Date: Sat, 4 Mar 2017 20:16:28 -0500
From: MGTBILL@aol.com
Subject: DYLAN'S JUNIOR YEAR AT COLLEGE  Chapter  32

DYLAN'S  JUNIOR YEAR AT COLLEGE


Chapter  32


by  Donny Mumford


It's a  cold Saturday night as I walk across the parking lot to Rob's
pickup truck.  Getting in and firing-up the engine everything feels weird because
Rob's  usually doing this. Not tonight though because he's upset about
Frankie's impending abortion so going to a party is the last thing he  feels
like doing. Frankly I'm not in much of a party mood myself  but I promised to
give Golden and a few of his freshman friends a ride  to the party. He'll
give me a call when he's ready to go and in the  meantime I'm on my way to buy
some booze at McLoon's package store. The  plan is to kill some time in
Daryl's dorm doing a little front-loading.  Every college guy in his right mind
knows not to arrive at a party  when it kicks-off, and it's never a good
idea to arrive totally sober  either.

At the  package store I buy a half-pint of bourbon and two six-packs of
Rolling Rock  beer. While paying for it I'm mentally kicking myself in the ass
for not  planning ahead and buying this stuff in New Hampshire where it
costs at least a  third less. The bourbon's for  Daryl, who doesn't like beer,
and the beer is for me because I don't like  bourbon. Funny thing is, I don't
know anything about tonight's party except  that it's at a house on route
114 next to the Dunkin Donuts' strip  mall. One of the freshman baseball
players said the party is a BYOB affair,  and then I heard somebody else say
they'll be selling booze at the  party. I'm told the guys throwing the party
are freshman baseball  players who rented the house in lieu of dormitory
living.  Apparently the  house is like a small unofficial frat house which is
kind of a cool deal,  especially for freshman.

Parking  at a lot near Daryl's dormitory, I bring one of the six-packs and
the half-pint  of bourbon with me as I knock on Pony's dorm room door. His
roommate, Tom  Higgins, opens it and goes, "Yo, Dylan, whassup, dude?" The
smell of pot is  unmistakable so, while bumping fist with him, I ask, "Are you
 numb-nuts smoking weed in here?" Tom closes the door, saying, "Nah, well
yeah, but we're blowing the smoke out the window." I go, "It ain't working,
Tommy. I could smell pot in the hall outside your door." He giggles,
muttering,  "No shit, you can smell it outside, huh?" I nod, "Yeah, um, where's
Pony?"  He snickers, "He's in the lavatory combing his hair again. I told him
I'll buy  him a mirror so he won't need to spend so much time in the john."

A couple of  weeks ago I gave Pony a regular haircut, as it's called by
many. He's like me in that we've both had buzz cuts like forever, until
recently. Now that we let our hair grow-out, combing it is a new experience.

That's pretty lame, but there it is...

Everyone will  be in a partying mood tonight and I'm gonna try joining
them for a few hours so I can put Frankie's and Rob's situation  temporarily
out of my mind. Tom points at the six pack of beer I'm  holding, and goes,
"Yo, can I get one of those beers?" I pull one out of  the plastic holder and
pass it to him, and he goes, "You da man, Dylan!" Ten  seconds later Pony
comes in, shouting, "Dylan, you're here!" They both seem a  little high. Pony
and I do as much of a hug as I can manage  while holding a half-pint of
bourbon in one hand and the beer in the other.  Pony goes, "How's my hair look?"

I mutter, "It's very, um, regular looking." Tom  burps, then goes, "Dylan,
you're Pony's idol, dude," and Pony yells, "Shut-up,  Tom!" I ask, "How much
pot have you two knuckleheads smoked?" Tom says, "Like  one joint, man. Hey,
can I come with you guys tonight?" Pony goes, "Yeah, Dylan,  can Tom come?"

I'm like, "Sure, but I've already got four or five  other guys I'm driving
to the party, and I've got Rob's pickup, so...." He  mumbles, "All those
guys in a pickup truck with that tiny back seat, huh?" I  nod, "Yep, it'll be
challenging" and Tom goes, "Those guys can get in the  truck-part, the bed in
back... whatever it's called." I shrug, "Yeah, whatever.  Um, are you sure
you only had one joint?" Tom goes, "One joint each, yeah. We  just finished
them." So they had two joints, not one like he said  before...

Pony  asks, "Is that bourbon for me?" I say, "Yeah, I thought we'd do a
little  front-loading to prime the pump, ya might say." He nods, "Jeez, yeah,
you think  of everything, don'cha?" I put the beer and bourbon on the desk,
"You never  heard of front-loading, or as some call it, pre-partying or
pre-gaming? Ya know, getting half a load on before going out." He goes, "Oh
yeah, but we called it pre-funking at Drexel." I mutter, "That's  funkin'
lame," as I pull a can of beer free and pop the tab, asking,  "You got a cup,
Pony?" He shakes his head, "No, but I'll take a few slugs of  bourbon right
from the bottle," and he picks up the half-pint, unscrews the  cap and take a
drink making a face. Then he goes, "Rot gut!" I'm like, "It's all  rot gut to
me." That's not actually true though; Tracy's given me a few shots of
expensive liquor that was most definitely easier to swallow than other shots
I've had.

Turning  one of their desk chairs around, I sit on it backward with my arms
on  the back of the chair looking at Pony and Tom as we drink and talk
about  running. Three or four days a  week Pony and I are still doing the three
mile run. Tom's a long- distance  runner, or he was when a member of his
high school track team. Like most high  school athletes though, he wasn't
talented enough to make a college team. Tom's  about my size and not bad looking
although I don't believe he was ever what I'd  consider 'cute'. He has brown
hair and eyes, and a modest beard that  needs shaving or trimming. His
regular haircut style is shaggy and  probably two months past-due for a haircut.

The  subject changes from running to talking about tonight's party, and
it's  like they don't know any more about  it than I do, but that's not
unusual. Word of mouth will spread about  a party at such and such a place, and
everyone feels they're invited.  Assuming you don't get there too early you'll
usually be able to blend in.  Occasionally there's a bouncer at the entrance
checking ID or checking  that you have a ticket or arm band, or some such
shit. That's rare  though.

I'm on  my second beer before Pony asks, "Um, what are we waiting for?" I
tell him, "I  already told you. This guy, Golden Summers, will text me when
he and his boys  are ready to go." Tom says, "Golden Summers? You gotta be
shitting me with that  name. Is it a nickname or something?" Shaking my head
as I swallow a mouthful of  beer, I go, "Nope! That's his real name. He's a
baseball  scholarship freshman. He's also the team's barber and he was  gonna
give me a haircut today beings I'm the roommate of one of the team's
co-captains, but his clippers broke." Tom says, "Hey, your Pony's barber though,
right?" I shrug, and he goes, "Dude, I need a haircut bad! Can you do
something  with my hair before the party?" Doing a big noisy exhale, I say, "Not
now,  Tom. Tomorrow maybe," but he hops up and goes through the desk
drawers, saying,  "I've got these wicked sharp scissors. Just do what you can with
scissors,  okay?" Pony goes, "Don't nag Dylan, Tom! For chissakes, we're
showered and  dressed for the fuckin' party."

Tom  ignores Pony as he hands me the scissors, saying, "I'll put a towel on
my  shoulders," as he picks one up off the floor, adding, "If I could sit
in  the chair you're in, Dylan. Wouldn't that work?" I reluctantly get up,
muttering, "Yeah, sure, Tom." He's a bit of a flake, but he has good hair.

Pony mumbles, "You're an asshole, Higgins, for taking advantage of Dylan
being a good guy." Then to me, "You don't need to do this, Dylan. Here let me
have the scissors. He's my roommate, so I'll do it for him." Grinning, I
give  him the scissors as Tom gets up yelling, "No, Pony! You don't know how
to cut  hair!" Pony said, "Sit the fuck down, Tommy. I can do this." Tom
reluctantly sits down, muttering, "You better not fuck this up or when  you're
asleep some time I'll get my revenge." Tom's clutching the ends of the
towel so that it's tight around the back of his neck, saying, "Dylan, if  you
see him doing something fucked-up, would you tell me?" I'm grinning, "Oh for
sure, Tom," as Pony and I roll our eyes at each other.

Pony  takes another slug of bourbon, gasps, "Oh shit! that's gross," then
he cuts a  jagged line across the hairs at the back of Tom's head, "Scrunch,
scrunch, scrunch," as the scissors cut through two-inch-long hairs that
drift  down the back of his head leaving behind a gaping bare spot of scalp.

It's  about an inch above the hairline and all the way across the back of his
head. Tom's hand goes back feeling where the bare area is. Pony's bent over
 laughing his nuts of and pointing at where he cut. Tom yells, "What'd you
do, Ponti?" using Daryl's last name. Pony can't stop laughing and I start
chuckling along with him. Tom's fingers are rubbing over the bare scalp,
saying,  "I feel bristles, then hair above and below the bristles. That can't
be good,  right, Dylan?" Now I'm laughing as hard as Pony, who's still bent
over gasping,  "I can't catch my fucking breath." Tom begins snickering
himself now  because laughing's contagious. While laughing, he's saying, "I'm
gonna  get you back, Pony." Taking a deep breath, tears of laughter in his
eyes, Pony  hands me the scissors, saying, "That's the funniest thing I ever
saw. The hair  just fell away leaving his scalp showing." Tom's still feeling
the bare line  across the back of his head, asking, "Can you fix this,
Dylan?" Pony starts  laughing again and Tom joins in, gasping, and between snorts
of laughter,  "You're dead, Pony! You'll wake-up bald one morning."

Getting  my laughter under control, I snap the tab on my third beer; then,
wiping tears  from my eyes, I'm like, "Okay, sit the fuck back down, Tom. I
can fix it,  but it'll be wicked short." He sits, then reaches over to get
the last can  of beer from the six-pack. Pony's got half the half-pint of
bourbon left. I ask,  "Who's got a comb?" then I see one among the debris on
the desk and pick it  up. The scissors are not barber scissors, but they're
very sharp, so they'll  do. Using the scissors-over-comb method I comb hair up
and  cut off the amount above the comb. Starting at the back of his head I
cut  his hair in an upward taper that covers the bare spot, but because of
Pony's  random cutting it needs to be a very short haircut. Done the back,
Pony says,  "Jesus, you're amazing, Dylan. That's perfect." I go, "I'll finish
it after a  smoke. You guys were blowing smoke from joints out the window,
right?" They nod  their heads, so I go, "I'll do the same with a cigarette."

