[This story contains element of dubious consent. If that's not your bag, read elsewhere.]
I must’ve blacked out. Pedro and Rico were cutting me free from the bench and wiping at the drying sperm that encrusted my entire body with a wet washcloth. Pedro gently hoisted me over his shoulder and carried me upstairs. I heard activity in the kitchen, but Pedro continued right on up to his bedroom and gently deposited me before the tub in his bathroom.
He turned on the water, adjusted the temperature and stripped off his shorts before guiding me up and into the bathtub and under the warm spray of the shower head. He cleaned me carefully and thoroughly with a washcloth, massaging my sore muscles and offering soft kisses on my neck and shoulders.
He turned off the shower and dried me off with a fresh towel. Rico must have grabbed my discarded t-shirt and shorts, which had escaped the heat of the action. He’d left them folded on Pedro’s bed. I slipped back into them.
“Dean is prepping dinner with Nick instead of you,” Pedro murmured, leading me to his bed. “We have time for a nap.” He lifted me up and I let him stretch me out and fold his arms around me. I nodded off almost instantly.
When I awoke, it was dark and Pedro was awake.
“You doing okay?” he asked softly. “Nick and I thought we needed to give the other guys some ownership of you. A relationship of sorts that they can build on.”
“Is that why you and Rico weren’t part of it?” I asked, trying to work things out in my head.
“Partly,” he responded. “You’ve already connected with us and would have felt too safe if we were there. But there was still Nick to keep things in hand.”
“Do you guys actually discuss all this and plan things out?” I asked, indignant. “Can I be part of these discussions in the future?”
“Not in so many words. And no, you’re not part of the conversation. I mean you are, through your thoughts and actions. But not directly.” He paused, before going on. “Not for nothing, but you were kind of stuck-up before quarantine. You weren’t a dick, exactly, but you jumped to conclusions and made snap judgments about people. About jocks. And you were in a rut. You stuck to your small clique with Lexi and didn’t know how to open up to what’s out there.
“Not to mention you have a seriously twisted side that you were never gonna admit to without a push. What was it you said again? ‘I wouldn’t object if he threw me down and fucked me one drunken night.’ You thought you were joking, but I knew immediately you weren’t. So I pushed.”
“But what about all the other guys?” I asked, still trying to understand.
“Guys talk. They figure things out. They’re not shy about saying what they want. They boast, they spin fantasies. Normally it doesn’t go beyond that. But circumstances are a little special right now. It’s like Lord of the Flies.”
“But without the pig’s head,” I interjected.
“We’re kind of unsupervised,” Pedro continued. “And you seem to want to explore some dark shit. And some good fun shit too, don’t get me wrong. But there are people here also into dark shit. So the fantasies suddenly seem not so implausible. You just need a Nick or a Jackson to spell out how things might come to pass.”
“Who’s Jackson?” I interrupted.
“Running back in the other house. Light-skinned Black guy.”
“Yeah, that tracks,” I said, chuckling. “He seems like a bit of a ringleader.
“In the end,” Pedro continued, “for this to work you have to let them figure out what they want. And then you let them know that they can, in fact, take it. Jocks understand hazing, they understand initiations. And they also understand spectacle, on the field and off. The theater of it all. But they don’t really get to explore it at their own pace.
“The administration and the heads of the Athletic Department are only too aware of hazings gone bad, of drunken episodes of dubious consent. So they’re hyper-vigilant that it should never happen again. It’s like Foucault’s Panopticon. We’re being surveilled and supervised in every space, at all times. But not here. We’re on this island where no one can get to us.”
“Wow,” I marveled, “You really aren’t just a pretty face.”
Pedro punched me in the arm, which I then rubbed for effect, feigning injury.
“But they’re watching for a reason, no?” I asked. “Things do go bad. I feel like I’m playing with fire…”
“These are good guys,” Pedro reassured me. “Some have darker urges than others, but then, so do you. And me, in a different way. It’s a delicate balance. The worst you have to fear is that these guys aren’t experienced, and so they don’t know their limits, or yours. But we’re also in a safe cocoon where we can explore that. Test those limits. Have fun with it.”
“How did you get so smart? And how are you different? From Nick, say,” I inquired.
