
Copyright © 2015 by Jonathan Longhorn (jonathan_longhorn at yahoo dot com). All rights reserved. Except for the use of less than two pages in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means is forbidden without the express written permission of the author. Express permission is granted to The Nifty Erotic Stories Archive for storage, indexing, retrieval, and display of this work.
Disclaimer: The material in this work is for mature audiences only and contains graphic sexual content and language. It is intended only for those aged 18 and older. All of the characters in this work are assumed to be at least 18 years of age.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and settings are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, names, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental. In the real world having sex without using a condom can be very dangerous to your health. Don’t ruin your life or your future. Slip it on before you slip it in.
Note: There are some references in this story and others, to things mentioned in another of my stories, Target Nemesis: The Tentacle Lord’s Revenge, which you can find here: http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/sf-fantasy/target-nemesis-the-tentacle-lords-revenge.html. The story itself is about the movie that had been, or was being watched by characters in several of my stories - in which an alien warlord bent on revenge, ‘has his way’ with an Earth Forces Brigade hero. While I hope that you would enjoy reading that story, it may be a bit brutal for some readers and you do not need to read that story first in order to understand or to enjoy this story.
All trademarks used in this work are the sole property of their owners and have been used without permission or endorsement.
You’ll have to be more careful, bro. You’ll need good breathing technique to fill your throat with my dick….
That comment rattled around inside Dillon’s skull like a runaway train … whipping here and thudding there—the tracks long since left behind. The words occasionally fingered their way downward over his body to eventually wrap around the throbbing cock in his jeans. They would stroke it. They would tug on it. They would tease it mercilessly. And then, they would crash head long back inside his skull and bang on his brain. He casually reached down to adjust himself, hoping it was discrete enough for Charley not to notice.
What did Charley mean by that? Charley’s dick was big enough—hard—to fill his throat? Maybe even choke? Had he decided to go for it? To let Dillon go down on him?
Should he ask?
Why push his luck?
On the other hand….
Maybe he should….
Even the kerplunks had stopped.
The orchestra of crickets and bullfrogs, cows and night birds—hushed all at once. Maybe they were all holding their breaths, too? Waiting. Waiting … for…?
Hell—even the rustling leaves had gone into whisper mode. The river seemed to have begun to tip toe beneath them.
All around them.
Charley drew in a long, deep breath. He held it until his lungs felt like embers, huddled in the bottom of a fire pit. His nostrils flared; the sweat-moist cloth of his tee clung to his chest, his abs … his pits.
He one-eyed to his right. Not yet wanting to look at Dillon full on. To look into those gun metal gray eyes that he knew would lock on and would be searching his own. Seeing the questioning. Or—the fear. The anxiety.
Poor Dillon. He was sitting beside him and Charley could feel the doubt, the fears, the shakes, the vibes. That he wouldn’t understand. That he’d be offended. Pissed off. He was probably terrified that Charley was gonna walk. Little did he know. He was actually one of the few people in Charley’s life that kept him grounded. If he got too confident? Too cocky? Too head expanded? Dillon was one of the people that could kick him in the ass and level him out before he got himself in trouble.
They really should have been best friends. But for whatever reason, they weren’t. Very close. Tight up. But not ‘best’. Why was that? Not that he would trade Ryan or Bennett, but still…. Nowhere in the Official Best Buddies Manual did it say you couldn’t have two best friends—which he did. Why not three?
Of course, Dillon had Ellis. He rolled his eyes on that one. Ellis and Dillon? Best friends? That was like a match made in a blender with broken blades. He had never been able to understand that friendship. Nothing against Ellis but Ellis was … just … so … Ellis.
Dillon was one of the few people that Charley had always known he could turn to—for a study partner, a game of horse or catch, hit the bowling alley … the pool … the Stagecoach Megaplex over in Four Horse Crossing … help devour an extra-large pizza at Valentino’s … burgers, rings, and shakes at B&T’s … or just to hit the couch and take in a game or two … or five.
Just to chill.
No high maintenance.
He couldn’t really answer his own questions about their friendship. Dillon was just so … comfortable. Charley could slip into him and wear him like his oldest, most threadbare and comfortable jeans. That pair of sandals that were barely holding together but molded to his feet so completely. A perfect fit. Yeah, like that. Supremely comfortable. Easy. Even if a single word didn’t pass between them for hours. Dillon was just … Dillon.