They both bum  cigarettes off me and the three of us, huddled at the open
window, drink  beer and smoke cigarettes blowing our exhaled smoke out the
window. I  see smoke coming from windows up and down the dormitory. Fuckin'
college  student, ya know?
After  our smokes I send Pony out to the car for the other six-pack while I
do the rest  of Tom's haircut. Like I said, he's got healthy thick hair
that's kinda fun to  cut and I cut a lot of it off; that's the fun part. It
gives my fetish a nice  little buzz too. His haircut turns out to be a version
of short hair on the  sides and back with long hair on top. Basically the
haircut Golden's been giving  everyone using clippers. I'm able to replicate
it with comb and scissors  and while doing it I'm reminded of the haircuts
Sonny used to do for me  with only a comb and scissors. Usually against my
will, but that's another  story.

Anyway,  I'm pleased how the haircut turns out and Pony wants this  haircut
now.  I tell him, "Next time, Pony." Actually Tom's haircut would look
even better if I had the trimming clippers to edge around and behind his  ears.

Oh well, few things are perfect in this life. Tom goes to the  lavatory to
check out his haircut as Pony drinks some of my beer after another  swig of
bourbon. I take the bottle and take a swig of whiskey myself, then  get the
can of beer back and swallow a lot of it. Pony leans over and  kisses my
lips sweetly, saying, "Because of you I like this Merrimack College.  There was
no 'you' in my last college, so Drexel blew." I ask, "Hey,  does Tom know
we're gay?" Pony's eyes open wide, "God, no! And don't tell him."  Shrugging,
I'm mumbling, 'Why the fuck would I tell him? I was just curious  because
you guys seem to get along so well." He nods, "Yeah, Tom's cool, but  he's
not gay."

It's  after ten o'clock when Golden finally texts me that he and his boys
are ready  'whenever I am'. Tom's all smiles about his haircut telling me
three or four  times, "I knew it'd look good. My haircut, I mean." Pony goes,
"What the fuck  did you assume we'd think you were talking about... your
dick?" I say, "Drink  up, boys. We're heading out momentarily." Slightly high
and drunk, Tom hugs  my shoulders, saying, "Thanks, Dylan." Then he needs to
take a piss before  we leave, and Pony's like, "Jesus Christ, you just came
from the lavatory." Tom  goes, "Fuck you, Pony! I was thinking about my hair
then, and now I'm  thinking about a piss." I mutter, "High and drunk is no
way to go through life,  boys."  When he gets back he opens his hand showing
Daryl the  makings for a couple of joints, saying, "Look what I got for us,
Pony. I  bought papers and pot from Smithy in the lavatory while he was
taking a shit."  Pony goes, "Ewww! TMI, Tommy. Jesus!" Then they each roll
joints for  later.

We get  our coats on and Pony puts the half-pint bottle in his coat pocket.

There's  only about an ounce left in it. I've got two cans of beer left
from the two  six-packs. As we go out the front door of the  dormitory
building, I say, "You have the keys, right Pony?" He goes,  "Keys? Why would I have
the keys?" I'm like, "Because, ya dumb shit, you used  them to open the
pickup to get the other six-pack." He's like, "Oops, yeah  that's right. Um, I
left them in the truck on the front seat." I swat the  back of his head, then
get him in a headlock as we stagger forward a few steps.  He wrestles free
chuckling, saying, "Gee, I hope the pickup is still there." It  is, and we
get in. Me in the driver's seat and Tom riding shotgun with Pony in  the
middle. I go, "Swell, that leaves the small backseat for four  or five guys."

Tom snickers, "I hope they're small guys."

We see  they're not small guys when I drive right up to the five of them
standing  outside Golden's dorm. They've all holding, or drinking from cans of
beer as I  open my window and ask, "Anybody want a ride to a party?" Golden
says, "We'll  pile in the truck bed, Dylan. It's only a mile or so down
114. It's the house  past Dunkin Donuts." I go, "Yeah, I know, but I'll get
five  reckless-driving tickets if the cops see me driving with you guys in the
back of the pick-up. Three of you can fit in the back seat." Hearing this,
with  much cursing, laughing, and wrestling among themselves all five try
getting in  the door next to Tom. He's leaning against the dashboard with the
back of his  seat pushed forward as three guys make it into the cramped back
seat. Golden and  a cute kid, the one he called Dickie when cutting his
hair this afternoon,  are the two left out. They climb up onto the truck's bed.

So now I'll only  get two tickets. A really tall guy in the backseat holds
his hand towards  me, saying, "I'm Pat," I bump his hand with mine, saying,
"Dylan," then point my  thumb to my right, saying, Pony and Tom." Pat says,
"These two assholes with  me are Chuck and Brad." I mumble, "Nice to meet
you," and drive away from  the curb. All five of these guys are freshman, but
they look  older, except for Golden and Dickie. The three freshman in the
backseat  could pass for twenty-one with no problem, while Dickie could pass
for  sixteen and Golden... huh, he could pass for twenty-one too. He's
nineteen  but looks older than me.

It's a  short ride, mostly through the campus and then a mile west on 114.

We get  to the right house but there's no place to park. The very end  of
Stop & Shop's parking lot is fifty feet from the  party-house with a
four-foot-high  chain-link fence  in between. I drive around to the entrance of Stop
& Shop's parking  lot, then park at the furthest spot from the store, which
is  the closest spot to the house. There are twenty-some cars parked here
already, obviously belonging to people at the party because no one in  their
right mind would park this far away from the store. We all pile out  and
walk to the chain-link fence  talking loudly, and some guys laughing about
something. I say to anyone who  cares to listen, "You know where the pickup is
parked. When I leave, whoever's  in the vicinity will get a ride back.

Everybody else is on their  own."

Pony's  right next to me, saying, "Don't lose me tonight like you did at
the frat  party, Dylan. I'm sticking with you." I nod, "Whatever, Pony," and
Tom goes,  "What if they aren't selling beer?" I mumble, "I'll go buy us
some, but someone  is probably selling it here." We step around the chain-link
fence  getting too close to route 114 and the fast moving vehicles. The house
doesn't  look too good from the outside. It needs painting and the front
porch doesn't  look solid. Actually it looks like it's about ready to
collapse. Golden's on the  rickety front porch, saying, "The sign says, "Entrance in
rear," and he  hops off the porch, asking, "Hear that bass?" That's all you
can hear through  the walls; the steady 'thump, thump, thump' sound of the
speakers pumping out  bass for some rap song probably. We all start walking
along the side of the  house to the back. Dickie says, "That tune that's
playing is, 'All Day' by  Kenya West."

Huh,  I'd like to meet this cute kid, Dickie. He's walking with Golden and
when I get  next to him I tap his shoulder. He looks back at me with a ready
 grin, and I go, "Hey, Dickie, how was the ride in the back of a truck?" He
 smiles, "Was that your truck?" I nod and he says, "It was cold, man. How'd
you  know my name?" Now he's walking with Tom, Daryl, and me. Golden walked
ahead  with a guy who's gotta be six-feet-six-inches tall. I go, "Oh, I was
in  Golden's dorm waiting for a haircut and I heard him say  your name."

Dickie goes, "Oh Jesus," and he rubs his fingers up the back of his  head, and
sort of whines, "I've never had a haircut this short. Golden  didn't even
ask me, he just cut it all off." I go, "Not all of it, you've  got hair on
top of your head, " and I ruffled through his hair with my  fingers, saying,
"Dude, I saw the look on your face after your haircut. You  stood up feeling
the back of your head and your expression reminded me of  the expression on
the face of sheep right after they're sheered to the  skin." He laughs, then
asks, "Do you think it looks okay?" I nod, "Yeah, you're  cool," and I rub
the back of his head again. This time he pulls his head away.  Balls! That's
a bad sign; it indicates there's a strong possibility Dickie is  straight.

No shit, only nine out of ten guys are.

He  leans his head in front of me and sees Daryl on my other side, and
goes, "Yo, Pony!" Daryl looks over, then holds his fist out in front of me  so
Dickie, on my other side, can bump it, saying, "Whassup, Dickie dude?"  Pony
asks, "So you know Dylan too?" and Dickie goes, "Um, no, I don't think
so." I tell him, "I'm Dylan," so Dickie chuckles, saying to Pony "Oh yeah,  I
just met him," and he steps behind me to get over next to Pony, who tells me,
 "Dickie and I spent a lot of time together during the two-day orientation
at the beginning of the semester. It was freshman orientation, which is
what I  wanted to hear even though I'm a sophomore. Ya know, because this is my
 first year at Merrimack."

We step  through the squeaky-hinged door in the seven-foot stockade  fence
that's around the back yard, and there's the party. Or part of it. The
backyard is overrun with guys and girls. Naturally everyone is drinking, but
there's also the unmistakable smell of pot with many  students openly passing
joints around within their groups. There's  also a big backyard fire-pit
with a fire roaring in the middle of it. Lots of  people standing around it,
and even though I'm fifteen feet away on a  cement patio off the back of the
house I can feel the heat. Dickie asks me,  "Did you see where Golden and Pat
went?" I don't know who Pat is, so I  look at Pony, who asks, "Who's Pat."

Dickie says, "A really tall kid. He's a  starting pitcher on the team, all
the way from New Orleans." Tom  interrupts, "Fuck, there's nobody selling
beer out here," and I mumble,  "Let's try inside." We walk through the noisy
backyard crowd toward the  back door. Outside we can hear rap music, but once
we open the door it becomes  unbearably loud. I'm not a fan of rap, but I
don't hate it. When it's this loud  though, it's pretty hard to take. The
house is jammed with guys and girls and at  least half of them are too
young-looking to be college students.

We're  in what they call a 'mud room' and through the next door is the
kitchen where we  find three guys behind a long table selling draft beer in
sixteen-ounce plastic cups, plus shots of liquor: rye, scotch or tequila  for
$2.50 a shot. There are lots of guys drinking from cans of beer too, so it
looks like we could have brought our own. Too lazy to go out and buy more
booze I'm going buy it here paying three times what it's worth. The guys
behind the bar are all on the baseball team, but they're not freshman  like
someone told me. They're seniors, looking older than that if you ask me.