“I want to dominate you totally. I want to own every part of you when we play. I don’t want to scare you. Or hurt you.”
“Right,” I said, taking this in. “I suppose we should go down to dinner.”
Downstairs, the table was being set and the final preparations for dinner were underway in the kitchen. Riley set down a pitcher of water and threw his arm gently around my shoulder and squeezed.”
“Dude, you were awesome. That was so much fun. I’ve never been so turned on.”
I shrugged and accepted the compliment, smiling to myself at Riley’s new-found affection.
Moving into the kitchen, six bowls of pasta had been served up, and Rico and Pedro were taking them out to the dining room. Nick was removing an apron and hanging it on a peg by the door to the laundry room. He tousled my hair and pulled my neck forward and down, planting a chaste kiss on top of my head. Dean came up behind me and massaged my shoulders, then patted his big hands gently on either side with a squeeze.
“Dinner’s ready, let’s eat. I’m starved.” He smacked my ass and led the way out. I followed, grabbing the salad bowl and heading into the next room.
After dinner we chilled and played Uno. Riley suggested we try Strip Uno, but Nick pointed out that no one was wearing more than two or three pieces of clothing, so it would be a really short game.
We climbed the stairs to bed after that. I wasn’t sleepy, so tried reading but found I couldn’t concentrate. There was a tap at my door.
“Come in,” I called out softly. Nick slipped into the room. “Couldn’t sleep?” I asked. “Me neither.”
“Didn’t want to sleep,” he answered slyly. He slipped off his sleeping shorts and slipped into bed. He smacked my ass and told me to lose the shorts. Then he cuddled up behind me in big spoon position.
“I thought maybe we could talk a little about what I’m into,” he said softly, in one ear.
“Are you even gay?” I asked him bluntly.
“Probably bi. More attracted to girls than guys to be honest. But definitely gay for you. Women can’t really meet all my needs. The difference in size and strength means that even if I found a totally masochist female partner, I’d always have to take care and hold back. And I don’t like to hold back,” he admitted.
“Tell me more about CNC,” I pleaded, turning to face him.
“It’s just a more extreme form of role-playing. It really walks up to the line of safe and sane.”
“Safe and sane?” I studied his face.
“It’s the standard of healthy play in the BDSM community. But too many people use it as an excuse for a lack of imagination. Or kink-shaming. I don’t want to be standard. I want to push the limits, feel like I’m transgressing. Obviously I believe in consent, you have to if you’re going to go down an extreme rabbit hole. But I’m not a fan of ongoing and active consent. At least while I’m still in college. That means no women.
“But there are faggots who will kind of let you go where you want, even if it’s not really their thing. They come back for more, so that’s on them. They know the score, but they can’t stay away from this,” he stated, indicating his body with a flourish.
“You’re an ass,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“No, I’m just young and hot, and looking to get my nut the best way I can.”
“So what different kinds of scenes are there?” I asked.
“Anything your little mind can dream up. There are common ones like the home invasion-type scenario we pulled on your ass the other day. Since you know us, and we weren’t pretending to be strangers, it was more like hard-up straights decide to gang up on the dorm fag.
“And when I say fag, I mean the person who wants to be the faggot in that situation. Which is you. And before you get your pride dander up, I don’t mean you’re always a faggot. You’re just one when you’re playing that role. No one is more of an ally than me.”
“I hate to admit it, but it turns me on to be called that.” I confessed with a blush. “But you’re right, I don’t want to be considered that all the time. I never realized how powerful the term is, what it can represent,” I explained. “It used to be only painful, hurtful.”
Nick went on. “There’s locker room rape fantasies, date rape fantasies, abduction fantasies and primal scenes.”
I looked at him blankly. “What’s a primal scene?” I asked.
“Being hunted. Being chased and then fucked by an Alpha. On a camping trip, for instance. In the woods.”
“Have you tried all this before?” I asked.
“No, hardly any,” Nick conceded. “I’ve gotten rough with some guys who wanted to get with me. I told them, ‘Okay, but once we get started, there’s no turning back. You’ve got to finish what you started.’ And then I start to push their limits, with pain or aggression, until they’re scared and want to stop, and I say ‘No. We’re not stopping.’ But then I ease off the extreme aggression and just fuck to completion.
