Boys In Heat, page 4
“I can make any fucker cum, pussy,” Skunk continues. “Tell you what. I’ll let you watch me with that hot blond daddy. Last time his woman was out of town, he made like Texas and I made like the drilling rig, and Texas had three friggin’ huge-ass gushers before the rig hit bottom.” He sucks down his Miller. “You want another beer or you wanna go smoke that joint?”
“Beer,” says Snake. “You’re full of shit. I watched you with that guy, that Asian guy—”
“—Hey, that was a tight fucking ass! You had trouble that night with your fratbitchboy, too.”
Snake, feigning great weariness, slowly shakes his head. “That was because that stupid fuck thought my cock was ripping him. I had to get rough to get it in. When I get rough, I quit looking to make my boy spunk.”
“You get rough a lot,” says Skunk. He signals the bartender, a voluptuous goth Valkyrie type with huge tits in a chain-mail bra.
“I got a big prick,” says Snake.
“Mine’s bigger.”
“I make ’em scream.”
“If they scream you’re doing it wrong, pussy.” Skunk flips five bucks to the Valkyrie. “They like it when they get it from me.” He palms his groin. “I’m Trigger. I’m Mr. Fucking Ed. I’m the stallion and everyone’s my mare and they always leave dripping my spooge and singing my fuckin’ name.”
But Snake doesn’t reply. He has found prey.
He sees on the far side of the bar, where a narrow passage between the windows and the stools leads back to the toilets, someone he knows will help them. His name is Justin. A girl is talking to him. Justin is strong-shouldered and tight-waisted, almost like a Marine. His pectoral muscles strain, confined in a T-shirt very white against his obsidian skin. His hair is corn-rowed and enriched with red, yellow, and green beads. His lips are soft and dark and currently giving an absentminded but thorough blow job to a stiff and sweaty bottle of Budweiser. Those lips also like to nibble clitorises as well.
“Let’s settle this,” Snake says.
“This isn’t ever going to be settled,” says Skunk.
“That ain’t the point, pussy.” Snake inclines his head toward Justin.
Skunk glances across the bar and gets Snake’s point. “Justin. Not sure if he’ll go for it tonight. It’s that time of the month, so he’s been fucking that crazy girl from Cup-a-Joe’s.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“You.” Skunk regards Justin, notes the black guy’s eyes flick toward his, hold his gaze. “Then again…”
“So you wanna?” asks Snake.
“Fuck yeah, cunt.” Skunk stands, tugs his pants up because he’s getting way too much air on his buttocks. He taps his shirt pocket, where two somnolent joints await their Prometheus. He moves off.
“Don’t fuck it up!” Snake calls.
Skunk flips him the bird as he circles the bar. Justin, the girl next to him forgotten, sees the gesture and grins.
Skunk knows from the grin that Justin knows what’s on his mind, and that Justin agrees, but the crazy girl from Cup-a-Joe complicates things, as does the girl next to Justin, who he has obviously decided he’d rather not fuck tonight. So Skunk pretends to knavery. “Hey, Justin. Wanna go smoke?” He rests a hand on Justin’s shoulder. The warm flesh, familiar to both Snake and Skunk, does not shrink away.
Justin plays stupid. “Man, I told you, I don’t smoke.”
“This ain’t tobacco,” says Skunk sotto voce, in order to enhance the drama.
Justin’s eyes glitter like emeralds in the sun. “That some of the—”
“Yeah. Come on. Snake wants to smoke too.”
A few minutes later the three descend the stairs to the sidewalk, leaving a very pissed-off girl at the bar. Through a gap in the flow of traffic they dart across Hillsborough Street to the Belltower, and then cut down Pullen Road. It’s a Friday, so the night pounds and palpitates with revelers, but the center of the frenzy is over on Western Boulevard and the swathe of park and university muffles the thunder. Girls are cruising by in Daddy’s BMW, however, and all the drunk and most of the sober ones wolf-whistle the two rough-clad headbangers and the black muscled idol as they pass.
“We need some help,” says Snake to Justin, who is grinning and waving sheepishly at some drunk high school bimbo hanging from a Mercedes convertible, inviting him to test the state’s age of consent laws.
“Yeah?” As he turns away from the street, a ghostly smile plays on Justin’s lips.
“We got a score to settle.”
“Last Wednesday not settle it?”
“Nah.”
“Figured. How much weed you got?” asks Justin.
