*****

Part 3…

For the next week, I refrained from jacking off and stayed away from Wolcott’s window. I put myself through some intense workouts at the gym, training with a particularly athletic friend of mine. He even had me spar in boxing gloves with him. I felt keyed up and strong. I was sweating testosterone.

I was just as horny as I’d been the past few days, constantly hard up in my pants, but I felt focused. It was like the fog in my mind had lifted. The confusion was gone, and my goal was clear, tangible.

Even my Dad remarked on my renewed discipline and vigor. If only he knew what was motivating me.

On Saturday, I made my move. I texted Bruce to see if he wanted to hang out. When he responded, I basically invited myself over. His parents were both out. We hung out in his childhood bedroom. The walls were lined with team photos and pennants, and his shelves were weighed down with awards. It even smelled like him, Old Spice, fresh sweat and clean laundry.

We made a little small talk, and eventually I produced a large, well-rolled blunt supplied by a friend.

“Bruce, you want to smoke?” He laughed nervously. I forced myself to maintain eye contact until he looked down. I reminded myself that even if he didn’t know it yet, I was in the driver’s seat. I wasn’t some starstruck kid anymore. Despite his demigod physique and his past as a champ, I knew what he was, deep down.

I offered again, and he balked. I laughed, and in a harsh voice, I said.

“Come on, don’t be a pussy.” He winced at the epithet, unaccustomed to that kind of language from one of his adoring fans. I stared him down until he relented with a bashful shrug.

We leaned out of his open window. I sidled right next to him and passed the blunt, watching as he inhaled. He didn’t shift away from my body, so I threw an arm around his big waist. I felt him flinch, but he didn’t force me off him, and he eventually relaxed into my grip.

As we shared the joint, I lightly squeezed his haunch, rubbing slightly. I wanted to push this, see how much affection he would accept, how much attention and imposition I could get away with. When the blunt was almost done, I held it up to his lips and had him smoke it. I was getting boned up now, being so close to him and having this big stallion of a man let me do what I wanted.

“Hey, let’s shotgun. Come here.” He looked confused at the suggestion, but the weed already had him dazed and pacified. As I suspected, he was a lightweight. I turned towards him and grabbed his shoulder to have him face me.

“Suck this in,” I ordered, then took a big hit into my throat and held it there. I pulled his head down and brought my lips to his. I stared into his eyes as I exhaled two lungfuls of acrid weed smoke directly into his respiratory system. I thought of Wolcott blowing cigar smoke into his face. I wanted to do everything that the old man had done to him. I left my mouth up against his, feeling how soft his big lips were. Bruce accepted my kiss and my polluting cloud, then we giggled at the intimacy of it.

Without asking, I connected my phone to his sound system and put on some music.

Bruce asked if I wanted anything to drink, and I told him to get us beers. He smiled to himself and bowed his head a little bit. The big man really liked being told what to do. When he reappeared, I told him to open my beer for me. The gratuitous order made him quiver a bit, and I winked at him. I kept my eyes on his, making him blush and look away.

I focused on keeping my gaze steady and my face blank. Ironically, I found that I was emulating a man that Bruce and I both knew well. The head coach of the Vikings Football Team. Coach Mancuso was like a brick wall. He never smiled or laughed or offered any of the facial cues that put a person at ease.

As I remembered him, he had always just stared, his voice a low growl or a bark depending on his level of agitation he was. He seemed to expect complete acquiescence from everyone he dealt with. Even the other coaches and our fathers seemed scared of him. Wanted to please him.

Emboldened by the beer, weed, and lust, as well as all the sordid things I knew about Bruce, I found it easy to imitate our former coach’s swagger and domineering attitude. To take up more space, make my steps wide and heavy. I gratuitously scratched my package, hands down my waistband just like Coach’s always was. After all, I knew I was packing something much bigger than that little thing Bruce had between his legs. When I caught him looking, I gave him a wink. All I was missing was a pair of aviators and a mouthful of Skoal.