“It’s saying ‘We’re not stopping’ that winds my crank. Seeing the fear in their eyes, that moment they say ‘What did I get myself into?’ I’m not even that terribly into pain, it’s just that it’s part of the fear. And the persona. Like I punched you pretty hard the other day, and you took it. But you weren’t expecting it. And you weren’t sure about it. It’s that shock, that uncertainty that gets me boned up hard as a rock every time.
“I always check in afterwards. To see if they’ll come back, and let them know that I’m not just the persona. And my persona isn’t a pain master. I don’t particularly like gear, apart from scary accessories like gloves or ball-gags or duct tape. No whips or riding crops for me. I work with my fists. In lots of ways.”
“Do they always come back?” I asked.
“Nah, sometimes it’s just not their scene, or it was too intense. That’s fine, no regrets. They knew what they were getting into and were willing to try it, at least once. That’s why I’m so fired up that I have you around. The moment I saw you, I knew you’d be into lots of crazy shit. Different shit, with different people. I love doing scenes like the one with Riley the other day. I like being in control.”
“Have you done that before?” I wondered.
“Guys talk. They tell you what they’re into, if you pick up on the signs. So I know a couple of guys that will get together to fuck down a fag.”
“Jackson, from the other house?” I speculated.
“Yeah, hehe,” he chuckled. “We’ve got plans for you, bitch.”
“What’s he into?” I asked.
“He’s into a lot of stuff. Bully-nerd scenarios. Locker room domination. Flipping the script. Surprises. That scene in the basement this afternoon was all his brainchild.”
“I could get into a date-rape scenario, I think,” I confessed.
“I’ll spread the word,” Nick responded. “Now let’s fuck.” He pressed his erection, hard as steel, against mine.
“Um, I’m not sure I’m entirely up for that after this afternoon,” I cautioned, gently.
“Yeah, I figured,” Nick reassured me. “I just thought we could do a little mattress-wrestling.” He giggled. “Grappling, choke-holds, breathplay, frotting. Just blow off a load.”
“Breathplay?” I interjected, concerned.
“Hand over mouth, pinching your nose?”
“I’m not really into not breathing…” I said, doubtfully.
“I get that. It’s more the symbolic domination of the hand on the mouth. It’s powerful for me, I’m stifling you, owning you in that moment. Telling you who’s in charge. But for some people light asphyxiation is a big turn on, and can enhance the orgasm,” he elaborated.
“Yeah, and some people died that way, strangled in their closet,” I reminded him, sardonically.
“It’s risky. You have to know what you’re doing. I’m a wrestler. A good one. I know all about holds and choke-outs. Which are illegal by the way. But we’ve played around with them outside of practice.”
The next thing I know, Nick had me in a scissors hold and had slapped his hand over my mouth, muffling my cries of surprise. “This is what’s known as a “bed ambush scene,” he said, with an evil giggle.
His legs were squeezed so tightly around my abdomen I had trouble breathing in, but then he relented and shifted me into a full nelson, his legs clawing under and between mine to restrain them just like his arms were restraining mine from below the shoulder and around my neck. I grunted but couldn’t move, and I could feel his fully erect, and fully lubed, dick rubbing against my ass crack.
“Hey,” I protested, “why are you lubed—”
Nick shifted yet again, slamming his hand over my mouth once more, wrapping his legs around mine from the outside this time, and putting me in a choke hold with one arm around my neck, the other maintaining its grip over my mouth.
“That was the frotting part. This is called a sleeper hold. I can choke you out. We used to do it to each other all the time in high school. They say it’s incredibly risky, but we knew what we were doing.” He added pressure to the choke hold and I was finding it harder to breathe. He continued to glide his throbbing cock along my ass crack.
“Do you want to go to sleep now, little bitch?” he taunted. And squeezed more. I could feel my face turning red and saw spots in my eyes, before they went all fuzzy.
The next thing I was aware of was Nick’s dick thrusting gently in and out of my ass. He had me in a tight grip, one arm around my chest, the other cradling my head. I hoarsely protested, and Nick turned my face towards his, thrusting his tongue into my mouth to silence my complaints. His fucking tongue was as strong as the rest of him, absolutely wrestling my own into submission, exploring my mouth at will.