“Lots,” Skunk lies.
“I’m your bitch,” says Justin. He peels off his shirt. Justin goes in a big way for kung fu and kendo. His torso has responded well. He is sleekly muscled, not overpowering. He exudes a dark, oily scent.
“Told ya,” Skunk grins at Snake.
“Told me what, pussy?” says Snake.
Turning left into Pullen Park, they skirt the baseball field and descend into a tree-shaded railroad cutting. The night is silenced. This place is about as private as one can get here, in the middle of the city, though from time to time some of Raleigh’s most assiduous alcoholics take up residence, usually when the get-tough politicians need reelection and run them off the streets.
Marijuana smoke blooms in the air like phantasmal cauliflowers. The joint’s orange tip reflects in Skunk’s eyes. He sucks in a lungful, passes it to Justin. Justin tokes and passes to Snake. In silence they smoke, though all is not quiet in their crotches and nothing in their minds.
By the time the second joint has burned down to a roach, Justin has become unglued from his world and is adrift on a chiaroscuro plain lit by the stroboscopic flashing of the stars. The conversation has an unreal aspect, as if they are not true people who are speaking, but actors—puppets, really—uttering someone else’s lines.
Out of it.
Toasted like a marshmallow.
Fucked that crazy chick? Really?
Laughter. It was hot. I watched them. She like what he’s got.
Not as much as he likes what I got.
Fuck you, cunt, I’m going first.
Stand back, pussy, and I’ll show you how to fuck.
A disembodied hand touches Justin’s face. Another touches his butt. Justin sees Skunk’s torso, naked and sinewy. And Skunk’s crotch, enticingly tented. Snake’s hot, beer-scented breath caresses his neck. Relaxing, he laughs.
Skunk observes the redness in Justin’s eyes, the slack shoulders, the stiff nipples like hard kernels of popcorn. He grins at Snake, whose blond waves loom over Justin’s shoulder like a sunrise. “Ready?”
“Fuck yeah,” says Snake. His eyes narrow to faintly yellowish slits. “Now I’m going to show you how to breed a man right.”
He encircles Justin’s waist from behind, pulling the hard-muscled body against his. His fingers dig into the man’s shorts.
“Not commando tonight?” asks Snake.
“No,” Justin sighs, leaning his head back against Snake. Snake’s lips nuzzle his ear. His fingertips find the thick waistband of Justin’s jockstrap, slip into the steamy pouch.
“You smell good,” says Snake.
“Blame your buddy.” Justin has acquired Skunk’s distaste for deodorant, and he is darkly pungent, powerful, like the smell of a canvas coffee sack.
“He ain’t evil enough to be my buddy,” croons Snake. His hand slips beside Justin’s prong, cups the black boy’s heavy nut sac, judges the load of cream.
“He’s my bitch,” says Skunk. He shimmies out of his fatigues. Naked save for the glorious ink. The word satyr arches over his navel, in elaborate Gothic capitals. Faces demonic and boyish and manly and equine leer from his thighs. A soft trail of hair, dense but downy, descends from his navel to his groin, thickening to dark whorls rank with scent. A wrinkled foreskin like an elephant’s hide hoods his fat, blunt cockhead. Flecks of old, dry smegma crust the exposed edge of his foreskin, partially retracted over the oily, reeking cockhead. His balls swing in a loose sac between his knees, dangerously swollen. He smells like a bin of sweaty Judas Priest concert T-shirts.
“Make yourself useful,” Snake says. “Strip the bitch.”
Skunk undoes Justin’s fly, and his khaki shorts fall bunched around his feet. The jock pouch is distorted by Justin’s titanic meat, freakish even by porn standards. “All yours, bitch.”
Snake kneels. Skunk’s fingers roam down the strap clinging to the right buttcheek, and find that fragrant nexus between a man’s legs where asshole and buttcheeks and nut sac and thighs converge. He finds a thick and greasy substance that slimes his fingers. Snake takes a whiff, then thrusts his fingers at Skunk. “Smell that, man? That’s cunt. That’s a woman’s cunt you’re smelling. This boy’s been breedin’.”
“We all got our kinks,” Justin grunts.
Snake crushes Justin’s left nipple between his fingertips. He convulses, as if a defibrillator were shocking him, a modern Lazarus.
“Awesome,” says Skunk. He leans forward, inhales the funk rising from the yellowed, straining pouch. “Fucking awesome.”