He realized that he had not answered Dillon. His question was still floating on the warm summer air around them. Not ‘heavy’. Just ‘there’. Dillon could have busted his chops about it, but—no. That wasn’t Dillon. That wasn’t Dillon’s way. Sometimes he wished Dillon would ‘chops bust’ now and then. It would be good for him. He could use a confidence boost now and then. Off field, anyway. On field? Killer Dillon On The Loose, would be the headlines week after week … game after game.
Rather, he sat silently at his side and waited. He smiled softly. ‘Silent’ and probably gnashing his teeth to keep from doing just that—‘chops bust’.
God that felt good.
No pressure. No stress. No high maintenance drama to ice down, iron out, buy baubles to appease—unlike Chels. No one always trying to force him one way or the other. Push at the right time. Hold back at the right time. Whichever was more appropriate for the moment at hand. Somehow, Dillon always seemed to know when and where and how hard. How cool was that? None of his friends could do that like Dillon. Not even Ryan or Bennett. God—why couldn’t they be more like Dillon sometimes? Well, duh. Then they wouldn’t be Ryan and Bennett.
But, still … why couldn’t they be more like Dillon when he needed them to be more like Dillon and not so much like … ‘them’?
Charley drew in another lung burster of air and clawed at his damp tee. It was clinging to him like … well, like a damp, clingy tee. It felt kind of gross actually. He went for the hem and peeled it up and off … splat … as it hit the railroad tie that separated the two of them. He had to forcibly swallow a chuckle at a sudden thought. If his little brothers were here, they’d be racing to snatch it up before it hit the ground. They would be running away, practically bouncing off walls and crashing through doors while they clutched at it like a prized trophy—fighting over who got to wear it to bed—on them it was more like one of those old-time nightshirts that covered them past their knees. Yeah—snatching it, running, bouncing, crashing, arguing, clutching … giggling … all the while.
His nose crinkled.
Why would they fight over who got to wear his sweaty, stinky tee that he’d worn all day and was happy to discard at night? They finally came up with a foolproof system. Even days? Casey was the victor. Odd days? Brantley claimed his prize with glee. After trying repeatedly to cajole them into letting the tees—and shorts—go into the hamper where they belonged, their mother knew she was fighting a losing battle, threw up her hands and sighed. ‘Boys!’
Well, even if she didn’t understand it all, or for that matter—even if Charley didn’t get it, what mattered more than anything was that he was there. He doted on them. He spoiled them rotten and usually he hung around to clean up the mess after the ‘rottenization’. He was their superhero and he wore the cape and the skin-hugging suit with the big ‘C’ emblazoned on the chest with pride. He was a loving and protective big brother, so whatever made the little monkeys happy was fine by him.
Well, within reason….
Dillon loved Charley’s little brothers almost as much as they loved climbing all over him, curious little hands ‘everywhere’, and basically mauling poor ‘Uncle’ Dillon whenever he was there. He was really like another loving, protective, and very cool big brother to the boys, more so than any of his other friends. Dillon was the only one the boys felt comfortable enough climbing onto his broad chest and promptly falling asleep. Good thing he had the patience of Job. Bennett and Ryan didn’t seem to mind one way or the other, but Charley was sure there was no way a guy like Ellis would let them use him like their own personal Mt. Everest and cozy nap mat.
Charley leaned back and stretched out flat—staring up into the dark night. No visible stars tonight—the sky was a spectacular, sparkling canopy on clear nights, way out in the country like this. Tonight however, the clouds were still thick, dark … menacing. Threatening to whip up another storm at any moment. He shivered slightly as he thought of Dillon quietly sitting next to him. Could he really do ‘this’. What did Dillon ‘really’ need from him? How long had this ‘need’—this curiosity—been there? And, even if it wasn’t Ellis, why him?
Yeah. That was the question.
Somehow? Deep in his senses? He knew that answer.
Obvious, wasn’t it? He guessed that it was simple really. Trust. Respect. That bond between them. Dillon turned to ‘him’. Dillon approached ‘him’. Dillon ‘came out’ to ‘him’. So to speak. Dillon asked ‘him’. No one else.
Because he knew that he could.
That was it, really.
Dillon knew that he could come to Charley.
Knew, or at least—hoped above hope.
Hoped that his hope wasn’t ‘just’ that … ‘only’ that.
He sat there. Trusting. Respectful. But, trembling. Barely breathing. Hoping.