They're also doing a brisk business; all three busy selling both shots and  beers.

The beer label on one of the quarter keg reads, 'Heineken' and the  other
indicates 'Miller Lite'. The Heineken is $3.00 a cup; Miller Lite is $2.50  a
cup. Pony says, "Do a shot with me, Dylan." I go, "If you'll do a beer with
 me." He nods, saying, "My treat." We only need to wait a minute before a
redheaded bartender, asks, "Whaddaya need, boys?" Pony says, "Two shots of
VO  and two Miller Lites." The redhead goes, "You got any ID?" Pony blushes
and  frowns, looking over at me. I shake my head, meaning the guy's kidding.

The  redheaded guy shows a really nice smile, saying, "Just breaking your
balls,  kid," and he pours two shots into plastic shot glasses, then draws two
 sixteen-ounce beers, saying, "As a special price to you, my friend,
that'll be  ten bucks and don't be shy about tipping." Pony gives him a twenty and
I can see  him adding in his head, then mouthing silently, 'Special price?'
He gets  his change and we back away, miraculously not spilling any of the
shots and  beers. Tom's at the bar now with Dickie, waiting to buy a beer.

Pony  holds up his shot, saying, or I should say 'yelling', "Good health,
dude," and  we throw the shots down our throats with me thinking, 'That one's
for you,  Rob'. The whiskey is just as ghastly as ever, but I know what to
expect by  now and gulping some beer helps. The stink of marijuana smoke is
heavy in  the air, much more so in here than outside. Cigarette smoke too, so
I say,  "Let's try another room, Pony." Already we're separated from the
other guys we  came with in the pickup, but this place is more crowded than
the frat party a  couple of months ago. It's amazing, but looking at the front
of the house  from the outside you'd hardly know two hundred guys were
packed in the  house and backyard. The road noise from route 114 helps cover our
noise, and the  high stockade fence in back helps deaden the noise too.

We  slide by and through groups of guys and girl into what must be the
living room.  The furniture is totally occupied though, and some of the
occupants  are deeply involved in making-out. The pot smell in here is unbearable so
I  nod toward the next room that turns out to be the dining room. The table
and  chairs are pushed against the wall and some couples are dancing. I
shout in  Pony's ear, "Are we having fun yet?" He shouts back, "This is cool.

Don't ya  think?" I shrug, but no, I don't think it's too cool. Chugging half
my  beer, I light a cigarette and Pony grins as he pulls it from my lips
to smoke it himself. He's looking cute tonight, and the beers I had at the
dorm  room helped me with that appraisal. Pony's tried to comb a pompadour in
his  hair like I combed for him when I gave him the haircut... fuckin' cute!
We  gotta find someplace where I can spank his ass and fuck him  hard.

We  watch the dancers while finishing our beers. Dropping our cigarette
butts in my  empty plastic cup, I take Pony's empty and set it on a tables
that's against the  wall, yelling, "You did okay with that beer, do you want to
try another one" and  he shouts, "A shot for sure, but I can't decide about
another beer." Pony's  doing some slurring and the word 'decide' sounded
suspiciously like  'deshide'. We both end up getting another shot and beer, and
this  time we take them outside where it's cold, but you can at least
breathe.  Compared to inside, the marijuana smoke out here is now almost
unnoticeable. Holding up our shot glasses, I say, "To college life" and we  drink
down the burning liquid. I go, "Jesus! That sucks," and Pony goes, "Yeah,  it
does." Tom Higgins and three guys I don't know come over and all of them
are sophomore classmates of Daryl's. They start talking about their  classes
and some of the assholes in class with them. Mocking guys who aren't
present is a fun pastime. It's sophomore stuff though, and I'm  not paying much
attention to it. I'm checking out the guys although there's  not much to get
excited about. Tom, with his haircut that I just did for  him is kind of
interesting, but I'm pretty sure his haircut has a lot to do with  that thought.

The others are not good looking, although for all I know they may  be
awesome guys. Awesome guys who aren't good looking.

The  music has changed to club dance music now, which is better than rap,
but not by  a lot. Finished my beer I'm definitely feeling a buzz from the
front-loading and  then these last two beers, plus the two shots. My mind
drifts to Rob  at the apartment and what he's probably thinking about, but I'm
supposed to be  getting away from that for a few hours so I force myself not
to think about  it. I drift off to get another beer leaving Pony, who's busy
laughing  his nuts off again, this time at a story one of the not
good-looking guys is  telling. Inside the house the first person I see is an
interesting looking tall  guy with wide shoulders and a baby face. His face is
shaped like a  slightly rounded 'V'. His chin is small and his face widens from
there.  That description sounds awful, but he is far from awful.

Strawberry-blond silky  hair that's kinda too long, but not by much. There's no part or
anything, his  hair just lays on his head shining in the overhead lights. He
has a peaches and  cream completion with pale whiskers growing like Robby's
grow, meaning a skimpy  mustache that doesn't quite reach all the way
across his upper lip,  then some chin whiskers as well as some along his jaw.

Like I said very  much like Robby's so-called beard. This tall guy has a cute
youthful face, like  I said, but it just doesn't go with his body or the
clothes he's wearing.  He's burley and tall at six-feet-three-inches. That's my
guess and his arms and  hands look thick. That face belongs on a shorter,
much slimmer body.

Naturally  he catches me staring at him; don't they all? With all these
people in here it's  so crowded the girl next to me is literally against my
side from  my shoulder to my feet. All these people and this big dude picks me
to  glance at catching me staring at him? He doesn't avert his eyes either,
so I  wait an extra second before I look away. I can feel my face getting
red as I  make my way to the right, where the bar is. No shot of whiskey this
time; just a  sixteen-ounce Miller Lite. Taking my beer, I'm afraid to look
up because I don't  want to make eye contact with that guy again. His green
eyes freaked me out a  little. So intense! Lighting a cigarette, I
contemplate fighting my way back  outside to hook-up with Daryl again. My other
choice is tolerating the pot smoke  in here where it's at least warm. I can see
out the window that the backyard is  even more crowded than before so, what
the fuck, I slide to my left and  make my way into the living room again. I'm
thinking I'll grab one of the  upholstered chairs if one is vacant, then
sit and watch the parade of  high school and college guys go by.

No luck  though. The upholstered chairs are in use with girls sitting on
the arms of  some, and there are two couples who look like they're very close
to having  sex on the sofa. The loud talking, uproarious laughing, and the
music  sort of combine into a roaring background noise. This place blows
because  it's not big enough for this many people. There's no place to go for
temporary relief from everything. I look at the steps, which are  also pretty
much occupied, but upstairs might provide some temporary  relief, plus it's
where a toilet is likely to be and I need to piss badly.  Getting over to
the stairs, bumping into people with no one  saying excuse me or sorry as we
collide, so I  don't either. At the steps I look up to see if there's even a
path I can  take through the making-out couples. There's also a couple of
zonked-out guys laying precariously on the steps. Jeez, those two guys  look
like they're about fifteen. If this place gets raided somebody's ass is
grass.

I  squeeze past a guy and girl making-out on the bottom step, then  glance
up right into the intense green eyes of that  big strawberry-blond guy. We
make eye contact for a second, then I look  away. He's coming down the steps
so I forget about the bathroom, turn  around and make my way to the other
side of the living room.  Goddammit! That big asshole is going to knock my
block off if I make eye contact  with him again. He's very attractive, but it's
so weird how his face  just doesn't go with his body. It's disconcerting! I
don't mean  his head is too small for his big body, because it isn't, but
he's too, um, good  looking in a clean, youthful, choirboy kind of way. Um,
it's  incongruous seeing that face on that burly body of his. Plus, he's
dressed  like a biker with a black-leather motorcycle jacket that's covered
with insignias: a swastika, an eagle, and other symbols I  don't recognize.

He's wearing over-sized dirty jeans with rips at  the knees, and engineer
boots. Black turtleneck sweater under the jacket...  and then the shiny
choirboy's face.

Finished  my beer I decide to get another one to take outside and hook-up
with Pony, or  maybe Chubby, who said he might stop in and see what's
happening after  checking-out a sorority party that John Beverly knows about. Okay,
it  requires some smooth maneuvering on my part to get past everyone and
then when I turn toward the kitchen I bump face-first into  a leather jacket
with a swastika right in my face. Looking up, and of  course it's him. He
grins, puts a hand on each of my shoulders and turns me  around, shouting,
"Can I talk to you for a minute?" I turn back around to  look at him, asking,
"What about?" He grins, saying, "I think you  know." I'm like, "No, I don't!
Sorry, but I was on my way outside to  join my friends." He goes, "Sure, but
I want to talk to you about something  before you do that. Just for a
minute, okay?" and his strong hands on my  shoulders turn me around again, "There
you go. That's right,  walk straight ahead." Standing in front of him he
looked even bigger  than he did from a distance. He urges me forward, then
leans his head down next  to mine, and says, "Isn't amazing how many
unattractive guys are here tonight?"  I mutter, "What?" as a shiver slides down my
spine.

Naturally  I'm curious what he has in mind, and with all these people here
nothing  bad could happen, right? Anyway it'd be awkward struggling with him
in  the middle of the room, so I walk through the crowd as best I can. He
walks  behind me with his hands still on my shoulders guiding me... one of
his fingers  is lightly rubbing the back of my neck. Hmmm, could sub/dom sex
be a  possibility? As we make our way through the crowd it's obvious nobody
much cares  if they're bumped into or jostled because it's simply
unavoidable.  Plus, just about everyone is either drunk or high, or both. At the
stairs,  he says, "Go on up. We'll get away from these uncouth contemporaries of
ours." Well, I still do need to piss pretty badly so I start up the  steps
with the people on the steps trying to give us room to get  by. At the top he
says, "What's your name? I'm Peter O'Neil." I go, "What do  want to talk
with about me, Peter O'Neil?" He asks again, this time with  some authority
behind it, "What's your name?" What the fuck, so I tell him. He  says, in a
calmer voice, "It's very nice to meet you, Dylan. Um, go on...  just down to
the end of the hall."