He broke the kiss. “You were out for a minute at most. You’re ass just swallowed my tool, bitch. Nothing I could do about it.”
“You’re such an ass—” He cut me off with a hand planted over my mouth again.
“Asshole violator. I know,” he goaded. His thrusts were picking up speed and force, but there was no pain. Only the feeling of being filled by his girthy member, of his domination of me, and the building pleasure as his thrusts massaged my prostate. I came first, but he followed immediately after. When our breathing had returned to normal, I noticed he was still hard. He made no move to withdraw.
“My cock loves being in your pussy, faggot. That’s where it wants to spend the night.” He snuggled me tighter into his hard body, and we both dropped off to sleep.
* * *
I woke up to gentle thrusts as Nick and his swollen dick picked up where they’d left off the night before. I don’t know if it was exacerbated by morning wood, but he came quickly. He rubbed his slimy cock all over my ass checks and inner thigh, grabbed my soft dick with his slick hand and asked if I wanted to get off.
“Nah, I’m fine. Just hold me for a minute and then we’ll go down and make coffee,” was my reply.
He let go of my dick and snuggled tighter and tweaked my nipples playfully. My dick stirred, but remained soft and we snoozed like that for another 15 minutes or so before getting up, sliding into shorts, brushing teeth and heading down. Dean was already there, the first pot of coffee made. I poured us two cups, offered Dean a warmup and then set about making the second pot.
Dean cleared his throat. “Fun night?”
Nick riposted immediately. “Always!”
“Weren’t you a little worn out?” Dean asked, looking my way.
“Very,” I confirmed. “We mostly talked.”
“Justin has many questions, and I have many answers. Though I did show him some wrestling moves that you can do in bed,” Nick said slyly.
“Hah! I bet you did,” Dean chuckled. “I think we should get Little Buddy into a singlet and invite him to a wrestling practice sometime soon.”
I spoke up. “Seriously, I would like to spend a little more time in the weight room and would love some pointers from experienced professionals.”
“We can help with that,” Nick said, with a wink.
After a second cup of coffee and a slice of toast, I felt the need to get out of the house. I headed out randomly, I thought, but found myself walking by the other athletes’ duplex. There were two of them stretching and warming up in the front yard. When I got close enough, they looked at me with sly smirks.
“’Sup?” said one I remembered, because he was the only other Black athlete besides Jackson who had been at my “initation.” He was incredibly muscled, but lithe. He didn’t seem to be as thick around the neck as most wrestlers.
“I’m Justin. You on the football team?”
“No, lacrosse. Name’s Finn. You can call me fine. Glad to see you’re not being a stranger.”
“Ah, you play with Riley.” You are fine, I thought.
The other one I knew already, Ernesto, who was Nick and Dean’s wrestling buddy.
“Hey little dude,” he greeted me. “Dean tells me you want to do some sparring with us. Pick up some wrestling moves. Says you already picked up some in the bedroom.”
“Jeez, no secrets here,” I said. “We’ll see.” He blinked like a cat sunning itself, languorously, satisfied.
“You guys finishing a run or heading out?” I inquired, politely.
“Heading out,” Finn informed me.
“Enjoy. I’m headed towards the park.” I waved at them and continued along the street
“Hey wait,” Finn shouted after me. I turned.
“Let me have your digits.” I handed him my phone and let him enter his number and send himself a text. I studied his body while I waited. His skin was a little darker than Jackson’s, but like Jackson, he seemed solid, yet light on his feet. He could be a running back also. Which, you know, lacrosse player. But he had a heavier build than most lacrosse players. Riley was also well-built, but Finn had sculpted, round meaty muscles everywhere.
“There you go.” Finn’s face was angular, determined, but also slightly wolfish, his expression hungry. He smirked at my gawking. I blushed, raised my hand in salute to Finn and gave a small wave to Ernesto. “See you later!”
When I got to the park, Pedro and Rico were kicking around the soccer ball, not serious drilling, just letting off steam. It was hard being cooped up, I knew from my own experience. Pedro sent me a pass that soared through the air 10 feet off the ground before descending toward me. I jumped up to stop its trajectory with my chest, then trapped it between my feet, as I’d done hundreds of times in drills. I dribbled it forward, then passed to Rico.