Still in a silent panic.
Still wondering if he shouldn’t have brought up the subject at all back during Study Hall. Man, but didn’t that take some balls? He could ‘never’ imagine approaching any of their other friends with something like that. Not that he ever would of course, but still … it took balls of titanium steel to say what Dillon had said to him. He was either the bravest guy he knew or maybe just totally nuts. As much as it shocked him though, he really had to respect—and hugely admire—Dillon for daring to trust him and be open about it. About ‘that’. Wow. Even with the shock of it, that trust felt really, really good.
Yeah. He admired the hell out of Dillon’s titanium’ness. And? He was flattered. He was really flattered. And, tempted. A blow job? A blow job! Oh man, was he tempted. Strange to admit but there it was.
He could feel his friend’s gaze on him. His eyes doing the caress and the lick that he knew his fingers and tongue were itching to go for. He could almost hear the strangled whimpers being forced back down Dillon’s throat.
Dillon nearly jumped out of his Nike’s when Charley’s voice penetrated the blanket of silence that had surrounded them for the last several minutes. Normally, silence between them was companionable. Relaxed. Easy. But tonight? It was anything but relaxed and easy. At least for Dillon. He was petrified. Shaking. Barely breathing. It was even worse than the blanket of humidity—and that was atrocious—they were both dripping in sweat.
He had been so lost in his eye-grazing over that handsome face, that perfect chest, gleaming under a light sheen of sweat, the 6-pak of dreams … a hand tucked beneath his head that exposed a lightly furred pit—and, that intoxicating Eau de Charley. And, lower. Powerful thighs stretching his jeans to the limit. Feet dangling over the edge of the bridge and just out there—in mid-air. That bulge. Oh, that beautiful bulge. Charley’s cock was pumped up. Even in this post-storm clouded darkness with the few bursts of light from the moon, he could see that it was not in full blooming boneship but it was stretched long, thick … bulging. Almost like it was trying to escape its denim prison.
Was that a good sign?
He bit at his lower lip. One, to keep it from trembling quite so openly. And, two—biting back that growing ‘hope’ that this was going in the right direction.
“I was going down on Chels,” Charley finally said, suddenly breaking the weight of silence between them. “I had her right on the edge. Would have been her third orgasm for the night.”
Dillon’s head tilted. Did Charley just say that he…?
Charley goes down on Chelsea? Eww. But wait. He goes down on ‘her’ but he said that ‘she’ doesn’t go down on ‘him’?
Well, a 1000 super slugs couldn’t have kept the next question from sailing out of his mouth. Dillon was helpless in holding it back.
“You go down on Chelsea, but, she doesn’t…?”
Silence, and then—a soft snort.
A flood of guilt rushed through Dillon. Wow. Talk about breaching the wall of privacy.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have….”
Charley waived off the apology with his free hand. This was harder than he thought. But still, it was Dillon. So….
“Nearly every night of the week,” he said so quietly that Dillon was unsure if it was his friend talking or some tree creature up above them. Reading the dialogue from some X-flick that never made it to the computer monitor for whatever reason.
Charley let out a long sigh before continuing.
“She won’t kiss … open mouth. No tongue. She certainly won’t lick or blow me. She won’t even give me a hand job. Hell, Dill—she’s never even seen ‘it’.” He huffed sarcastically. “Can you imagine the shit I would catch if the guys found out? Me? Charley Stockton? A blue-balled, blue-boned virgin? The only sex that Charley Stockton gets is….” He emphasized that explanation with a slow up and down motion of his hand. “How pathetic is that?”
Wait. Seriously? He goes down on her? Double eww, by the way. And she returns that huge favor with—nothing?
Dillon was astounded. Wow. Charley was a virgin. Oh, sure—he didn’t advertise and boast of conquests and sexcapades like a lot of the guys in the showers and the locker room but everyone pretty much assumed. ‘He’ had assumed. Well, until now, anyway. Dillon longingly glanced at that thick bulge that seemed to have grown even more.
No one’s ever tasted that beauty? What a waste!
“So, I’m going down on her,” Charley started up again. Husky voiced but casual somehow. Just talking between the two of them. Like they were sitting in rockers on the front porch with the Rottweilers and the Mastiffs under their feet. Sipping sweet tea. Talking about a game.
Dillon offered a nod. A silent I’m listening and Take your time and You’re behind this wheel kind of nod.