The  hall at the top of the stairs goes in both directions, but he pushes
me to our right where we pass two bedrooms with the doors closed. There's
the sound of bed springs creaking, along with some grunting and  heavy
breathing behind both doors. He lets go of my shoulders and grips the  back of my
neck, squeezing a little too tightly. I try shrugging my shoulders  and
pulling away, but he squeezes even tighter while pushing  me forward. At the end
of the hall there's a door with a blue-book taped to  it. The handmade sign
says, 'NOT WORKING/USE OTHER  BATHROOM'. Someone's neatly printed the sign
using a Magic  Marker. I venture toward the sign and Peter reaches around me
 with his free hand and opens the door, then turns on the light.  It's a
bathroom of course, and directly ahead is a disgusting  stopped-up toilet. He
pushes me inside, then closes the door behind us, saying,  "Ah, some quiet
at last, huh?" I say, "I need to take a wicked piss, but I'm  afraid it'll
overflow that obscene toilet." Peter goes, "Nah, it can  take one or two more
pisses before overflowing." I look doubtful so he  goes, "Seriously, I took
a piss in that toilet just before you saw me coming  down the stairs. Go
ahead and take your piss." I say, "This is very weird, um,  don't ya think? I
mean being in the bathroom... the two of us." He goes,  "This is the only
semi-private spot in the whole fucking house." I go,  "Whatever. Um, I'm kinda
shy when it comes to peeing. I can't get started  with someone watching." He
chuckles, "Okay," and he takes two steps backward and  goes out the door.

Good! I get my dick out and it's like, "Aaaah," as piss is  released and that
feeling of relief when the stream starts flowing and you  really, really
had to go. I'm looking up at the ceiling so I  don't need to see the gruesome
stopped-up toilet. I'm also thinking that this  Peter person just might be
who I was hoping I'd run into. A nice  looking dominant type gay guy to give
me a hard dominant fuck. I  mean what else could he want to talk about if it
isn't sex? If only he weren't  so big, but then that might turn out to be a
good thing, now that I think  about it. Just my luck though, he'll probably
have a  three-inch dick.

As I'm  zippering-up, feeling much better, Peter steps back in, saying,
"Put the  seat down, Dylan." I go, "Eww, no fucking way! I'm not touching that
thing." I hear the doorknob's lock click, then my world shuts down and  all
I hear is a slight pinging sound in my right ear, "Ping...ping...ping".

For ten seconds or so I have no idea what happened or where I am. Then, as  my
mind begins to clear it occurs to me he slapped the right side  of my head
with his big beefy hand. I'm sitting on  the floor next to the toilet.

Jesus, my hand goes to the side of my head as  I mutter, "What the fuck's wrong
with you?" but there's no energy or  force behind my words. Even to me it
sounded like a whine. He says, "Get up  and put the seat down like I told you."

With a hand on the rim of the bathtub I  pull myself up and, more than a
little bit flustered, mutter, "Okay,  fer chrissakes." With my head still
ringing, I roll off some toilet  paper and use it between my finger to drop the
seat on the floating  unmentionables." Oddly, there isn't any noticeable
odor. Water is a good  odor-blocker,  apparently.

He  says, "Turn around now and sit on the seat. I want to asked you a few
questions." The side of my face feels swollen and hot. I tenderly touch it
with just my finger tips. Huh, it doesn't seem to be swollen although the
ringing in my right ear continues. I should be frightened, but I'm  not. I've
decided to cooperate and see what he has in mind, or maybe that's  not a
conscious decision so much as I've been smacked into  a submissive frame of
mind. It's impossible for me to tell which one it  is at this point. The
unexpectedness of that outrageous slap has  me disoriented. Tentatively, mindful
of another smack on my head, I slowly  turn around and sit on the toilet
lid. Peter kneels down facing me, resting  his big forearms on the top of his
thighs, and asks me seriously, "How old  are you?" His face and hair are as
amazing and his green eyes glow from the  overhead bathroom light. It makes
his strawberry-blond  silky-looking hair shine. My head is still spinning a
little from the slap,  as I mumble, "You hit me," and he smiles beautifully,
"Yes, I did, and I'll  probably do it again unless you quickly get less
dense." Then he  chuckles before saying, "And please don't tell me it's true
what they say  about blonds," and he laughs lightly. I shrug, not really
comprehending,  mumbling, "What do they say about blonds?"

I'm on  a floor again next to the bathtub. The bathtub is exactly where it
was the last  time I was down here. Someone is picking me up as church bells
gong  loudly, and maybe a choir is singing. My eyes are not focusing and
when my  head begins clearing I'm again sitting on the lid of a toilet  seat.

I ask the room, "What happened?" A voice says, "I slapped you again."  Huh,
who the fuck is this maniac? My eyes are beginning to focus, as I  mumble,
"Oh, it's you. Why the fuck do you keep doing that?" Grinning, he  rubs my
head, saying, "Because I can. I'm a bully and proud of it."  Rubbing my
temples with the fingers of both hands, I mumble, "You  don't know about my
brother, do you?" He goes, "Nope, and I don't care  about him. I don't care if
he's the Navy Seal guy who killed Bin  Laden, or if  he's a fictional comic
book super-hero you've made-up in your dazed  state. In either case I'm not
trembling with fear about your brother."  Smelling the back of my hand, I do a
little smile, saying, "And then there's my  boyfriend who goes into
lunatic-mode when someone is unkind towards  me."

Peter  shrugs, "I don't give a shit about him either. Who I'm interested
in right now is you. Would you confirm for me that you're  gay?" Frowning,
the bells still ringing, I go, "Yeah, I'm gay. What about it?" He goes,  "I
just wanted to be doubly sure, although it'd be a miracle if  you weren't
gay." My head is clearing quickly now, and I can look him in  the eyes. So I do
that and slowly. without any anger, say, "I forget  what you said your name
was, and it was probably a lie anyway." Taking a deep  breath, I continue,
"I'm going to get up and leave this disgusting  bathroom. If you stop me,
you'll need to worry about more than just my  boyfriend's and brother's
revenge. Cops and probably the FBI will be all over  your ass because you've
already committed a number of crimes such  as assault and kidnapping. And with
your unusual looks,  you won't be hard to find. So, you've had your
bullying-fun, and now it's  time to say goodnight."

I'm  feeling extremely dizzy after saying that long speech, and  frankly I
can't even remember exactly what my point was in the first place.  He claps
his hands half-heartedly, saying, "Good speech, Dylan! Especially
impressive considering you're probably still more than a little  woozy." I'm frowning
and now feeling a little sick to my stomach,  as he says, "You forgot my
name, huh? It's Peter," and he gets up and runs cold  water in the sink, then
holds a washcloth off the towel rack under the water.  Putting the cool
washcloth on my forehead, he says, "I didn't  especially like smacking you, but
you weren't giving me your  undivided attention. As far back as I can
remember I've been bigger and  stronger than my peers and when frustrated I just
naturally resort  to bullying tactics. Sorry about that." I frown at him
again pulling the  cool washcloth out of his hand and holding it against my
forehead, "Did I  mention you've already committed crimes against me that could
get you put  in jail." He shrugs, "Yes,  a minutes or so ago you listed an
array of crimes, except you won't  turn me in, will you?" I'm like, "I ask
you again, what do you want from me?"  and he laughs easily, then says, "I
already told you, but  getting slapped made you forget."

Tossing  the washcloth in the sink, I go, "So tell me again." He nods his
head and his  silky hair moves around on his head, then settles back in
place, "I want to  ask you a few questions. One was your name, and you told me
it's Dylan Newman.  Secondly I wanted to confirm that you are a homosexual,
which  you confirmed. Now we're to my third question which is, how old  are
you?" I exhale noisily, not sure what to do in this situation, then  mutter,
"Twenty-one. Why do you want to know?" He laughs softly, then  goes, "Liar!
You're not twenty-one. Please give me your wallet before I hit  you again."

Thankfully the sick-stomach feeling has passed. Glancing around and
realizing there isn't any way to get by this big psycho so, to avoid a  third smack,
I take my wallet out of my back pocket and hand it to him,  mumbling,
"We'll add theft to your crimes now." Taking the wallet, he looks at  me with a
serious expression, saying quietly, "I almost smacked you again. You'd  do
yourself a favor by not talking unless I ask you to." Okay,  now that's a
little scary! Finally fear creeps into my brain and makes  my body tighten up.

I'm keeping my mouth shut for the moment while I try  thinking.

Looking  at my driver's license his eyebrows go up, then he glances over at
me  grinning, saying, "Awesome picture for a license, don't ya think?" He
puts  the license back in my wallet and hands the wallet to me, "Good! You
didn't lie.  So, now I know your name,  and where you live. I know you attend
Merrimack College because I saw your  college ID next to your license, I
know you're gay with a boyfriend,  and you've recently turned twenty-one. All
good stuff." He takes his wallet  out and pulls out his driver's license,
then hold it in front of me, saying,  "You know my name and, as you can see
from my license I'm nineteen. What it  doesn't tell you is I'm a senior at
North Andover High. At my age I should  be a freshman in college, but when I was
twelve a car hit me while I was riding  my bike. I missed most of seventh
grade because of that  mishaps, and I had to repeat the grade. Consequently,
I'm not only  bigger and stronger than my classmates, I'm also a year older.

 There were a number of operations after the accident, and a lot of pain
while rehabbing, which has left me prone to getting testy at times, but I'm
a pussy cat inside though." It's also has left you crazy as a junk yard
dog. I'm frowning at his bizarre speech, wanting to ask how'd he knew I was
gay? I don't ask though because of the 'testy' aspect of his  personality, and
because I definitely want to avoid another smack on the  side of my head if
at all possible.

He's  still kneeling in front of me with his forearms resting on the top of
his thighs  as he goes, "I'm guessing you're primarily a 'bottom', right?"

I nod my  head one time, and he chuckles, "You're hesitant to say anything,
huh?  That's good 'cause it tells me you're smart and a quick learner.

Here's  what I'm proposing: you and I have sex in this bathroom with you assuming
your  normal 'bottom' position." I shrug and he snorts out a laugh,
mumbling, "Now  you're just breaking my balls, ain't ya?" I shake my head, almost
grinning.  How can he be kinda cool one minute and then the next minute try
knocking my head off my shoulders? He goes, "Okay, you can talk." I ask,
"How'd  you know I'm gay?" He spreads his hand like it's obvious, saying, "You
were  staring at me and your eyes said, 'Fuck me, you big bastard'." I'm
like,  "Really?" He nods, "Yep, didn't anyone ever tell you about your eyes?"

