[This story contains elements of dubious consent. If that's not your jam, read elsewhere.]
I emerged from the basement to find Nick reading on a cozy arm chair in the living room, the one that Lexi liked to read in. “You look like you’ve been through the wringer,” he noted drily.
“I just had a heavy workout. Where is everyone?”
“Riley and Dean are over at the other house. Pedro and Rico are up in their in rooms, most likely,” Nick explained. “You can clean up and grab a nap. It’s not yet time to get started with dinner. It’s you and Rico tonight, by the way.”
“Yeah, I saw that. Huh.”
“What?” Nick pressed.
“It’s just so quiet. It’s weird.”
“Not really,” Nick replied. “Jackson and Ethan asked for the space to themselves.”
I digested that information, then climbed the stairs to my bedroom, stripped and got into the shower. As I washed off, I began to consider how I was changing. When did I start thinking of my ass as my “boypussy” or my “boycunt.” Was I just getting into the part? And more important, was I fully slipping out of it afterwards?
Making dinner with Rico was a riotous affair, only because he could not keep his hands off me in the kitchen, and I couldn’t stop giggling and trying to avoid him. For one thing, I was very ticklish, which only provoked him further.
We were doing poached salmon with sauteed spinach and steamed potatoes. I was stirring the shallots and garlic prior to wilting the spinach, and Rico was grinding his rampant dick into my jean-clad ass crack (I made sure to wear extra layers when cooking with Rico. He could easily remove a pair of gym shorts in the middle of dinner prep).
“Get a room, you two,” groused Nick on his way to grab a lite beer from the laundry room fridge.
“Jealous!” mocked Rico. In his thick Rio accent it sounded like “jay-lows.”
“Dinner will be ready in ten, if you want to tell the others,” I said, to mollify him.
Rico snuck up behind me and wrapped his arms around my chest so I could not avoid the press of his huge, hard dick into my ass. “Tonight, carrocho, I want you all to myself in your room. The others know.” I shivered. I hadn’t been one-on-one with Rico. I wondered how it would differ from his playful kitchenmate self, or his rowdy soccer hooligan persona with Pedro.
Despite Nick’s earlier grousing, dinner was an affable moment. Nick and Dean were taking credit for my getting a new gym routine, while they also were plotting the wrestling “lessons” I was going to take from them, along with their teammate Ernesto, whom I’d seen again a few days ago.
I was skeptical. It sounded like a scene to me, but I believed in well-rounded fitness, and it couldn’t hurt to get some pointers from Nick about how to survive “mattress-wrestling” and “bed ambushes.” It occurred to me also that I’d had very little interaction with Dean, outside of being called “Little Buddy,” at breakfast and during dinner prep or cleanup. There was whatever part he’d played in my initiation, but that was mostly a blur.
Riley was in high spirits. I’d told him I’d met Finn, or Fine as he insisted he was known. He was eager for me to hang out with them. Finn was one of his best friends on the team, and he’d gotten to be very friendly with Finn’s roommate from the dorms, now housemate at the duplex, a football player called Donovan.
By my calculations, he was the only remaining athlete I hadn’t formally met, though I’m pretty sure he was the one who’d been very quick to call me “faggot,” when, during the initiation, I complained I couldn’t tell them apart with their masks on. As Pedro had pointed out, I was learning to keep an open mind.
“I was wondering. And don’t take this the wrong way, Nick. I know you’re big and strong and mean.” Nick looked up at me, curiosity piqued.
“What’s that, Little Buddy?” Dean prompted.
“Well, I thought wrestlers mostly practiced with people close to their own weight. I know Luco and Ernesto are pretty close, but you and Nick are pretty far from having someone in your classes."
“I mostly spar with Luca,” Nick responded. “It’s good for smaller wrestlers to practice with guys above their weight class, but I’m still tough enough. I give Luca a run for his money.”
“And he can always practice with me or Ernesto,” added Dean, “if we feel that he needs an even tougher challenge.”
“Well, what about you Dean?”
“We don’t have any guys above my weight class in our program,” he explained. “I just try to keep myself sharp with these guys and push myself in weight training.”
“Didn’t you notice,” Nick asked me, “how Dean was in three times as many pairings as anyone else? He uses endurance training to push himself.”
“Right. Makes sense. Is there any reason why Luca isn’t part of this wrestling practice you’re setting up?” I asked.
