Date: Thu, 16 Feb 2006 02:25:58 -0500
From: Hart Crane <thebrokentower@gmail.com>
Subject: What Do You Have to Say Now?

This story is entirely a work of fiction.
If you enjoyed what you read feel free to let the author know at
thebrokentower@gmail.com. Enjoy.


	Brandon was getting on my fucking nerves. You have to understand, at
the time, I was a senior in college, in the closet, trying to finish
up the year in style without getting any more slack from my buddies
about my on-and-off again bitchy girlfriend. The year was almost over
now, and I would soon be away from UConn and all its hard guy acts of
bravado. Nearly twice in the past months I had been caught in awkward
situations, where my 'friends' and also fellow teammates had been
given a bit more room than I was used to about my sexuality. I had
been perusing hotornot.com on my comp and an asshole from the dorm
next door, Brian, who's favorite hobby in life was interrupting at the
wrong times came in and started giving me shit about looking at both
sexes. I played it off coolly and calmly. I was making fun of the
losers and rejects. I was a moderator for the site. And if this didn't
seem like a big deal, there's no way I can impress on you just how
much everything in my social group relied upon a strict no-sense
homophobic anti-gay ultra-masculine front.

	None of us were as straight as we seemed. Then again, no sane
individual could be. As for myself, however, an athlete who was
minoring in music theory - everyone was just waiting to see how Derek
(that's me) would turn out to be the expected fairy. At nearly six
foot, in trim shape and perfect athletic abilities, you could assume I
would be no mark for 'homo.' But, I had suffered from a certain type
of good looks the male community didn't really appreciate. I was
pretty, not handsome. Girls were supposed to be pretty, not guys. And
to make matters worse, my roommate, Brandon, was out and right
gorgeous and the ultra pretty-boy.

	Now you have to understand. None of the guys bothered him. He didn't
play sports so much, but he had money and brought all the girls
around. As goodlooking as I was made out to be, and I had had my share
of pussy and fleeting hook-ups that had left me desparate and
despairing, all a gross fake and exaggerated cover-up, Brandon, well,
Brandon hadn't so much as touched a girl. By all the chicks we knew
were obsessed with him and dying to get in his pants. It was sort of
assumed that he was untouchable, and the guys, who I believed all were
secretly jonesing after his sleek small bubble-boy ass, were kinda
relieved that he wasn't taking away from their selections. Not to
mention, any girl that had trapped little spoiled Brandon in a
relationship would have to undergo a lot of scrutiny. We all bought
into this image of Brandon as not for girls, somehow, that didn't make
him a pansy or a faggot, but simply, no one was good enough for him.
That was his rant. We all willingly bought into it and excused him
from the same bullshit we flung at each other. Everyone was accused of
being a faggot, weak, soft - but not Brandon, he was coddled and
adored. We'd fling shit behind his back, the guys, but that happened
more so that it seemed none of us were in awe of him while secretly,
and I was at least, I could feel we all were.

	He was short, about 5'7", classically Italian features, dark skin,
black-cropped hair, a pair of eyes that could cut real quick with
their mixture of aloofness and disdain. His mouth was tight. His
cheekbones were high and narrow. His nose seemed like the shaft of an
arrow. Everything about the kid reaked of too much beauty, precision
and downright prettiness. It was gross and mesmerizing. This was all
compensated for by the fact he had two streaks. There was Brandon who
never really spoke too much, and there was Brandon who was a cruel
little basatard.

	He had been my roommate for two-years now, and while I was doing my
best to seem straighter than straight, and he didn't really care to do
much but be himself, things were really starting to irritate me. He'd
starting by prying into me and my girlfriend's problems, all nice and
calm. But as the weeks passed and the relationship deteriorated,
Brandon kept on the jokes.

	"That slut is fucking someone else." He'd say. "She wants a bigger
cock."

	It didn't really piss me off, and in a way, I was used to Brandon's
style of negative affection. The only way he chose to address a
sensitive issue without being hush-hush and quiet and sulky was to
make it light. But beneath all his devious humor, there was always -
it seemed to me - a lurking come-on. And it was pissing me off.

