Boys In Heat, page 5
“Horse cock, dumbfuck,” snaps Snake. He’s rapidly approaching the point where he needs to juice. His balls hum like a power generator. But there’s a war on, so he fights the urge. He’s got to make Justin spunk again.
Snake glides his fingertips over Justin’s sweat-streaked muscular flanks. There is no hair on the polished obsidian skin, not even the hard nipples. Snake strokes the nipples as if he were the breeze, even as he pounds furiously into the wet and sloshy cavern of Justin’s asshole. Justin responds to the ecstasy, melting beneath Snake’s pounding fury. Encouraged, Snake crushes the nipples, stretches them into long tentacles of pain. Justin’s soft moans become squeals and screams that threaten to shatter him. Snake joins his noise-making, though with the objective of escaping orgasm, not achieving it.
By a few seconds, he does escape.
Justin twitches and spasms, then looses a weak volley of sperm into his jock like a breeding stallion near the end of an active day.
“There,” gasps Snake, ripping out of the hole. “Two. I fucking told you. I make my bitches cum twice.” His balls boil, desperate to breed. “Shit.” He pinches his cockhead.
“Shit is right,” says Skunk. “He barely felt that.”
Justin’s exhausted panting contradicts him, but that’s not the point, and everyone knows that.
Skunk mounts up and thrusts home. Justin’s rectum, once tight as a glove, is loose, floppy, and wet as a mare’s pussy. This is to Skunk’s advantage, and he knows it. Though the succulent flesh tempts him, he resists the urge to take the long plunge, to stroke those guts deep with the mindless intent not of showing off for Snake but purely, selfishly relieving the crippling pressure in his own balls. An experienced warrior accustomed to battle-grounds inside a young guy’s butt, he fights off the urge.
Still, it’s been a long night. He’s drenched with sweat. And his nuts hurt. So he slips his thumb inside, curls it, jabs Justin’s prostate. An old standard, and it’s almost cheating, but both of them have used the tactic before. And it’s successful. Justin cums, a thin watery discharge not unlike dog saliva. Gasping desperately, Skunk rolls off, his cock throbbing.
“You suck,” snorts Snake. Contemplating how he’s going to empty them, he idly strokes his nuts.
“That’s two apiece,” Skunk pants. “Fuck this crap. Let’s get a nut.”
Snake laughs. “Now you’re talking.”
His face dripping, Justin’s eyes alight on the twin prongs. He knows what the headbangers are thinking. “I’m gonna be sore.”
“But happy,” says Skunk.
They shift positions without speaking, because they know what needs to be done. Skunk reclines on the pine needles, his dong thrusting skyward. Justin squats over him and stuffs the headbanger’s huge cockhead into his churning cunt. Skunk moans, feeling his meat invading Justin. His pubic hair crushes against the tight buttcrack. Snake, kneeling behind Justin, rests a hand between the black boy’s shoulder blades and bends him forward. Moving his cockhead down the sweaty, gooey furrow, he finds his buddy’s iron-hard shaft. The sloppy ass ring laves his cockhead with transparent slime. Using Skunk’s shaft as his guide, he begins to work his way inward.
“You fuckers are gonna kill me.” Justin relaxes, his eyes rolling up, his shoulders sagging not in defeat but in anticipation of a sublime victory. Snake’s fat prong elicits a sharp cry as it plunges suddenly into the hot cavern. Justin’s exhausted thighs tremble.
Skunk, feeling his buddy’s entry, bucks hard, ramming his belly against Justin’s nuts. He duels Snake’s meat, feeling their urethras pulse against each other. Justin’s rectum flexes on their shafts, crossing them like sabers.
“Oh, that’s it,” Skunk says. Because now he feels Snake’s nuts against his, and he’d kill for that feeling of his buddy’s potency united with his own.
“Yeah, man,” Snake says hoarsely.
“Shut up, you fucking morons,” Justin hisses, “and screw me.”
Helpless before the awesome urge swelling their balls, they begin to work.
Fighting an incredible ejective pressure, Snake drives full-length thrusts slowly up the hot black boy’s velvet cunt. A pungent, sweaty sheen adorns the swaying sac of his nuts. He takes full responsibility for the thrusting, for Skunk can only move slightly. He grins, knowing that their orgasms will be his responsibility. His buddy and the bitch will both cum when Snake wills it.