“Hey, Putinho has some moves,” Pedro marveled. I’d played soccer in middle school and the first two years of high school, and wasn’t half bad. Until we got to the social part where team camaraderie doesn’t include being friendly with the gay kid. Unless you did so surreptitiously, when you wanted something from him. Like a blowjob on the DL.
“Let’s just say I don’t have the fondest memories of team sports from high school. Maybe I’m making up for lost time with all you guys.” Rico picked up the ball and started walking towards me. Pedro joined him. When they reached me, it was Pedro who spoke.
“I don’t think any of us had the best time in high school to be honest,” Pedro conceded. “Even when you’re a popular jock. I had ‘anger management,’ issues. And I worked on them, to be fair.”
“I had ‘impulse control’ problems they said. I was over-enthusiastic. I still am,” gushed Rico.
“It’s one of the things I love about you,” I blurted out. Rico beamed and blushed at the same time, which is a hard thing to detect in a Black Brazilian. I could just tell that his face was warming from the flush of his neck. He pulled me into a crushing side hug.
“We better head home,” Pedro said. “I have an online class at 11.”
“I have one at 1pm,” I echoed.
We walked, Rico and Pedro speaking in a mixture of English and Portuguese, the latter, I’m certain, used mostly to boast or tease.
It was two days later, in the afternoon, when everyone was up in their rooms studying or out for a run that Jackson and his tatted teammate showed up as I was taking a basket of folded laundry upstairs. They were both wearing compression shorts under loose basketball shorts, and tank tops with deep openings on the side.
“Oh, hey guys, we haven’t formally met but I’m Justin. I know that you’re Jackson…”
Tatted shoulders spoke up. “And yet I feel intimately acquainted with you,” he said with a smirk. “I’m Ethan.”
“Fair enough,” I allowed. “Good to officially meet you.”
“Nick said you were looking for some pointers with weight training,” Jackson stated, matter-of-factly. “We’re gonna head down and get some lifting in, if you want to join us.”
“Oh,” I said, slightly surprised. “Okay, that’d be great. Let me just drop this laundry upstairs and I’ll come down.
I descended to the basement to see they’d already begun. They were shirtless, and had loaded up the barbell for bench-pressing.
“Lose the shirt,” Jackson commanded. “We need to see your form and muscle groups. We’re among friends here, so there’s no need for us to be shy about showing off our hard work either.” He studied me.
I took the opportunity to have a closer look at both Jackson and Ethan, neither of whose faces I’d seen the first time we “met.” Jackson was handsome, with a chiseled face, close-cropped black hair and green eyes that looked dangerous, like a lynx. His body was sculpted, with perfect mounded pecs dusted with discrete whirls of fuzz, 8-pack abs and well-defined obliques, leading down to a perfect “Adonis belt.”
Ethan had dirty blond hair he kept in a high and tight fade. If I had to guess, he was ROTC. There was something commanding and military about his bearing, and his piercing blue eyes. His body was meatier, the tattoos a startling contrast to his straight-laced image. He had solid, well-defined pecs, a visible six-pack and guns bigger than my thighs. While Jackson was 6’ 2” or 6’ 3”, Ethan was 6’ 6” at least. And proportionally bigger and broader.
Jackson snapped me out of my reverie. “You’ve got a decent body. Slim but with good definition.”
“I mostly run and swim,” I explained.
“What do you want to achieve, here?” Ethan asked me.
“More definition, maybe put on a little more muscle. Add some strength.”
“Your legs are pretty strong from running, and swimming has given you some pec definition,” Ethan assessed. “But you could definitely build on it.”
Jackson spoke up. “When we’re done bench-pressing we’ll take the weight down and get you started here. Meanwhile you could start with the free weights over there and do curls and squats to work your biceps, triceps, lats, legs and glutes.”
In between his sets with the barbell, he took me through a series of curls, lifts, extensions to the side and behind, as well as squats and one-arm seated curls. He was amazingly patient, studying my form and correcting me, mapping out the number of reps and sets I should aim for each muscle group, before showing me a new exercise.
