Date: Tue, 30 Oct 2012 01:53:10 +0000
From: Rob Armstrong <robarmstrong26@hotmail.co.uk>
Subject: Spike's Piercing Parlour, Part Ten:  Hallowe'en Family Balling 1

      SPIKE'S PIERCING PARLOUR, PART TEN: HALLOWE'EN FAMILY BALLING 1

   THIS STORY CONTAINS THEMES OF INCEST BETWEEN FATHERS AND THEIR 18/19 YR
OLD SONS, WATERSPORTS AND DOMINATION.  THESE CHARACTERS EXIST IN AN AIDS
FREE, CONSEQUENCE FREE, FANTASY PARALLEL UNIVERSE AND ARE NOT TO BE
EMULATED.

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			  SERIES FINALE part one


	Over the last couple of months Clay had come to realise what a
complete dick Moose Bruckner was.

	And not in a good way.

	What was most painful was that Moose provided a mirror for how Clay
himself used to be - some old dude had once said 'By their friends shall ye
know them.'

	Well, oh shit.

	Moose was vain, arrogant, mean spirited and stupid.  Clay saw it so
clearly now.  Since the summer he had gained a new perspective and learned
to question things he had previously always taken for granted.

	Moose was also a mass of insecurities and that made him a bully.
Everything was 'fag' to Moose if it fell outside his narrow view of what
was normal. Learning was 'fag', reading was 'fag'.

	Like an ex-smoker, Clay found his former bad habits pretty hard to
deal with in other people.  Dad counselled caution, though.

	'Keep ya cards close to your chest, son.  The game ain't played out
yet. Just remember how we dealt with those two assholes at the gym.'

	Even so, it wasn't easy to keep his dislike hidden.  Moose picked
up on it and a coolness had developed between them.

	But as one door closed, others opened.  People outside the charmed
circle of the 'popular' kids became visible to Clay.  Without any special
forethought, Clay just naturally drifted from group to group - the geeks,
the nerds, the goths and, yes, the jocks too - curious about what he had
been missing.

	One day, only four weeks into the semester, Clay came across the
tail-end of an incident involving Oreo Joe in the hallway.  The fat kid was
standing by his locker, a spill of what looked like comic books on the
floor, the nearby hulking mass of Moose Bruckner and his letterman cronies
being the obvious culprits.

	Jeez.  To think Clay had been one of them, not so very long ago.

	'... you're eighteen, for Chissakes,' Moose was lecturing Joe,
'You're too old for fuckin' comic books, lardass - an' if you can't find a
chick blind enough to bang you, at least get my fuckin' ALGEBRA HOMEWORK
FINISHED!'

	So that was what it was all about.  Algebra may have been 'fag' to
Moose, but it didn't stop him making use of those who were prepared to put
in the hard slog.

	Moose and the other bullies sauntered off down the hall. Burning
with supressed anger, Clay stepped in and began picking up Joe's stuff to
spare him the humiliation.

	'Here, let me help you with that, bro.'

	Joe stared at him in a mixture of shock and mute hero worship.
Clay handed him the stack of books and Joe muttered his thanks - and
something else that Clay couldn't make out.

	'What was that last part, bro?'

	'I... I said - they aren't comic books.  They're graphic novels.'

	Clay glanced down at the Sci-fi and horror titles in Joe's hands
and realised that the kid was embarrassed he had seen them.

	Clay looked at Joe in mock puzzlement and stuck his thumb in the
direction Moose had taken.  'I know - Moose may not be able to read, but
you'd think he'd at least be able to follow the pictures!'

	That earned a shy smile from Joe.

	Clay gave him a brief but tight hug.  'High School doesn't last
forever, bro, keep the faith.'

	And before Joe could get even more embarrassed, Clay headed off to
find Lenny Wiseman.

	He tracked him down eventually on his way into the john in one of
the quieter areas of the school.  Lenny raised a cynical eyebrow when Clay
told him he wanted to talk.

	'I'm not in the habit of doing the jocks' English homework,
Larsen,' Lenny responded, 'and right now I need to pee.  So unless you want
to risk being seen going into the Men's Room with the school fag, we'll
have to rescedule.'

	'What?' Lenny had a way of derailing Clay's train of thought before
it had even got up steam.  'No, screw that shit, I want to talk to you
about Joe Foster.'