	Everynight I was fantasizing about shoving my cock - which was plenty
large for my size - in the little shithead's mouth. Making him moan
and scream as my balls slapped up against his richboy mouth. I could,
or at least I dreamed and lusted in my imagination, that Brandon was
too high-strung and needy not to be a bottom. He needed a bigger guy,
a more out-and-out male (like me?) to show him who was boss and what
nature had intended him for. His physique was ruthlessly muscled but
slender. And I would even tease him about his eating disorder. I mean
the kid never ate bad food, never touched a single potato chip or
cookie or one fucking snack. One time someone left some ice cream in
our refridgerator as a prank, and he went through it all and flipped
out on a few of the guys for doing what he felt was sabatogue.

	If anyone had reacted like that, they would have been smacked to the
floor like a little sissy and beaten up past recognition. Only girls
cared about figure and calories in such a way. But Brandon, he made
his own rules. He was beautiful and acted however he wanted in
opposition to the ape-mentality. It was why I especially hated him and
loved him, in a way. He was doing whatever he wanted, and while he
could earn our spite, we all dreamed of his looks and his approval.

	But his jokes were getting worse. How can I explain it? One night I
had a huge phone conversation fight with her and Brandon walked in the
room and quietly worked at his desk. I couldn't change my temper or
tone, knowing he might use it again me, all my care over a chick, but
half wanting him to.

	Afterwards, I hung up in a fury and just laid in bed. He didn't say
anything much except mumbling "Don't worry man."

	Then he questioned, "So what's it this time?"

	"I don't know. She's just a vicious bitch." I was seething. I hadn't
been laid in two weeks with all my girlfriend problems, and while I
knew I liked guys I found the release of my load a necessary blowing
off of steam that masturbating just no longer could afford me.

	"Derek, just calm down." Brandon got up from his desk and walked
towards the center of the room, he was putting his books away and now
folding some laundry from his bed and putting away in his dresser. He
had changed into simply his white wife-beater that hugged his
dark-olive skin, a fucking perfect torso if I had ever seen one, and a
pair of over-sized mesh gym shorts.

	As he gave me advice, taking his clean clothes from his bed (he was
the top bedbunk above mine) and bringing them over to the dresser
across the room, I kept watching in amazement as his body would bend
and flex and move. His arms would stretch to the bed above mine, as
his hip and chest and legs were stationed right near me, in the lower
bunk. Then he'd move back, play around with the clothes, folding them
against his neck and chin and tying them his wrists and tiny fingers,
while half-gazing at me and trying to give the 'pep talk.'

	"God, so when was the last time you screwed? When I was away at BU?"

	"No, we were still fighting then."

	"Man, that was last weekend. How long have you been without her
pretty little mouth?" He wasn't even conscious of how much I was
staring at his mouth, his pretty little mouth. It was ok for him to
talk this way. He was trying to sound like one of the guys. I was just
getting hornier.

	"I know," I said, half-grudingly. "It sucks. I'm dating a fluzy and
I'm not even getting ass out of it."

	"So what's her deal? Why is she starting all this bullshit to make
you jealous?"

	"I don't know, Brandon. But I'm done with her. I just wish I had
someone, something. I can't concentrate for finals with all this
pent-up aggression. I've got the worst case of blueballs ever man."

	He kept laughing, as he bended over to put his clothes away and I
coudld see the mesh shorts hang a little too dangerously below his
waist for a second, so I could almost imagine seeking the upper tip of
the crack of his ass. "Well what do you want?" As he asked all I could
imagine was the mesh shorts would fall off, and dark brown buttocks
would just be bare and ready for me. I'd go over there, throw him up
against the dresser, shove his face forward, and start railing him in
the ass. God, that kid was just begging to be fucked and fucked hard.
His body was so catlike and feminine, it slinked as it moved and it
just needed the right dick to get the job done.

	"Hel-lo? Derek? You phasing out on me?"

	"Ugh, what, what did I say?" I mumbled embarassedly, but trusted he
couldn't know what I was thinking.

	"You didn't say anything." He walked back over to the bed, and as his
face was obscured by the top bunk, I could stare at his chest. He kept
speaking, and grabbed his crotch. "Just tell her to suck it, man. 'You
can suck on my dick or leave, bitch,' that's what you should tell
her."

	"Ah, come on, man, you know Karen doesn't give me head."

	"What?! ... O, right, she's a neck-down kinda girl. You told me."