Huh,  actually someone has... a couple of times. I go, "Hell, no. My eyes
don't  talk." He goes, "Yeah, they're very expressive. So, do you wanna? You
and  me?" Hell, yeah! I go, "I'd rather not. You rang my bell twice and I
still feel dizzy and a little sick to my stomach."

He  says, "How about this? You and I go downstairs to get a beer and some
fresh air.  Then, when your bell stops ringing, we'll have a fuck together."

Staring at him  and frowning again. Huh, this suggestion of his doesn't
compute with his  previous violent tendencies. He's a walking contradiction. I
finally ask,  "Why the hell didn't you just ask me about sex in the first
place? Why  smack me around before asking?" He goes, "It's simple. I wanted  to
establish convincingly who's dominant here, as well as, who's,  um, not. I
think we've established that, right?" I mutter, "I'll say." He  stands-up
offering me his hand. I take it and pull myself up off the toilet  seat. He
puts his arm around the back of my neck, saying, "You're gonna be  my obedient
'boy' for the night, right, Dylan?" Not wanting to seem  eager, I go,
"Maybe," and he grins, "C'mon, let's get  a beer and some fresh air." We go down
stairs in single-file because the  same guys and girls are still occupying
most of the area  on the steps. Peter keeps one of his big mitts on my
shoulder as I'm trying  to figure out which of this big apes' personality is the
real one.

At the  bottom of the stairs the noise assaults my senses mightily,
especially  after the quiet of the bathroom. Peter says, "Get both of us a shot of
something  and a beer. Here," and he hands me a twenty-dollar bill,  adding,
"I'll be outside the front door, not the back one." I nod, and he looks  me
in the eyes, "Don't fuck this up, boy. It'll be no trouble finding you
again," and I almost smile. Damn, I had a premonition this might be the  night
for an hour or so playing sub/dom sex roles with a dominant dude.  Those
smacks were a big price to pay though, but now that he's satisfied I'm  okay
with being his submissive boy for a while, no need for  more smacks. As I make
my way to the kitchen I'm wishing he was older  than nineteen, but then it
works even better that he's younger than me, and  yet still more dominant.

That thought make me smile. Sub/dom sex rocks, but only  when done sparingly
and for a relatively short period of time. Preferably  without any smacks on
my head. Obviously most guys don't get aroused  by being dominated during
sex, but it adds a scary thrill to sex for me. An  extra thrill to sex, which
is already the most awesome pastime in the  world. The scary thrill is like
the one you get on a thrill ride at an amusement  park. You love it, but it
still almost makes you wet your pants. A touch of  danger even though you
know it's mostly benign.

I buy  two shots, then pour each into separate beer cups so I don't spill
any making my  way through the crowd. The cups of beer are filled right to
the top  so I chug some from each. Then, with my fingers holding the shot cups
 together in my left hand, and my fingers inside the beer cups holding them
 tightly together in my right hand, I start making my way out the back door
 because it's closest. Outside I slip around to the side of the house and
walk to the front. Peter's sitting on the front step of the rickety porch
watching the traffic fly by on route 114. As I come around the side of the
house  he looks over smiling, "Well ain't you the clever one avoiding  going
through three rooms with four cups of booze. Hey, are your fingers in  my
beer?" I go, "Yep, and I didn't wash my hands after taking that piss." He
laughs out loud. Then says, "Where's the change from the twenty?" I go, "I left
it as a tip," and he laughs out loud again. See, things are going to be
okay with this Peter person.

Standing  next to the steps, I pass him one of the whiskey cups, then a
beer cup. He asks,  "Have you ever played golden showers?" I shake my head,
"Nah, I'm not into piss  although I once drank a little of my boyfriend's and
it wasn't so bad. It didn't  do anything arousing for me though 'cause I
don't have that fetish. So no,  I'm not into golden showers."  Peter mumbles,
"Me neither," and  he holds up the cup with whiskey, saying, "To you," I reach
over  and tap his cup, then flash down the whiskey. I'm gasping and
coughing for two seconds before swallowing some beer, as he goes, "Jesus,  what
rot gut booze, huh?" I go, "I'm not a shot and beer guy." He goes, "Neither
am I, but it's kinda mandatory for some reason. Peer pressure ya  know?"

I go up  two steps and sit next to him, then give him his ten-dollar change
from the  twenty. We drink our beer for a minute or two without saying
anything, then I  mumble, "Um, Peter, overall you don't really strike me as the
bully type." He  goes, "But yet I am. And because I bullied you in the
bathroom we've established  the pecking order between us. Also it's obvious that
because of my bullying  you're excited about me fucking you. Am I right? You
want me to be  your dominant 'top' for the night." I go, "Well we're
discussing that  possibility. That's what you said in the bathroom." He drinks
some beer, then says, "Yeah, that's what I said in the bathroom, but it's
like this: I don't run into someone of your, um, quality, very often. In fact,
I never have before tonight. Consequently, heh heh, I'm pretty  much
committed to fucking you."

Avoiding  that for the moment, I'm like, "Huh. Let me asked you something.

Ahh, do  you think your face goes with your body?" and he snorts a laugh,
then  coughs spitting out a mouthful of beer." After coughing a couple more
times, his  eyes watering, he says, "Holy shit, where'd that question come
from?  But, as a matter of fact, I've wondered about that myself a few  times.

I'm very good looking though, wouldn't you say?" I shrug, "Yes, in an
unusual way you are attractive, but you've got like a big man's body and a, um,
choirboy's face." He pats my shoulder, "Thanks, I like that description,"

and he runs the back of his fingers up the side of my head, asking, "You
gonna  be my boy tonight?" Hmmm, as much as I'd like this to work out, something
isn't  right with this guy. I mean he seems so normal one minute then the
next he seems  dangerous. Yeah, but that's partially what makes his proposal
enticing.

Peter finishes  his beer and drops the plastic cup off the side of the
steps where he dropped  the whiskey cup. "Let me give you the lay of the land,
so to speak.  Firstly, you being a submissive bottom and all, I assume you're
 used to being spanked, right? I spank asses before fucking them." I drink
some beer so he goes on, "You see, I've been doing this since I was
thirteen. A  few of my fellow students at North Andover High School have enjoyed
being  my boy for the night, but I  don't really have any friends there due to
me being older, and a bully  too... heh heh." I not sure if he's putting me
on about all this, but  there's those two smacks to consider so I'm trying
for an optimistic  outlook. He likes to hear himself talk apparently as he
goes on, "So, in  my experience I find a hard spanking reinforces who's the
boss.  Any problem with that?" I shrug, "I've been spanked before. Um,
haven't you  gotten in trouble at school for spanking and fucking guys?" He shakes
his  head, "No,  and it's isn't always guys either. I'm bisexual, but with
either  sex it's always consensual, um, one way or the other. Plus, I'm only
 talking about a couple incidences per year. I prefer being selective
rather than  prolific." I'm like, "Huh, jeez..."  He asks, "How about sucking
cock?  You got a problem with that?" I go, "Not really." He says, "Good, we're
basically on the same page. You'll do what I say when I say it and  we'll
be cool. I only know one way to fuck and it's hard and fast...  and always
with a good sturdy condom.: That's good to hear. Patting my  shoulder, he
goes, "Okay, the last thing is this: do you get turned-off  kissing another
guy?" I go, "Mostly it depends on the guy."

When it  doesn't seem like he has any more to say,  I mumble, "If there's
nothing else, I'm gonna get another beer. Do you  want one?" He says, "No,
not now, and you're not getting one either,"  and he swings his arm with his
hand open, aimed at the side of my head  again. This time I move just enough
so he swats across the top of my head  instead of hitting the side. I look
at him with a startled  expression on my face and he calmly says, "You're
forgetting who's the boss  here. You ask me if you can get another beer; not
tell me you're  getting one," and he grabs the back of my neck squeezing hard,
muttering, "Do  you understand me?" Both my hands go to his hand trying  to
pry his fingers loose from the back of my neck.  He literarily shakes me,
snarling, "Put your hands down!" I drop my hands and he lets-up the
pressure on the back of my neck a little, but still holds on. Now he's back  to
speaking softly, saying, "Relax!" and he shakes me again laughing a  little.

This is a very strong nineteen-year-old, who apparently has a Dr.  Jekyll and
Mr. Hyde personality.

I try  relaxing, but he swats the top of my head again anyway, asking, "Are
you  going to do what you're told, or do you need another swat across your
cute  face?" A flicker of a submissive trance skitters past my mind, and I
get  docile, murmuring, "Okay." In a pleasant voice he murmurs, "Then please
do  what you're told, okay? Jeez, you submissive types are so
unpredictable." I'm unpredictable!? That's good one coming from this  nut. Taking a deep
breath, I try relaxing even more until I'm almost  slumping. He chuckles,
"Good, Dylan, good. Get nice and docile for me,  that's my boy! You've done
this before, haven't you?" I take another  deep breath feeling like there's no
bones in my body and realize I'm in a  slightly submissive frame of mind, I
murmur, "Sure I have." There's  something missing, although I can't decide
what it is... nothing's perfect  though so I'll settle for this tenuous
submissive sense, hoping it gets a  lot better.

He lets  go of my neck and grabs a fistful of hair at the front of my head,
and now he's  rough and talking nasty again, saying, 'Don't disappoint me.

Not get up!" I  guess he wants us completely into our sub/dom roles now.

When we're  both standing on the top step my eyes are level with his Adam's
apple,  so he's five or six inches taller than me. Plus, he's got an extra
seventy-five pounds on me, probably all muscle.  That's intimidating. Peter
pulls on my hair, saying, "Get going." I  open the door and go in with him
close behind; so close his thighs hit my  buttocks with every step. Because he
has a fistful of my hair at the  front of my head, it pulls my head back and
when we come into the  room it quiets down for a half a minute as everyone
gawks at us. It quiets  down except for the screeching music of course;
that's still blaring  away.