	He followed Lenny in.  The john was empty except for the two of
them.  Refusing to be turned aside from his task, Lenny stepped up to the
urinal and unzipped.

	'Joe Foster?' Lenny quizzed him.  'You mean Oreo Joe?  That lardass
sci-fi nerd with the glasses and the bush of hair?'

	Clay was shocked.  'Jeez, Lenny.  Lardass?  Really?  That's exactly
what Moose called him just now.'

	Lenny had the grace to look shamefaced. 'Okay, now I KNOW I'm in
trouble - I guess even minorities have prejudices.  What about him?'

	Clay took a breath.  'He needs help, man. The guy's a mess.'

	'Oh?  And you thought you'd ask the school fag to give him a
makeover?'

	Clay sighed.  Lenny seemed determined to misinterpret him.  'A
restyle wouldn't hurt the guy.  But I think he's into me and he's real
unhappy about it. I thought maybe you could teach him a little something
about courage and self respect.'

	Lenny looked at him, genuinely startled, lost for words for
once. Clay held his gaze. 'Dude, you're the bravest sonofabitch I know.'

	He looked down.  Lenny hadn't pissed a drop.  The proximity of
Clay's hot jock body had triggered a hardon.  Lenny's dick was massive on
such a little guy.

	Without a word, Clay dropped to his knees and took it all the way
down his throat.  Lenny thrust instinctively before trying to pull away.

	'Larsen! What the fuck are you doing?'

	Clay took his mouth off that juicy dick only for a moment.

	'Apologising.'

	And then he was back on, giving Lenny the benefit of cocksucking
skills learned over a long summer.

	Lenny was panting now.  He looked round
furtively. 'But... ungh... but what if someone walks in?'

	In answer Clay simply rose to his feet, still vigorously swallowing
Lenny's cock, lifting the boy with ease, his hands cupping that magnificent
ass.  Lenny supported himself with his hands on Clay's shoulders,
delighting in the chance to feel up the muscles there.

	Clay walked the two of them into the nearest cubicle and shut the
door.  For the next few minutes there were only the sounds of Clay grunting
around that delicious cock and Lenny's moans of delight.

	Then, whispered:

	'I don't know, Clay... I... I've never done it before...'

	'That's okay, fella - how about you take MY ass instead?'

	And then there was a whole lot more moaning and groaning and the
sounds of flesh on flesh as Clay taught Lenny a few things of his own.





Over the next few weeks, football practice focused in the main on training
for the team's first major fixture of the season against their arch-rivals,
Woodmont High...

	... which just so happened to fall upon October 31st.

	Hallowe'en.

	While Coach Farello kept all the guys busy out on the field, both
he and Symansky kept Clay even busier in the sports office afterwards, with
the two of them reaming out his ass.

	Symansky had been more than happy to help Clay and his father set
Farello up for his initiation into mansex. And since Farello's awakening,
both older and younger coaches had become pretty damned close in an almost
father/son relationship of their own.

	Weekly 'parent-teacher' evenings had developed, where Symansky and
Farello met with Thor and Clay.  They were joined by Coach Rogers of
Woodmont High, and his pets Don Collins and his twin sons.

	No football strategies were discussed - hardly a great idea with
the coach of the rival team present - but a good deal of focus was devoted
to the sons' development.  The development of their stiff cocks, mainly,
and the capacity of their steaming holes to take dick.

	Coach Symansky, especially, was fascinated by the arrangement
between Rogers and the Collins.  He couldn't get enough of those hot twins
being commanded to tag team their dad - every time Rogers ordered them to
spit roast or double dick him, Symansky groaned out loud and would drive
his dick deeper into whosever hole he happened to be drilling at the time.

	'Yeah, good dogs, tie yo father's cunt,' Rogers would encourage
Mason and Mitch, 'Cum up his chute.  Make him yo bitch!  Good puppies!
Good puppies!'

	Don Collins' tongue would be lolling out and his boys would swoop
in to lick it.  Their tongues would flash over each other's faces, wet and
eager, growling with passion and nipping at each other.  Symansky would
stare avidly at their incestuous, bestial mating and jism would hose out of
his dick like a fire hydrant.

	Rogers would usually give him leave to felch the twins' piss and
cum out of their father's ass afterwards. If Symansky was feeling generous,
he would share it with his boy Farello.

	'So how come you go by the handle Pigmaster2in1, Coach?' Clay asked
Rogers one time.