“Thanks, buddy,” I said, accepting the second round. I paused, hesitating for a moment, then reached over and slapped him on his large, pert ass. I watched his big buttocks jiggle in his gym shorts and dared myself to cup them in my hand. It felt firm but welcoming – his perky can was made to be fondled like this. Felt up. He trembled at my touch, but he didn’t resist, didn’t slap my groping hand away.

“Damn, you’ve got huge glutes, man. Your ass is amazing, Brucie. How much can you squat?” He told me his PR almost sheepishly.

“Holy shit!” I exclaimed, spitting some of my beer on his neck. He blushed, pleased with being praised for his body. I put my hands on his big ass.

“You’re fucking incredible, man.” I ran my hand up his ass and thighs, like I was admiring his quads and hamstrings. I was, but I was also brazenly feeling him up. Bruce just remained obediently in place even as my hand squeezed his inner thigh or my fingers traced his crack while squeezing his cheek. I muttered about his dump truck appreciatively, then gave him a hard slap on the ass, watching mesmerized as it shook. He was as docile as a showhorse.

I put my beer on his dresser and stepped in front of him. My hands traced up his sides and rested upon the swollen dome of his chest. I looked at him, right into his handsome, timid face. I gave him my best Coach Mancuso stare, and he dropped his gaze shyly.

“Take your shirt off, show me those pecs.” He demurred, shaking his head, looking confused and bashful. I grabbed the fabric and began lifting it off of him. Astonishingly, he raised his hands above his head and let me undress him. Let me strip the shirt right off his back. I laughed at how easy he was making this and tossed it across the room, then put my hands back on his body.

“Fuck, man, it’s like granite. You’re a fucking superhero.” I ran my hand over his enormous, shaven chest. Then I walked behind him, standing close. My hands went back to his waist and ran back up to his chest. I squeezed both pecs at once and leaned in to whisper into his ear.

“Seriously, you’ve got a better rack than most chicks.” I nearly licked his earlobe when I said this; I was so close to him. I knew he could feel my hot breath on his ear and neck. I knew it stank of beer and weed. I groped his chest, truly fondling his breasts, even fingering one of his nipples. He gasped but remained stock still in my grasp.

“So smooth. Nice.” I cupped his bountiful chest, then dug my hands into his hairless armpits, fingering around there as he squirmed in place just a bit.

I finished my beer and belched over his shoulder, blowing it onto his neck and the side of his face.

“Brucie. Kill your beer. Go get us more.” I sent him away with a slap to his ass, and he dutifully paced out, shirtless, his face blushing red.

Alone in his bedroom, I rifled through his drawers. I upended the piles of neatly folded size-38 underwear and found what I was looking for. I held it up to him when he returned with our beers.

“You’ve still got your old jockstrap. Go put it on, I want you to show off those muscles for me.” I brandished the worn white undergarment, “Mitchell” written in faded black Sharpie on the inside of the waistband. His face darkened to an even deeper shade of red. He looked horrified that I was handling his intimate garment. Shamed that I had discovered he had held on to it all.

I claimed my beer and thrust his old jock onto him. He started to protest, but I raised a hand, silencing him.

“Quiet, Brucie. You know you like showing off that incredible body. Your physique is fucking amazing. Be proud of it. Now you’re going to change into just this, and pose for me.” I kept my voice low and steady, boring into his eyes.

The confusion on his face was fascinating to me. It was like I could see him struggling to form words, to figure out a way out of this, or even recall how I had gotten him to this point. I stepped toward him and put my hand on his broad, bare shoulder, massaging the massive muscle of his trapezius.

“Just do it, Brucie,” I spoke, calm but firm. I felt him relax into my touch.

“Go change.” I gently turned his shoulders around to point him towards the door, and slapped him on the ass again like I was Coach Mancuso.

He reappeared, naked but for the jockstrap. His bare skin was even paler than the washed-out cotton. His body looked incredible, straight from the pages of Men’s Fitness, but he held himself like a captive, head down, defeated like a conquered warrior on the auction block. Bruce knew that he was in my custody.

“Damn, boy. Come here.” I beckoned him to me and grabbed his chest again, which brought a shy smile to his face.