“You think you can handle four mighty wrestlers, bitch?” Nick challenged.
Dean came to my defense. “Oh I think Little Buddy is more than up for it, aren’t you?
Things wound down after that. I headed up to bed, brushed my teeth and put on sleeping shorts. Before long, and as promised, Rico let himself in, then closed and locked the door.
He had a small gym bag with him, which piqued my curiosity a bit, I’ll admit. I didn’t take Rico for someone who was terribly kinky. But he brought out some leather straps, or harnesses, or restraints. I couldn’t quite tell.
“I will not hurt you. Not really. You need to trust me,” he assured me.
“Um, I did until just now. You’re scaring me a little,” I confessed.
“No there are just some things I need to do. And you said yourself you loved my enthusiasm!”
He pulled out a crusty stained rag that looked like it had been a dust rag or maybe at one time a t-shirt. “Do you know what this?”
“It looks like your cum rag from junior high. Gross.”
His face lit up with his smile. “High school! How you knew?”
I recoiled. “Keep that away from me! How’d you even get that into the country?”
I could see the disappointment in his face, like I was an ungrateful child. Then he slammed his fist into my gut, a real sucker punch. It was the last thing I expected. As I gasped for breath, he forced that cumrag into my mouth and tied it around my head securely, gagging me.
The next thing he did was remove my shorts. I had no time to react before he had both of my hands cuffed and chained to posts at the head of my bed, and a minute later my ankles were also restrained, at the foot. I glared up at him with wild eyes, disbelieving.
“You will get to know me, carrocho. First you taste me.”
It wasn’t even that the rag was vile or putrid. The very thought of it revolted me, but as he sat astride me, staring at me with his rigid and large cock tenting his shorts, I was struck by the idea that I was tasting the essence of him. His life force. At some perverse level, I understood that he wanted me to be intimately acquainted with that.
He looked down at me with an affectionate smile, then slapped my face brutally. Followed by the opposite cheek with the other hand. He taunted me with gentle, teasing slaps, and then would haul off another brutal one. He thumped my pecs with his fists, then massaged them reverently. He licked my face, particularly the tears that his slaps provoked.
Then suddenly he jumped up, peeled off his shorts and unhooked my ankle cuffs. With no effort at all, he flipped my legs and ass, and recuffed them, so I was twisted at the waist. He quickly remedied this by unhooking my wrists and flipping my top half so I was fully on my stomach.
He lost his own shorts and I heard him greasing himself with lube. He covered me with deliberation, positioning his swollen dick at the groove of my ass crack, rubbing up and down. He bore down with his full weight, pinned me down utterly. He hooked one arm around my throat, so it rested in the crook of his elbow, his hand cupping my shoulder beyond it, so I was safely restrained, in his care. The other hand aimed his cock, which he forced into me with one thrust.
I moaned into the filthy rag, which was getting wetter from my spit. That hand he soon snaked round to my belly, where he pulled me against him tightly, so I could feel the solid mass of him, rock solid abs, his chest, even the arms that encircled me, all pressing against me, containing me.
He recited a litany of invective and invocation in Portuguese, no doubt calling me his whore, his pet, his slut, his darling, his bitch, his property, telling me how good I felt, telling me how hard he was giving it to me. It was almost liturgical in processional repetition. An obscene hymnal of sex talk.
He came four or five times in three hours, never growing soft, never moving off me or ceasing to clutch me to his body desperately. Never changing position. I came at least twice. At some point, he removed the gag, asking me if it was good for me. I said it was. He then detached all but one of the cuffs, keeping my right leg locked to the foot of the bed. This still allowed me to curl up in his protective embrace. We slept.
When we woke, he was tender. He fucked me again, gently, on our sides, him spooning me with one leg thrown over mine possessively.
“Do you understand?” he asked me.
“What?” I replied, trying to reach through, to grasp what he wanted to say.
“I needed to show you.”
“Show me what?” I waited patiently.
“That I could be with you all night. That I could take you all night. It would be fine,” he tried to explain. Que você estaria seguro comigo. You are safe with me.”
“I know that,” I reassured him. We fell back asleep, interlocked like that.