Feeling like a parachutist does in those long, exquisite seconds before the chute opens, Skunk savors the debauchery of raw, tightly-packed flesh moving on his prong. Snake’s cock, hard as concrete, thrusts eagerly alongside his own, and Justin’s stretched anal hole fits his cock as if tailor-made. Their duet plays delightfully along his cock, notes as tightly coupled as their breeding bodies.
Eyes closed, his thighs burning from the effort, Justin rises up. His mouth is arid from the weed. He lives for this feeling—to be a cunt for a stud cock. Though he prefers pussy to cock, he’s never disdained pleasure when offered. And this pleasure, to be a bitch to two studs who know what studding is, has benefited Justin many times in the sack.
Justin opens his knees, presenting his butt like a mare should to her stallion. He wishes now he could scream, that he could attract attention, that some girl—like the one back at Sadlack’s—would come by and see him, here like this, fucked by two donkey-donged perverts. Because he wants people to see the depths of depravity he loves.
Balls about to burst, Snake plunges a dry finger into Skunk’s tight butthole.
“Motherfucker!” snarls Skunk. The nova, incipient in his ball sac, erupts into Justin’s night-shrouded bowels, and chars Justin’s rectum at least ten feet up the tube of twisting flesh. The howls from his release penetrate the dreams of the somnolent houses and dormitories surrounding the park.
Snake, an evil treacherous bastard the equal of Brutus, Cassius, and Judas, just laughs. “Bitch.”
Skunk’s a stud, a breeder; the load is copious, something you’d see gushing from the sluices of Hoover Dam. The white goo clots on the thrusting cocks.
“About fuckin’ time,” grunts Snake. His eyes go blank, he whimpers, his gusher pours into Skunk’s sea of sperm. Their cocks thrash like dinosaurs in conflict.
Justin, his ululations deathlike, unloads the dregs of his cream into the spunk-crusted jockstrap. No pounding for Audrey tonight. But the sperm that really matters is percolating in his cunt like some savage potion. She’ll thank him tomorrow. He stands upright. With his legs parted and his buttocks open, the semen clotting his anus glistens like snot on black velvet.
Skunk and Snake’s cocks slacken into long fleshy arcs rooted in their sweaty groins.
“That last nut,” says Snake, “was mine.”
“Bullshit,” snaps Skunk.
“Tell him, Justin,” says Snake.
“It was his,” says Justin.
“You’re full of shit,” says Skunk.
“I’m full of cum.” He farts, wetly, and a few teaspoons of creamy spunk splatter on the ground. He sighs, glad for the relief. “Don’t get pissed off, man,” Justin says. He moves toward his shorts. “You got me last time.”
“This ain’t the end of this,” says Skunk. “There’s a party this Friday. Over at a fraternity in Chapel Hill.”
“You talking about a rematch?” Snake laughs.
“You up for it?”
Snake grabs his thick meat, brandishes it at Skunk as if it were a red cape and his buddy a bull. “I’m up for it.”
DUFFLE
Dallas Angguish
Ventura, California
Joey Verona celebrates his eighteenth birthday just before he leaves for college. His dad lets him have his first official beer. Just the one. He screws up his face and pretends it’s the first time the amber liquid has touched his lips. He doesn’t mention the sleepover at Leonard Spinkle’s house when he and Leonard stole a six-pack from Mr. Spinkle’s basement fridge and got drunk looking at a brutally soiled copy of Playboy.
Joey doesn’t tell them about the crazed look in Leonard’s eyes when he folded out Miss June, her yellow bikini cast aside like the plucked petals of a juicy flower. He especially doesn’t tell them that, despite the inebriation, Miss June hadn’t had the same effect on him as she had on Leonard, whose tongue became unhinged and hung fatly and hotly from his lips, a heat-swollen sausage, small droplets of drool forming at its end as Leonard’s fingers danced feverishly over Miss June’s stapled crease.
Joey had been more interested in the beach on which Miss June floundered like a nympho seal. The golden sand, the white-tipped surf rolling behind her left shoulder: perfect beach break. Is that Malibu? he wondered. The surf’s supposed to be really good there. When he sobered up, his lack of interest in Miss June’s crease caused him some anxiety but, after all, Malibu is Malibu.