	It was at this moment that he stopped what he was doing and sat down
next to me on the bed, I was half-way sitting up at this time. His
voice got lower and he just looked at me half-disinterestedly and
asked if I ever really tried getting her to give me head. The truth
was I didn't want her touching my dick and had never really bothered.
We hadn't had full out sex, and occasionally when she wanted, I
preferred to give her head then worry about making things awkward if I
was just too unable to get it up for her. But Brandon, insisted, going
on about this story about his cousin and how he heard his cousin
figured out how to force a girl to give head. It was all bogus. And
nonsense. But, Brandon was sitting there in his little meek shirt, and
his tan was intoxicating, and the smell of his feint sweat was driving
me wild, and his tight-ass was sitting on my bed. I was trying not to
writhe. He went on, and I listened.

	"Yeah, man, I'm serious. It's true. You should've tried to do."

	"Explain this crazy-ass method of your friggin' cousin again."

	"Alright, watch. Pretend I'm your girlfriend, ok," my mind was
fluttering as he shuffled next to me and reached and grabbed my hands,
I was on auto-pilot and muttering to myself in confusion, overwhelmed,
"and you want to try to convince me. All you do, here, take this hand,
here, no, this one, okay, listening?"

	"...ugh, yeah, yeah."

	"Pretend you're like rubbing my shoulders, and bullshitting or
talking and you know we're gonna have sex."

	My eight-inch dick was ready to bulge out of my jeans. This was
painful. Brandon was a mastermind of manufacturing this dick-tease
scenarios which always lead to peripheral or all out unnecessary
body-contact. Somehow I was feeling him up so he could teach me a
lesson about my girls giving head? And this from a guy who had no
record of ever even hooking up with a girl once! I was going crazy. I
was angry, horny and ready to pop a vein in my neck and dick. So I
continued rubbing his shoulders and feeling his muscles. I had to give
it to him, he was in shape and hard for his little frame. I wanted to
push him to the bed and just have my way. I'd bite his neck, finger
his ass, a whole flutter and fury of things I had only imagined in wet
dreams was going through my head.

	"Then you're talking to her, romancing her, telling her you're gonna
fuck and be sweet, all that shit..."

	"Yeah, yeah..." I was practically whimpering from all the tension and
sex in the air, on my breath, and this stupid little drama we were
acting out.

	"Then you slowly want to raise your hand up to her head, not grabbing
her hair, well, I don't have hair, but you know, massaging her hair,
letting her think you're the soft, silent type, and just slowly
forcing her towards you. She's relaxed, maybe had a few drinks."

	"And then I kinda start directing her?" His head was turning as my
hand cradled the back of his shaved, clean-cut scalp. His eyes were
piercing me, and his upper-lip was almost shivering with how much he
must have been enjoying humilating me. Giving me lessons. The little
son of the bitch.

	"Well she's not just gonna go down on you right away like that."

	"O this is bullshit, man." I tried not to raise my voice to loud, I
didn't want to seem like I was going to let my hands go off of him.

	"No man, you slowly just want to pull her towards you. Like begin my
pulling her head towards your stomach and then just ask her to open up
your shorts. For fun.... not that I'm going near your two-inch dick."

	We both chuckled and I could feel the electricity churning through my
hands, my heartbeat was racing and my breath was stumbling out of my
mouth. Everything looked foggy and weighted out of my eyes. I could
see his pretty face, there wasn't too much light in the room but it
wasn't dark either. I had to act fast, even though any second I knew
guys were going to come in the room to watch the big basketball game
on my computer.

	"No, no, I'll show you how I'd do it." I immediately grabbed Brandon
with my both my hands and turned him around on the bed, moving over
while I pinned him down and wrestled with him. We were both laughing
and cursing one another underneath our breath. It was fun and meant to
be stupid but there was just too much sexually build-up and need. I
could feel myself slowly going over the line, touching him and
manhandling. Worst of all I knew it could be a set up just to
humiliate me and call me a fag and out me to the rest of the guys.

	I tossed him on his back on my bed and saddle my legs over him,
between his waist and chest. I held his arms down and shifted my
weight closer to his face. "This is how you get a girl to do what you
want." Now we were both cracking up and laughing.

	"Yeah, pal, it's called raped."

	"No, no, it isn't, Brandon." I had to do something to make sure this
wasn't seeming so serious, I so just kept pretending with my voice. I
was sounding as sarcastic and mocking as possible. "Not if she wants
it. I mean you understand, most girls are your size. Just as
vunerable."