* * *
Later that day, as I was soaking in a well-earned bath in Pedro/Lexi’s bathroom (she’d asked for the tub, I’d taken the modern walk-in shower), I contemplated all these slightly damaged people surrounding me. I included myself. What was the thread, and who understood it? Was it Pedro? Coach Jacobs? Nick?
I decided to pay a call on Coach. I knocked on the open door of his office and stepped in. No one else was in the building.
“Hey,” he said with alacrity. “I think I maybe owe you a visit.”
“That’s okay,” I reassured him. “I felt like getting out of the house.”
“How are you doing?”
Weirdly, I was prepared for the question. “I’m fine. Learning a lot about myself. Asking questions, getting answers.”
“I suppose you have questions for me,” he said, his eyebrows raised expectantly.
“I do. Basically this: is this whole thing some kind of rehab program for people with sexual violence issues?”
He cleared his throat. “I mean that’s one way of looking at it. Another is a holiday. Or an opportunity.”
“Or a social experiment. In which I’m the control. Or the lab rat,” I said, accusingly.
“First of all,” Coach qualified, “They’re not people with sexual violence issues. They’re kids who have sexual desires, like everyone, and who need to learn to channel them. As someone overseeing multiple athletic programs, I’ve been trying to guide them in their choice of outlets.
“And yes, the quarantine gave me the perfect opportunity to launch a controlled environment for turning sexual impulses into release.”
“Without which you wouldn’t have found me, your very convenient ‘outlet,’ as you term it.”
He looked at me with unpitying eyes. “You haven’t been my outlet yet.”
“Fuck you!” I exclaimed. “Do you have impulse control or sexual release issues, also?”
“Calm yourself,” he directed, “or you will regret it. You will show me respect. We all have sexual release issues. And Pedro had his eyes on you before Covid even hit. You were already on our radar.”
“If I’m part of your behavioral modification or curtailment program, I should know what I’m dealing with,” I insisted.
“That’s fair,” he conceded. ‘Sit.” I did.
“It’s not rehab,” he continued. “It’s a confluence of interests. Including yours. Some of these guys have had issues or incidents in their past which may have set off alarms, if only for them personally. Others just have tastes that could get them in trouble, or need to be channeled creatively and sexually, to the sexual satisfaction of an optimal group. Or closely watched, because there are danger signs.”
“For example?” I prompted.
“For example Riley. Riley has had at least two complaints filed with the Dean from women accusing him of unwanted sexual attention, or touching. He’s been steered away from dating women, period, but expressed no interest in channeling those impulses towards men to work out that aggression, or to master it.
“But you’ve managed to capture his attention. Personally, I think if he can just work out his jollies right now, the impulse will pass. He’s too interested in being with a woman, and rough sex with men will probably show him definitively why that’s not going to work with women.”
“What about Rico?” I asked.
“Have you had a problem with Rico?” he replied, surprised.
“No, not really. I just sense something there. Some damage or conflict.”
“When Rico was still in high school, he was a rising soccer star, with something of an international profile. People knew he was going places. And he was impressionable. He had slightly low self-esteem and responded well to praise. There was a young kid in his neighborhood who idolized him but also saw Rico as possibly his ticket out of the shantytowns of Rio. Rico became his hero, and he followed him around everywhere, and Rico responded. The kid, a twink who was barely 15 when Rico was 17 said he would do anything to be with him.
“‘Anything?’ Rico asked. ‘Anything!’ the kid assured him. ‘Would you sleep with me?’ ‘Of course,’ responded the kid. ‘I want to try it rough, is that okay?’ ‘Of course,’ replied the kid. So basically, Rico tied up and gagged this 15-year-old twink and brutally raped him for 4 hours. The kid was screaming and kicking from the start, he had no idea what he’d gotten himself into, but Rico was so enamored by the fact that this kid who worshiped him was willing to be with him and would let him do this, he was oblivious that anything was wrong.”
“Been there, done that,” I stated, drily.
“Really?” Coach Jacobs perked up with concern.
“No, it’s alright, I see where this is going,” I reassured him.
“Well, the next morning, when Rico untied the kid, he was catatonic. To say he was no longer Rico’s number one fan would be an understatement. He barely recognized Rico or his surroundings. Fortunately for Rico, the kid had a bit of a reputation in the neighborhood, and with some money thrown around to hush up any scandal, given Rico’s potential career, the problem went away.