After an hour and a half, my arms were trembling and my legs were jelly. By the time we got to the bench press, where he basically removed all the weights, I could barely lift just the empty barbell more than two full extensions.
Jackson’s demeanor suddenly changed. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing here, faggot? Pretending to work out so you can perv on us jocks? You think we can’t tell?” He pressed the barbell down on my chest, pinning me to the bench. Even if I weren’t worn out from the grueling routine he’d outlined for me just moments earlier, I was no match for Jackson pinning me down with his full mass.
“Hey Ethan, what do you think, should we teach this faggot a lesson? Make him sorry he came here to creep on us today?” A sinister smile overcame his handsome face.
Ethan wasted no time replying. “Damn straight. The usual faggot nerd special?”
Jackson nodded, as he kept me pinned to the bench. The usual ‘faggot nerd special?’ What the fuck did that mean? Yet something in what Ethan had said, the combination of ‘faggot’ and ‘nerd’ rang a bell somewhere in my mind. Something Nick had said. That Jackson liked to flip the script and do Jock Bully-Nerd role-play. Was this a scene for Jackson? I relaxed and glared at Jackson defiantly.
“Fuck you, I have just as much right to be here as you. You don’t own this place.”
I felt Ethan removing my shorts, which Jackson took advantage of in order to grab my balls.
“Open your mouth,” he ordered. Jackson’s throat rattled as he hawked what I imagined to be an impossibly large loogie (as long as we’re taking a fantasy trip back to high school). I kept my lips firmly pressed together. He pressed the barbell more firmly into my chest with just one hand and twisted my balls savagely. I opened my mouth, and he let drop an oyster-sized wad of spit and phlegm. I gagged involuntarily.
“Swallow,” he commanded, maintaining the pressure. I complied. Meanwhile, Ethan had hauled over two 70-lb kettlebells which he was rapidly securing to my ankles with athletic tape, effectively immobilizing my feet.
“Use the 50-lb weights for his hands. This faggot couldn’t lift them on a good day, much less now that he’s all worn out. Fucking wimp,” Jackson sneered.
While Ethan completed his task, Jackson tossed aside the barbell with a loud clang and straddled my torso. His full weight on my abdomen was hardly a relief.
“Hand me the tape,” he told Ethan. He reached behind and pulled off his shoes, and the discreet no-show socks that were under them. He stuffed them both into my mouth and tore off a piece of tape and pressed it over my mouth. Then tore off another and applied a second layer for good measure.
The socks were damp, and redolent of his feet. “Don’t want the faggot calling for help. Not that his faggot friends could save him. Drop your shorts and let’s teabag the little bitch. You can go first.”
Ethan lost the loose basketball shorts and lowered his compression shorts just enough so that the word “UNDER” was tucked under his ball sac. His impressive dick was at full mast. He straddled the bench where I was imprisoned and lowered his mighty balls over my nose and now closed eyes. The odor was intoxicating, despite my mouthful of sock. Fresh sweat and his personal musk. He smeared the ball sweat around my face and wiped his leaking cockhead on my forehead, then swiping the girth of his shaft across my face.
“I can’t wait to fuck you, faggot. I skull-fucked you the other day, but now I want a crack at that ass,” Ethan enthused, pulling his shorts back snugly over his raging hard-on. “Here, Jax, you take a turn.”
Jackson smirked and fist bumped his teammate as they switched places. But Jackson turned and faced away from my face.
“Gonna sit on the bitch faggot’s face.” He uncovered his perfectly tight, muscled ass and lowered it down towards my face and again, I closed my eyes. The smell was riper than Ethan’s crotch but not unpleasant. I could still make out Jackson’s musk under the sweat and mustiness of his ass. He rubbed back and forth from my chin to my forehead, marking me like some kind of alpha dog.
“Alright. Time for the main event!” Jackson pronounced, pulling his shorts back up over his ass. They had deliberately kept their compression shorts on, like a second skin or superhero’s defining costume. Jackson’s erection was visibly throbbing beneath. And it was huge.
“Ethan, buddy, I’ll let you go first since you didn’t get a taste the last time. That way you can open him up for me. Grab his legs. I’ll take his arms.”