Naturally  everyone continues gawking at us; gawking at me mostly and my
face gets  red and hot. Even though I don't know any of these people, it's
still embarrassing for me. I hear a couple of snarky remarks, like:  "Yeah,
Peter, don't take any shit from these college assholes," and a  whispered,
"Holy shit! Look at that!" and another person  stage-whispers, "O'Neil's got
himself another pussy-boy." Most  everyone I know would hate this experience,
and a part of my brain hates it  too, but the part controlled by my penis is
getting off on it a little  bit, and hoping for a full-blown submissive
trance before we're through. It's  been months since my last one with Ryan in
Georgia. It  happened on a regular basis there.

After  the short initial shock of seeing us, the place goes back to being
extremely  loud and raucous. A young-looking kid comes up to Peter, asking,
"Pete, can you  give me a ride home later?" Peter yanks on my hair, and says,
"Probably,  Rich, but I can't promise anything other than a ride, if you
know what I mean.  Look what I got here." Rich says, "You da man, Pete," and
he pinches my ass  hard. I yelp and they both chuckle, then the sweet-looking
kid asks, "Hey,  can I watch you do this kid, Pete?" My hands are on
Peter's wrist  again trying to get him to let go of my hair, but he pays no
attention  to that. He tells Rich, "Nah, not this time," then he gets us moving up
the  stairs again as I'm hearing a lot of slurred speech from  intoxicated
or stoned individuals. Pot smoke is still thick in  the air, but less so
when we reach the top of the stairs. When I hesitate at the  top, he says, "You
know where to go." I lead us to the bathroom then open  the door and Peter
turns on the light. He lets go of my hair and  there's half-a-dozen longish
blond hairs stuck to his hand. Hairs he pulled  out of my scalp. He wipes
them off, saying, "You're my submissive boy now, ain't  cha?" I frown trying
to analyze my condition, as he goes, "Get totally  undressed and do it fast
without saying one fucking word until I tell you to."  Undressing quickly my
hearts beating fast, I'm full of nervous anticipation  because it's
something new in that I've never done it with him before. Common  sense tells me
there's no real danger with a house full of people, but  I push common sense to
the background.

Standing naked  in this small bathroom in front of the clogged-up toilet,
I'm feeling small next  to Peter. I watch him pull his pants down just below
his big balls and, oh  jeeesus, Steve Church should see this. Peter has a
cock I'm estimating to be  ten-inches-long, although not especially fat. It
does have a  large, Ray-like, mushroom head though. It's actually grotesque
looking, but then a small cock on a guy this big would be kinda grotesque
looking or freakish-looking too. He's got his cock in his fist just staring
at me until I begin feeling uncomfortable. I'd like to ask, "What?", but
don't need another slap so I docilely wait for instructions  while feeling a
tingling in my groin. Stroking his long cock, he  finally mumbles, "Turn all
the way around slowly so I can see what I've  caught for myself tonight" and
when I slowly turn around, like I'm modeling my  body, he goes, "Wow, boy,
you're the real deal, ain't ya? Looks like I  finally got lucky." He wiggles
his forefinger, like, 'Come here'. Taking a small  step towards him and, all
of a sudden, he's got his arms around me with his body  tight against mine.

The zipper of his jeans scratches my thigh as he  grinds against me
fondling me with his hands, rubbing from my ass up my back  and up the back of my
head. All the time his cock swings between his  legs bouncing of the inside
of my thighs. My face is  mostly against his neck as he hugs me taking big
noisy breaths,  humping his hips against my stomach; his long cock getting
really hard as  it's now pressing against my right leg. He's screwing this up,
is what he's  doing!
He  continues his fondling and humping for a minute or so as he makes low
sounds of arousal in his throat. His bicep muscles rubbing against my naked
skin feel freakishly hard. When he backs away he's fully boned-up. Again he
 grabs a fistful of my hair yanking me around as he sits heavily on the
toilet seat pulling my head down almost to his crotch. I'm thinking he wants
me to  suck that big-headed cock of his, but he lets go of my hair and lifts
me up,  then drops me across his lap with his boner under my belly. My feet
hit the bathtub on one side and my hands are on the  dirty floor near the
sink on the other side with my crotch  pretty much on top of his. Without
hesitating the sounds of the palm  of a hand slapping skin rings out in the
bathroom, "SMACKSMACKSMACKSMACK!"  Right away I'm trying to get off his lap
squirming and struggling, yelling,  "OW! OW! OW! STOP!" Then more,
"SMACKSMACKSMACK!" sounds as tears form  in my eyes. He stops abruptly and lifts me up
to sit me on his  lap facing him, a leg on either side of his big thighs, his
boner sticking  up between us. "Shhh, shhh," he says, "You said you had
experience  with spanking. Shh, stop crying!" I mumble, "I'm not crying. Why
are  you telling me to stop?" He goes, "Because I saw your fucking big-baby
tears, that's why." I'm like, "Well that hurt like a mother-fucker!"  He rubs
tears off my cheeks, grinning and saying, "Aren't you kinda old to  be
crying?" I mumble, "I just fucking told you I wasn't crying.  My eyes were
watering because it hurt like a mother-fucker." I'm keeping my  voice level
because I don't want to piss him off enough to give me another  slap across my
face. Oh, I guess there's no imminent danger of that as  he hugs me against
his chest tightly as some of the metal insignia on his  leather jacket scratch
my skin.

More  fondling, his hand all over my back and head. Then he pushes me away
from his  body and moves his legs wider apart. My legs spread along with
his, my limp  cock hanging there between them. He takes my cock in his big hand
and strokes  it while squeezing it tightly. I grimace at first, but when it
begins  getting hard I grunt, leaning forward and putting my hands on his
shoulders. Using the fingers of his other hand he rubs the skin  around my
groin, saying, "It's a very faggy thing shaving your pubes, but  if you
insist on doing it you need to be diligent about it. You've got like a  five
o'clock shadow down here." I don't say anything as the stinging on my  buttocks
has most of my attention. When it begins lessening to  a manageable level,
my attention goes to the sensations coming off my  hardening cock that looks
small in his over-sized hand. Stroke, stroke,  stroke, as he quietly asks,
"Who's your daddy, Dylan?" I make a face, then  give him the answer he needs
to hear, "You, Peter." Big smile, "You Peter,  what?" I go, "You're my
daddy, Peter." He grabs a fistful of my hair again  jerking my head back,
murmuring, "Yes I am," then he  abruptly let's go.  Jeeezus, this crazy bastards'
so inconsistent I can't maintain  any semblance of a submissive sense. I
mean, what's with his immature  foundling of me like it's the first time he's
ever had another guy in his arms,  and then he follows that up with an
over-done spanking, and that's followed  by jerking me off and hugging me again.

With  his legs spread, mine are spread too and it feels like I could fall
off  backwards at any second so my hands drop down to hold onto the top  of
his thighs; thighs that feel like granite. By now  he's stroked my cock into
a pulsating boner. Letting go of it he looks  me in the eyes, murmuring,
"Awesome penis ya got there. You are  one special queer boy," then he says, "Is
it okay if I kiss you?" He's  not supposed to  ask! I look down and he puts
a hand on either side of my head, holding it  up a little and kisses me
with a lot of desire. I don't even need to kiss back  because he's a really
into it. Again it's like he's a kid let loose in a candy  shop.  My face is hot
and a little red when he takes his lips away. I  almost feel embarrassed
for him at how excited and aroused he seemed during his  kiss. He's now
saying, "Jesus, you smell and taste really good, boy. This  is really awesomely
hot. You and me are going to be getting together  frequently, and your
boyfriend can go fuck himself." Really? We'll  see.

I've  learned not to pay a lot of attention to dominant guys' declarations.

They're  all pretty pleased with themselves and say things they can't
always  back-up. My ass is still stinging some and there's a burning sensation
but it's not real bad, and the spanking is behind me, so that's  good.

Anyway, a good  thing about my buttocks is they both can take it and so can my
rectum. He  asks, "Are you okay?" I take a big breath and says, "I guess so,
but..."  He goes, "But what?" I shrug, "Never mind, yeah, I'm okay." He gives
me a  cute look, and I still can't get used to that youngish face of his,
and  then him being such a brute at times. This dude has got a serious mean
streak in him.

I'm  feeling stupid sitting like this on his big hard thighs as he runs his
fingers  through my hair. He's doing whatever he wants so I'm feeling a
little submissive, and helpless. It's not a good sexual  submissive feeling th
ough, so my cock is quickly losing it's hardness. He  says, "If you're okay,
I'll finish your spanking now," I'm like,  "Peter, wait... um, I already
said you're my daddy and my dominant top, so  why do you need to do anymore
spanking?" He says, "So you don't forget." Oh fuck! Nothing I say is going to
 change his mind so, to avoid a head smack in addition to the spanking, I
let out a exasperated breath, mumbling, "Okay, I'm ready." He goes,  "You're
ready, for what?" I think for a second, then mutter, "I'm  ready for my
spanking," and he goes, "You've almost got it right, but you forgot  who you're
talking too." I mutter, "Oh, okay. I'm ready for my spanking, daddy."  He
laughs, then says, "Good pussy-boy," and he picks me up like a  feather to
lay me across his lap again. It's a repeat of the first  spanking with me,
this time, initially trying to take it. Quickly  though I can't help but get
into all my yelling and begging him to  stop just like I did earlier. He
eventually does stop, and his cock,  sideways across my stomach is like granite,
so he gets off from spanking.  Others do too I suppose.

He's  rubbing my burning butt cheeks as I squirm on his lap, hating on him;
 hating him with a passion. He waits until I stop struggling, then gets a
hand towel off the towel bar, wets it with cold water and lays it across
both my  butt cheeks. He apparently is of the opinion a wet towel cure
everything.  The cold wetness does feels good though as I'm taking deep breaths
wiping  my eyes. Now I want more than anything to be done with this and away
from  him. This isn't doing anything for me except causing me pain. He
basically doesn't know what he's doing; he sucks as a dom! Rubbing my  back he
starts talking again, like he's having a normal conversation, "You've  got a
really nice body, Dylan, and your skin is so smooth and beautiful. I had  a
girlfriend for about two months earlier this year who loved rough  sex. You do
too obviously, and also like you, she had beautiful skin. Sex with a  member
of the opposite sex is so different though. I loved it, but I love a  guy's
body too. Especially a primo one like yours."

Taking  the wet towel off my ass, he asks, "Feeling okay now?" I mumble,
"Yeah,  sort of, I guess." I'm being careful how I answer him because he's
obviously got a serious screw loose in his brain and I don't want him
snapping out again. He gets me on my feet and, as I've come to expect, he grabs  a
fistful of my hair and uses it to pull my head down until I'm on my  knees.