His brother mails a present. A T-shirt from UCSC, where he’s a grad student. Usually his brother Dean is a total fucker but the T-shirt’s cool. It has a slug on the front, same one Travolta wore in Pulp Fiction. He gets from his parents a new white-collared shirt that he’ll never wear and a Christian rock CD that his folks think is cool. The band is called Deliverance. Joey is sure the homoerotic subtext is not intended. The fact that he knows about the homoerotic subtext of Deliverance at all causes him some anxiety as well. He hates his senior English teacher for it. Mr. Purse was always showing them movies featuring this sort of thing. That’s probably why the PTA had him sacked. Too much subtext.
Joey plays the CD once. Just for the laugh. His folks are sitting uncomfortably by the stereo, their rocker-recliners as still as stones. Cups of grape cola fizz noisily in hands rested politely in their laps. Their ankles are religiously crossed. After a few minutes his mom asks, “Does this rock, honey?” Joey suppresses a chuckle and tells her yes, it rocks.
That night he calls Zara and tells her he thinks they should break it off. He tells her there is no need to be sad about it. With him leaving for college, and her starting work as a manicurist, there will be plentiful new opportunities for both of them. They’ve only been together a few weeks so he doesn’t expect the flood of tears and expletives that come his way.
“Plentiful new opportunities! Who the hell do you think you are, Joey Verona, the fucking voice of God?!”
She’s always been dramatic. That’s what drew him to her in the first place, that and the fact that she was amenable to intercourse. But now, with her threats to tell his parents that he’d popped her cherry on the old lawn chair in Leonard’s basement, he wishes he’d gone for a more sedate kind of girl. Someone with no interest in fingernail art.
After kissing his mom and pop good-bye, he drives to Leonard’s house to pick up his board. He’s in the closet about that so he hides his board in Leonard’s basement, where memories of beer and soft porn lurk like a freshly dumped girlfriend. He’s been hiding that he surfs for years. His mother thinks he and Leonard are study buddies. She doesn’t know that Leonard is next to a certified cretin. The only thing he studies is mega-titty porn.
Leonard is going to community college nearby to learn to be an accountant. He can’t tear himself away from that basement, smeared as it is with his man-scent and discarded DNA. Joey is going to college up north, University of California Santa Cruz. The same college as his brother, and Dusty.
Dusty, short for Dustin Gray, is his brother’s best friend. Joey was eight when they met. Dusty was twelve. For years Joey followed his brother and Dusty everywhere they went. Idolized them. Dusty was cool about it, always threw Joey a bone, a smile, a mussing of his hair, but Dean made his life hell, never wanted him around. It was Dusty who taught Joey how to surf when Dean couldn’t be bothered. It was Dusty who gave him all his hand-me-down surf gear. It was also Dusty who said, just before leaving with Dean for college, “Sometimes Dean can be a prick. Don’t let it bother you. You’re a good kid.”
For Joey, Santa Cruz won’t be just a new town, new surf, or new opportunities. It’s where he can be his own man, choose his own friends and, no matter what Dean thinks, hang out with whomever he wants, including Dusty. He’s been aching to leave all year. Ventura has been closing in on him. Every time he surfed he felt alone, tense, waiting for the future to come in with the next wave. More and more, as the summer passed, he’d been feeling like a kid crushed on the beach when his sand-tunnel caves in, unable to breathe, unable to stretch out or move.
He picks up his board without saying good-bye to Leonard, who is asleep in his bedroom upstairs. He casts a fleeting glance at the chair in the corner, its white and orange plastic glinting in the half-light of the basement, and heads out of there, back to his car, to escape. He turns onto the highway with a rush of excitement.
He’s a free man. No more living under parental scrutiny. No more church, no more curfews, no more rules. No more having to jack off in the car because his mother is a sniffer-dog where semen is concerned. If it gets on his sheets or underwear she’ll find it. Even the smallest drop. She checks the level of the shampoo and conditioner as well. She knows how much it takes to wash the family’s heads of hair. Too little in the bottle means he’ll get a nervous knock on his door and will have to endure her disappointed my son’s a sinner look. So he’s taken to parking out back of Wal-Mart and, armed with a Jack Johnson CD and some cooking oil from Leonard’s mother’s kitchen, driving himself to the edge and back again, depending on how busy it is at Wal-Mart, maybe a half-dozen times, before he blows into a paper towel (also from Leonard’s mother’s kitchen) and falls asleep with his pants down around his ankles. Thank the lord for tinted windows.