“But not for Rico. He was heartbroken that he was so caught up in his own pleasure and the feelings of adoration that he had not seen the obvious signs of the kid’s distress and just pursued his own pleasure.”
“Honestly,” I speculated, “I think he’s resolved that for himself. He just needs to remember to check in with his partners, if not for ongoing consent, then some prior discussion of limits. He’s really a doll. Just a very exuberant, really rough lover. What about Pedro?”
“This is all highly confidential information. I’m only telling you because I agree, you have a compelling interest in knowing, and because I think it could help you with certain decisions and choices. Pedro was at boarding school before coming here. His junior year roommate snaked him with his girlfriend, behind his back. Pedro was furious.
“So he took matters into his own hands, behind said roommate’s back, literally. The school was able to make it go away, both because Pedro was popular, and because this roommate did NOT want the incident getting out to his peers or family. Pedro, however, had quite the scare and learned the valuable lesson that he could not go around meting out his own forms of justice.”
“How do you know all this? Surely it’s not in their transcripts or entrance applications?”
“God no,” Coach said, looking horrified. “I do my research. I have my networks. A boarding school like Pedro’s wants to remain in good standing with a program like ours. So they vet their candidates, and tell us what we should know.”
“Nick?” I asked, ticking off my list.
“Both Nick and Jackson are healthy. They raise no red flags for me. They both have their dark sides, and instinctively knew this wasn’t something they could pursue with women. Fortunately exploring it with consenting if reluctant men pops their corks. They know you’re available, and you haven’t yet said no, so they’re going to continue pushing the envelope. But they’re also the guardrails in the two houses.”
“Yes, but there’s something you’re not saying, I can tell. I get you’re not worried about them, but that wasn’t my question,” I pressed.
Jacobs hesitated. “Nick had a blip. He and two of his high school wrestler buddies thought it would be fun to kidnap and terrorize the only out gay guy in their class for shits and giggles. They grabbed him and took him to one of their mountain cabins for a long weekend. Fucking, double penetration, smacking him around. I’m sure that doesn’t come as a surprise to you.
“In their defense, I think they sincerely believed he’d be into it. And they convinced him to stay silent about it. Nick knows better now. Same thing with Jax and Ethan. They had a spell when they were bullying a fag, um, gay guy in their high school. Cornered him after hours, hazed him then fucked him. Turned out the fag didlike it. Case closed.”
“Where do you put Ethan?” I asked.
“Ethan is Jackson light,” he replied, chuckling. “Not as clever or self-aware. He’s working through some adolescent fantasies. He’ll get bored.”
“Dean?”
“Dean is a bit of a taskmaster as captain of the wrestling team. He rides his team super hard, and will not excuse poor performance due to lack of effort. Shape up, ship out, or loser gives up his ass. It happens more than you think, but it’s his last year. We’ve got it under control.”
“What about Ernesto?” I asked.
“Ernesto is a tough nut to crack. He’s never been in trouble, has no problems with women or his teammates. My hunch, based on things I’ve heard and things he may have said, is that he needs to work something out of his system.”
“And Luca?”
“Luca is something of a loner. And someone whom Dean has been riding hard. Excellent wrestler, though. I don’t know more than that.”
“Finn?”
“Finn is a total cypher to me. He’s charismatic, a leader, devious and selfish. He doesn’t think the rules apply to him, and so far, he’s gotten away with whatever he may have done. So in a way, I’m telling you to be careful. That’s why Jackson is assigned to him. Just as Nick is assigned to Riley.”
“And his roommate Donovan?”
“Best I can tell, Donovan is a sheep, always looking to follow somebody else more enterprising into trouble. That’s about all I know.”
I studied the coach’s dark 5-o’clock shadow. “So I’m like, what, exorcising their demons?”
“Think of it more as letting them come out to play.”
“And you’re happy with how this is all working out?” I asked.
“Tickled so far.”
“And with my part in all this?”
“As long as you’re happy. Speaking as a sports administrator, you’ve got a bit of a mouth on you, which we don’t appreciate as a rule. But in this situation, that’s literally a feature, not a bug.”
“Ha ha,” I said rolling my eyes.
“That’s not what I meant,” he said.
“What, because I think for myself?” I asked, seeing if he’d rise to the bait.