“Sweet boy,” Snake croons into Justin’s ear. He opens his fly, exposing his long dong, a fat cudgel with a brutally blunt head. His balls cling to the underside of the shaft like two tightly packed lemons. He bends and thrusts his face between Justin’s buttocks.
“Christ,” Justin mutters. He loves it. He loves how it feels to have a man lapping at him there, like a dog. Girls won’t do that, no matter how much be begs, how long he spends satisfying them, how often he laps at them, no matter how many times he makes them cum.
Lured by Justin’s potent reek, Snake burrows into the buttcrack. Justin did shower last night, but he’s been vigorous since then—a ten-mile predawn run with the campus ROTC; a post-class workout, hard and long; fucking Audrey long and hard late in the afternoon. Justin’s aroma is a garden of dangerous herbs and sharp spices.
Snake’s tongue laves the ass crevice. Slimy buttflesh slithers over his face, raw and sour. Pulling back, his nostrils still thick with Justin’s scent, he peels apart the muscular buttocks with his thumbs. A chocolate pucker nestles inside, clenched tight, not a fortress of virtue but an experienced cavern of delight. Snorting and puffing like a stallion, Snake’s tongue charges for that doughnut, puckering and simpering at him like a brain-dead whore.
Playfully, Justin puckers his hole tight as a Baptist needing to shit during the pastor’s peroration. Snake’s tongue dances minuets on the hard ring. Tightly curled hair abrades his chin. He is frustrated. He wants to penetrate, not lick.
“Come on,” Snake croons, “open up.” He reaches forward into the jockstrap, takes Justin’s nuts again, and slowly begins to stroke them. Justin cries out and his eyes roll up. Snake’s tongue administers a delightful Templar kiss between strong Saracen buttocks. Justin yields to the serpent, grunting as the tongue slips into him.
The raw tang of jockbutt doesn’t satisfy. It makes Snake want more. He wants to breed. He frees himself with a slurp from the spit-soaked pucker, stands.
“Ain’t he a good kisser?” Skunk pulls a small bottle of lube from his fatigues and tosses it to Snake.
Justin pants like a dog, too far lost in his anticipatory moment.
“Thanks, pussy,” says Snake. He smears lube on his cock, leans into the sweaty, glistening flesh. As he lines up his cock, he teases himself with Justin’s wet, sloppy asscrack. Snake likes the thrill he feels shooting between his nuts and his cockhead. It inspires him to fuck like a god.
Skunk’s gaze is level and serious. “Do it.”
The wisdom of this situation requires that Snake, for once, obey his buddy. The blunt pink head rips open the prim flesh circle. Justin bucks; a low moan oozes from him as the gigantic shaft splits him. His hole, like Eve’s, must stretch to take the Serpent.
“Oh yeah,” Snake purrs. He grins, and begins to show off, just like they used to on the playgrounds. He has known his buddy since they were children. Giving the braided and willing bitch no time to adjust, he thrusts his cock ruthlessly inward, exploiting that soft opening in the hard flesh. Justin squeaks like a rat as Snake sheathes himself fully in mancunt. Justin’s ravaged flesh convulses in a futile effort to disgorge Snake. Snake revels in Justin’s defeat, his balls throbbing against Justin’s squirming nut sac.
Skunk, fisting his shivering flesh, salutes his buddy’s show. His foreskin moves with soft slurps over his cheesy head, and a strand of precum sways like a strand of spider silk in the night’s uncertain air.
Justin shuts his eyes. These guys are good. This is why he gives himself to them when they ask. He bends forward, rests his forearms on his thighs just above his knees, riding the celestial agony of a dragon cock jammed deep into his bowels.
Snake surrenders to the need to thrust. But the simple in and out wouldn’t have been showing off. He interweaves intricate themes into the simple thrusts of his fucking—corkscrews, twists, off-axis thrusts, subtle rotations of his meaty shaft. An artist of the flesh, his leaking cockhead paints Justin’s rectum with his spicy precum. Madness tinges Justin’s moaning as his cunt absorbs with soft squelches the headbanger’s fat prong. Snake looks over at Skunk, grins triumphantly.
Suddenly, in the midst of the show, Snake feels Justin’s butthole clenching, a gratifying flurry of constrictions on his prong. Snake recognizes the rhythm, because he’s used to feeling that twice-a-second pulse of a prostate explosively depressurizing. He just didn’t expect to bring off a recently laid Justin so easily. He grins, slips a hand into the jock pouch, pulls out fingers dripping with gray goo. He shoves his fingers under Skunk’s face.