He says pleasantly, "You know what to do." I pick up his  slightly firm
cock, that was granite-hard a minute ago after he spanked me.  The head is a
mouthful alright, and a shiver of fear skitters down my spine  realizing I'll
be taking it up my ass momentarily. Peter says nothing, and  instead starts
breathing noisily and in fifteen seconds he's  taking gasping breaths,
seemingly deeply aroused already. All  pretenses of being a hard-ass dom is lost
in his sexual arousal. As for me, I'm  not sensing even the small submissive
trance I felt earlier. He  has this goofily weird way of going, "Oooh, ooh,
ahhh, whoa,"  constantly while shuffling his feet as though his age has
caught up with him,  and he's merely a horny over-sized boy getting his cock
sucked  for the first time.

Precum  doesn't bubble out of his piss slit, it shoots out in three fast
watery  shots. He moans, "Ahhhh, mmmm, aaah fuuuck," as he pushes my head away
with the  head of his cock flopping out of my mouth before I even licked
the shaft. He's  got another rock-solid boner from me sucking the head for
thirty  seconds. He pulls a condom out from the back pocket of his jeans that
are hanging below his ass, but his hands are shaking as he tries  to rip the
packet open. He gets flustered and hands it to me, mumbling,  "You do it. I
can't get it opened." It's an extra-large condom packet  that I easily rip
it open and then get my fingers gooey rolling it on his  long cock. The head
bulges out the end looking like a malformed apple. As I'm  wiping my f
ingers on the roll of toilet paper he stands, grunting, "Turn around  and hold
onto the toilet." There's no force in his voice, just gasping desire.  What a
bummer! I was expecting good sub/dom sex but he way overdid the rough
stuff, and now he's like a quivering novice fucking for the first  time.

It's  obviously too late for me to back out now though. My cock boned  up
slightly while sucking the head of his cock, but he got  a boner so fast mine
didn't have a chance to get very hard. My bare feet  are on the dirty tile
floor as I reluctantly hold onto the edge of  the toilet seat, a hand on
either side. I'm wishing I had a bottle of  Purell Hand Sanitizer so I could
use the whole bottle. He pushes the head  of his hard cock against my asshole
with me holding my breath. There's no  dominant thrust or smack on my ass;
instead a surprisingly considerate,  very slow attempt at penetration while I
listen to his heavy  desperate breathing. I feel like giving him a
spanking. Then  all I can think about is the pain from my anus. The stretched lips
painfully expand until the pain is almost my whole world. I gasp, my eyes
and  mouth tightly close as I picture in my head that apple-size cock head
ever-so-slowly spreading me open. It's inevitable he's going to keep the
pressure on until it pops inside me, but it's taking forever. Then  I scream out
as the head finally squeezes past my sphincter  muscle and spreads my
insides. Intense pain as I grit my teeth and wait an  agonizing minute until the
pain begin to let-up and slowly turns into a  dull ache. I can take a breath
now as the hurt starts to level out. The  head feels enormous inside me,
but it's beginning to  feel good now that my ass has expanded enough. Peter
grunts, "I'm  going to cum." What the fuck....

His  hips thrust and the head of his boner goes two inches further up  my
ass as he moans and shakes pushing that fat cock further into my  bowels. His
whole body shudders as he squawks, "Waaarra!"  and I feel the ball at the
end of the condom enlarge inside me as he  climaxes. Unbelievable!  Peter was
gasping, almost whining like he's  in pain as he was climaxing. My cock is
flaccid between my legs as he partially  supports himself with a hand on
either side of the toilet seat next to my hands.  His open jacket hangs on
either side of me and I smell the  leather. Peter's body has a neutral scent
with a hint of bath gel. He's  breathing deeply with the two of us like statues
in this odd position.  The pain really hurt at first, but the whole thing
from start to climax was less  than two minutes; that's my best estimate. It
was very soon after his cock  got past my sphincter muscle that he shot his
load. Some dom!  I still  don't say anything though because I'm not sure if
he's still acting the  crazy bad-ass role smacking me, or if he'll continue
with his current  novice overly-excitable role.

It's  probably only a minute or so, although it seemed longer to me, before
he  murmurs, "Oh God, that was so fucking good," then another deep breath
before  adding, "Give me a couple of minutes and I'll start fucking you."

What? Getting his arms around my chest, we're both standing up  now with his
knees bent so his still fairly-hard cock is level with my  asshole. It's like
when dogs fuck, the head of the male's dick swells-up so  much they're
locked together until the male climaxes, which can take  a while. In our case
one of the males, the 'top' one, has a  swollen mushroom head on the end of
his ten-inches of hard penis  inside me locking us together. I'm dreading the
thought of  the hurt in my ass when he jerked that apple out quickly. Peter
takes  another deep breath, then he turns us  around taking little steps
keeping us docked together, as he's mumbling, "I  had to get that premature
ejaculation out of the way. I'll be good to go  again in ten minutes or so." He
gently sits down on the toilet  seat holding me off his lap so the last
seven inches of boner doesn't shoot up  my rectum. Worried about that, I'm
holding my breath  again.

He  says, "Whoa, you're heavier than you look." I'm concentrating on being
docile so I don't slip out of his hands. He says, "Maybe the head of my
cock will soften enough in a minute or two that I can let you sit down on  my
lap. That'll get me aroused mightily, heh heh, and then I'll fuck the  shit
out of your ass." This really is a terrible example of sub/dom sex. I  want
to get away from this nut-case, but how do I do that? Peter goes,  " Hmmm, I
think I'm gonna do you doggie style, and you, boy, are  still instructed to
keep your mouth shut." Well, if I said anything he'd  need to let go from
one of my hips in order to smack my head, and then I'd  sink all the way down
on his giant pole, so I'm quiet as a  mouse.

By now  my rectum has expanded sufficiently that I've got this awesome
over-stuffed  feeling in my ass. It's sending off mighty tantalizing sensations
both from  my wickedly stretched anus  and from my squashed prostate gland.

Oh fuck, there go my shoulders  shuddering as I let out a moan, "Aaaah,
mmmm, oooh." He chuckles, "Feels  good now, does it?" I squirm a little getting
the slightest bit of movement on  his huge pole. This is the fullest I can
ever remember feeling, and there's  seven more inches to go. I can feel his
cock getting harder again, and the head  especially. I thought he said it
would soften-up. But wow, the inside  of my rectum feel spectacular now as
Peter says, "I'm letting you  slide down now. I'll do it slowly 'cause I know
you've never experienced a  cock like mine. Do not scream out." He drops me an
inch and it hurts so I grunt  and he says, "Oh, come on and take it like
the good pussy-boy I expect you  to be." So he's back to being the dominant
bad-ass again.

His  hands are sweaty on my hips as he lowers me. The pain continues, like
something  is ripping inside me, but he's taking it an inch at a time so I
gotta give him  props for that consideration. Another inch as he exhales a
moist breath on the  back of my neck, then another inch and more moist exhales
from Peter.  He's still fully clothed of course; his pants down far enough
so his  full bare ass is on the toilet seat. Another inch with my cock  limp
again from the pain and the fear he'll drop me all the way. My  buttocks
finally settle on his hairy thighs as he takes a deep breath,  murmuring,
"This feels so fucking good I can't begin to tell you."  Sweat's running off my
forehead as I continue holding my breath and  then, just like that, the pain
fades and I moan with relief, "Ooooh, fuck, yeah.  Mmmm, oh man, yeaaaah,"

then I remember I'm not supposed to  say anything. Cringing, I'm waiting for
the smack that never comes. He  goes, "Okay, lean forward slowly. I've got
you," and between the two of us I get  down on my hands and knees, but
during that re-positioning his cock  pulled out about five inches. When he pushes
it back in a spurt of  cum shoots out of my cock that somehow got hard
again.

He  goes, "I'm going to fuck you until I get a second orgasm, so after you
climax I expect a pussy-boy like you to continue hanging in there. If not,
you'll feel my hand smack the side of your head again." The bully's back in
 town! He slides his huge hard boner back, the mushroom head dragging the
sides of my rectum backwards with it, creating a sensation I remember from
Ray  Reeves fucking me during that strange summer with the posse boys. Peter
pulls his boned-up organ all the way back and then, taking me by surprise,
plows it back up my ass fast and hard. I got used to everything slow and
easy,  and now this. After slamming it up my ass he immediately withdraws
about seven inches as I moan, "Ahhhh, oooh, mmmm," and he shoves it back in
all the way fast and hard again, and continues doing it with  males' fucking
sounds, "Slapslapslapslap!" ringing off the tile walls.  Powerful pleasure
sensations ripple through me. They're so intense  I squirm, arching my back on
my hands and knees and moan with  sexual pleasure forgetting about
everything up till now. I'm sliding  forward slightly every time he hammers that
pound of hard cock up my ass, and  then I slide back on the dirty tile floor
when he's dragging it back  out fast. He's well coordinated moving ten fat
inches smoothly back and  forth. The huge apple-head spreads my bowels going in
and I can almost feel  them shrinking in the wake of the head as he pulls
it back. By now  I'm making a fool of myself moaning and cooing and groaning,
but the  enormous amount of stimulation on all the sensitive nerve ending
of my  rectum have overwhelmed my senses.

"Slap,  slap, slap, slap," sounds and both our moans of sexual pleasure are
all I  hear. As he gets more and more aroused his strong hands on my hips
begin pulling me back into his hard thrusts. I feel helpless knowing I
couldn't stop this if my life depended on it. He's too strong, his boner's  too
big, and he's greatly aroused. Then, just like that, I feel a  familiar
submissiveness drift over me and I finally  can revel in the knowledge I'm being
dominantly fucked again. My body flops  around as he grunts and groans
moving his huge boner fast and hard,  "Slapslapslap," back and forth in my ass.