“So, she’s writhing and moaning and she’s getting closer. Oh man, is she close. Her whole body is vibrating. Big ‘O’ number 3 is barreling down the runway and it’s gonna be a heavily loaded giant C-130. I’m licking and slurping and really working over her pussy. She’s dripping in it. She’s streaking into orbit … going freak shit insane. And yes,” he laughed softly. “I’m really that good at it.”
Charley ate out Chelsea. Charley was one of those rare guys with a longer than average tongue too. Dillon suddenly wished he had a pussy, or hell—a clit for him to slurp on.
No, he didn’t.
Okay. Yes. He did. Kinda. Sorta. Maybe. Okay. Yeah. He did.
“So she’s all ‘ungh’, ‘mmm’, and whimpering. ‘Charley. Oh … oh … oh, Char’ and I attack her clit at that point. I just devour her clit and work it and work it. She’s begging, man. She’s begging me to get her off. To finish her.”
He shifted uncomfortably … there … on the old bridge … over the rushing river. Hoping Charley didn’t notice his bone snaking down his Levi’s. Or did he?
“If you were eating ‘my’ clit, I’d be begging you to fuck my pussy into the next zip code.”
Charley one-eyed his friend as he pressed his thighs together. His dick was getting harder than steel telling Dillon about eating Chelsea. Tonguing her. Going down on her clit. Really eating her out. Making her moan and beg and whimper, and—writhe. He ran his free hand down his chest, his abs … fingers dancing in his trail. A couple of those fingers dipped below the waist band of his jeans and into his shorts. They brushed against his throbbing cock and he stifled a whimper of his own.
He needed to get laid one way or the other. That, or he would have to hang back after Dillon left later on and pull it out and stroke it off. He could just see a geyser of his cum spurting up and out and arcing downward and splattering across the surface of the river. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d sat on this old abandoned bridge and done that and he doubted it would be the last.
Dillon licked his lips, wishing those were his fingers dipping into those shorts. Those lucky … lucky … shorts. Hell with the shorts. Those lucky … lucky … fingers.
“I’ve taken showers with you for a long time, dude,” Charley chortled. “Trust me—‘that’ is no clit. You’ve got the monster dick of the school.”
Thanks for noticing. Lot of good it’s done me so far, though.
Dillon considered what Charley had just said. Yeah. It was a monster. Even though he could easily crossover into a total douche bag moment now and then, Ellis, had made a comment once or twice. Fuck, dude—they could make a flick on your dick. ‘The Mutant ‘conda That Pillaged the Village’. Not the first comparison to an anaconda but it was almost a sense of pride getting a comment like that from alpha dawg Ellis of all people.
But, he’d almost trade it in for a clit if Charley would service it like he apparently did regularly for Chelsea.
“It’s not all that, man.”
Charley popped Dillon’s bicep playfully.
“Dude, there’s an elephant wandering around the planet looking for his trunkage. It just doesn’t know that it’s stuffed in your jeans.”
Dillon grinned. Embarrassed but kinda proud, too. An anaconda dick ‘and’ an elephant dick. He was on a roll, here. Wow. Charley Stockton had checked out his dick? Wow. That was very, very cool. Even if his ‘trunkage’ as it were, was currently desperately trying to escape his jeans.
Another lengthy silence fell over them until Charley finally continued.
“So, I’ve got her begging me to get her off … for the 3rd time, like I said … and I’m kind of pissed because she ‘still’ won’t even so much as look at my dick. Much less go down on it or even touch it or tug on it. Even to just rub it through my jeans if nothing else. It was like steel rebar at that point and ‘really’ painful. Ya know?”
Dillon gulped. Every guy knew ‘that’ pain.
“So, I stopped. Total cold turkey, hit–the-brakes. And that leaves her panting and whimpering and squirming and she’s screeching at me like, ‘why’d you stop?!?! And I’m like, this is way too one-sided, Babe. I’m done with this until ‘you’ blow ‘me’.”
Now, it was Dillon’s turn to snicker and snort.
“Oh … no … you … didn’t!”
Nod. Grin. Nod.
Dillon couldn’t believe Charley still had his balls attached. They ‘were’ still attached, weren’t they? Yeah, they must be; Charley’s voice was still deep and thick and masculine. He didn’t sound like a soprano on crack.
Dillon’s excited curiosity almost made him forget some of his fear about how this sudden meeting in the middle of the night might turn out. Almost, but not quite.