“Hell yeah, Man of Steel.” I cheered as I curled my hand over his bulging deltoid. He posed like a bodybuilder.

“That’s it, flex, flex for me. Show it off.” I grunted, grabbing and feeling up his bulging muscles between sips of beer.

It was all slightly ridiculous, but he had a truly incredible physique. I ran my hands all over him. Felt his sides, his massive thighs. His flat, tight stomach. No happy trail, not even peach fuzz.

The smoothness was beguiling. He had the hard musculature of a man, but his skin was hairless and soft as a woman’s. I was fully hard in my gym shorts now and pawed at myself openly.

Eventually, I turned him around, and both my hands found their way down the small of his back to the wide, striped waistband of his jock.

“You’re hot, man. Look at that ass.” I said, snapping one of the straps that framed his huge, pert buttocks. I copped another feel, holding his bare ass in my hands.

For the next few moments, we both stood in silence, listening to the rap music blasting out of his speakers, as I jiggled his ass around. The big man just sort of squirmed in my grasp, clearly enjoying the attention. As I manhandled him, I imagined myself as one of the boasting rappers, virile and bold. I considered how they would treat a hot, nearly naked bitch like Bruce. How they would grab at him and assert themselves. Bruce was my ho. It was my ass, mine to play with.

“Nice ass, bro.” I praised, spanking both cheeks gently. He giggled, as demure as a woman. I kept my hands on those big, beautiful cheeks and grazed a finger between his hairless crack. I’d never imagined a guy’s rear end could be so sexy.

I changed the song to something by the same artist, something less aggressive and more rhythmic, more horny. A song for fucking the bitches.

Keeping my hands on his waist, I got right up behind him, swiveling my hips to the music. I pulled him down so that he bent his knees a bit, and his rear end was at my crotch level. I pushed my tented hard-on into his ass. I was grinding on him, holding him against my crotch, forcing him to dance along. It turned me on, looking down and seeing my hairy legs and feet right up behind his smooth calves and bare feet.

I turned him around and pressed into him. Again, the big man let me move him around as I pleased.

“It’s got me hard, isn’t that crazy?” I said insistently, staring into his blushing face.

“See?” I grabbed his hand and brought it to my crotch. He didn’t resist as I clamped his fingers over my hard-on.

“Feel that?” He nodded, his breath was short. I saw that there was a small tent in the well-worn pouch of his old jock.

“Ha, you’re chubbed up, too.” His face was beet red now. I grabbed the waistband of his jock and yanked it down to his feet.

Unlike Wolcott, I didn’t burst out laughing at the sight of that pokey little pinky of a boner; I just stared at it in fascination. Bruce looked mortified at my inspection, but the short, thin hard-on pulsed and ached, and it was wet around the tip with pre-cum.

“How long is it?” I took it in my fingers, which dwarfed it. It felt like holding a little flower. It was so soft and fragile.

“Four inches.” He said in a voice-cracking whimper, avoiding my gaze.

“Damn. It’s like you haven’t gone through puberty.” I said. He closed his eyes, but his pecker remained rigid. I tapped his little dickhead. I lightly grabbed the throbbing glans then pulled it down until he winced, only to release it and make it slap against his hairless groin. I was acting on instinct – it felt like a penis this small only deserved to be prodded, toyed with.

I ran my fingers over his naked groin, taking in the strangely satisfying smoothness. I was pressed up against him, and he was leaning his heavy body on me like he could barely stand.

“And with no bush, no man hair… You look like a little boy, dude. Between the legs, I mean. And you’re older than me. On such a big guy, too. So tiny, your little clit.” He sighed into my shoulder, a strange moan of humiliation and pleasure, his laughably short stiffy bobbing up, as if nodding along eagerly in agreement.

“Probably better for you to be a bitch, don’t you think? You don’t have the cock hanging between your legs to be a man. You don’t have a real man’s penis. So you’ve just got to be a bitch, right, Brucie?” He bowed his head in the affirmative.