	Rogers nuzzled his ear.  'Hows about me an' yo dad show youse!'

	Clay spent the next half hour sitting on Rogers' fearsome dick -
nothing he couldn't handle by now, of course - except that, in Rogers'
game, Dad would come up behind Clay, slide his dick up his chute on top of
the first, and mercilessly double dick him until he came his load.

	Before withdrawing, however, Dad would piss all over Rogers' dick
and fill Clay's ass.

	Then Symansky would come along - as it were - and the process would
be repeated.

	By the time Farello had filled his hole, Clay was full to bursting.
He moaned and groaned and Rogers ordered Farello to stay put.

	Then Rogers himself let fly his various juices and Clay thought his
insides would rupture.

	Instead it was his dick that exploded, coating Coach Rogers' face,
neck and chest.  Rogers and Farello carried him into the Head Coach's
personal shower cubicle where they finally unplugged him and released a
tsunami of piss and cum over the two of them.

	Mitch, Mason and their father were quick to lap up what remained.

	When everyone was sated at these sessions - if only temporarily -
the strategy discussed involved what was to take place AFTER the big game
on Hallowe'en.  For everything to work, the coaches of both schools had to
be in on the scheme and everything had to be planned meticulously.  Timing
was everything and had to be accurate down to the last second.

	Fortunately, timing was something a true sportsman was good at...




	October 31st arrived, clear and crisp as a fall day should.  All
day Clay fought down the butterflies in his stomach.  Time and again his
mentors had told him to focus on the game and forget about what was to
follow, but it wasn't easy.  He was nervous AND excited at the same time.

	Dad, too, told him to set it aside.  HE was responsible for the
other stuff now - at least until after the game - and would spend the day
co-ordinating any final arrangements with Spike and Doc Schultz.

	The floodlights were blinding as Clay and Moose led the rest of the
squad out onto the field, to a deafening chorus of cheers from the home
crowd.  The visitors from New Jersey, too, were treated to a gracious
reception.

	Blinking against the light, Clay could just about make out Len
Wiseman sitting up in the bleachers with some hot young bear cub.  Cool.

	Dad was down in the front rows reserved for the players' parents,
chatting amiably with some of the other fathers.  Now that the teams had
run out all of them sat forward, watching avidly, reliving their own glory
days and fantasizing it was still them out there, not their sons.

	Woodmont won the coin toss and elected to receive.  Then the
starting whistle cut through the hubub and sliced the clean night air.

	It was on!



	For the next hour or so, all thoughts other than football fled from
Clay's mind and he played well, marshalling his defenders and acquiting
himself with honor.

	In the end it was the home team that emerged victorious but, all in
all, it had been a rather lacklustre first encounter on both sides.  Clay
and his team-mates were left feeling a weird combination of triumph mixed
in with anticlimax.

	Not to worry, Clay thought.  There was plenty of climax yet to
come.  As they trooped back in off the field, he noted that both Dad and
Len had disapeared from their respective spots.  Good.  They'd left before
the end of the game, as arranged.

	In the locker room Moose threw down his helmet like a disappointed
brat at Christmas.  'Was that what we broke our fuckin' asses training
for?' he griped, 'Man that last quarter was FAG! Fuckin' FAG!'

	'Bruckner, show some respect for your equipment and pick up that
helmet!' barked Coach Farello as he went by, 'And while you're at it - quit
being such a sore winner!'

	That got a laugh from the rest of the squad and Moose sat down in a
sulk.  Automatically he ran his hand through his mane of hair, his pride
and joy, as he always did when he felt put upon by the world and needed to
reassure himself.

	Clay clapped a hand on his back.  'Hey, bro, what say we hit the
showers fast, cut loose from this place and go let off some steam?'

	Moose looked at him uncertainly.  They hadn't been that close
lately.  'You sure, man?  Just you and me?'

	Clay spread his arms wide.  'The whole frickin team, man.  We
should all go out - big guys night out.  It's fuckin Hallowe'en, for
chrissakes.  Let's see if we can't treat ourselves to a few tricks - you
know what I'm saying?'

	Moose grinned in spite of his bad mood.  But then he frowned at
Clay to silence him - too late, Coach Farello had heard everything.

	'Matter of fact,' said Farello, stroking his chin, 'that isn't such
a fool idea, Larsen.  You could all use some down-time.'

	'What?' Moose gasped, 'Seriously, Coach?  You're gonna let us go?'