“Fuck! What did she say? What did she do?”
“She was glaring daggers, yelling at me and told me to get out. Now!” Charley nodded to the astonished look on Dillon’s face. “Said I was being selfish. Me? After all that ‘I’ do for ‘her’. And ‘to’ her. Week after week. Month after month after month. Can you believe that shit? ‘I’m’ being selfish?!?”
“Did you finish, um … you know?” Why he asked that, Dillon had no idea. But, it came out, so he went with it. “Um, you know…?”
And, no—he didn’t finish the clit job.
He got up. He squeezed his throbbing cock through his jeans and stroked it a few times right in front of her. Running his hand slowly up and down the full length of it. Watching Chelsea watching him stroking the thick tube of his cock through his jeans. Her eyes blown so wide you could barely make out their color. Yeah, Chelsea had basically asked the same question. Was he going to finish … bring her off that 3rd time?
A shrug was joined by a devilish grin.
“I walked out. Left her with a throbbing clit and a dripping pussy.” He chuckled and swept his fingers across his sweat slick chest. “For all I know, after I left she probably rode one of those posts on her canopy bed to get herself off.”
“Oh fuck! She must have been….”
“Furious? Spitting nails? Ready to kill me in the most painful ways possible? Yeah, no doubt about it.”
Hell—for all he knew, Chels was so livid just then that he should probably be looking over his shoulder every 2.3 seconds. She might turn him over to Lord Q’a for a taste of what the tentacle creature had done to that helpless superhero.
Even though he winced at that thought, Charley felt a shiver rock his spine and his cock nearly shredded his jeans. There it was again. Target Nemesis…. Why was that flick so fucking hot? Why did that flick keep rolling around in his head? Why did that flick make his dick so fucking hard—even now—after the fact?
Dillon shook his head in wonder. Yeah—he could just imagine how pissed Chelsea was if he left her that close to blowing and just walked away. Like a She-devil on crack probably. A She-devil on crack, with fingernails as sharp as saber blades—and, almost as long. They were unregistered lethal weapons, really. If she ever got a good hold of Charley, he better be ‘real’ careful; she’d castrate him fully, dick and balls, with one fluid stroke of those razor sharp nails. Ouch! Protectively covering his own junk for a moment, he wondered if he should mention that.
Oh, what the Hell….
“You know, with those nails she has….”
“Yeah. You’d see my dick and nuts in a high tech vacuum cylinder hanging from the mirror in her Lexus, instead of around the neck of a brilliantly red colored, tentacled alien warlord….” They both winced and shifted uncomfortably. That Target Nemesis: The Tentacle Lord’s Revenge movie at the Stagecoach Megaplex was pretty graphic. “But, you know what? I’ve had enough, dude. That’s the last time I go down on her clit or go pussy slurping on her unless I get some ‘quid pro quo’.”
Dillon laughed as he nodded in silent agreement. No way should Charley keep doing that if she wasn’t willing to do the same for him.
Huh. So … Charley had seen Target Nemesis…. Interesting.
His eyes raked over the absolute perfection that was Charley’s body. That perfect chest. Those dime-size, hard nipples that begged to be chewed on. Those rippling abs that just cried out for a thorough tongue exploration. That delectable pencil thin trail that offered an open invitation to explore farther … south … into the delights of that bulging crotch.
“Well, you can always go down on my clit and I’ll gladly let you pussy munch me….”
Hold the phone.
What locked door suddenly burst open and let that one out? First, he didn’t have a clit. Second, he didn’t have a pussy. Third, Charley wouldn’t go there even if he did have one, or the other, or both. Fourth…. Well, there had to be a fourth. Right? A fifth? A thirtieth? Charley Stockton, the undisputed god of all the gods of the school, doing ‘that’? To a guy? Sheah right. Still … one could dream….
Charley shot another one-eyed glance in Dillon’s direction.
Yeah. That would show her.
Chelsea would have a cow—horns first. Would serve her right after stringing him along all this time. It had been so long since he started pussy slurping and clit munching on her. So … very … long, and he got nothing. Absolutely ‘nothing’ in return. And she was very definitely, very high maintenance in addition. He should just….
That one-eyed gaze shifted into a two-eyed stare. Charley felt a strange, foreign burst of … something.
Oh, hell. What the fuck….
“Pull it out.”
END of Chapter 4
To be continued . . .
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