	"Yeah but most girls aren't going to be force-fed a small dick, man."

	I was so fucking tired of his mocking my dick-size! Was it really a
challenge? Did he have to have the balls to make a joke when I had him
in a position where my boner was about to flop out of my shorts and
land right on his shitty-attitude face? I could have done whatever I
wanted with sheer force now, and the charge of all the erotic
proximity and sweat and talk was making me tremble in fear of myself,
of my desires, of how much I wanted Brandon Corso to be my little
bitch. "If you keep that talk up I'm gonna take it out and practice on
you, bitch."

	"O, right, Mr. Sensitive. All your girl troubles and being
pussy-whipped and passive in the sack with that Karen bitch and you're
going to sound like you're Mr. Boss." We were both cracking up but
there was an edge of a threat or ultimatum in his voice and I was
growing desparate. What the fuck was I going to do? I couldn't stand
it any longer. I needed to figure some way out of this, no matter what
now, I was doomed. I had a raging boner and the boy of my dreams
within inches of being my willing-or-unwilling mouth-recepticle for
some hot cum that I was dying to fling off my ever increasing cock.

	Both of my hands pushed his outspread arms harder to the mattress so
he was helpless to move. "You doubt me, punk?'

	"I'm sure she did!" He laughed in his little petulant half-whine.

	That was it. I had it. Fuck caution. Fuck being straight. Fuck the
cover-up. I was going to be a monster. I had enough. I held his one
arm as tight as I could and with the other moved towards my crotch and
unzipped my pants and grabbed a held of my aching throbbing hard-on
and pulled it out. Before he could say shit, I took my dick which was
screaming for some air and slapped it against his clean shaven face.

	"What! Fuck man, stop it. Get that shit out of here. Are you fucking
gay? What the fuck--" but before he could continue I took my other
hand and opened up his mouth, and steered my monster dick right into
his squeeling bitch of a nice, hot tight mouth. At first I was afraid
he was going to bite down or kick me in the back with his knees. He
didn't bite. I had to keep juggling my arms to keep his arms
restrained, which was no easy task. He was smaller, and I weighed a
heck of a lot more than him. I had more muscle, more mass and more
force. I also was in the primo-dominant position. He wrestled and put
up a fight, not saying anything so much as trying to move his way out,
to break free. I was having none of it.

	I took my huge cock and starting slapping him in the mouth. I knew
where I wanted in. Some of his warm saliva was still hanging off my
aching cock from the few seconds it had barely managed to enter his
mouth. But I needed back in, having my cock out in the room was like
revealing my whole big secret, all of my sex and heated vunerability
and desire. I needed to hide it. I needed to cram it up his mouth. We
were both panting and struggling still, but eventually, his lips had
to break open to break more, so he could catch his breath.

	It was at this time that Brandon was going to become a cocksucker,
whether he thought he wanted to or not. I learned my whole body
forward so that my crotch was propped up against his face and shoved
aching huge pulsating cock right down his wriggling mouth. The
resistance was lessening as he knew there was no way out. I had the
entire weight of my body bearing down on his mouth with my eightinch
dick slamming into him. His mouth was opened and exposed and I was
pummeling him, just jackhammering it like in a porno video in and out
of his mouth, and he had no choice but to swallow it, and let it go
in, and I was speaking as low in volume and forceful as possible.
Grunting, sighing, sweating, leaning my cock in and out of his hot
tight mouth, in and out, like a piston or a blade or a plunging train
down a tight hot track.

	With my hands leaning against the wall of the bunk, I learned forward
just enough so my left hand could flick off the light as I continued
my assault. I kept slamming my weight in, forcing and shoving my cock
in his mouth. He was whimpering and couldnt make much but muffled
noises. But I could hear his body start to surrender, he was melting
under the press and force of my body. Soon he was sucking and sucking
and his tongue was moving wildly, he knew he wanted it. I kept just
whispering in panic "quick, quick, suck it, suck it." Before I knew it
his hands were playing with his mesh shorts until they were exposing
his prick and I could tell he was beating his meat as fast as he
could.

	In a matter of minutes the biggest load and best orgasm of my life
was pumping into his mouth and I sighed and sighed and sighed and just
crumpled on top of him and shifted over to the side in relief.