“That’s one!” he chortles.
Justin’s semen on Snake’s fingers remind Skunk how his old Jockeys used to smell back in junior high, after he woke from a night of frenzied dreams.
Snake slams Justin’s hole a few more times and then pulls out, his shaft still erect. A serious fight between himself and Skunk, this is not some simple exercise in nut-busting. Justin’s cunt emits a profuse string of soft, moist farts. Rivulets of mucus ooze down Snake’s cockshaft. Snake’s soaked pubic thatch smells of butt and jism.
Skunk smacks palms with Snake. Now tagged, his nude body the dark core of his distinctive aroma, he takes the black boy’s hips in his hands and positions him for breeding. He cannot help himself; he begins to gnaw one of Justin’s braids.
“No romance,” Snake barks. “Fuck the bitch.”
“Yeah,” groans Justin. “No goddam romance.”
Skunk coughs up a thick gob of spit, smears it onto his shaft. Spit and headcheese foam into gooey, smelly mess as he jerks his meat.
“Now,” he breathes into Justin’s ear, “here’s the best fuck you’re ever gonna have. Bitch.”
Tugging his foreskin back, he smears the rancid, almost liquid cheese on Justin’s ring. His cockhead makes one circuit of the butthole before he thrusts. Justin’s whorish groan—like a guitar chord, heavily distorted, guttural, passionate, full of yearning—echoes dangerously over the park as he plays the slut with gusto.
Skunk’s thrusting starts slowly, he restrains himself from reaching a swift crescendo. Justin’s rectum is a cunt best savored with a measured pace. The long shaft saws away at his butt and each of the rutting bucks indulges in the heat and warmth of the other. Justin, appreciating a stud-gourmand like Skunk, responds in the incoherent manner that is the highest and most civilized mental state he can currently attain: his groans slowly dissolve into gurgles, and then trail away.
“Watch, pussy,” Skunk snarls at Snake. “Watch me fuck this guy. Watch and learn.”
“Eat shit, Darth Pussy.”
The motion of Skunk’s hips becomes erratic, even chaotic. His balls describe loops in phase-space around the strange attractor of Justin’s asshole. As Justin accepts Skunk’s cock, an infinite, blissful realm seeps into his soul. He rides it for as long as he can, but he’s not able to resist these guys for long. Within thirty seconds his gasps are rapid-paced, explosive. His anus quivers, anticipating orgasm.
But quickies aren’t Skunk’s style. He rips his cock outward until his fat cockhead lodges in Justin’s anus like a cherry pit. He feels the ecstasy drain from Justin’s flesh in the same way an evening rain in July kills the fireworks show. In his cruel denial, he exposes Justin to a different notion of sexual divinity. Then he indulges his cruelty further: his hand slaps in actinic bursts of pain on Justin’s ass.
Snake is contemptuous. “You ain’t doing it for him. You remember last time?”
“Shut up, pussy.” Skunk doesn’t care if Snake’s too stupid to appreciate his tactics. He spears Justin deep, unleashes a flurry of thrusts, fucking like a rabbit on speed. Raw rectal tissue, swollen and wet, glides over his stone-hard cock. He opens Justin’s asscheeks, staring at the purpled flesh his cock violates. Lube and mucus glisten on his ramrod.
The black boy likes to be held down. And used. Fucked. Bred. He’s the pupil, Skunk the teacher; the subject: studding. Justin surrenders to Skunk’s lesson, choking and groaning and spitting as his huge dong unleashes another potent flood into his dripping jockstrap.
Triumphantly, Skunk rips free. “That’s one apiece, fuckhead,” he says to Snake. He grips his cock at the base, brandishes it like a sword.
“Took you long enough.”
Justin, with creaking muscles, rises from his crouch. Thick sperm clots his jockstrap.
“You’re going nowhere,” Snake says.
“You aren’t kidding,” says Justin. He finds a patch of soft pine needles, lies down, lifts his legs.
“All right,” says Snake. He kneels, spreads Justin’s dark strong thighs. His cock finds the hole again, and he sheathes himself in it like Excalibur in stone. “Bitch,” Snake laughs. “You’re loose as a cow.” He begins pumping hard.
“I got the bull cock,” says Skunk.