“That’s right, my big sexy bitch.” I felt him up, thighs to chest, back down to his phenomenal wide ass.

“Get on your knees.” I pressed gently on his shoulders, and the nude colossus kneeled before me. I pointed my prick at his face. I was just about 7 inches, but compared to him, I was a porn star. I rubbed my cockhead against his lips, poked at his cheeks. My other hand held onto his hair.

“It doesn’t matter that you’ve got such a small pecker, Brucie. I’ve got enough cock for both of us.” I said gently as I thrust forward, and he took me in his mouth. I gasped, his big, soft lips caressed my shaft, and brought me into his warmth.

Short of jacking off with friends, I had never done anything sexually with a guy. Certainly never got blown by one. But again, I was inspired by Coach Mancuso. How would Crazy Manc have forced another guy to suck him off?

That big, scary, shit-brick house of a man wouldn’t have been tender and gentle, no, Sir. He wouldn’t have been patient or sweet. But he wouldn’t have rushed it either. He’d take his time. Make the poor cocksucker wallow in it. Force him to revel in his superior manhood. He’d want the stooge on his knees to know that he was serving a real man.

“Lick my balls. Kiss each one.” A shiver went up my body when he did this. Having another man worship the seat of my manhood, especially a specimen like Bruce Michell, was an incredible power trip. His massive form beneath me, his broad muscled shoulders, strong back, yet he was completely docile.

“Those are a man’s balls. Do you understand?” He nodded solemnly as I tea-bagged him, spreading my hairy gonads over his face. My cock on his forehead and my balls in his mouth. I held the sides of his head as his lapping tongue tended to my testes.

I imagined all sorts of wild scenarios in my head while he did this. Bruce was a naked captive, a defeated warrior, surrendered, ruined. I was going to ravage him. Stripped of his armor, disarmed. All of his strength and power would be mine. I pulled his lips off of my hairy scrotum and began pounding his mouth again while these far-out thoughts raced through my mind. His size and his strength meant nothing; he was a weakling, my POW. He belonged to me.

Wolcott had trained him well; he deepthroated me eagerly. Maybe my smaller piece and gentler demeanor were a relief from what he was used to. When he brought me close to orgasm, I yanked his hair and pulled him off me, exhaling as I kept myself from busting. I humped into his face, grinding my junk and my wiry pubic thatch against his face.

I hadn’t trimmed all summer; I was wild and unkempt down there with a big bush, bearded nuts, and cactus spines of stubble at the base of my shaft. Usually, I would have been self-conscious, but now it made me feel manly. I wanted to rub it in his face, literally, my thick proud mane, when he was as bald as a little boy between his legs and everywhere else below his ears.

The sight of my curly, dark brown pubes smearing against his handsome face drove me wild, made me want to dominate him even more. I wanted to put more of myself into him.

“Get up, Brucie,” I ordered, my voice hoarse with lust. We went into his parents’ large bathroom, and I dragged him by his neck without asking. He was too cowed to protest even while I saw the panic on his face.

I had him retrieve some of his mom’s lingerie, a pink bra and panty set. The panties strained to make it up past his hugely muscled quads, but to his obvious shame, they were more than adequate at encasing his tiny genitals in their silk pouch. The bra was a nonstarter – his Superman pectorals and trapezius muscles were just too wide and massive, and I actually ripped the dainty piece trying to clip it over his back.

Instead, I grabbed a handful of necklaces from his mom’s jewelry box on her night table, forced them over his head. Some of them were as tight as chokers around his broad neck, but many of them dangled between his great, domed pecs. I wanted to decorate him. Make a woman of him.

I put bracelets around his wrists and ankles. They jangled when he walked; it looked obscene, his big, strong body decked out with gold and silver, chiming with each step when I sent him downstairs for more beers.

Bruce had been the paragon of All-American manhood to me, and I wanted to see him obscenely feminine, ruinously womanized, as he had been for Wolcott. That’s why I pushed him up against the bathroom sink and clumsily applied his mother’s lipstick to his big, full lips. I had seen rapists do this to their bitch in prison movies. I got a giddy rush like I was defacing a famous and priceless statue.