One at a time, Ethan shifted the kettlebells weighing down my right foot and then left foot back towards Jackson, past where my ass was currently situated, forcing my knees behind me down below the bench, so I was now straddling it, bent in half backwards.
Still astride the bench, Jackson lifted the weights that held down my hands up and above my shoulders towards his, walking them forward so my body was forced to follow and I was flipped forward on my stomach towards the other end of the bench. How the fuck had they managed to turn me over? They adjusted the weights so I was well-positioned yet restrained with my ass in the air. This was not their first rodeo.
Ethan grabbed a bottle of lube that was obviously left over from my last encounter on the weight bench. He lowered the waistband of his shorts and hooked it beneath his balls, again not stripping off the skintight shorts which made me instantly hard again. He greased up his pole and probed my hole with slicked up figures, then wasted no time plunging his dick down into my immobilized ass.
“Fuck! I love virgin pussy.”
“Hardly virgin,” noted Jackson, scornfully.
“Virgin to me,” Ethan countered. “Virgin today. And pretty fucking sweet if I do say. This ass is way tighter than most of the sloppy faggots we beat down.”
Although this was clearly a patter for these two, a routine, I wondered how close to the truth it was. It seemed pretty convincing, and I was into it. I moaned beneath the tape sealing my lips.
Ethan kept up his commentary. “Bitch loves it. Look how hard this faggot is.”
Jackson lubed up his hand and started working my rock-hard shaft. This caused me to squirm and moan even more. “I can tell she’s close. Can you feel the faggot’s ass clenching?” He was right, I was close.
“Yeah I can,” replied Ethan enthusiastically. Then Jackson let go of my shaft about ten seconds before I was gonna shoot. I whimpered. After a minute, he reapplied his attention to my desperate dick, edging me while Ethan began to ramp up the pace of his strokes.
“I’m pretty close myself,” Ethan admitted.
“Let’s try something new,” Jackson suggested, letting go of my aching rod. “I’m gonna try and get in behind you. Hold still and as deep as you can in the faggot. Stand up a little more.” I felt Ethan’s tall frame easily rise a foot above the bench without leaving my hole, which was propped up because of how my legs were positioned.
“That’s it dude. I’mma just slide in here under you… Widen your stance.”
Ethan shifted his weight. I heard, more than felt, Jackson’s movement as he positioned himself behind and under Ethan’s balls, at the entrance to my ass, currently occupied by Ethan’s cock. Then I felt his dickhead pushing in under Ethan’s shaft. And successfully plowing in until the root of his cock was pressed between Ethan’s and my balls.
“Fuck, dude, I can feel your shaft rubbing against mine,” Ethan moaned. “That feels amazing when I’m already sheathed in the faggot’s tight pussy. I am definitely not going to last.”
They sawed in and out of me in a counterpoint, the friction and double girth burning a little, but still providing me with the most amazing sense of fullness, and unbearable stimulation of my passage’s pleasure button.
I started shooting uncontrollably, all over the bench and floor and even up to my abs and chest. It was like a geyser.
My bullies weren’t far behind. Ethan went first, no doubt prompted by the contraction of my boypussy wall during my epic orgasm, while Jackson followed seconds later. I sensed both of their organs swelling and exploding, then felt a warmth flooding deep inside me. They collapsed in a heap on me, knocking a little wind out of me, but I was far too gone to object.
After a few minutes of recovery, Ethan was the first to regain the capacity to speak. “Do you think the faggot’s learned his lesson?”
“Doubt it,” sneered Jackson. “Pretty sure he’ll be back in a couple of days.” Then his tone shifted back to matter-of-fact. “We’re starting with bench presses next time, faggot. So you’re not worn out by the free weights.”
Ethan started to cut me free, while Jackson wiped us all down with workout towels, then hauled me on to my feet off the bench, which he proceeded to wipe down also. I pulled the tape off my mouth, spit out Jackson’s socks and fished for my shorts and shirt.
“Hey faggot.” I looked up at Jackson. “We won’t fuck every time or you’ll never make any gains. Also the rest of the guys need to get in here.”
“Plus we’ve done this scene,” Ethan observed. “We’ll need to find a new one.” I let that hang there, figured I’d try to decipher it when I had a modicum of mental capacity.