Willow Creek, California
Joey plans to stop halfway at Morro Bay, where on vacation as boys he and Dean had thrown fish to yelping seals. It was fun until Dean tried to force-feed him a rank pilchard, its white fishy eyes looking at him with smelly disapproval. He thinks of Miss June. Not wanting to ruin his day with that recurring anxiety, but also because he’s still pumped about his new freedom, he heads straight through Morro Bay. He doesn’t stop until he hits Big Sur.
He’s been meaning to check out Willow Creek, supposedly the best wave on the central coast. He pulls into Willow Creek picnic ground and is out of the car before the last spit of exhaust leaves the tailpipe. He jogs to a spot where he can see both north and south, checks the conditions. There’s not much going on. A few diehard locals are out, waiting patiently for a wave. Desperation can sometimes send you out in anything.
He sucks in the salty air, zips up his windbreaker against the chill and opens his senses to the sea, the vast sky, the sun sparkling on the water, the jagged rocks. Relaxes into the vibe. Overhead, clouds are moving in from the west, heavy clouds riding on a cold wind. This means rain. Before long it starts to sprinkle. Joey heads back to his car and settles down to eat the sandwich his mother packed him, ham and cheese. Good stuff.
As he shoves the last morsel of sandwich into his mouth the rain starts to really pelt down. It thunders on the roof of the car. At first he thinks it might be hail but then he realizes it’s just raindrops the size of marbles, heavy as stones and falling at high velocity. He feels as if he’s in a cave behind a waterfall—the downpour so thick he can’t see more than a few feet from the car. He watches. He listens.
Two surfers emerge from the veil of water, their boards under their arms. They stop by a cherry red Ford Bronco parked nearby. One of them, a lean guy with a typical surfer’s blond mop, his body encased in a glistening black wetsuit, puts down his board while the other one, a stocky guy wearing Hawaiian boardshorts with a shaved head and tribal tattoos on his biceps, shelters his buddy and himself with his own board. The blond one retrieves keys from behind the front tire, unaware that they are being watched, opens the door and rummages for a towel.
This is a scene Joey has seen many times. Dusty had sheltered him in the same way during a thunderstorm last summer, had held off the rain while Joey peeled off his boardshorts and wrapped himself in a warm towel. It’s what good buddies do.
The stocky guy’s body shows muscle built from paddling in big surf. He has that sharply accentuated V that runs from his hips down to his groin. He says something to his friend and laughs. His friend, wetsuit now peeled down to his waist—nipples erect from the cold and lower ribs red from where they rubbed against the board—roughly dries his friend’s cropped hair. When he pulls away the towel they remain standing close to each other. Joey thinks this is to avoid getting wet. Then they do something that surprises him deeply. The blond one leans in and kisses his buddy square on the lips.
The kiss goes on for what Joey thinks is a very long time. Their mouths move in unison in a way that means they have done this many times before. This is no awkward stolen kiss. The blond’s hands stroke his friend’s chest; the stocky man responds by maneuvering him up against the side of the Bronco, pressing his muscled torso against his blond friend, angling himself so that they are pelvis to pelvis.
Joey can’t believe his eyes. For a minute his brain, unable to compute what he’s seeing, makes him think he’s seeing a guy dry humping a thin blonde girl, her fair hair splayed across the red hood. When he looks again he sees what’s really there. Two guys grinding against each other on a Ford Bronco. The surfboard tips over a little and the rain begins to strike them. They stop, smile at each other, and return to the business of getting dry.
Joey’s mind freezes. He doesn’t know what to think. Surfers just don’t do this kind of shit. At least not the surfers he knows. Maybe these Big Sur surfers are made differently? The thing that gets Joey more is that the two don’t look like they’d be into other guys at all. No evident fag gene. Neither one looks anything like Mr. Purse. Joey’s shocked. Thrown. His heart is pounding. Then, after a couple of minutes, he laughs. He doesn’t know why. He just laughs. He waits for them to pull out of the parking lot before he does the same. He doesn’t want them knowing he saw them.