I thought of adding more makeup, but the ridiculously bright red lips were just the right amount of absurd that I still found sexy. I ran my hands along his sides, taking him in. The once proud warrior had been stripped and adorned with finery meant to humiliate him, dressed up and feathered to be paraded through the enemy city.

I turned him around and made him face the full-length mirror, made him see what I’d done to him while I pressed my boner into his thighs and ran my hands all over his body. He quivered at the spectacle of himself, but as always, his little pink rocket was completely tumescent.

“Pretty little bitch. I’m gonna fuck you up the pussy just like your Daddy fucks your Mama.” I growled in my best Coach Mancuso baritone, licking his ear. He squatted down a bit and pushed his rump back into my groin obligingly.

“I’m going to put a baby in your belly. Breed you.” I rubbed his flat stomach up and down, imagining it swelling with my seed.

I spun him around again and held his hips. I pulled aside the tiny pouch of his panties and freed his stiffy. Then I took his mother’s lipstick and carefully painted the tip of his little dick cherry red. It looked ridiculous, clownish, the pale pink stalk with a bright red lollipop head, all no longer than my pointer finger. I got another rush from vandalizing his private parts like this. I had made a cruel joke of his pathetic manhood.

When I turned him around once more to face the mirror, he gasped at his reflection. I grasped his pecs and diddled his nipples.

“I’m going to march you through the locker room, just like this. I want all your gym buddies to see you like this, Brucie. See how pretty you are.” I threatened him, and he writhed in my grasp, clearly thrilled at the idea of such catastrophic exposure.

Next, I reached between his legs and poked at his little hairless hole. I was surprised by how tight he was, as I had watched Wolcott sodomize him just three nights ago. I asked him if he was ready for me, and he nodded. I led him back to his bedroom.

He retrieved a small vial from his backpack and reached behind himself to apply it. I watched him anoint himself for me, then took it from him and rubbed the lube up and down my hard-on.

“Get on the bed. Lie on your back.” I wanted to take him like a bride on her wedding night. I pulled the pale pink panties down his thighs and off his ankles and threw them on the floor. I got in between his spread legs, put them over my shoulder, and jacked myself to my full rigidity, an iron bar poking at the poor guy. I poked around there for a few moments, watching him brace himself.

I did not wear a condom. If Hugh Wolcott’s old man jizzum were good enough to seed his insides, he would take mine too. I rubbed my bare cockhead against his hole and thrust forward, breaching him and making him gasp.

I gasped too. It was so warm and incredibly tight, and felt different than a girl’s pussy in so many ways. It almost hurt my dick going in, but I powered through. Burying myself in and invading him completely. I felt our bodies completely clasp together. He cried out weakly, and I ran my hands all over him, from his hips to his flat stomach to his bountiful bosom. I tweaked and twisted his nipples. I stuck my fingers under his armpits, jammed them into his mouth. I pulled and poked at his ears, his nose. I wanted him to know there was no part of him that I didn’t get to touch.

Then I lowered my body, brought my head down, and began licking and chewing around his chest and neck. I sucked and nibbled his tits like they were a woman’s, making him gasp and swoon. Biting on his nipples carefully and listening to the music he made. My tongue lapped all over, leaving a sheen of saliva on his alabaster skin. I sank my teeth into the flesh of his broad shoulder blade and sucked while biting, knowing that I was giving him a hickey, marking him.

I studied the face of the man I was sodomizing. His eyes were closed, and he was shiny with sweat. He looked confused, anguished, and feverish. Knowing the effect my cock was having on him, the power of my conquering rod, electrified me with that jolt of power I had been riding all afternoon. Making love to a woman had never felt like this. I had always had to be respectful, considerate.

Bruce, I could treat you like my painted prison bitch. Bruce, I could hump freely. Piston fuck him. I knew that I was taking something from him with each stroke. Plundering.

I twisted his hard nipples and told him to look at me. I sped up, making his bed creak in protest and slam against the wall.