Peter sees I've become  docile and mutters, "About fuckin' time, boy. Let
yourself go earlier  the next time we do it," but I hardly hear him as my
climax builds and  builds. Once he started fucking in earnest it's only took a
minute for me to  finally become submissive to him. My head drops to my
forearms that are  flat on the floor. I raise my ass submissively to the alpha
member of our team.  He slaps the side of my ass, muttering, "You're my boy
now, ain't ya?" His words  come from far off as I hold my breath at my
impending orgasm and then, "Eeeee!"  my hips try uselessly to hump again Peter's
grip as a long stream of  shimmering cum shoots out my super-boner in a hard
fast stream that  burns on its way  out. Then again with the, "Slapslapslap,"

continuing as I gasp and shiver  and shake at the series of rolling
sensations from around my groin and  the screaming pleasure from my ass. Then a few
after-shock  sensations with my shoulders shuddering and I sigh contentedly
for a few  seconds, but there's no down-time to savor my orgasm as the
assault continues on  my ass.

"Slapslapslap,"  sounds now aren't as sexy to my ears as they were a minute
ago, and now my anus  is beginning to get a burning sensation, and a
soreness inside me grows and  gets worse. I spread my legs and drop my ass to let
a different area of my  ass take the brunt of it, but that doesn't help. I'm
over my submissive trance,  mostly groaning in pain again. Peter's making
desperate whining sound now so  hopefully he's getting near the end. Another
uncomfortable minute of hard  thrusting with him holding my hips, me limp as
a dish rag, his  ten-inch boner impaling my very sore rectum with full
thrusts, then  it's Peter humping against my buttocks and I assume filling the
condom  with another load of spunk. Then he stops humping to do a couple  of
deep breaths as  he slowly pulls his cock out of my sore ass. I grimace at
the struggle getting  the engorged head out. "Owwww," from me, then, "Ow!
Goddammit!" His cock is  out and I feel grotesquely wide-open back there. I
can't seem to make my  ass muscle clench. It's a weird feeling as I'm basically
laying on the floor  like a discarded condom. Then, realizing suddenly that
I'm on this dirty floor,  I start dragging myself up. Peter's sitting back
on the toilet seat again with  his head back, still breathing deeply.

Grabbing  the rim of the bathtub, I pull myself up. My ass is slick with
the  lubricant off the condom. Peter goes, "Ya got a good ass for fucking,
and wow did I get off good the second time. The first one was building-up
over a month or so since my last sex." He snorts out a laugh, then says, "Being
 horny and then spotting you staring at me with those naughty eyes. Oh man,
I  thought, 'Peter boy, this is too good to be true,'" I'm leaning against
the  sink looking at him and trying to figure out if he's as unbalanced as
he  seems when, using his authoritative voice, he snaps, "Turn around!" and I
 do it even though I'm not sensing submissiveness now. He chuckles, and
drops the stern voice to say conversationally, "Holy shit. I couldn't get  my
fist up your ass, but I opened it up wide enough that your  fist would fit
up there. Goddamn, that's a round thing of beauty right there.  It's gonna
take a good couple of hours for that asshole to shrink back to  anything near
normal; if it ever does."

Except  for yelling, 'Owww! and Goddammit', I haven't spoken a real word
for twenty minutes and my voice cracks when I ask, "What do you mean, if it
ever does?" He says, "I've Peter-ized you, heh heh. You're not the first
one either." I'm like, "What...?" and he makes a big circle with the thumb and
 forefingers of both hands, saying, "Your asshole; it's stretched past the
point  of no return. It might never get back to normal tightness. Certainly
not  like it was before." I'm frowning as he says, "Ya know, guys with big
cock  who fuck you will thank me, and you should too. Heh heh, guys with
smaller cocks  will probably curse me." That scares me so I forget about him
smacking me  again and yell, "Don't give me that shit. My anus has always
recovered  tightly." He shrugs and gets up to pull off the condom. Lifting the
clogged-up toilet's lid, he snickers and drops the condom in. It floats on
top  of the disgusting water, then the big ball of heavy cum drags it under
and he  closes the lid.  Looking at me, he asks, "You get fucked a lot, do
ya?" I shrug and he goes,  "Don't matter. My boner's over four inches in
circumference and the heads  bigger than that, plus I've had my big salami up your
ass for almost twenty  minutes. Your asshole ain't ever going to be like it
was before I broke it  in. You'll see." I frown at him with my heart
beating fast. Could he be right? I  feel back there and pull my hand away. It's a
freaky feeling  being opened that wide.

He's  pulling his pants up, saying, "Get dressed and I'll buy you a shot
and a  beer." By now I despise him, but I try not to sneer. I just want to get
 away from him. He says, "You're gonna be sticking real close to me, kiddo;
 I'm not passing this opportunity up. I'll fuck you again in an hour or
so. This next fuck will go much easier and smoother for you since I  basically
fixed your asshole for ya. No charge," and he kicks one of my  sneakers
over to me, saying, "I told you to get dressed, boy!" What a mean  prick!
Picking up my shirt, I put it on then pull on my underwear and  pants. Sitting on
the edge of the bathtub I'm putting my socks and  shoes on watching him to
make sure he's not getting ready to smack me  again. While putting on my
jacket I'm planning how to get away from my  latest mistake. This was a mistake
alright, and even the hot climax I  had wasn't nearly worth all the other
shit I had to put up with. Goddammit,  I did it to myself again.

Yeah,  wanting the sub/dom sex Ryan used to provide so easily got me into
this mess. It  wasn't even traditional sub/dom sex, certainly not like I was
hoping  for. He couldn't pull it off from the beginning, and consequently I
only  experienced a little submissive trance there a couple of  minutes
before climaxing, and then forgot about it dealing with the  soreness in my
rectum as that animal continued fucking me. I gotta get away  from him and chalk
this up to another bad choice and a huge disappointment.  And it seemed so
promising too. He simply doesn't know how to do it. Actually  he's right
about him being a bully because that's what it was: a bully's version  of
sub/dom sex. Too rough at times with no continuity. He was an overly mean  prick
one minutes and the next he's conversational, and then without reason  he
gets super  bitchy again.

Peter  puts his big arm across my shoulders as we walk out of the bathroom.

"You  and me are gonna be like Siamese Twins, boy. Your daddy  is going
make a project out of you over the next couple of months. A half dozen  hard
fucks and your asshole will be so loose you'll barely feel a smaller  cock
going in." I'm not listening; instead I'm thinking how he never  even bothered
to ask how I was, or fished for compliments about how good he  fucked like
every 'top' I've ever been with does. Peter doesn't care about  anything
except his own sexual pleasure.

After  taking a mere three steps I know I've got to walk oddly. My ass
hurts too  much, so I need to do that squatting walk to relieve a little
pressure off  my rectum muscles. It's an awkward bowlegged-like walk with my ass
sticking out a little. Peter chuckles, 'Yeah, bowlegged, huh? You're not  the
first one I got walking bowlegged. And wait'll I do you again. You'll
eventually get used to it though. No problem." Going down the steps I  hear
whispers from behind guy's hands, "O'Neil's got another notch in his  belt;
another bowlegged fag bites the dust." And from another, "Shhh,  don't attract
that crazy fucker's attention." There are other snide  comments I block from
my ears; instead thinking real hard about what a dumb ass  I've been
tonight. The smacks on the side of my head where, duh... a clue to get  away from
him when we came downstairs for the shots and beers. A clue Peter  is maybe
not someone I want to have sex with. At least he wore a condom. Yeah,  nice
rationalizing, dummy.

Waiting  to be served at the kitchen bar, he whispers in my ear, "Don't
look so dejected.  The next time will go easier for you, Dylan. Your anus has
been broken in now,  and like I said before, you should thank me." How the
fuck many times  is he going to pat himself on the back. He's full of shit
anyway because my  ass is going to be okay, although maybe not if he fucks me
again. I say, "Look,  Peter, don't throw a shit-fit, but I'm much too sore
inside to do it again." He  tightens his arm around the back of my neck,
saying, "You'll be okay. And  we are doing it again, so I don't want to hear
another word outta you about  that. Got it?" and he tightens his arm even more.

My hands go to his arm as  I say, "I got it! I got it, Peter." He mutters,
"You pussy," and then  he orders, "Two beers and a couple of whiskey
shooters." I say, "Peter, be  reasonable, I can't do it again. I'll scream for the
cops or  something." Passing me all four plastic cups, he mutters, "Carry
these. We're  going outside to drink them." I go, "Okay we'll have a shot and a
beer,  but I can't do it again." He says, "Ha, guess what, you are doing it
again.  One more word outta you and I'll do the spanking again  too."

Outside  it's still as crowded as ever and it's still cold. He takes one of
the cups  of whiskey from me, saying, "Drink your whiskey." Frowning at him
I drink  it. Ghastly stuff as I guzzle beer after swallowing the VO. He
holds out his cup of whiskey, "Drink this too, and stop acting like a  cunt."

I go, "I can't drink... and he raises his hand, saying, "I'll slap you so
hard it'll knock you on your ass." I drink his whiskey and chug  some beer.

That one had me on the verge of throwing up. He mutters, "I'll  get you drunk
and maybe you'll stop whining about your  pussy hurting."

This  guy is bipolar or something. His emotions go from one end of the
scale to  the other. He says, "Stand closer to me," and he puts a hand in my
pocket,  saying, "You ain't going anyplace." Taking a big breath, I drink some
beer  wondering how I'm going to make my escape. Lighting a cigarette, I say
very  nicely, "Peter, we can have a good relationship. We don't need to do
it  again tonight though. My ass is not recovering at all, really.  I'm
hurting." He shrugs, "Oh, that's a shame because I've been just  thinking that I
might even go for thirds as well. Resign yourself to that.  You're my boy
and I'm your daddy tonight, and daddy knows best." I start to  object when I
get a tap on my shoulder, and hear, "Dylan! I've been looking  all over for
you." I turn, and go, "Chubby! Hey.." Peter pulls his hand out  of my
pocket, startled by my yell. Chubby nods at Peter asking me, "Who's  the
baby-faced gorilla, bro?"


to be  continued...     Donny Mumford    thinat20@yahoo.com

donnymumford@outlook.com

========================================================


Hoping some readers may be interested, there are books of mine  published
and available on Amazon.com. Anyone who has Kindle can download them  for
next to nothing. The books are usually around ten dollars. They  are about a 19
year old gay boy (Oliver) who has a far different life than Dylan's. And
there is  a new book, 'Mike, his Bike and Me'. Please at least check them out
by  typing my name on Amazon.com. Information about the story in the books
can  be found in some detail there. Thank you.

Donny  Mumford

========================================================

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