“We appreciate discipline. You are disciplined in many admirable aspects of your life, not the least of which is that you run a tight ship in your home. But you are reckless in other areas, which I’m not as crazy about. Fortunately it’s a controlled environment. I try to see this as the Twelve Labors of Hercules. A little daring, a little recklessness are required. You’ve tackled two or three so far.”
“Eleven Labors. There are just eleven other guys besides me,” I pointed out.
“I put this whole thing together. You don’t think I deserve a little outlet for release?”
“Do you have a history of… impulse control?” I asked, non-plussed.
“A story for another day.” And with that, I knew I was dismissed.
Back in my room, I was puttering on my computer, updating my notes from the few online classes I was taking. There was a knock at my door, then in burst Riley.
“Um, who is it?” I asked, rhetorically.
“Hey faggot.” He shut the door behind him.
I rolled my eyes. “I thought we were past that, when we’re not doing a scene.”
“What the fuck’s a scene, bitch?”
Oh right. Riley is not on the same page as us. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and was going commando under loose mesh shorts that didn’t really hide his pubic patch or the outline of his cock. His chest and arms kind of made me drool, I’m ashamed to say. Riley was busy studying the floor, the walls. Looking anywhere but at me.
“Spit it out,” I said.
“Listen, I’m horned up and was hoping for another sesh.” He looked up. “Just you and me. I know last time we kind of took you by surprise, but I thought this time we could treat it like a date.”
“A date? You want to date me?” I asked, incredulous.
“No, you dumb faggot. I want to treat it like a date. With a chick. Where we’re on a date and I get horned up and put the moves on you.”
“So role-playing. Like I was saying, a scene,” I observed, dully.
“Just come to my room after dinner. Rico’s giving me the room.”
“I have my own room, you don’t need to kick him out.”
“Trust me,” Riley assured me, all brazen confidence, “I need the room. I’ve got this all figured out. Just be there.”
I made a beeline for Nick’s room. After knocking and getting a “Yo,” I peeked in. Nick was on his bed, earbuds on, looking at his phone. He plucked out the earpieces.
“What’s up?”
“Riley stopped by my room. More like barged in. He’s horny and wants a ‘session’ tonight. He said he wants to treat it like a date, where he gets frisky and gets his freak on. When I asked him if he meant role-playing, he was like, ‘No, don’t worry, I’ve got it figured out.’”
“You don’t want to do it?” Nick looked at me, questioningly.
“He’s smoking hot. Of course I want to do it. Do you think I should do it? He’s already differentiated it from your first scene, though he doesn’t seem to realize it was a scene, by saying he wasn’t interested in taking me by surprise.”
Nick considered his words. “I don’t think Riley is really much of a negotiator. Or understands the notion of prior consent, though clearly he thinks you consent to everything because fags can’t say no. I mean, I can be there if you want, but then I have to get involved, and to be honest, I’m kind of beat.”
“He doesn’t want anyone else there.”
“Well,” Nick continued, “I don’t think Riley has much game. You’re tough, and really, the worst he can do is rough fuck your face or your pussy. I honestly think he’s trying to work through certain fantasies to get them out of his system, so he can move on to just dating a vanilla chick who’s into him. What harm is there? We’re all next door if things seem to get out of hand. I’ll have a word with him about hard limits here in the house.”
“Cool. That’s kind of what I thought.” I moved toward the door.
“Hold up a minute.” I turned to face him. “Come over here,” he said, indicating Dean’s bed next to his. I sat and waited, expectantly.
“I want to do a scene with my wrestling buddies. But I want it to be amazing. To blow their minds. Obviously, I need your help…”
I cut him off. “We do a wrestling scrimmage, or whatever you guys call it.”
“Practice bouts.”
“Okay, practice bouts. Dean gets pissed at me, says if I don’t focus and do better, it’s my ass. I suck in my first bout with Luca, so Dean tells me it’s my ass. After he’s done fucking me, he tells Luca he can have a go at me. Everyone wins.”
“And Ernesto?
“You ask if Ernesto gets a go at me, and Dean says yes, but solo. With no one else around.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, dude, are you a mind reader?” Nick erupted, flabbergasted. “That’s almost exactly what I was thinking.”
“Work it out,” I confirmed. “I’m game. I saw enough the other day to fake it as the lazy wrestling fuck-up, but you guys can give me pointers. Or whatever else you want to give me.”