I looked down and saw his half-hard noodle, rocking around uselessly. I didn’t care if he came or not. His penis was nothing to me, a woman’s clit. Instead, I focused on my rigid pole, my spear, sawing into him mercilessly.

I kept myself on edge, staring at the blank wall in front of me and thinking of nothing at all when I got too close to cumming. I wasn’t going to be a quick trigger; I was intent on giving the big bitch beneath me a proper fuck. Bruce would know he’d been fucked by a real man. I would have my way with him for as long as I wanted him.

As I plowed him, I told him that I was going to knock him up. Get him pregnant. I told him that he would carry my sons. That his belly would swell with my progeny, his tits would swell with the milk to feed them. I pawed and groped at his chest and stomach as I said this, as I promised to ruin him with my seed. I pulled at the necklaces and made him beg me to be his mommy.

I lifted the gold chain and forced it into his mouth, lightly slapping his cheek. My cock was punching into his guts with each thrust, each time I bottomed out in him, he made a wimpy little yelp..Again, I imagined myself as Coach Mancuso, who wouldn’t have been inhibited by his bitch’s whines and winces. They’d embolden him, try to draw them out. He’d want to know that he was giving his bitch QB a fuck to remember.

My balls slapped into his ass frantically, and we were both panting. I kept one hand clamped over his neck, lightly choking him, while another played with his chest. Below me, Bruce writhed, overwhelmed by the assault. His stiff little penis was leaking precum all over his shaven groin.

My grunts and groans became more bestial as I sped up, and my voice rose to a roar. I was certain I was going to break his bed. The thought of it made me laugh out loud, imagining us collapsing on the floor together. I was humping him like a bitch, plowing into him, chasing the heat and lighting of his pussy on my cock.

Flecks of spit fell from my mouth onto his face below as I pumped. I could feel my nuts tighten up around the base of my cock. When I came, feeling myself burst inside of him, I cried out so loudly that I knew his neighbors could hear me. I roared until I was hoarse. I wanted them to know the QB was being butt-fucked.

As one hand kept squeezing his windpipe, I reached down and flicked at his little boner. With just one finger tip, I rubbed the underside of his glans, and that was all it took for him to shoot, mewling out as he ejaculated all over his chest and belly.

I kept bellowing as I jizzed inside him and humped away, slamming his body around. I fell atop him, bucking my hips for a few more moments. Finally, I pulled out and stood up from the bed.

“You can… whenever, whenever you want.” He sputtered, dazed and panting.

“I know,” I said. I took three firm pillows from his bed and wedged them under his ass. His hips and groin were elevated. I had seen this in a nasty porno once, a guy doing it to a girl after he had cream-pied her. A bald, tattoo-covered brute gloating that he was going to make sure she got knocked up that way. That’s what I wanted, for him to know that I had bred him. That I was inside of him now, always.

“Stay like that. Don’t get up until it gets dark out. Keep me inside you.” I held my hand on his heaving stomach, gently rubbing it but pushing down as if sealing him to his bed. I cleaned his spooge from my hand by wiping it into his hair.

“Stay there. Don’t get up, not until night.” I repeated. He looked at me wide-eyed. It was as if he were seeing me for the first time, remembering who I was. The neighborhood kid who had for so long worshiped him had now used him like the cheapest of whores. I had dicked him down and knocked him up. He nodded, slowly, fearfully.

I moved up to the foot of the bed and brought my slimy, softening prick to his face.

“Kiss it.” He obliged, sitting up just enough to bring his painted lips to my dickhead.

“Lick it clean.” He took me in his mouth without hesitation. I picked up his shirt from the floor and wiped the spit off my cockhead, then I got dressed. Having emptied my balls, a sense of disgust rose in me, making me irritable. I wanted to get away from this ruined man and the ugly thing I had done to him.

“Stay like that,” I ordered once more before leaving. He nodded, answered in the affirmative, and called me Sir. I knew he would obey me. He’d lie on his back, hips raised, feeling me slowly seep deeper and deeper into him as he watched the shadows grow long and the daylight turn to gold.

The End.

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