	'On two conditions.  First, I come along to keep an eye on all you
clowns and, secondly - you have to invite the other team as well!'

	'What?'  It was Clay griping this time. 'But Coach, the enemy?'

	'It's good sportsmanship, Larsen - and Bruckner, if you're opening
your mouth to inform us all the 'Sportsmanship is fag', I will seriously
consider asking Coach Symansky to demote you to second string.'

	That shut him up.

	'Now I don't know if Coach Rogers will consent to it,' Farello went
on, 'but I'll sound him out for you.'

	Clay had a sudden thought.  'Oh, but Coach - what about all our
parents?  Our folks are all here for the game.  And the other team's, as
well, and they've come all the way from New Jersey!'

	Coach Farello held up a calming hand.  'Take it easy, Larsen, last
time I checked the Jersey Tunnel was still open for business.  That doesn't
need to be a problem.  As for the dads and Coach Rogers, perhaps I can
persuade Coach Symansky to show them some hospitality at his favorite
sports bar over on East 54th.'

	So that was settled then.  Farello marched off to make all the
necessary arrangements.  Moose, Clay and the rest of the team started
stripping off with more enthusiasm, now that they had plans.

	'Huh,' remarked Moose as they headed for the showers, 'Farello's
human.  Who knew?' Then he soured again.  'But where the fuck we gonna go?
None of us are over twenty-one.  Farello ain't gonna ID us...'

	'So we all ditch him,' said Clay, 'Believe me, bro, I know a few
places that operate, shall we say, under the radar.'

	'Really?  No shit?'

	By now quite a few of the guys were listening in over the sound of
running water.

	Clay addressed them all. 'For starters... haven't any of you ever
thought of getting... a tattoo...?'

	This was greeted with murmurs of approval.

	'Hey... Cool idea, Larsen,' some said.

	'Yeah,' said Clay with a smile, 'Just came to me...'



	Over an hour and a half later, Coaches Symansky and Rogers were
playing host to a large crowd of athletic looking men in the East 54th
Street sports bar.  With both teams out for the evening, plus a few
substitutes on either side, that accounted for nearly thirty fathers they
had to babysit.

	They packed the place out and, with a few drinks inside these men,
their conversation had turned from civilised small talk to good-natured
bantering - the rivalry between the two schools extended to the fathers'
generation too, it seemed, and the fun-poking ran back and forth from
Manhattan to the Jersey Shore.

	Rogers caught Symansky's eye across the room and gave a sly nod to
his fellow conspirator.  It was time.

	'Well, sorry to break up the party,' Rogers announced, tapping his
wristwatch, 'but the Jersey contingent at least oughtta think about
rounding up our boys and start heading home.'

	As anticipated this was met with a chorus of rebellion and denial.

	'Not yet, Rogers!'

	'Jeez, they're only young once, let them go mad a little!'

	Rogers shrugged helplessly at Symansky.

	Symansky took up the baton.  'Are we gonna let these Jersey pussies
wimp out on us?' he asked his own coterie of fathers.

	'Noooo!' was the resounding vote.

	One of the Manhattan dads fished a card from his pocket and waved
it at the assembled throng.

	'Hey, I was talking to that guy with the blond Mohawk before the
game - where'd he go, by the way? - anyways, he tipped me off about this
joint on the lower East Side...'

	Now the chorus turned bawdy and exciteable.

	'Wooooh!'

	'Yeah,' said the dad, 'He told me it was this underground joint.
He promised there'd be... dark corners...'

	'Wooooooooh!'

	'...and... nakedness...'

	'Woooooooooooh!'

	'... and willing, pliant young things, anxious to relieve the
stress of your day!'

	'WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!'

	'I dunno,' said another dad, 'I'm gonna get shit from my wife if
she finds out I been to some lap joint.'

	'So don't keep the matchbooks, dumbass,' said a third, 'And grow a
pair!  You're married, not dead!'

	'Oh the hell with it,' said the wet blanket, 'been too long since I
saw any nubile young women naked, anyway!'

	And there was yet another cheer at his conversion to the cause.

	'Okay, then,' Symansky said to the first speaker with a shrug,
'Show us your amazing girly bar.  What's it called?'

	The first dad flipped the card over and peered at the front.

	'It's some joint named 'Spike's'.'


	END OF PART TEN: THE SERIES WILL CONCLUDE IN THE NEXT CHAPTER